Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean Winchester was a lot of things. A brother, a family man, a son, and a badass monster hunter to tie it together. A man who went to bed with snarls sounding in his ears, and every face he'd lost haunting his dreams. What he wasn't, was willing to have this conversation with Sam one more damn time.

"Damn it Sam, how many times do I have to tell you to drop it?" He couldn't keep his tone even if he'd tried, taking a gulp of the cheap whiskey. His brother screwed up his face in the iconic 'bitch face' he was so well known for.

"I'm just saying Dean, he has a right to know. Jesus, he doesn't even know you're alive!" Dean scoffed, taking another swig of the drink, avoiding eye contact. He was so tired, so damn tired, and the subject wasn't relieving any of the tension in his shoulders. Sam sighed, taking the seat opposite his older brother, trying desperately to make him understand.

"Dean, please. If we're supposed to be these dickhead angel's meatsuits, who's to say that Tom doesn't have one too? I mean, he's our brother." Sam pleaded, irritated by Dean's snort.

"Alright, look. Let's get this straight, Sammy, ok? Tom can look after himself. Besides, he chose to leave this family a long time ago." Sam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as his brother's well-known stubbornness kicked in. Knowing he wouldn't get anything helpful out of his brother, Sam stood. Dean watched the movement with a scowl, and Sam met him with one of his own.

"Fine. You don't have to call him, you don't have to care. So I will, and I do. He's our brother Dean, our blood. That matters to me, and it used to matter to you." Sam barked, and Dean's scowl deepened as his eyes narrowed. Sam huffed and stalked out to the front door, yanking out his phone in the process. Dean sighed as the door slammed shut behind Sam and finished his glass.

Thomas Winchester left their shared motel at 21 with a 7-word note and never looked back. Dean still had a scar from the way his father had clocked him for even allowing him to leave, for letting Daddy's favourite son run away. It didn't matter that Dean was seven years younger than him; no, everything was Dean's fault. It didn't matter that he hadn't told anyone of his plans; he never even made it suspicious. Cooked them dinner, helped Dean with homework, and read Sammy a bedtime story. He was gone in the morning, and no one knew where. Last they'd heard, Tom had joined up in the Marines, following in their father's footsteps. He didn't bother attending their Dad's funeral or seeing his grave, though according to Bobby, he'd come to visit Dean's own a handful of times. Sam mentioned he was at the funeral too, standing in the back with a single lily. Dean tried to push that thought to the very back of his mind. He thought about his last week or so with a sigh. He was the Michael sword, his brother was the vessel for Lucifer himself, and now they were running against the clock to stop the apocalypse. Dean knew they needed all the help they could get, but asking the brother who abandoned them was just not something his pride could accept. He sighed and ambled up to reach the whiskey bottle to refill his drink when the door reopened. Sam sauntered into the room with a big smile on his face, and Dean felt his lips press together in a tight frown.

"He'll be here tomorrow," Sam said simply, crossing the room to flop down upon the queen bed he'd chosen, ignoring Dean's muttering. Even Dean's grumpy attitude couldn't bring Sam down; he'd missed his eldest brother more than he could put into words. He'd last seen him before Castiel had risen, Dean, and Dean had shot down any attempts to contact him since. It had been tough; they'd become closer since Dean's untimely end. However, Sam was still falling down the rabbit hole with Ruby, taking days off to see his brother had made all the difference. His brother had retired from active service only a month prior to Dean's death, and he'd been working for the VA's medical office ever since. Sam knew he hated it, hated having to sit still. Hated working for the VA even more, having heard all the horror stories possible of how little help they offered veterans. Still, Tom wanted to help, wanted to make a difference. Sam knew Tom would jump back into the family business the minute he was asked, but part of him also knew Tom would come to regret it. He doubted Dean would ever let their past drop, and he couldn't ask him to deal with that stubborn judgment day after day. Sam could certainly speak from experience. He sighed once more, punching at his pillow to get it into a comfortable shape. Come tomorrow, they'd be reunited once more, and he couldn't wait.

######################

Thomas Winchester was a lot of things. A brother. A family man. A son. A man who woke up every night with the sound of explosions in his ears, the scent of gunpowder burning in his nose, and the sight of his friends' bodies burned into his retinas.

What he wasn't, was willing to jump back into his childhood life.

Retirement was supposed to be his path back to civilisation, a chance to breathe and build something stable. But most days, Tom still felt like he was walking on a wire, one breath away from plummeting into chaos.

Trying to be a civilian was harder than it looked, especially for someone who knew what was really out there. Monsters didn't just vanish because you'd had enough.

The end of the world was closing in, and apparently, his two idiot baby brothers had jump-started the entire mess. Oh, and apparently his long-dead brother was alive and had spent the last year pretending he wasn't.

Tom sighed as he knelt by the bed, reaching under the frame for his old duffle. His fingers brushed the familiar worn canvas before dragging it out. He tossed in some clothes, his shaving kit, and his comb before moving to the closet.

It didn't matter if this was a simple hunt or a last stand; when his family was involved, it never hurt to be prepared.

He pulled down two briefcases from the top shelf and popped the locks. Inside, everything was organised with military precision, magazines neatly labelled: regular, silver, salt—every weapon clean and primed.

His pistol, a 9mm with a grip worn smooth from years of use, sat nestled in its holster. It was reliable and comfortable, so he tucked it into the duffle without a second thought.

The .22 came next, smaller and lighter, the kind of weapon you only reached for when things went sideways. That one stayed in the case.

Lastly, his sniper rifle. Tom's fingers hovered over it for a moment before he shut the case again. He doubted he'd need it, but leaving it behind felt like leaving part of himself behind, too. It had saved his skin more times than he could count, but some habits were hard to break.

The lamplight flickered across his face as he turned back to the bed. His sharp features were angular and strong. His resemblance to John Winchester was unmistakable; the same hard-set jaw, the same steely expression that rarely softened, the same stubborn line of his brow.

But where John's eyes had been a dark, stormy brown, Tom's were an icy sapphire blue. Cold, sharp, and distant, like frozen water under a thin layer of ice. They didn't burn with John's rage, nor flicker with Dean's restless energy. Tom's eyes didn't give much away at all.

And maybe that was the point.

The scars only made his hardened look worse, a jagged line carved across his forehead, deeper than a simple graze. It stretched diagonally from just above his right brow to his hairline, a brutal reminder of the bullet that had nearly ended him. Another mark, a puckered wound on his right shoulder, was a matching injury from the same firefight. Shrapnel scars freckled his bicep and ribs, faded but unmistakable, remnants of metal that had torn into him overseas. Scratches and slashes from hunts crisscrossed his forearms, some faint, some ropey and jagged.

His body read like a battlefield map, but it was proof that no matter how close death came, Tom always crawled back out.

"Goin' somewhere, Tommy?"

Tom jerked upright, heart hammering in his chest. His hand shot to his side before recognising Aoife standing in the doorway, arms folded and eyebrows raised.

"Jesus, Róisín," Tom muttered, pressing a hand to his chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

Aoife didn't smile. Her sharp blue eyes pinned him to the spot, concerned, but waiting for him to explain himself.

"You sneakin' off or somethin'?" she asked, tone dry but sharp. Her Irish lilt was still like music to his ears, no matter how long they'd been married.

Tom chuckled weakly. "Not sneakin'. Just… packin'."

Aoife's gaze dropped to the stuffed-to-the-seams duffle bag by his feet, then flicked to the weapons case propped by the wall.

"You plannin' on takin' out an entire army with all that?" she shot back, a faint edge in her voice.

Tom grinned despite himself and crossed the room to press a hand to her newly swollen belly. Aoife's sharpness softened immediately, her head resting against his shoulder as he rubbed her lower back.

"Sam called," Tom murmured. "He's on a hunt… needs backup."

Aoife's head snapped up, suspicion flickering in her eyes. "And you reckon that's your problem, do ya?"

"Róisín…"

"Don't you 'Róisín' me." Her voice sharpened. "You know I don't like this."

"I know," Tom sighed, guiding her to the bed. He helped her lower herself carefully onto the mattress, her legs curling beneath her. Aoife groaned as she settled in, but her face softened when Tom fussed with her pillows, adjusting them until she was comfortable.

"You're such a bloody mother hen," she muttered, but the affection in her voice was unmistakable.

Tom sat beside her, knuckles curling together in his lap. "Look… you're really gonna hate this part."

Aoife's expression shifted from exasperation to something colder. "Go on," she said warily.

Tom swallowed hard. "Turns out… Dean's alive."

For a beat, Aoife just stared at him. Then she blinked hard like she wasn't sure she'd heard him right.

"Alive?" she repeated.

"Yeah," Tom said grimly. Been back nearly a year. Never called."

Aoife sat up straighter. "And you're just tellin' me this now?"

"Didn't know," Tom said bitterly. "Sam only just told me. Guess my brothers have been busy kickin' off the apocalypse or somethin'."

Aoife's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "The apocalypse? Bloody hell…" She shook her head in disbelief. "I leave you lot alone for five minutes, and you're tearin' down the bloody planet."

Tom let out a dry laugh, dragging a hand down his face. "I don't know what to do, Róisín. When Sam told me Dean was gone… I felt like I'd failed him. Like I'd just…" His voice cracked slightly. "Like I let him down. And now he's back… and he didn't even bother to call?"

Aoife's expression softened. She reached for him, sliding her hand over his.

"I mean… does he hate me that much?" Tom's voice wobbled. "I get why Dad hated me, but Dean… I never thought…"

Aoife shifted closer, her arms sliding around him as Tom's breath hitched.

"Naw, a mhuirnín," she murmured, her fingers tracing slow circles on his back. "He don't hate ya."

"How do you know?" Tom asked hoarsely.

"'Cause I know you," she said firmly. "You think you let him down, but from what you've told me? Your brother's a stubborn gobshite with a skull like a feckin' brick."

Tom snorted weakly.

"You just have to show him," Aoife added softly. "He's your brother, Tom. He'll come round."

Tom clung to her for a while, grounding himself in the warmth of her presence.

Eventually, Aoife sighed and pressed a hand over his. "I know you've got to go," she muttered. "But… just be careful, yeah? You've got people here waitin' on you. Geallaim dom go dtiocfaidh tú ar ais, mo ghrá."

Tom bent his head and kissed her palm, lingering there for a breath.

"Geallaim dom, mo chroí," he whispered. "You and Ashie… you're everything to me."

Aoife snorted, lightening the mood. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "You're such a sorry sap."

"Bet you love it," Tom teased, kissing her belly.

"Not as much as you think," she muttered, but she smiled anyway.

***

Dublin, Five Years Ago

Tom had never been to Dublin before. The city felt alive in a way that made his skin itch, twisting streets buzzing with movement, narrow alleyways that seemed to close in on themselves. The weather clung to the air like a damp coat, cold and sharp, soaking into his bones. His boots scuffed against the cobblestone pavement as he scanned the alley ahead.

The werewolf had been sloppy, too many bodies left in its wake, each one closer to the city's heart. Tom's guess was that it had grown too comfortable, too arrogant to bother covering its tracks. Amateurs got cocky like that. It wouldn't make it through the night.

Tom shifted the 9mm beneath his jacket, thumb brushing over the safety. The air was too quiet, the kind of quiet that sets your nerves on edge.

Then he heard it, footsteps behind him.

Tom turned fast, his gun halfway out of its holster, and there she was.

"Oi! What the Jaysus do you think you're doin'?"

The woman's voice cut through the silence like a blade. She stood at the far end of the alley, one hand braced on her hip and the other clutching an oversized handbag like she was fully prepared to use it as a weapon. Her ginger hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, damp curls clinging to her face. Sharp blue eyes locked on him with suspicion, like she was sizing him up for a fight.

"You lost?" Tom muttered, lowering his hand from his weapon. The last thing he needed was some local getting in the way.

"Oh yeah, love. Proper lost," she shot back, voice dripping sarcasm. "That's why I'm followin' some eejit sneakin' round back alleys lookin' like he's plannin' to rob someone."

"I'm not—" Tom started, then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, you need to get out of here."

"You've got a gun," she shot back. "I'm not goin' anywhere till you tell me what you're playin' at."

Tom turned fully, squaring his shoulders. "You don't want to be here. Trust me."

"Yeah?" Aoife snorted. "Funny, 'cause I reckon you're the one who doesn't belong here."

A low growl rumbled from somewhere behind her.

Tom's stomach sank.

"Get down!" he barked, yanking his gun free.

Aoife turned just in time to see the werewolf burst from the shadows, a blur of matted fur and snarling teeth. She barely managed a shout before Tom shoved her aside. The beast lunged, and Tom fired twice, silver rounds catching it in the shoulder and side. It staggered, snarling through bloody teeth, but didn't fall.

"Run!" Tom yelled.

But Aoife didn't run. She didn't even move. Instead, she reached into that oversized handbag of hers and yanked out a bolt-action rifle, like she'd been carrying it the whole damn time.

"Get down, soldier!" she barked.

Tom barely had time to duck before Aoife fired. The shot rang out sharp and clean, and the werewolf dropped like a stone, the silver round lodged right between its ribs.

Tom lay there for a second, blinking up at the sky like he'd just hallucinated the whole thing. Then Aoife's face appeared above him, scowling like she'd just caught him nicking sweets from a corner shop.

"Y'alright?" she asked, shoving the rifle back into her bag like it was no big deal.

"Yeah," Tom croaked. "I… yeah." He blinked at her again. "Where the hell did you get that rifle?"

Aoife shrugged. "Me da's. Kept it stashed in the loft. Thought I'd be better off havin' it close by, what with all the weird shite goin' on lately."

"You knew what that thing was?"

Aoife exhaled sharply, like she'd been holding her breath too long. "Didn't believe it 'til I saw it with me own eyes." She paused, looking Tom up and down. "But you… you knew what it was the second you saw it, didn't ya?"

Tom hesitated. "Yeah… I did."

Aoife snorted. "Great. Met one weird bastard tonight, and he's armed to the teeth."

"Look," Tom said, rising to his feet, "I'm guessing you've got a lot of questions."

"Oh, you think?" Aoife shot back, folding her arms.

"I'll explain," Tom promised. "But… can I at least buy you a drink first?"

Aoife raised an eyebrow. "You're offerin' to take me for a pint after I saved your arse?"

"Well," Tom grinned sheepishly, "figured it's the least I owe you."

He honestly thought that telling her the truth would scare her off. After all, most people didn't take kindly to finding out the world was crawling with monsters.

Instead, Aoife had stared at him like he was five pints deep and half-mad. Then she'd had a mild panic attack in the pub bathroom, let out a high-pitched screech just once, and knocked back two more pints in record time.

The next morning, there was a knock on his hotel door. When he opened it, Aoife was standing there — bag slung over her shoulder, her Dad's rifle peeking out from behind her.

"You're an idiot," she said. "Goin' off chasin' monsters on your own like that. You'll get yourself killed."

"I've been doin' this a long time," Tom said.

"Yeah?" Aoife narrowed her eyes. "Well, not anymore. I've decided you need someone with actual brains to keep you from gettin' yourself killed. Lucky for you, I don't mind volunteerin'."

"You're serious?" Tom asked, stunned.

"As a heart attack," Aoife replied, smirking. "You reckon I'm lettin' some Yank march about on his own?"

Tom had laughed then, loud and full and real. It had been a long time since he'd felt like someone actually chose him, like someone wanted to be part of his life.

"You sure you're up for this?" he asked her later, halfway down the road.

Aoife grinned and gave him a wink. "Ní thagann ciall roimh aois."

Tom's eyes widened in surprise, and his grin widened.

"Ní bhíonn tréan buan ach beagán," he shot back, Gaelige rolling off his tongue with perfect ease.

Aoife blinked, clearly taken aback, before a slow smile curled her lips.

"Oh Jaysus," she muttered. "This is gonna be fun."

Tom knew then, in that exact moment, that he was in love with her.

***

Fast forward five years and three cats, and the duo were happier than ever with a future Aisling Máire Keane-Winchester only six months away. Aoife shifted on the bed as Tom knelt to zip his duffle closed. The memory lingered in his head — that stubborn smirk, her voice full of fire. She'd followed him into a life she hadn't asked for, because she knew what it meant to stand by someone you loved.

That's what made this so hard.

When Tom turned back to her, Aoife's hand was resting over her barely there bump, her expression softer now, worried but trying not to show it.

"Do you really have to go?" she asked quietly.

Tom sighed and knelt beside her. "Sam says they need me."

Aoife scoffed, her voice hardening. "Ah yeah? Well we need ya too, Tom." Her voice wobbled, but her hand covered his firmly. "Me an' Ashie… we're not gonna lose ya, alright?"

"You won't," Tom whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "I promise."

But the truth settled heavily in his chest. If Dean had spent a year avoiding him, if his own brother had let him believe he was dead, then Tom wasn't sure what would be waiting for him when he finally caught up to his family.

Aoife must've felt the tension radiating off him because her fingers shifted to his face, cupping his cheek. "Hey," she murmured softly, coaxing him to look at her. "None o' that now. Don't go makin' up demons that aren't there."

"I'm just… I dunno what I'm walkin' into, Róisín."

"Then don't walk in like you're marchin' to your own wake," she said firmly. "Y'walk in with your chin up and that big eejit grin on your face like you've done somethin' clever."

That startled a laugh out of him, low and shaky but real. "Aye, is that so?"

"Sure is," Aoife grinned. "Worked on me, didn't it?"

Tom chuckled again and kissed her hand. "I hate leavin' you."

"I know." Her voice softened again, and her hand returned to his cheek. "I hate it too. But you're not gone yet, are ya?"

"Not yet," he muttered.

Aoife shifted, wincing slightly as she tried to sit up. Tom's hands were on her instantly, guiding her gently against the pillows.

"Ach, Tomás, I'm pregnant, not dyin'," she muttered fondly.

"Still," Tom said stubbornly, fussing with her blankets. "I'm not leavin' 'til I know you're sorted."

Aoife let him hover, let him fix her pillows and straighten the blanket over her lap. She knew he needed this — something to keep his hands busy. Something to feel like he was still in control.

When he finally stepped back, Aoife's smile was warm, and something in it settled the knot of anxiety twisting in his chest.

"You remember what to do?" he asked, forcing a grin.

"Aye, aye," Aoife sighed dramatically. "Check the trap by the front door, wear me rosary, splash holy water on anyone at the door, includin' you, and keep me silver knife sharp."

"You forgot 'don't go anywhere alone,'" Tom reminded.

Aoife smirked. "Didn't forget, I just didn't say it 'cause I knew you'd be back here shoutin' about it anyway."

Tom chuckled and leaned down to kiss her, longer this time. He lingered there, feeling her hand slip into his hair: warm, safe, home.

"Tomás…" Aoife whispered as he pulled back. Her hand slid down to squeeze his. "Tabhair aire duit féin."

"Tabharfaidh mé," Tom whispered back.

He turned for the door, but Aoife's voice stopped him again.

"Tom?"

He turned back, and Aoife's eyes flicked downward, her hand still resting protectively over her bump.

"Déan dearmad nach bhfuil grá ag an saol seo duit," she said softly.

Tom swallowed thickly, his throat tightening. "Níl mo ghrá ach leat," he murmured.

And he knew no matter where this road took him, those words would follow him like a lighthouse in the dark.

##########

The engine hum filled the silence like static, a low and steady noise that should've been comforting but wasn't. His Saint Christopher pendant swayed back and forth as it hung over the rearview mirror.

Tom's fingers drummed absently against the steering wheel, his thoughts spiralling like smoke. The highway stretched endlessly ahead of him, just faded asphalt and tired sky.

He could still hear Aoife's voice in his head, soft but firm: Geallaim dom go dtiocfaidh tú ar ais, mo ghrá.

He'd promised her he would. He'd meant it. But now, with each mile rolling beneath his tyres, the promise felt more like a whispered prayer than a certainty.

Dean was alive. Alive… and hadn't called. That truth gnawed at him, bitter and sharp.

Tom blew out a breath, dragging a hand down his face. He was exhausted already, and he hadn't even seen his brothers yet.

His fingers itched to reach for the radio, anything to drown out his own thoughts, but his mind flicked back to another drive, another highway, another moment he'd convinced himself he could outrun the past.

***

Stanford, Ten Years Ago

Tom Winchester sat stiffly at the corner of the diner booth, back straight and shoulders squared. His fingers curled around the handle of his coffee cup, knuckles resting perfectly along the curve, a textbook grip like he was still holding his rifle.

The place was clean enough—low lighting, a faint smell of coffee, nothing that set off alarm bells—but Tom still couldn't relax. He scanned the room automatically: doors, windows, and exits. His gaze flicked over each face, assessing threat potential like he was still on patrol.

Sam was late.

Tom's hand twitched toward his watch before he caught himself. Sit still. Don't fidget. He exhaled and forced his hand back to his coffee. He wasn't even sure why he'd agreed to this. When Sam's number flashed across his phone screen, a number Bobby must've given him, Tom nearly ignored it.

But he didn't because it was Sam.

The bell above the diner door jingled, and Tom's breath hitched. Sam ducked inside, hair too long, jacket too big, awkward and still growing into himself. He spotted Tom immediately, hesitating just long enough for Tom's chest to tighten.

Then Sam squared his shoulders, a move Tom recognised, and walked over.

"Hey," Sam said as he slid into the booth. His smile seemed forced, but he was trying.

"Hey," Tom muttered back. His voice came out rougher than expected.

Sam settled into the seat, tapping his fingers anxiously against the table. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic."

"Sure," Tom said absently, scanning the room again. "Got bogged down in the convoy, huh?"

Sam blinked. "What?"

Tom huffed softly. "Doesn't matter."

For a few beats, neither spoke. Sam reached for the sugar packets, fiddling with them like they might answer all the things neither of them wanted to say.

"So…" Sam started, clearing his throat. "How've you been?"

Tom snorted quietly. "That's what you called me for?"

Sam winced. "I know… it's just… I haven't seen you in years."

"You could've called before now," Tom said, a hint of bitterness creeping in.

Sam's fingers twitched around the sugar packet. "Yeah... I know. You could've too."

Another pause.

Tom finally sighed. "Bobby said you're in school."

"Yeah," Sam said, his face lighting up a little. "Stanford… law school." He paused like he expected Tom to mock him for it.

But Tom just nodded slowly. "That's good," he said. "That's… that's real good, Sam."

Sam's shoulders dropped a fraction like he'd been bracing for something worse.

"I just…" Sam trailed off, turning the sugar packet over in his hands. "I wanted to try somethin' different. Get away from… you know."

"You don't have to explain," Tom said, his voice quieter now. "I get it."

Sam looked up, eyes narrowing. "Do you?" His voice had an edge. "Because I don't know... some days it feels like I never really left."

Tom tilted his head slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Sam sighed, finally abandoning the sugar packets. "I've got this whole life now: Jess, school… I've got friends, normal friends. People who don't even know what's out there. But still…" His fingers flexed around his coffee cup. "I'll be walkin' across campus, and I'll just… I'll see someone with a long coat, and I'll check for a weapon. Or I'll hear glass break in an alley, and I'll move, y'know? Just… like that." He snapped his fingers. "Like I'm still back in some crap motel, just… waitin' for somethin' to go wrong."

Tom let out a dry chuckle, low and humourless. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know exactly what you mean."

Sam's eyes flicked toward him, curious. "You still…"

Tom shook his head. "No," he lied. "I keep busy." He paused, then shrugged. "Still active duty. Did another tour overseas a few months back."

"Yeah?" Sam asked, surprised. "Where?"

"Hell," Tom muttered, "pick a sandbox." He took a sip of his coffee like it might scrub the memories away.

Sam's mouth twitched slightly. "That's the most military thing I've ever heard."

"Yeah?" Tom chuckled dryly. That's what happens when you keep your boots on too long." He smiled faintly, one of those rare, real smiles before it faded again.

"Truth is..." Tom set his coffee down, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the cup. "No matter where you go… those motel rooms? They stick with you." He exhaled hard through his nose. "Crap wallpaper, busted air conditioner… it gets in your head. Starts feelin' like home even when you hate it."

Sam swallowed thickly, as if he wanted to agree but couldn't bring himself to say it.

"You got out," Tom added, voice steady. "You actually got out."

"I guess," Sam said, shrugging.

"No," Tom cut in firmly. You did. You walked away. You went after something better." He paused, his voice softer now. "I'm proud of you, Sam."

Sam's head shot up, eyes wide like the words had caught him off guard. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tom said, voice low but certain. "I mean it."

For a moment, Sam looked like he might actually say something meaningful, but instead, he just smiled awkwardly and reached for his coffee.

"I'm glad," Sam said quietly. "That you're... okay."

Tom chuckled again, sharp and dry. "Yeah. Somethin' like that."

Neither of them said it, how much they missed each other, how much they'd both been through — but somehow, the silence felt just loud enough to hear it.

***

The memory faded, but the warmth lingered.

Tom tightened his grip on the wheel, jaw clenching. Sam had tried. He'd walked away, chased something better, and for a while, he'd found it.

And now here they were, tangled back in the same mess they'd spent their whole lives trying to escape.

Still in those motel rooms, Tom thought bitterly. Still looking over our shoulders.

The road stretched on ahead, endless and empty.

"Just hold on, Sammy," Tom muttered under his breath. "I'm comin'."

#####################

The knock at the door came early, too early for Dean's liking. His head pounded from last night's whiskey, and his mood was already circling the drain. He swung the door open to find Tom standing there, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, face set in a grim scowl.

"You look like crap," Tom greeted dryly.

Dean huffed a humourless chuckle. "Yeah, well, you look like a guy who spent too long playing dress-up with the Marines." He stepped back, jerking his head toward the room. "C'mon in."

Sam stood by the window, watching the tension unfold. "Hey," he greeted, forcing a smile. "Glad you could make it."

"Yeah," Tom muttered, dropping his bag by the door. "Wish I could say I'm happy to be here."

"Well, you're not the only one," Dean muttered.

Tom's eyes flicked from Sam back to Dean. "Look, I didn't come here to trade punches with you," he said, voice tight. "So let's just skip the crap, alright?"

"Oh, you wanna skip the crap?" Dean barked. "That's rich, coming from you. The words 'I have to leave, I'm so sorry' ring a bell?"

"Dean…" Sam's voice had an edge now.

"No, Sammy," Dean cut him off. "You don't get to play peacemaker in this one." He turned to Tom, eyes narrowing. "You don't get to walk out on this family, leave me to pick up Dad's messes so you can follow in his footsteps, and then waltz back in like you didn't burn every damn bridge on your way out."

Tom's eyes darkened. "I didn't join the Marines to be like Dad."

"Could've fooled me," Dean shot back. "Look at you now, walking in here with a duffle full of guns and a chip on your shoulder. Just like him."

"You can hate me all you want," Tom snarled, "but don't you dare compare me to that man."

Dean scoffed. "If the shoe fits…"

Tom's fist slammed against the table, rattling the empty bottle. "I spent years trying to fix things, Dean. Patching people up, keeping them breathing, not tearing them apart like Dad did."

"Yeah?" Dean shot back. "Then what the hell are you hiding?"

Tom's breath caught. His mind flashed to Aoife: her smile, her hand guiding him to the swell of her stomach, where Aisling steadily grew. His family, his real family, was waiting for him back home.

"Nothing," Tom said tightly. "I'm not hiding anything."

"Bull," Dean snapped. "You're still lying to us. I can see it."

"Alright, that's enough!" Sam's voice boomed, sharp and loud enough to startle them both. "We didn't ask Tom here to hash out the past." He turned to Tom, lowering his voice. "We asked you here because there's something else… something we didn't tell you over the phone."

Tom's stomach turned. "What?"

Sam's gaze flicked to Dean, who scoffed and turned away. Sam stepped closer, lowering his voice like he didn't want Dean involved.

"Tom… we think you might be a vessel."

Tom blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"For an archangel," Sam said carefully. "We're not sure which one yet, but—"

"You've got to be kidding me," Tom muttered.

"Wish we were," Dean said bitterly.

Tom's heart hammered in his chest. His mind raced— Aoife, Aisling, their home, their future —all of it flashing behind his eyes.

"I can't," Tom muttered under his breath. "I can't get dragged back into this."

"You think we wanted this?" Dean shot back. "None of us signed up for this crap."

Tom shook his head. "I have a life now. A real life. I've got—" He cut himself off before he said too much.

I've got a wife… I've got a daughter on the way…

He swallowed hard. "I can't do this."

"You think I can?" Dean barked. "You think I wanna be Michael's sword? You think Sam's thrilled to be Lucifer's meat suit? Nobody gets a choice here. You just suck it up and deal with it."

"And what if I don't?" Tom snapped. "What if I say no?"

Dean's face hardened. "Then they'll find someone you love and use them instead."

The words struck like a hammer to the chest. Tom's mind reeled.

"I need some air," Tom muttered, grabbing his jacket.

"Tom—" Sam started.

"I'll be back," Tom said tightly, voice strained. He paused, hand on the door. "I just… I need a minute."

And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

#####################

Tom leaned against his truck, his breathing shaky.

They'll find someone you love and use them instead…

Aoife's face swam in his mind, her smile, her laugh, and Aisling's growing form beneath his palm.

He couldn't let this touch them. Not this life. Not this curse.

He knew what he had to do; he'd help his brothers stop this mess… and then he'd walk away.

For good.

Because no matter what Dean thought — no matter how much Tom still loved his brothers — his family back home was the one thing he couldn't risk losing.

And he wouldn't let anyone take that away from him.

Not even God.

######################

The door slammed shut behind Tom, rattling the cheap motel window.

"Well," Sam muttered, running a hand down his face. "That went just about as well as expected."

Dean snorted, reaching for his whiskey bottle again. "What? Him running away again?" He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head as he poured himself another glass. "Yeah, just like expected."

"Could you quit going on about that?" Sam shot back, exasperated.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Why should I?"

"Because it's not fair," Sam said, his voice tight with frustration. "You've been holding that grudge since we were kids. Tom left. Yeah. We all know it. But so did I, Dean, and you never let me forget it either."

Dean scoffed, looking away. "Oh, so now this is about you?"

"No," Sam snapped. "It's about you. You're still walking around pissed off at the whole damn world because you can't let go of what happened when we were kids."

Dean's fingers tightened around his glass. "Yeah?" He shot Sam a hard look. "Well maybe if you'd stuck around instead of running off to Stanford, you wouldn't be standing here acting like you know me."

"I do know you," Sam countered, voice softer now, like he knew exactly what was coming. "And that's the problem."

Dean's jaw twitched. Sam's gaze softened, and Dean hated that. He hated that Sam could see right through him.

"You're not angry at Tom," Sam said carefully. "You're angry at yourself."

Dean's grip on the glass faltered for a second.

"Because you never went after him," Sam pressed. "You knew where he was, Dean. After Dad's funeral, Bobby told me you already knew where he was, that Dad had tracked him down years ago to keep tabs. You could've went to him instead of me all those years ago, but you didn't. You knew but you never went after him."

Dean's mouth opened, but no words came out.

Because Sam was right.

"I had enough to deal with," Dean muttered after a moment, voice low. "I couldn't… I couldn't carry him too." He paused, staring down into his glass like it held the answer to all of it. "Dad had me running halfway across the country, chasing leads and putting out fires. And all the while, I was trying to keep you safe, keep us fed, keep us alive." His voice hardened. "I didn't have time to go chasing after someone who didn't want to be found."

"Bull," Sam muttered, shaking his head. "You had plenty of time to go looking for him. You just didn't want to."

"You're damn right I didn't!" Dean barked, standing abruptly. "Because if he didn't want to be part of this family, why the hell should I waste my time?"

Sam huffed a dry laugh, folding his arms. "Yeah… and how's that working out for you?"

Dean froze, glaring at Sam like he wanted to punch him in the face, or maybe himself.

"Tom left, Dean," Sam said, quieter now. "But you're the one who wrote him off."

Dean swallowed hard, lips pressing into a thin line. He turned away, gripping the edge of the table to keep his hands from shaking.

"I didn't need him," Dean muttered.

Sam's voice softened again. "Yeah… but maybe he needed you."

Dean's fingers flexed against the table. He didn't answer.

The silence settled thick between them.

The door creaked open.

Tom stepped back inside, looking more composed but still far from calm. His gaze flicked between his brothers, their tense postures and stubborn eyes avoiding one another.

"Did I miss something?" Tom muttered, tossing his jacket onto his duffle bag.

"Nah," Dean muttered, still staring at the wall. "Just Sam being Sam."

"Right," Tom muttered sceptically before sighing and moving to sit at the table. He slouched in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. For a few moments, no one spoke. The air felt heavy, thick with everything unsaid.

Dean's eyes drifted to Tom's hands as they played absently with the chain around his neck: a silver chain, mostly hidden beneath the collar of his shirt. It wasn't flashy, but it was nothing like the dog tags Dean expected from his military brother. Something about it made Dean's fingers itch with curiosity, but for once, he didn't call Tom out on it.

Instead, Tom shifted in his seat, knuckles brushing the chain once more before he exhaled deeply.

"So…" Tom said finally, his voice quiet but steady. "What do you need me to do?"

The words hit Dean harder than they should have. For a second, he remembered Tom as a teenager, angry, proud, and stubborn as hell. Always standing his ground, always pushing back.

But now? He just looked tired.

Dean exchanged a quick look with Sam, who gave him a silent nod, a nudge to let Dean take the lead. Dean sighed, raking a hand down his face before sitting across from Tom.

"Well," Dean said, his voice quieter now, more serious. "For starters… you're probably gonna want to say no to any trench-coated dicks offering you a free ride."

Tom let out a small, humourless chuckle. "Yeah," he muttered. "Figures."

"You need to lay low," Sam added, stepping closer. "Stay off the radar. The angels are looking for vessels. If they know you're one too…" He trailed off like he didn't want to finish the sentence.

Tom's fingers curled around his chain again, the metal glinting faintly in the light. He stared down at it for a long moment.

"I'm not just gonna sit on my ass," Tom muttered finally. "If I'm in this… I'm in this."

"Yeah?" Dean snorted. "Last time you said you were 'in,' you left a seven-word note and hit the road."

Tom's eyes flashed, his hand dropping from his chain. "I was twenty-one, Dean," he said, voice sharp. "I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I just knew I had to leave."

"Well," Dean said bitterly, "glad to know running's still your go-to."

"Alright, enough," Sam snapped again, stepping between them. He turned to Tom. "Look… this isn't about the past. Not now. We're all in this mess together whether we like it or not."

Tom stared at him for a long moment, his fingers twitching toward his chain again, but this time, he caught himself.

"Fine," Tom muttered. "Tell me what you need."

Dean gave a dry laugh, reaching for his glass again. "I'll let you know when I figure that out."

Tom just sighed and leaned back in his chair. Whatever came next, he knew one thing for sure: this wasn't going to end well.

And deep down, Dean knew it too.

#####################

The motel room was quiet, the kind of quiet that weighed heavily in the air, pressing down like a storm waiting to break.

Dean lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The faint glow of the streetlight outside crept through the gaps in the blinds, casting a dim sliver of light across the room. Sam was sprawled on his side, snoring quietly. Tom lay still in the other bed, his breathing slow and steady.

Dean turned his head, his eyes narrowing on Tom. His brother's face was calm—too calm for someone who was supposed to be part of this apocalyptic mess. It looked like he had something to go back to, something to lose.

What are you hiding, Tommy?

Dean shifted silently, easing himself out of bed. The floor creaked faintly as he crept across the room. He knew it was low, even for him, but the chain had been nagging at him all night. Tom had been fidgeting with it earlier: nervous, like the damn thing burned his fingers. That alone had been enough to put Dean on edge.

He moved carefully to the edge of Tom's bed. His brother's hand was resting over his chest, fingers just barely curled around the chain like it was instinct to keep it close. Dean watched for a second, waiting for Tom's hand to slacken.

Don't be a jackass, something in his head warned. Just leave it alone.

But Dean couldn't.

He leaned in slowly, carefully sliding the chain free from Tom's fingers. The metal shifted, cool against Dean's skin as he eased it from beneath Tom's shirt. It felt heavier than he expected.

And then he saw it.

A silver wedding band, worn but well-kept, looped neatly through the chain.

Dean froze, breath catching in his chest.

No…

For a moment, all he could do was stare at it, that band gleaming faintly in the thin stream of light. His mind raced, memories flashing like broken glass.

Tom, fifteen years old, yelling at Dad in the middle of a run-down motel room.

Tom storming out at seventeen, the first time Dean got into a fight in school, leaving himself with a busted lip and a three-day suspension in its wake.

Tom, Dad's favourite, leaving them behind.

And now here he was. Married. Settled. A life Dean never even thought was possible for himself.

He felt something cold curdle in his stomach, an ugly mix of anger, jealousy, and something else he couldn't quite name. His fingers curled tightly around the ring.

Tom had walked away and still managed to carve out some kind of peace. He'd found a way out. He got to have a happy ending.

And Dean?

Dean had stayed, stayed to pick up the pieces of their wrecked family. Stayed to drag Sam out of burning buildings, stayed to be Dad's attack dog, stayed to drown in the mess their father left behind. Stayed because somebody had to.

That should've been Tom's role. He was the oldest; it was supposed to be his weight to carry. But no, Tom had walked away.

And he got to be happy for it.

Dean shoved the chain back where it belonged, tucking it roughly beneath Tom's shirt before retreating to his bed. His pulse thundered in his ears as he dropped back down, head pounding.

Tom shifted in his sleep, murmuring something under his breath. Dean turned his back on him and shut his eyes, but there was no chance he was getting any rest now.

His mind kept circling the same thought, over and over again.

He got to leave… and he still won.

#####################

Tom woke up first, a habit ingrained from his military days, and shuffled quietly around the room. Dean lay still, pretending to sleep, but his body was wound tight.

"Coffee?" Tom muttered.

Dean didn't answer. He heard Tom pause, then shrug and grab his keys.

The door clicked softly behind him, and Dean's eyes shot open. His heart was still racing.

"Dean?" Sam's groggy voice mumbled from the other side of the bed. "You okay?"

Dean exhaled sharply, rolling out of bed. "Yeah," he muttered. "Peachy."

Sam rubbed his eyes, watching Dean stalk across the room. "Where's Tom?"

"Getting coffee," Dean said flatly.

Sam pushed himself up on his elbows. "What's wrong?"

Dean turned sharply, eyes flashing. "What's wrong?" He gave a bitter laugh. "I'll tell you what's wrong, our brother's been off playing house while we've been fighting tooth and nail to keep this world from burning."

Sam blinked, confused. "What are you talking about?"

Dean shoved a hand through his hair, pacing like a restless dog. "He's married, Sam."

Sam frowned. "Wait… what?"

Dean spun around, eyes hard. "He's got a wife and God knows what else. A whole damn life. And he never told us." His voice rose, sharper now. "Not a call. Not a letter. Just… nothing."

Sam stared at him for a long moment. "You're mad because he's married?"

"I'm mad because he got out," Dean snapped. "He just… he just walked away and left us to deal with the fallout. And now?" He let out a breathless, humourless chuckle. "Now he's got something to lose."

"And that bothers you?" Sam asked quietly.

"Damn right it bothers me!" Dean shot back. "I've spent my whole life getting the crap kicked out of me for this family. Bled for it. Died for it. And all the while, he was out there living some perfect little life like none of it ever happened."

Sam's expression softened, not pity, exactly, but something close. "Dean… he's here now."

"Oh yeah?" Dean bit out. "For how long?" He shook his head, voice low. "He's gonna run again, Sam. Just like before. And we'll be the ones left cleaning up the mess."

"He's not Dad," Sam said quietly. "You know that, right?"

Dean's face twisted like those words hit harder than they should have. "Yeah," he muttered darkly. "We'll see."

#####################

Tom walked back into the motel room, the coffee tray balanced in one hand. Sam and Dean turned their heads sharply. Sam's expression was neutral and guarded, while Dean barely spared him a glance.

"You're welcome," Tom prompted with a grin that faltered as his gaze flicked between his brothers. "What's with the faces?"

"Nothing," Dean muttered, grabbing one of the cups. "Just waiting to see how long you're sticking around this time."

Tom's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't bite. He just grabbed his own cup, fingers brushing the chain beneath his shirt. This time, Dean caught the movement, and Tom noticed.

"You wanna say something?" Tom asked quietly.

Dean's jaw tightened. "Nope."

Tom exhaled sharply, curling his fingers around the metal band under his shirt, grounding himself. His thumb rubbed the smooth surface, tracing it absently. The tension cracked in the air.

"I'm here," Tom said after a long moment. "I wouldn't be if I didn't mean it."

Dean snorted, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "Yeah," he muttered. "We'll see."

***

The motel room felt suffocating, the air thick and heavy with words left unsaid.

Tom sat stiffly at the table, fingers tapping against his phone. Dean paced like a caged animal near the door, every step sharp and restless. Sam lingered in the corner, quietly trying to stay out of the blast zone, but Tom knew that wouldn't last long. It never did.

"I'm gonna step out," Tom muttered, grabbing his jacket.

"You waiting for a call?" Dean's voice snapped across the room.

Tom's fingers froze around his phone.

"Yeah," Tom said carefully. "So?"

Dean laughed, bitter and humourless. "Yeah… so."

Tom turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "You got something to say?"

Dean stopped pacing, arms crossing over his chest. "I dunno. You tell me." His eyes flicked to Tom's chest and to the faint outline of the chain beneath his shirt. "You're hiding something and I'm guessing it's got a whole lot to do with whatever's hanging around your neck."

"Dean…" Sam warned.

"You've been lying to us since you walked through that door," Dean pressed, voice rising. "Acting like you're here to help when you're just waiting for an excuse to bolt again."

"That's not true," Tom shot back.

"Bull," Dean snapped. "You've got one foot out the door, just like always."

"You wanna talk about keeping secrets?" Tom's voice shook slightly. "You've got some damn nerve."

"Don't turn this around," Dean warned.

"Oh, no," Tom snapped. "Let's talk about how you didn't bother telling me you were alive until now. About how I spent a year thinking my brother was dead."

Sam's face hardened. "That's not the same, Tom," he said sharply. "Don't throw that in our faces."

"Oh really?" Tom snapped. "Because from where I'm standing, you two haven't exactly been honest either."

"You're comparing that to this?" Dean barked. "You've been off playing house while we've been knee-deep in this crap!"

"Yeah?" Tom's voice cracked. "Because I couldn't keep doing this, Dean!"

"Oh, right," Dean said coldly. "Because you're so much better than us."

"Because I couldn't stay!" Tom roared.

"Why?" Dean barked. "Because things got hard?"

"Because Dad told me to go!" Tom bellowed.

The room froze.

Tom's breath came fast and shallow. His hand shook as he set his phone down on the table.

"What?" Sam asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Tom swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "It was after that hunt in Oklahoma... when Dean got hurt." His voice faltered. "Dad blamed me for it. Said I coddled you two too much... said if one of you died, it'd be on me." His fingers curled tighter around his chain. "Told me to get out... said maybe if I wasn't around, he'd finally step up and take care of you."

Sam's face twisted, hurt, and disbelief flickering beneath frustration. "And you never told me?" His voice sharpened. "All this time? You had plenty of chances, Tom!"

"I didn't want to drag you into it," Tom muttered. "Didn't want you blaming yourself."

"Oh, that's rich," Sam barked, laughing bitterly. "You didn't want to tell me because you knew I'd be pissed. Because you knew you let us hate you so we wouldn't hate him!"

"You think I had a choice?" Tom shot back. "I thought if I left, Dad would finally get his act together. Thought he'd take responsibility, that he'd have no choice but to take care of you."

"Well, that didn't exactly pan out, did it?" Sam snapped.

Tom winced. "No," he muttered. "I figured."

"You let us hate you," Sam said tightly, his voice lower, now more dangerous. "You let us believe you just... bailed on us. And you never said a word." His expression twisted with something deeper, anger laced with guilt. "I defended you. When Dean would rant about how you ran off, I told him you probably had your reasons, that you weren't like Dad." He shook his head bitterly. "Turns out I was wrong."

Tom's shoulders slumped. "I didn't want you thinking worse of him," he murmured.

"Why?" Dean demanded. "Why the hell would you let us believe that?"

"You used to call me Dad," Tom said softly.

Dean froze like he'd walked into a brick wall. He looked over at Tom slowly, face hard and unreadable.

"What?" he said sharply.

"You heard me," Tom sighed. "You and Sam… you called me Dad." His voice faltered. "Pissed Dad the hell off when he found out. I corrected you, but… shit, I was as good as your Dad anyway."

The words hung in the air like smoke, acrid and bitter. For a long beat, no one spoke.

"You're lying," Dean said coldly. "That's not true."

"It is," Tom said quietly. "You just don't remember."

"Bull," Dean snapped. "I remember everything. I remember what Dad was like. He took care of us."

"Did he?" Tom shot back, voice rising. "Because when you crawled into bed after a nightmare, who held you? When you got sick and puked for two days straight, who sat next to you, wiping your face? Who taught you how to tie your shoes, Dean?"

Dean's face twisted. "Shut up."

"You think John was there?" Tom's voice shook now. "He wasn't. I was. I kept you two fed, made sure Sam got his naps, tried to make things normal even when they weren't."

"You're full of crap," Dean growled. "I don't remember that."

"Because you were too damn young to remember," Tom shot back. "You were just a kid, Dean. You didn't know that I was the one keeping things together."

Dean's chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. "You're telling me you let us think that was Dad?" His voice broke slightly on the word. "You let me believe he— he was…"

Tom let out a bitter laugh. "I figured… if you hated me instead, that was easier."

"That's not easier," Dean spat. "That's just you taking the coward's way out."

"Coward?" Tom's eyes flashed. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to be hauling two little kids from motel to motel while Dad disappeared for days at a time? You think I wanted to be the one to sit Sam on the bathroom counter so I could clean his scraped knees because Dad was off God knows where? You think I wanted to be the one to hold you after a nightmare because no one else was there?" His voice broke. "I didn't want to be your dad, Dean… but I had to."

"Yeah?" Dean's voice shook with barely contained rage. "Well, you weren't. Because you left."

"I didn't want to!" Tom bellowed, slamming his hand against the table. "But what was I supposed to do? Dad told me to go, Dean! I thought he'd make good for once."

"Oh, and that worked out great, didn't it?" Dean sneered. "Real smooth move there, Tom."

"I didn't have a choice!" Tom roared. "I was drowning! I was twenty-one, Dean! I couldn't take care of you guys, not the way you deserved. I tried."

"Not hard enough," Dean shot back. "You left me. You left me to pick up the pieces. I was just a kid too, you know."

"I know," Tom said quietly. His voice cracked like a hairline fracture. "I know…"

The silence pressed down hard.

Sam exhaled shakily. "Why didn't you tell us?" His voice cracked. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Tom let out a bitter laugh. "Because if you knew the truth, you'd have seen what Dad really was. And you needed him, or at least, you needed a real father." He shook his head. "I didn't want to take that away from you."

"You didn't need to," Sam said bitterly. "He did that all on his own."

"Yeah?" Dean cut in. His voice was sharp, cold. "Well, guess what? You still left."

Tom's head snapped up. "I know," he said quietly. "And I've been paying for it every day since."

For once, Dean didn't have a comeback. He just stood there: fists clenched, shoulders tight, jaw locked.

"You're right," Tom said after a long silence. "I let you hate me so you wouldn't hate him. And maybe I convinced myself that was the right thing to do." His voice dropped low. "But I wasn't there when you needed me. And that… that's on me."

Dean's eyes flicked away like he couldn't bear to look at him anymore.

"You want to hate me?" Tom said quietly. "Fine. But don't tell me I didn't love you. Because I did. I still do. I left, because you needed to believe in someone," Tom said, his voice cracking. "You needed to believe that Dad wasn't as bad as he was. That he wasn't just some drunk who threw his sons into the fire. I thought... maybe if I left, you'd finally have a dad to rely on."

"You don't get to make that call," Sam shot back. "You don't get to decide what we believe. That wasn't your choice to make!"

"You left me," Dean said again, quieter this time. "You left me to pick up the pieces."

"I didn't have a choice," Tom said, voice cracking. "I did what I thought was right."

"Yeah?" Dean's voice hardened. "Guess you thought wrong."

The words landed like a punch to the gut. Tom swallowed hard.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Aoife," Tom said finally. "But you know what? I wanted something better. Something… normal. I got a little girl on the way now, and I worked hard to get here. And I'll be damned if I let this life pull me back under."

He turned to Sam. "I know you're pissed. You have a right to be. But I did what I thought was right." His voice dropped low. "I just wanted something better."

Neither Dean nor Sam said anything.

Tom let out a shaky breath. His hand drifted back to the chain, the band cool beneath his fingertips.

"I'm not leaving this time," Tom said quietly. "But when this is over… I'm going home."

And with that, he walked out the door, leaving his brothers behind in silence.

The door slammed behind Tom, rattling the windowpane.

################

Dean stood frozen in place, still staring at the empty space where his brother had been moments before. His fists clenched at his sides, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. He felt… off-balance, like someone had yanked the floor out from under him.

"Dean…" Sam's voice broke the silence, hesitant. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean muttered, too quickly, too harshly. His chest felt tight, like something was stuck inside that he couldn't swallow down.

Sam's eyes lingered on him for a moment before turning away. Dean tried to focus, tried to shake off the dull roar in his head. But the memory crept in, slow and unwelcome.

***

He must've been five or maybe six years old. They were holed up in a dingy apartment, one of Dad's "temporary stays" that somehow stretched into months. There were two bedrooms, peeling wallpaper, and a heater that rattled like it was coughing itself to death.

Dean remembered waking up from a nightmare that night. Something about shadows had left him sweaty and scared, his heart hammering in his chest. He'd crawled out of his own bed, shuffling quietly across the creaky floor.

The door to the second bedroom had been ajar, and he could barely see the figure in bed through the gap. He remembered hesitating, unsure if Dad would bark at him to go back to his room, but he'd been too scared to care.

Dean had crept forward and nudged the blanket. "Dad?" he'd whispered.

A soft and low sigh followed by a warm arm pulling him into the bed.

"You're okay," that voice had murmured. "I've got you."

Dean had buried his face in the warm cotton of the T-shirt. The arm around him had been steady, the hand on his back firm but gentle. He remembered that part best, the quiet comfort of it. He'd felt safe and warm, like nothing in the world could touch him.

"You're safe," that voice had whispered. "You're loved. Go back to sleep."

He'd drifted off feeling calm for the first time in days.

The next morning, he woke up alone, the blankets cool where "Dad" had been. Dean wandered into the kitchen, still half-asleep, and found their father standing near the sink, his back to him.

"Morning," Dean had greeted with a small smile.

John had grunted, not even looking at him. No warmth, no smile, just that gruff, hard indifference.

Dean's heart had sunk. The change was so stark that he'd thought maybe he'd done something wrong, maybe waking Dad in the middle of the night had made him mad.

He remembered sitting stiffly at the table, sulking. Tom had been at the stove, flipping pancakes with Sam balanced on his hip. Tom had smiled at Dean, warm and easy, and said, "Morning, kid. Sleep okay?"

Dean had ignored him, too upset about "Dad" to care.

Now Dean knew the truth.

It hadn't been Dad in that bed. It had been Tom, Tom who had held him close and hushed his nightmare away. Tom, who had told him he was safe and loved.

And he'd brushed him off like it didn't mean a damn thing.

***

Dean swore under his breath, digging his fingers into his hair. The sharp and clear memory now felt like a punch to the gut. He remembered Tom's smile that morning, how it faltered when Dean ignored him. He remembered Tom turning back to the stove, shoulders slumping just a little.

Dean had blamed himself for so long, thinking Dad had been angry with him, that he'd done something wrong.

But Tom had been there all along, and Dean hadn't ever realised it.

He'd always been there, Dean thought bitterly. And he still left.

That thought twisted his guilt into something uglier, something angrier. Because no matter how many diapers Tom had changed, no matter how many scraped knees he'd patched up, he still left.

He still walked away. And Dean? Dean had been the one left to pick up the pieces.

Dean's breath hitched. His chest ached, that familiar pressure, the one he always mistook for rage but knew was something closer to grief.

Why couldn't you just stay?

Dean didn't realise his hand was shaking until Sam's voice broke the silence.

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly. "What is it?"

Dean shook his head sharply, forcing the memory down. "Nothing," he muttered. "It's nothing."

But Sam didn't believe him. Dean could see it in his face, that knowing look, the one that always made Dean feel too exposed.

"You should talk to him," Sam said quietly. "Tom… he's not Dad. Whatever you're thinking, whatever you're feeling, you can't just… let it fester."

Dean let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah?" he muttered. "Tell that to him."

He turned away, staring at the door Tom had walked out of.

He couldn't shake the memory of that morning: Tom smiling at him with Sam perched on his hip, warm and steady. The one who held them together when their father was too broken or too angry to try.

Dean hated that it made him feel guilty, guilt that burned so badly that it turned into anger.

Because no matter what Tom had done right, no matter how much he'd tried, he still left.

And now Dean didn't know if he could ever forgive him for it.

#####################

The night air felt colder than before, biting through Dean's jacket as he stepped outside. He spotted Tom leaning against the Impala, phone still in hand. His silhouette was sharp against the dim light from the motel sign; arms crossed, head tilted slightly downward, face shadowed.

And just like that, Dean saw him.

Dad.

It wasn't just the build, though Tom had John's broad shoulders and stocky frame. It was the way Tom stood: spine stiff like a steel rod, tension settled in his shoulders like he was bracing for a fight. It was the way he kept his jaw set tight; his eyes narrowed like he was always half-expecting trouble to find him. Even the way he held his phone, fingers curled too tightly around the device, as if he let go, something vital might slip away... it was him.

Dean's stomach twisted.

Tom sighed, slipping his phone into his pocket. He turned, and for a split second, Dean felt like he'd stepped back in time.

John Winchester stood before him. The same tired eyes, the same sharp angles in his face. That same impossible-to-read expression, like whatever he was feeling, was locked up behind walls too high to break through.

Only it wasn't Dad. It was Tom.

"Everything ok?" Dean asked gruffly, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Tom nodded. "Yeah. Just checking."

Dean's gaze lingered on Tom's face, tracing the lines and shadows that shouldn't have belonged to anyone but John. His chest tightened, a cold, aching squeeze.

For so long, Dean had wondered why he couldn't remember Dad being kind. Why his memories of comfort, of warmth, were so few. But now he understood.

It had never been Dad.

It had been Tom.

"I remembered something," Dean said, his voice stiff, like the words were being dragged out of him. "From when we were kids."

Tom stiffened slightly but didn't speak. He just waited.

"I had this nightmare once," Dean went on. "Thought I crawled into bed with Dad. He held me… told me I was loved and I was safe."

Tom's eyes flickered, his gaze faltering for the briefest second.

"It wasn't Dad, was it?" Dean asked quietly.

Tom swallowed, looking away. "No," he muttered. "It was me."

Dean felt something tighten in his throat. His thoughts twisted, knotted and jagged.

He was the one who held you when you cried. The one who made sure you had clean clothes. The one who looked out for Sam when Dad forgot you both existed.

And yet… he still left.

"You know what's funny?" Dean's voice turned sharp, bitter. "I get it now, why I kept thinking it was Dad that night. You look just like him now."

Tom's face froze like Dean had thrown a punch.

"Same face," Dean pressed. "Same scowl. Same… everything."

Tom said nothing, but his fingers curled tighter around his chain: the chain with the ring, the proof that Tom had built something else, something better.

"Meanwhile," Dean muttered, voice quieter now, "I got stuck with Mom's face."

That part twisted something deep inside him. He'd never put it into words before, but it always gnawed at him, how people always said he looked like Mary. Her eyes. Her smile. How every time Dad had looked at him after she died, it was like Dean was some walking reminder of what he'd lost.

Dean had spent years trying to be John Winchester's perfect soldier, but no matter what he did, he'd never look the part.

But Tom? Tom looked exactly like Dad. He could've been John's shadow.

And yet, Dean thought bitterly, he was the one who tried to be better. The one who did everything Dad wouldn't. And the whole time, I gave him crap for it.

"You're mad because I remind you of him," Tom said quietly as if he'd read Dean's thoughts. "That's what this is really about."

Dean's breath hitched. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles ached.

"I'm mad," Dean growled, "because you were the only real father we had, and you still left."

Tom swallowed hard. His face, so much like their father's, softened with regret.

"I thought I was protecting you," Tom said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought if I stayed, I'd… I'd turn into him."

Dean's eyes flashed. "You didn't have to," he snapped. "You already look just like him."

Tom flinched, but Dean didn't stop.

"You spent years being the one holding things together," Dean bit out. "And then you just… left." His voice shook. "You left me to pick up where you should've been."

"I know," Tom said quietly. "And I'm sorry, Dean. For everything."

Dean swallowed hard. He felt like he was choking on his own anger, a tangled mess of resentment and regret.

"Sorry doesn't fix it," Dean muttered. "Doesn't fix what you left behind."

"I know," Tom said again. His fingers drifted to the chain at his chest, the wedding band hidden beneath his shirt. "But I couldn't stay, Dean. Not when I thought Dad was willing to change. That I was holding him back from that change."

Dean scoffed bitterly. "Yeah? Well, guess what? Nothing changed." His voice broke slightly. "The responsibilities just got transferred."

Tom's face twisted, something like pain flashing across his features. For a moment, he looked less like John and more like someone Dean barely recognised, someone who had spent years holding everything together until he couldn't anymore.

"I know," Tom said softly. "I know."

Dean turned away, swallowing hard. The guilt in his chest wasn't burning anymore, now it just ached, cold and hollow.

"I can't forgive you," Dean said quietly, more to himself than Tom. "Not yet."

Tom didn't argue, didn't ask him to.

"Then I'll wait," Tom said quietly. "As long as it takes."

Dean glanced back one last time, one final look at the face that had haunted him for years.

Tom's face. Dad's face.

And maybe, just maybe, the face of someone who'd tried harder than Dean had ever given him credit for.

Dean walked away before he said something he couldn't take back.

#####################

Tom sat inside his truck, phone pressed tightly to his ear. His fingers dug into the back of his neck, tension curling through his muscles. He hadn't even managed a proper "hello" before Aoife's voice rang through, like a burst of energy he'd been clinging to.

"Tommy, gráidh, ye wouldn't believe the day I've had," she began, her words tumbling over each other like water rushing down a stream. "So, I'm halfway to the shops, right, and realise , sure, I left me purse sittin' on the kitchen counter, right where I left it. So, I'm leggin' it back home like a fool, bumpin' into every poor sod on the street, and there's this one lad, lookin' at his phone like he's got the whole world on it, and bam, right into me! Nearly knocked me clean off me feet! And what does he do? Stands there, like I'm the one who's the eejit. Ye'd have laughed, love. Honestly, ye would've."

Tom smiled faintly, his breath shaky. That fast talk and familiar rhythm wrapped around him like a blanket. Even through the phone, it felt like home.

"Anyway," Aoife went on, "I finally get to the shop, and there's Aisling, kicking like a little madam inside me. I'm tellin' ye, she's makin' me ribs her personal punching bag. Little bruiser she's turnin' into. If she's this lively now, I don't know what I'll do when she gets here—ye'll be sittin' in the same chair as me, tryin' to get some sleep while she's givin' us both the runaround."

Tom's chest tightened, his hand pressing against his mouth, trying to muffle the sob that threatened to break free.

"Then, oh, then—" she continued, "I get back home and, sure as shite, the cat's knocked me tea all over the counter. Spilt it right onto your old jumper. Ye know the one, the one ye say makes ye look all handsome? Well, now it's a big, fat tea stain on it. Tried scrubbing it, but… well, ye know me, gráidh, I'm as handy with laundry as I am with a shovel in a bog. Probably made it worse, if I'm bein' honest."

Tom squeezed his eyes shut, his breath catching again. He could hear her, so casual, so normal, and it shattered something inside him.

"Oh, and the postie came by," she went on, still unaware. "Dropped off a little teddy from the neighbours. Cute little thing, too, got a bow and everything. Spoilt, she is already. Everyone's fussin' over her like she's royalty. It's like they've all forgotten what life's really like, you know?"

Tom swallowed, but his throat was tight. His fingers shook against his face, and he squeezed his eyes shut harder.

"But listen," Aoife said, her voice softening, "I know ye're out there doin' what ye have to, but when ye're home... when ye finally get back home, love, maybe ye can feel her kick properly. She's gettin' stronger every day. Proper little bruiser, I'm tellin' ye."

Tom let out a shaky breath, part laugh, part sob, and held the phone tighter. He could feel the pressure in his chest, the overwhelming ache of missing her, missing them.

"She's strong," Aoife said softly. "Just like her da."

Tom's fist went to his mouth again, but it wasn't enough to stop the sob this time. It broke loose, raw and jagged, his body shaking with it.

"Tom?" Aoife's voice softened, worry seeping in. "Ye alright, love?"

He couldn't answer, couldn't even get a word out. The weight of it all—his family, his secrets, his pain—was too much.

"Tom," she said, her voice even gentler. "It's alright. Whatever it is… it's alright. Ye don't need to carry it alone."

Even though she couldn't see it, he nodded, his fingers trembling against his face.

"Ye're just knackered, that's all," she said, her voice warm with understanding. "I get it. Ye've been runnin' around out there, haven't ye? But ye'll be home soon, yeah? Home with me and our Aisling. Where ye belong."

Tom sucked in a breath, ragged and uneven. "I love ye," he rasped, voice cracking.

"We love ye too," Aoife said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "Me and Aisling both."

The line went quiet, and Tom sat there, hand pressed against his mouth as if he could somehow stop himself from falling apart completely.

Because all he could think about was how much he'd tried to be a father once before, and how badly he'd failed.

All Dean and Sam remembered now was the fact that he left. That he'd walked away.

And what killed him most was that he didn't even know if they were wrong. He reached up around his neck with a trembling hand, snapping the chain. He carefully put his ring back on and strengthened his resolve. He was in this now. Someone had to look after those two idiots, but he had someone to return to. He wasn't going to make his final stand out here.

Tom exhaled shakily and reached up to the rearview mirror. The chain still hung there, his St. Christopher pendant swaying lightly in the breeze. He hadn't worn it in years. It wasn't that he didn't believe anymore, but believing had gotten harder when God seemed more interested in sitting back and watching the world burn. He still went to mass every Sunday and confession every Saturday. He stayed connected to his faith because some days, it felt like the only thing keeping him standing.

But still… the pendant was there. A reminder.

His mother's soft and warm voice whispered in his mind, "No matter how far you go, Tommy, you'll always find your way back home."

Tom took the pendant, slid the chain over his head, and let the cool metal rest against his chest. The weight was familiar and grounding. He closed his eyes and pressed a hand over it.

####################

Sam couldn't help but ruminate on the moment that had led up to him meeting up with Tom once more. He'd been just a kid, and the same day, he'd gotten pushed around by some jerk at school. He'd hidden in his room, hoping to God his father wouldn't think to check it. But he could still remember the day like it was yesterday.

***

The motel room door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. Sam flinched from his spot behind the partially open bathroom door, shrinking back instinctively. Out of sight, he had been sitting there quietly flipping through one of Dean's old comic books when the fight erupted. Now, his pulse pounded in his ears as he remained completely still, afraid to even breathe too loudly.

"You want to tell me what the hell you're doing here?" John's voice was already sharp and jagged with frustration.

"You know damn well what I'm doing here," Tom shot back, his eyes flicking toward Sam's bed in the corner; it was empty, the blankets rumpled. His gaze lingered for a beat longer, brow furrowing with something close to worry before he pushed it down beneath his anger. "I heard about what happened to Sam, how he got jumped at school while you were off chasing some lead." Tom shot back. His voice wasn't loud, but the tension coiled tight inside every word.

"Oh, this oughta be good," John sneered. "What, you decide to come back and play big brother for a day?"

"At least I give a shit about them!" Tom's voice rose, his frustration finally boiling over.

"Yeah?" John barked a bitter laugh, cold and dry. "Is that why you left?"

Tom's expression was twisted, dark, and stormy, but there was something else, too. A flicker of hurt beneath the anger, something almost betrayed. "You know why I left."

"Do I?" John shot back, stepping forward. His voice dropped, poison lacing every syllable. "Because as far as I'm aware, you decided to up and leave. You abandoned us. Abandoned them."

"Screw you," Tom snarled, eyes blazing. "I always cared about them! I asked someone to keep me in the loop; someone who knew you sure as hell weren't going to tell me anything. Because you know what, John? I was the one patching Dean up when he got knocked around on one of your 'training sessions.' I was the one making sure Sam had something to eat when you vanished for days. And I sure as hell cared more than you ever did."

"Oh, that's rich," John spat. "You think you're some kind of hero? You wanna know what I see? I see a coward. Someone who ran when things got hard. You couldn't cut it in this life, Tom, you never could. So don't stand there pretending you're better than me."

"Better than you?" Tom let out a hollow laugh, stepping forward until they were nearly chest-to-chest. "I'm not better, I'm just not blind. I'm not the one dragging my kids across the country, stuffing them in motel rooms, and calling that a life. You think this is about saving people? No, it's about your damn pride. You're so hell-bent on chasing whatever killed Mom that you don't care what happens to Sam or Dean!"

"You think I don't care about my sons?" John's voice hit a dangerous low. "I'd die for those boys."

"Then maybe you should think about living for them," Tom shot back. "Sam's scared to speak his mind, always second-guessing himself. And Dean? He's so damn desperate for your approval that he's killing himself trying to be perfect. They're drowning under the weight of this, your crusade, and they deserve better than that." Tom shot back. "Because dragging them along on your little suicide mission isn't love, John, it's obsession. And they're the ones paying for it."

"You don't know a damn thing about what they need," John growled. "And where are you even hearing all this?" John demanded, suspicion curling at the edges of his voice.

"Someone who actually gives a damn about them told me. And I know they need a hell of a lot better than you," Tom snapped. "They need stability. they need someone who actually thinks about what this life is doing to them. Sam's fifteen, and he's already terrified of disappointing you. And Dean? Last I heard, he's tearing himself apart to make you just look at him. I raised those boys from the time I was twelve until the day I left: patching them up, calming them down, making sure they had something to hold onto when you couldn't be bothered to show up." Tom laughed bitterly.

"I did everything I could, and it still wasn't enough. Because you were too busy drowning yourself in whiskey to be a father."

"Watch your mouth," John warned, voice low and dangerous.

"Or what?" Tom shot back, his voice shaking now. "You gonna hit me? Go ahead. That's your answer for everything, isn't it? Solve it with violence, with whiskey, with dragging those kids into something that's going to kill them."

John's fist clenched, and for one terrible second, Sam thought his Dad might actually take the swing. But instead, Tom turned sharply away, striding to the table. He grabbed a plastic bag, one Sam hadn't noticed before, and hurled it across the room. It hit John's chest hard before landing on the floor with a dull thump.

"Maybe you can actually pretend you put thought into their presents this year." John's face twisted for a second, not with anger, but with something more complicated. Regret? Shame? Whatever it was, it flickered and faded, his gaze briefly lowering to the bag like he couldn't decide whether to kick it aside or pick it up.

"I hope I never see you again. I wouldn't piss on you to put the flames out if you were on fire. Just leave my brothers out of your little suicidal crusade." Tom said coldly.

With that, Tom stormed to the door, shoving it open hard enough to slam against the wall. He was gone before John could even muster a response.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

Sam, still pressed to the wall in the back corner of the room, barely breathed. He saw his Dad standing there, frozen, eyes hard and distant. Slowly, John bent down, picking up the plastic bag Tom had thrown.

The contents spilt slightly; it was a few action figures and a couple of books. Sam recognised one of them, The Hobbit, the one book Dean had read to him at night whenever John was away. Sam had always assumed it was Dean's. They'd lost their copy on the last hunt; no one had thought to replace it.

John stared at the bag for a second longer, then tossed it onto the table without another word.

Sam didn't say anything. He just sat there, quietly absorbing everything he'd just seen. The rage in Tom's voice and the bitterness in John's clung to him like smoke. Tom wasn't just angry, he was hurt, and Sam could see now that Tom had been carrying that hurt for a long time. Dean had always painted Tom as a deserter, a brother who just ran when things got hard, but that wasn't what Sam had seen tonight. Tom had fought for them. He had tried. And John had thrown it back in his face.

Sam didn't know what to believe anymore. Part of him felt like a traitor for even considering Tom's side, like doubting John was some unforgivable betrayal. But he couldn't shake what he'd seen; Tom standing his ground, furious and desperate, fighting for Sam and Dean when John refused to listen. Tom hadn't run away from responsibility; he had been pushed out. And if Tom had been right about that... what else had John lied about? But as he stared at the plastic bag on the table, the truth seemed simpler than it should have been: Tom had cared. He had always cared. And Sam couldn't shake the feeling that maybe Tom had been right, perhaps it was time to stop following John's path before it swallowed him whole. And when he finally laid down that night, he knew things had shifted, the image of Tom's furious face and John's bitter glare burned behind his eyelids.

The low hum of the television from the motel room next door barely reached Sam's ears, but his thoughts drowned out everything else anyway.

He sat on his bed, knees pulled up, arms crossed tightly across his chest. The fight between Tom and John kept replaying in his head; the loud and violent words that were sharp enough to cut through steel.

"At least I give a shit about them!"

The venom in Tom's voice had shocked Sam. He'd never seen anyone talk to John like that, no one had dared. Not even Dean. And John… John had laughed. Not his usual dry, half-sincere laugh either; a bitter, hollow sound that had felt like broken glass scraping against pavement.

"Is that why you left?"

Sam had always believed Tom's absence was simple. A brother who bailed. The one who couldn't handle the life, the one Dean muttered about in clipped sentences when Sam was little. Don't ask about Tom. He left. It was supposed to be that black and white.

But it wasn't.

"I always cared about them!"

Sam shifted on the bed, his hands tightening around his arms. Tom had cared enough to stand up to John and throw those stupid toys and books like they mattered. Sam hadn't even realised the presents were from Tom, he'd always assumed they were from Dean. John never said otherwise.

"Just leave my brothers out of your little suicidal crusade."

That part had stuck most of all, like ice water down Sam's spine. It wasn't just anger. It was grief, frustration, and... fear. Tom had tried to protect them, and John pushed him away.

And Dean… Dean had never told him any of that. Maybe Dean didn't know, or maybe he didn't want to know. Dean believed in John's mission with everything he had, and Tom questioned it like that. Perhaps it was easier for Dean to believe Tom just... didn't care.

But Sam had seen how Tom looked at John; he'd been furious, yes, but also... tired—worn down by years of trying.

Sam swallowed hard, blinking back the sting behind his eyes. He didn't know what to do with this; he didn't know if Tom's words made things better or worse.

All he knew was that everything Dean had told him about Tom didn't seem to fit anymore. For the first time, Sam wondered if leaving and breaking away from John's war wasn't just the right move but the only one.

***

"He's still out there," Sam murmured quietly from his spot by the window.

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers knotted together. He hadn't moved much since he'd come back in, just sat there, staring at the floor like he could burn a hole in it with sheer willpower.

"I think…" Sam swallowed. "I think he's scared."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah. Scared of what?"

Sam hesitated. "Of screwing up again."

Dean clenched his jaw. "Yeah, well…" He paused, voice quieter now. "He was better at it than he thinks."

Sam leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "You know… I keep thinking about things," he said after a long moment. "Stuff I barely remember." He let out a soft breath. "And now I'm starting to wonder if half the memories I thought were Dad… weren't him at all."

Dean glanced up but said nothing.

"Like when I was sick," Sam continued quietly. "When I was… what? Four? Maybe five? I had the flu so bad I couldn't keep anything down. I remember lying on the couch in some crummy apartment… and someone kept bringing me water. Kept sitting with me… holding a cold cloth to my head." Sam shook his head. "I always thought that was Dad. Figured that was one of his 'good days.' But now… now I don't think it was."

Dean's fingers twisted together tightly. "Yeah," he muttered. "I remember that."

Sam blinked in surprise. "You do?"

Dean gave a humourless snort. "Yeah. We both came down with the flu. Except I remember being pissed off because I wanted soup and Dad—" His voice faltered. "I mean… I thought it was Dad, kept telling me no." He let out a dry, bitter chuckle. "Said soup wouldn't sit right when I couldn't even keep water down." He paused, brow furrowing. "But… yeah. It wasn't Dad, was it?"

Sam shook his head. "No," he said softly. "It was Tom."

Dean exhaled slowly, like something inside him was sinking. "I used to think Dad had those… I dunno… moments. You know?" His voice turned brittle. "Those rare times when he actually gave a crap."

Sam's voice dropped lower. "Yeah… so did I."

Dean looked away, jaw tightening. "Guess we know why they stopped." He let out a sharp breath. "Because they weren't Dad's to begin with."

Sam's gaze drifted back to the window, watching Tom's shadow shift faintly under the parking lot lights. "What about that Christmas?" he murmured. "The year I got the army men."

Dean frowned. "What about it?"

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking tired. "I always thought… I thought Dad went out and found that tree." He gave a faint, wistful smile. "I remember waking up and there it was, this scrappy little thing that barely fit in the corner. The lights were half-fried, and the ornaments were all weird… but I thought Dad had done it."

Dean snorted. "I remember that tree," he muttered. "Ugly as hell."

"Yeah," Sam said with a chuckle. "But someone tried. Someone cared enough to try." He exhaled shakily. "That wasn't Dad either, was it?"

Dean shook his head. "No… no, it wasn't."

They sat in silence for a long moment, both of them sifting through old memories, finding Tom's fingerprints on all of them.

"Remember the baseball glove?" Dean said suddenly, his voice quieter now. "That ratty old glove I had?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "The one Dad gave you?"

Dean's mouth twitched with something bitter, like a smile that didn't quite fit. "Yeah… except Dad didn't give it to me." He paused. "Tom did." He swallowed hard. "He's the one who taught me how to throw a curveball. Stood outside in the rain for two hours trying to get me to get the motion right."

"Thought that was Dad," Sam muttered.

"So did I," Dean said. "Because I wanted to believe… I needed to believe that Dad had those moments in him." He scoffed softly. "Guess I was just remembering the wrong person."

The room went quiet again, heavy with the weight of old scars.

"You know what else I keep thinking about?" Sam said quietly. "Those rare nights when you'd sleep in the same bed as me. When I'd have nightmares."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah…?"

"I always thought Dad must've told you to," Sam said. "Figured he just… told you to keep an eye on me or something." His voice caught. "But now… now I think you were just doing what Tom did for you."

Dean blinked. The thought hit him like a punch to the ribs, sudden and sharp.

He hadn't realised it, but… yeah. Yeah, he'd done it because that's what Dad had done. Except now he knew the truth; that's what Tom had done.

Tom had crawled into bed next to Dean when the nightmares got bad. He had muttered soft reassurances, telling Dean he was safe and loved.

And Dean— stubborn, angry, stupid Dean —had thought those moments were proof that Dad cared.

They weren't. They had never been.

"It's weird," Sam murmured. "I spent my whole life wondering why Dad just… stopped." He shook his head. "Now I know why."

Dean swallowed hard. "Because it wasn't Dad," he said hoarsely. "It was Tom."

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Finally, Sam sighed. "I'm glad he's here," he said quietly. I know you're pissed… and I get why, but I'm glad."

Dean let out a sharp breath, running his hands down his face. "Yeah," he muttered. "I know."

But there was something about that knowledge that made Dean's chest burn, not from anger this time, but from something colder, sharper.

Because now that he knew the truth…

Now that he knew Tom had been the one holding them together all along…

Dean couldn't stop thinking about how badly it hurt when Tom left.

And no matter how much Tom tried to make things right…

That part still hadn't gone away.

***

Two weeks ago

Dean Winchester sat on the edge of the desk, shoulders slumped in disbelief. His mind spun, trying to catch up. Everything about this, from the office to the suits and the sterile walls, felt so wrong, like some nightmare he couldn't wake up from. The office space around him was sterile and corporate; it felt surreal, like a twisted joke he couldn't quite laugh at. Zachariah stood across from him, smug and self-assured, clearly enjoying every second of Dean's confusion.

"All I'm saying is, it's all real," Zachariah said with that too-smooth smile. "God, the Devil, Michael and Lucifer... the apocalypse, it's all going to happen."

Dean scoffed bitterly. "Great. So what, you're telling me I'm on the VIP list?"

Zachariah chuckled, the sound sharp and condescending. "Oh, you're more than that. You're chosen. Destined. You're Michael's vessel."

Dean blinked, staring at him like he'd lost his mind. "Excuse me?"

"Michael. The archangel," Zachariah explained, taking a slow step forward. "Strongest, most righteous of all of them. The only one who can defeat Lucifer in the final battle. And he needs a vessel, someone strong enough to contain him, someone with the right... lineage."

Dean's expression hardened, jaw tightening. "Yeah? Well, you can forget it."

Zachariah smirked as though Dean's defiance only entertained him more. "It's not something you can just walk away from, Dean. It's in your blood. It's your destiny."

"Yeah? Well, destiny can bite me."

Zachariah laughed again, but this time, something colder was beneath it. "Oh, Dean." He took another step closer, his voice dropping lower. You always make things so difficult. But here's the thing... Sam's not the only Winchester brother left, now is he?" Dean stared at him, blinking like he'd misheard.

"What... what are you talking about?" His mind jumped to Adam for a split second, but no, that didn't make sense. Adam was already dead. "You mean..." Dean's voice trailed off, dread creeping in. "No. No way."

Zachariah's smile turned razor-sharp. "Oh yes. Big brother's coming home."

"Don't," Dean said tightly, voice low. "Don't bring him into this."

"Relax," Zachariah sneered. "I'm just saying, family has a way of reuniting when the world's at stake."

For a moment, Dean didn't see Zachariah at all. He saw Tom, younger, hair shorter, with a warm smile. Tom's hand ruffled Dean's hair with easy affection, and Dean scowled, dodging away with an irritated, "Cut it out." Tom had just laughed with that big, bright smile of his, like nothing was wrong. "Go get some rest," Tom had said. Then he'd gone to Sam's room, tucked him in tight, brushing a hand through his locks.

Dean had yawned back a sleepy, "See you tomorrow."

Tom had smiled even brighter, something too sharp in his eyes. "Good night, Dean." Dean had hesitated for half a second, watching Tom linger by the doorway. Something had felt... off. It was like Tom was holding something back, but Dean had been too tired, too used to Tom's easy grin, and he'd let it go. He'd closed his eyes, never guessing it would be the last time he'd see his brother.

But there hadn't been a tomorrow, not for Tom. He was gone by morning, leaving nothing but questions behind.

The memory struck like a punch to the chest, sudden and sharp, leaving Dean breathless.

"I don't care." Dean's voice was cold now, dangerously quiet. "He walked out on us years ago. He's nothing to me."

"Sure," Zachariah said smoothly, "keep telling yourself that. But you know what's funny? You've spent all these years blaming him for leaving, like that somehow makes it easier. It doesn't make his role any smaller, though." He chuckled darkly. "When the time comes, Dean... you'll need him."

"I won't," Dean said through gritted teeth.

"You will," Zachariah countered, stepping closer, just enough to crowd Dean's space. "Because when the big show starts? You're going realiseize that you can't do it alone." His smile was tight and humourless. "And by then? Maybe it'll be too late."

Dean's glare sharpened, seething behind his eyes. His fists twitched at his sides, fingers curling tight enough to sting. "Get out of my face," he growled, voice rough and unsteady, like a dam about to break.

Zachariah's smile lingered a moment longer before he shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said lightly. "But destiny? It's a funny thing, Dean. The more you fight it..." He grinned widely, eyes flicking with something cruel. "...the faster it catches up to you."

With a blink, Zachariah was gone, leaving Dean standing alone in the cold, empty office; his fists clenched, heart pounding, and a bitterness curling like smoke in his chest.

***

They hadn't spoken much since the decision was made that Tom would join them. It wasn't as simple as just picking up where they left off. The years, the distance, and the secrets were still there, lingering like shadows, threatening to pull them apart before they even had a chance to come together. Tom walked back into the motel room and sat heavily on the bed.

Dean broke the silence first, his voice low and hesitant. "So, you're really in on this?"

Tom turned his head, meeting Dean's eyes with a steady gaze. His eyes were sharp, his expression unreadable.

"Yeah," Tom said, his voice firm, "but on one condition."

Dean's brow furrowed, Sam turning slightly to look at him, and both brothers were waiting for the catch.

"We do this as a team," Tom continued, his tone serious. "I'm not just some guy you drag along on the side. We've got angels, demons, the damn apocalypse on our heels, and whatever's coming next. None of us are going to get past the past overnight. But whatever's going on, we're only as strong as we are together."

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

"We're Winchesters," Tom continued with a determined edge in his voice. "The family business is saving people, hunting things. That hasn't changed, and if we're going to do it right, we do it together. No more secrets. No more isolation. Whatever happens, whatever comes next, we face it as a family. No matter what."

There was a long silence before Dean spoke again, his voice quieter this time.

"Together," he repeated as if testing the words. He met Tom's gaze fully, his expression softening. "Alright, Tom. We do this as a team. But I'm warning you now, you better keep up, or I'll toss your ass out on the street."

Tom gave him a small, half-smile, but his eyes remained serious. "Wouldn't dream of anything else."

Sam looked between them, relief in his eyes and the weight of the moment settling in. He nodded slowly, his voice steady. "We've all got our work cut out for us. But this… this could work. Together."

Tom leaned back on the bed, his eyes still fixed on the road ahead, the mission stretching out before them. For the first time in a long time, it felt like something had shifted, like they were heading toward something they could actually face together.

The road ahead was uncertain, the weight of their past still heavy in the air, but for the first time, Tom felt like maybe, just maybe, they stood a chance. They had each other.

And that was enough for now.

Chapter Text

The hospital room was quiet, save for the faint beeping, and had a stale antiseptic scent. Bobby sat motionless by the window, the soft creak of his wheelchair the only sound as he shifted slightly. His gaze was distant, fixed somewhere outside, or maybe nowhere at all. Sam lingered in the doorway, his face tight with worry. Dean stepped in beside him, a manila envelope tucked under his arm.

“It’s been like three days now?” Dean muttered, his voice low.

Sam exhaled heavily. “Yeah.”

Dean grimaced, shifting uncomfortably. “We gotta cheer him up. Maybe I’ll give him a backrub.”

“Dean.”

“Well, what, then?”

Sam’s eyes lingered on Bobby for a beat before he sighed again. “Look... we might have to wrap our heads around the idea that Bobby might not just bounce back this time.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Dean’s gaze flicked to the envelope in his hand,  “X-RAY” printed neatly across the front.

“What’s in the envelope?” Sam asked, noticing.

Dean opened it and pulled out the contents,  a chest X-ray with strange symbols carved along the ribs, jagged and curling like deep scars.

“Went to radiology,” Dean muttered, handing Sam the X-ray. “Let’s just say the doctors are baffled.”

Sam’s eyes widened as he took it. “Holy crap,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Dean said grimly. “Well, Cas carved you one too.”

Before Sam could respond, his phone rang. He answered quickly. “Hello?” His eyes sharpened. “...Castiel?”

Dean’s head snapped up. “Speak of the devil.”

“St. Martin’s Hospital,” Sam repeated into the phone. “Why? What are you... Cas?” The line went dead. Sam hung up, frowning.

Before they could speculate, a blur of movement caught their attention. A woman in scrubs rushed past with a man in a white lab coat, pushing a piece of equipment on a cart. The loudspeaker crackled overhead.

“Dr. Cohen to the ER, stat. Dr. Cohen to the ER, stat.”

And then Castiel appeared,  trench coat rumpled, his face bearing the faint remnants of a scuffle.

“Cas?” Dean barked, half-surprised. “Cell phone? Really? Since when do angels need to reach out and touch someone?”

“You’re hidden from angels now,” Castiel said bluntly. “All angels. I won’t be able to simply, "

“Enough foreplay,” Bobby growled from his wheelchair, turning to face them. “Get over here and lay your damn hands on.”

No one moved. Bobby glared over his shoulder.

“Get healing. Now.”

“I can’t,” Castiel said softly.

Bobby turned his chair fully to face him, narrowing his eyes. “Say again?”

“I’m cut off from Heaven,” Castiel explained, stepping forward. “Much of Heaven’s power is lost to me. Certain things I can do… certain things I can’t.”

“You’re telling me you lost your mojo,” Bobby snapped, “just in time to get me stuck in this trap the rest of my life?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said.

“Shove it up your ass,” Bobby muttered, turning back to the window.

“At least he’s talking now,” Dean muttered to Sam.

“I heard that,” Bobby shot back without turning around.

Castiel turned back to Dean and Sam, his expression grave. “I don’t have much time. We need to talk.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly.

“Your plan to kill Lucifer,” Castiel continued. “It’s foolish. It can’t be done.”

Dean scoffed. “Oh. Thanks for the support.”

“But I believe I have the solution,” Castiel added. “There is someone besides Michael strong enough to take on Lucifer. Strong enough to stop the apocalypse.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Who’s that?”

“The one who resurrected me,” Castiel said. “And put you on that airplane. The one who began everything.”

Dean’s face twisted in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m going to find God,” Castiel said simply.

***

The room fell silent for a beat until a voice broke the quiet.

“Find God, huh?” Tom's voice was dry, sharp with disbelief. He leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed over his chest.

“You and every other sorry soul on this planet,” Tom replied with a crooked grin.

Castiel turned to face him, his sharp blue gaze pinning Tom with unexpected intensity. “You are Thomas Winchester,” he said firmly. “I’ve heard of you.”

Bobby wheeled around again, his face lighting up with surprise. “Tommy Winchester,” he chuckled hoarsely. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Tom forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess it’s been a while, huh?”

“Try a year,” Bobby muttered with a dry laugh. “What brings you back?”

“My idiot brothers jumpstarted the apocalypse,” Tom said with a tired shrug. “Then decided it was time for a family reunion. I’m just along for the ride.”

“You are a religious man,” Castiel said abruptly, turning back to Tom.

Tom blinked at him. “Sure,” he said warily. “But I’m starting to have second thoughts.”

“Don’t,” Castiel said, stepping closer. “Faith has always kept you sane.”

Tom flinched,  barely noticeable, but Castiel saw it. Tom’s hand instinctively curled around the St. Christopher pendant at his chest.

“What… what’s that supposed to mean?” Tom demanded, voice tighter now.

Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver. “You are a pious man, Thomas Winchester,” he repeated. “It has served you well. Hold on to that faith.”

Tom’s throat worked as he swallowed, his fingers gripping the chain so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Who the hell are you?” he rasped.

“I am Castiel,” the angel said. “An angel of the Lord.”

Tom blinked once or twice, then shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “Dean told me there were angels,” Tom muttered, still stunned. I guess I wasn’t expecting an accountant.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well... none of us were.”

##############################

The hospital room door clicked shut behind Dean, the faint chatter of distant voices muffled by the heavy wood. He turned back to Castiel, his face twisted in disbelief.

“God?” Dean repeated flatly.

“Yes,” Castiel said without hesitation.

Dean blinked. “God.”

“Yes,” Castiel insisted, his tone sharpening with frustration. “He isn’t in Heaven. He has to be somewhere.”

“Try New Mexico,” Dean shot back with a cynical smirk. “I hear he’s on a tortilla.”

Castiel’s face barely twitched. “No, he’s not on any flatbread.”

Tom, standing near the corner, still looked dazed. His mind seemed stuck somewhere between reality and the strange new understanding that angels were real. His fingers hovered over his St. Christopher pendant, like an unconscious comfort reflex. He had barely been listening to the conversation, his mind still circling the bombshell Castiel had dropped earlier. But Dean’s flippant tone caught his attention.

“Listen, Chuckles,” Dean continued, voice rising. “Even if there is a God, he’s either dead ,  and that’s the generous theory ,  or he’s up and kicking and doesn’t give a rat’s ass about any of us.”

Castiel’s glare hardened, but before he could speak, Tom cut in, his voice quieter but firm.

“Seriously, dude?” Tom muttered. “Little blasphemous, don't you think?”

“Oh, quit looking at the ceiling like you're gonna get smited,” Dean shot back, smirking.

Tom’s glare darkened, and he folded his arms tightly across his chest, pressing his back to the wall. His pulse still pounded in his ears,  memories of whispered prayers and quiet vigils with his mother flashing through his mind. Faith was all he had left sometimes, and Dean’s mockery grated against his nerves.

“This isn’t a theological issue,” Castiel cut in tightly. “It’s strategic.” He stepped forward, voice low but steely. “With God’s help, we can win.”

“It’s a pipe dream, Cas,” Dean scoffed.

Castiel’s face twisted with something sharp,  something colder, more bitter. His shoulders squared, and when he stepped toward Dean this time, there was no hesitation.

“I killed two angels this week,” Castiel said darkly. “My brothers. I'm hunted. I rebelled. And I did it, all of it, for you. And you failed. You and your brother destroyed the world—"

Sam’s head dipped low, shoulders curling inward beneath the weight of those words.

“—and I lost everything for nothing. So keep your opinions to yourself.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with tension. No one moved until Tom cleared his throat, breaking the quiet.

“If he can find God,” Tom said quietly, “I’m all for it.”

Dean barked a humourless laugh. “Pipe down, choir boy. No one else gives a damn. He’s just another deadbeat dad, get used to it.”

Tom’s face flushed with heat, and his fingers curled into fists. “Will you please have some respect?” he shot back, voice rising. “For once in your life? That's the Heavenly Father you're talking about.”

Castiel almost smiled for the first time in hours, faint but unmistakable.

Bobby, still seated in his wheelchair, grunted, finally breaking his silence. “You didn’t drop in just to tear us a new hole. What is it you want?”

Castiel’s face hardened again. “I did come for something. An amulet.”

“An amulet?” Bobby repeated. “What kind?”

“Very rare,” Castiel said. “Very powerful.” He paused, his gaze shifting toward Dean. “It burns hot in God’s presence. It will help me find Him.”

“A God EMF?” Sam asked.

Castiel nodded.

“Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bobby grunted. “I got nothing like that.”

“I know,” Castiel said simply. His eyes locked on Dean’s, then dipped to the small pendant hanging from Dean’s neck,  the same one Dean had worn since they were kids.

Dean’s fingers instinctively reached for the cord. “What, this?”

“May I borrow it?” Castiel asked.

“No,” Dean said automatically.

“Dean,” Castiel pressed. “Give it to me.”

Dean stared at him for a beat, reading the weight in the angel’s face. Then he exhaled heavily and pulled the cord over his head. He held it out, only to jerk it back just before Castiel grabbed it.

“Don’t lose it,” Dean warned.

Castiel took the pendant, slipping it carefully into his pocket. “I’ll be in touch.” He turned to leave but stopped, turning back toward Tom. Castiel tilted his head, studying him in that unreadable way that made Tom's skin crawl.

Before Tom could say a word, Castiel stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Tom’s shoulders stiffened as the angel closed the distance. “Uh, hey, Castiel, ” he started, but Castiel pressed a firm hand to Tom’s chest, directly over his ribs.

Pain exploded through him like fire. Tom’s breath hitched as he gritted his teeth against a cry, the muscles in his jaw locking tight. His eyes squeezed shut, and he bit down hard on his lower lip until the taste of copper bloomed on his tongue. A drop of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth as he stumbled back, nearly hitting the wall.

“What... what the hell was that for?” he panted, cradling his ribs, voice hoarse.

Castiel didn’t flinch. “You are now hidden from all angels,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Tom blinked, his expression caught between shock and fury. “Jesus, man… a little warning next time,” he muttered, wiping the blood from his mouth. Castiel merely inclined his head, impassive as ever.

“We will speak again, Thomas Winchester,” Castiel said. “Remember what I’ve told you, do not abandon your faith when you need it most.”

Tom swallowed, his fingers brushing over his pendant again. He gave a small, tight nod, eyes heavy with questions. Castiel nodded back once, then vanished in a burst of static.

“When you find God,” Bobby muttered dryly, “tell him to send legs.”

Dean snorted before eyeing Tom with some ridicule. “What the hell was that back there?”

Tom paused. “What?”

“That whole ‘Respect God’s name’ thing,” Dean mocked. “Since when are you a zealot?”

Tom’s hand dropped from his pendant, and he turned slowly. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how little you know about me.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah? And whose fault is that?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he seemed ready to argue,  to say You never asked. But instead, he just shook his head and grabbed his jacket.

“Forget it,” Tom muttered, heading for the door.

#######################

The crack of a gunshot echoed through the air, sharp and urgent. Rufus Turner fired off another round, retreating toward a young man sprawled on the asphalt. The kid groaned, clutching his thigh where blood poured freely from a jagged wound.

"Your belt!" Rufus barked, already reaching for it.

The young man fumbled, his fingers shaky with adrenaline. Rufus snatched the belt and wrapped it tightly around the kid’s upper thigh, jerking it into a makeshift tourniquet. The young man yelped in pain.

"Hey! Hey! Hold this," Rufus ordered, shoving the belt into his grip before digging for his phone. With a flick of his fingers, he pressed speed dial.

***

The hospital's dull hum was interrupted by the sharp ring of Bobby’s phone. Bobby fished it out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?" Bobby grunted.

Rufus’s voice came crackling through the speaker, faint and fragmented.

“Bobby, Bobby, damn it, can you hear me?”

"I can’t hear you!" Bobby barked, shifting in his wheelchair, trying to get a better signal.

On Rufus's end, his voice was clear but desperate. "Listen! I'm gonna need a little help here! Seems I’m up to my ass in demons. Whole damn town’s infested. Hang on, hang on, "

"Where are you?" Bobby demanded, gripping the phone tightly.

"River Pass, Colorado!" Rufus shouted.

"Colora, Colorado?" Bobby’s frown deepened. He shot a look at Dean and Sam, who were watching from the doorway, sensing the tension.

“River Pass!” Rufus repeated, growing frantic.

“Rufus?” Bobby’s voice climbed. “You there? Ruf, Rufus?”

“Bobby, it’s—”

The call cut out just as Rufus spotted two black-eyed demons rounding the corner of a nearby church. One of them carried an axe, its blade gleaming in the fading sunlight. Rufus stood quickly, gun raised, ready to fire.

Gunshots rang out. Static swallowed the call.

Bobby stared down at his phone in frustration. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, before snapping his gaze toward Sam and Dean.

“Get your brother, I need you on something.”

###########

The Impala rumbled down a winding mountain road, sunlight flickering off its polished frame. Colorado’s rugged landscape loomed on either side, jagged peaks and sprawling forests. The air seemed colder somehow, sharper. Tom sat in the back seat, quietly staring out the window, fingers absently rolling his St. Christopher pendant between his thumb and forefinger.

The Impala slowed to a stop just short of the broken bridge. The road was severed clean,  the splintered remains of wooden beams dangling over a deep ravine. The only way forward was on foot.

Dean stepped out first, boot scuffing against the gravel. He peered over the edge of the destroyed bridge and kicked a loose rock into the chasm below. The distant clatter echoed faintly back.

“This is the only road in or out,” Dean muttered grimly.

Sam stepped up beside him, pulled out his phone, and held it high to check for a signal. There was none.

“No signal,” Sam confirmed.

Dean snorted bitterly. “Rufus was right. Demons got this place locked down.”

Tom shifted uncomfortably, stepping around to join them. “So... what? We just march in?”

“Looks like we’re hiking in,” Sam said.

“Terrific,” Dean muttered. “And the hits just keep on coming.”

He went around the back of the Impala and popped the trunk. Tom stood off to the side, still quiet and distant. His mind was still clouded, and flashes of Castiel’s words rang in his ears.

"Don’t abandon your faith when you need it most."

Tom exhaled sharply, trying to shake the feeling. He moved closer to the car and reached for one of the shotguns.

Dean shot him a look. “You alright, choir boy?”

Tom gave him a tight smile, his voice quieter than usual. “Yeah... just peachy.”

######################

The street was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that gnawed at your nerves. Sam and Dean moved with purpose, their guns loaded and bags slung over their shoulders. Tom trailed slightly behind, adjusting the safety on his weapon for the third time in ten minutes. His shoulders were tight, every sound making him twitch. The emptiness,  the overturned sedan, the abandoned stroller, the running sprinkler... all of it felt wrong. Something terrible had happened here, and Tom could feel it in his bones.

They passed an overturned blue two-door sedan, Dean crouching to check the interior. Sam mirrored his movements on the far side, gun at the ready. The car was empty; whatever had happened was over before anyone could get away.

Tom scanned the area, unable to shake the tension from his muscles. “Place is a ghost town,” he muttered.

A tan car idled up the road, still running. The door stood wide open, “Spirit in the Sky” blaring from the speakers. The driver was nowhere in sight. Sam reached in and silenced the engine, leaving the air painfully still.

Tom barely noticed the welcome banner hanging above them— Pioneer Days, 75th anniversary —the kind of small-town celebration that was meant to be charming. But here, in the absence of life, it felt mocking.

“You see that?” Dean pointed ahead, where a classic red Mustang gleamed on the curb. Sam glanced at it briefly and moved on, but Dean paused, giving an admiring whistle. “Now that’s a car.”

Before Tom could roll his eyes at Dean’s priorities, something sparked at the gas station. His gaze followed the trail of blood smeared across the pavement, still fresh. Tom swallowed hard, his stomach knotting. He gripped his shotgun tightly.

Then, the click of a gun behind them.

Dean whipped around, shotgun raised. Sam turned sharply, levelling his own weapon,  and then Dean's face twisted in surprise.

“Ellen?” he said, lowering his gun.

“Hello, boys,” Ellen Harvelle greeted, her own weapon still aimed squarely at Dean’s head. Without warning, she splashed a faceful of holy water across his face. Dean clenched his eyes shut, scowling as water dripped down his chin.

“We’re us,” Dean grunted, blinking rapidly.

Satisfied, Ellen lowered her weapon. “Real glad to see you boys,” she said with a fond smile. She stepped closer, hugging Dean briefly before promptly smacking him in the face.

“Damn it, Ellen!” Dean winced, rubbing his cheek.

“You can’t pick up a phone?” Ellen snapped. “What are you, allergic to giving me peace of mind? I had to find out you were alive from Rufus!”

“Sorry,” Dean mumbled. “You better be,” she shot back, “and you better put me on speed dial.”

Dean nodded sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Tom shifted awkwardly, unsure if he should introduce himself or stay quiet. Ellen noticed him then, her sharp eyes narrowing. “And who’s this?”

Tom cleared his throat, forcing an awkward smile. “Tom Winchester. Nice to meet you.”

He extended his hand, but Ellen didn’t take it.

“Winchester?” Ellen’s tone was cold and suspicious.

“Our older brother,” Sam explained. “He’s been... away.”

“I don’t remember hearing about a third,” Ellen said slowly, eyeing Tom like he was a snake she wasn’t sure was venomous.

“Yeah,” Tom muttered dryly. “Knowing my family, I doubt you would’ve.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, jaw ticking, but he didn’t say anything. Sam glanced away, awkward silence lingering between them.

“Come on,” Ellen said at last. “We don’t have time to waste.” She turned and led them deeper into the church.

***

The church basement was crowded, a grim mix of exhausted faces and worried eyes. Ten civilians huddled together, some clutching loved ones close, others nervously watching the stairs. Tom’s gaze landed on a pregnant woman sitting alone, her hands shaking. Something twisted in Tom’s chest. Thoughts about Aoife, about what could happen if she got mixed up in this mess, flashed painfully across his mind. He forced himself to look away.

Ellen caught their attention. “This is Sam and Dean,” she announced. “They’re hunters. Here to help.”

A man named Roger stepped forward, adjusting his glasses. “You guys hip to this whole demon thing?” he asked with a wary tone.

Dean snorted. “Yeah. Are you?”

Roger’s face darkened. “My wife’s eyes turned black. She came at me with a brick. Kind of makes you embrace the paranormal.”

Dean turned to Ellen. “All right, catch us up.”

“I doubt I know much more than you,” Ellen said, her expression tight. “Rufus called me ,  said he was investigating omens. Next thing I know, the whole town’s possessed. Me and Jo were nearby, so we came to help...” Her voice faltered, and her gaze hardened. “...and then we got separated. I haven’t seen her since.”

Dean’s face steeled. “We’ll find her,” he promised.

“Either way,” Sam added, “these people can’t just sit here.”

“We tried,” Ellen said grimly. “We already made a run for it once.”

“What happened?” Dean asked.

“There used to be twenty of us,” Ellen said quietly.

The room fell silent. Tom’s stomach turned as his eyes moved across the frightened faces in the room.

“We need guns,” Sam said firmly. “The more salt we can fire, the more demons we can keep away.”

Dean nodded slowly. “There’s a sporting goods store we passed on Main, they’ll have what we need.”

“You stay,” Sam said firmly. “We’ll go.”

“Hold on,” Dean objected, turning to his brother. “Why don’t I just go?”

“What?” Sam scoffed. “Alone?”

“Tom will come with me,” Dean shot back. “Somebody’s got to stay here and start giving them Shotgun 101.”

Sam’s face twisted in realisation. “You don’t want me going out there.”

“I didn’t say that,” Dean snapped.

“Yeah,” Sam said dryly. “Sure you didn’t.”

“Fine,” Sam huffed. “Let’s just go.”

Sam turned and stormed up the stairs.

Tom sighed as he watched Sam go. “Well, that went well,” he muttered.

“Shut up, Tom,” Dean grumbled.

###################################

The quiet of the empty street gnawed at Tom’s nerves as he stood outside the church, adjusting his grip on his shotgun. The silence was too loud, too unnatural,  the kind of quiet that never boded well. His fingers twitched over the safety again, a nervous habit he couldn't break.

“Guess I’m staying here to hold down the fort,” Tom's voice was dry but tight with tension. “Be safe, you two.”

Sam and Dean nodded in unison before heading off in separate directions. Tom exhaled heavily and turned back toward the church, trying to shake the tension clinging to him like a cold sweat.

Inside the church basement, Tom stood over a table, showing a young man and a pregnant woman how to load a shotgun. His movements were patient and precise, his voice steady despite the gnawing anxiety in his chest.

“Yeah, just like that,” Tom encouraged. “Now snap it in place, nice and clean. See? Good job.” He forced a smile. “I know trained soldiers that can’t do it that fast.”

The young woman returned a shaky smile, and Tom gave her an encouraging nod. She still looked terrified, but at least she was trying.

Across the room, Roger fumbled with his shotgun shells, dropping one on the floor. “Damn it,” Roger muttered.

“Hey,” Ellen said gently. “Take your time, Roger. No rush.”

Dean, meanwhile, was sizing up Austin, a man whose calm demeanour suggested he’d seen more than his fair share of violence. Dean set the butt of a rifle on the table.

“You know your way around a gun at all?” Dean asked.

Austin snorted, expertly disassembling the rifle in record time. “What do you think?” he shot back, arching a brow.

Dean chuckled. “Where’d you serve?”

“Fallujah,” Austin replied. “Two tours. Got back a little over a year ago.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “Takes one to know one. Where’d you serve?”

Dean’s smile faltered. “Hell,” he said simply.

Austin chuckled again, shaking his head. “No, seriously.”

Dean’s face didn’t change. “Seriously. Hell.” He nodded toward Tom. “But he served in the Marines. Real stuff.”

Austin’s gaze flicked toward Tom, lingering for a beat. “Yeah…” he muttered. “Looks it, too.”

################

Tom was cleaning his rifle when he caught sight of Sam sitting alone in the corner, staring blankly at his hands. Dean noticed, too, setting his gun down and heading over. Tom stayed where he was, pretending not to watch.

“Hey,” Dean said quietly.

“Hey,” Sam murmured, barely looking up.

Dean lowered himself into the chair beside him. “What’s wrong?”

Sam rubbed his fingers together, silent for a moment. “It's just... at the store,” Sam muttered, voice strained. “Those demons... they were just kids. Teenagers.” He shook his head. “I had to slit some kid's throat.”

“Come on, Sam,” Dean said. “You had to.”

“I know,” Sam said, but his voice faltered. “I just... it used to be different. I used to think I could save people. Like... really save them.”

Dean hesitated. “What, you mean when you were all hopped up on demon blood?”

Sam’s expression twisted. “I didn’t say that.”

Before Dean could press further, Ellen approached.

“I’ll be back,” she announced.

Dean frowned, straightening. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t sit here on my ass,” Ellen shot back. “My daughter’s out there somewhere.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes betrayed her worry. “I’m not back in half an hour, you get these people out of here.”

Sam stood. “Wait, I’ll go with you.”

Dean shot out of his seat. “Whoa, hold on. Can I talk to you for a second?”

The two of them stepped out of the room, Tom silently following behind. He lingered by the door, arms crossed, watching the brothers carefully.

“You’re gonna go out there again?” Dean asked tightly.

“Well, crap doesn’t hit the fan with coffee breaks,” Sam shot back.

“I’ll go,” Dean insisted.

“It’s fine,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Just stay here, get ‘em ready. I’ll cover Ellen.”

“Why’s it gotta be you?” Dean challenged. “Besides, Tom’s here. He can go.”

“He’s not wrong, you know,” Tom chimed in. He wasn’t trying to insert himself into the fight,  but if the alternative was Sam going off alone, Tom was ready to volunteer.

Sam ignored him. “Oh, that’s right,” Sam said bitterly. “I forgot. You think I’ll take one look at a demon and suddenly fall off the wagon, like I haven’t learned my lesson after everything.”

Dean’s face hardened. “Well... have you?”

That’s when Sam snapped. He shoved Dean hard against the wall, his fist curled in his brother’s shirt. Tom sighed heavily and turned away, pretending to study his rifle. He knew better than to get between them; they needed to sort this out themselves.

“If you actually think I—” Sam started, voice tight with frustration, but he stopped himself. His fingers unclenched from Dean’s shirt, and he stepped back, swallowing down whatever anger had boiled over.

Ellen stood at the end of the hall, watching them with narrowed eyes. Sam ran a hand through his hair and turned back toward the room.

#############################

The basement was stifling, the air heavy with the collective anxiety of the gathered survivors. Dean paced like a caged animal, eyes flicking toward the door every few steps. The pastor sat at the table with the older woman, the short-haired man, and a young woman. The pregnant woman lay stretched out on a cot, her breathing uneven, the young man sitting beside her, fingers twitching anxiously. Austin stood nearby, arms crossed, his gaze sharp as he watched Dean move back and forth.

Tom lingered in the corner, checking over his rifle for the third time in ten minutes. His mind wouldn’t slow down, not after everything they'd seen. The town was a warzone. The demons had taken Sam. And now they were sitting ducks in a crowded basement.

“You’re military, right?” Austin’s voice cut through the tension. Tom looked up to find the man watching him with interest.

“Yeah,” Tom answered, setting his rifle down. Marine Corps. Did five tours.”

Austin’s brows shot up. “Five?”

Tom gave a wry smile, not entirely proud of it. “Yeah. Went in at twenty-one. 16 years of service. Got out last year.”

Austin let out a low whistle. “Damn. You must've been something.”

“Lt. Colonel Thomas Winchester, at your service,” Tom said quietly, the words still feeling foreign on his tongue after all this time.

Austin’s smirk turned playful as he stood straighter and offered a salute. “Well, Lt. Colonel, consider me impressed.”

Tom chuckled dryly and shook his head. “Don’t be.”

The grin on Austin’s face faded. “Nah,” he said, serious now. “That’s no joke. Five tours? You’re lucky to be here.” His gaze flicked toward the others huddled in the room. “We need guys like you right now.”

“Yeah,” Tom muttered, running a hand down his face. “Guess we do.”

***

Later, Tom found himself sitting across from the pastor, watching the older man nervously flip through a worn Bible. The pastor’s murmuring voice filled the air.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures...”

Tom closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words settle over him. The familiar cadence stirred something deep inside,  something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time.

“He restoreth my soul...”

“That’s one of my favorites,” Tom said quietly.

The pastor paused, glancing up in surprise. “You know the Psalms?”

Tom gave a small nod. “Yeah... My mom used to read that one to me when I was a kid. Back before...” His voice trailed off, but he forced a smile. “I’m Catholic.”

The pastor’s brow lifted. “Still believe after everything?”

Tom snorted bitterly. “I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe I just want to. Either way...” He gestured at the Bible. “That part always stuck with me. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil...’ ”

“Because He is with you,” the pastor finished with a knowing smile.

“Yeah,” Tom murmured. “Guess I’ve spent a lot of time in that valley.”

The pastor’s smile faltered, and he reached across the table, giving Tom’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “And yet you’re still here.”

Tom swallowed hard and nodded, unsure what else to say. He stared down at his hands, feeling the familiar cool weight of his St. Christopher pendant against his chest. Maybe, just maybe, that meant something after all.

###############

The sudden pounding at the door shattered the quiet.

Everyone jumped. Dean bolted toward the door, peering through the peephole before yanking away the barricade and unlocking it. The door swung open, and Ellen stumbled inside, breathless and alone.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean demanded.

Ellen shook her head, not meeting his eyes as she dropped heavily into the nearest chair. The young woman beside her silently handed her a bottle of water, and Ellen drank deeply.

“They took him?” The pregnant woman’s voice trembled. “Demons took him? Oh my God...” Her breathing hitched, panic rising. “What if they’re... What if they’re in here?”

“Could they get in?” the pastor asked anxiously.

“No,” Dean said firmly, grabbing a shotgun from the table. “Everybody sit tight. I got to, ”

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, pausing as the weight of the room’s silence bore down on him. He grimaced, then turned back.

“Okay,” Dean said, voice tight. “We need to get a plan together. Tell me everything.”

***

The air in the church basement was heavy with tension. Dean sat at the table, leaning forward with his elbows planted, his fingers steepled tightly in front of his mouth. Ellen perched on the edge of her seat beside him, arms crossed and eyes hard. Tom stood just behind them, arms folded across his chest, muscles tight beneath his shirt. His eyes were sharp, but there was something distant about him,  like his mind was half a world away.

“Dean,” Ellen started, her voice low and urgent, “one of them’s in Jo. We’ve got to get it out without hurting her.”

Dean’s face tightened. “Yeah.”

Ellen snorted dryly. “It called me a bitch.”

Dean glanced sideways at her. “Bruise a little easy, don’t you think?”

“No,” Ellen shot back, shaking her head. “That’s not what I meant. It called me a black-eyed bitch .”

Tom's head jerked slightly like the words had snagged his attention.

Dean’s smirk faded. He leaned forward again, frowning. “What kind of demons are these?” he asked. “Holy water and salt roll right off. And Jo’s not stupid, she’s got an anti-possession charm. It's all kind of weird, right?”

Ellen’s face darkened. “The whole thing’s off.”

“My instinct?” Dean muttered, mostly to himself. “My instinct’s to call Bobby and ask for help. Or Sam.”

“Well, tough,” Ellen said flatly. “All you’ve got’s me, and all I’ve got’s you. So let’s figure it out.”

Dean huffed a small laugh despite himself. “All right.”

Ellen smiled thinly, her worry never leaving her face.

“Do you know why Rufus came to town?” Dean asked. “Was there a specific omen?”

Ellen shrugged. “He said something about water. That’s all I know.”

Dean turned toward the pastor, who had been watching the conversation anxiously. “Padre,” Dean called, “you know what she's talking about— the water?”

The pastor shifted uneasily. “The river,” he said. “Ran polluted all of a sudden.”

“When?” Dean pressed.

“Last Wednesday,” Austin chimed in from the other side of the room. “And the demon thing started up the next day.”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “Anything else? Anything at all?”

Austin scratched his chin. “Maybe... but it’s pretty random.”

“Random’s good,” Dean assured him.

“Well... there was a shooting star,” Austin added. “Big one. Same night. Wednesday.”

Dean’s eyes widened, and he turned to look at Ellen. Tom’s brow furrowed as he followed the silent exchange.

“That definitely counts,” Dean muttered. He stood up, grabbed a Bible off the nearby bookshelf, and began flipping through the pages.

“So... you think all this comes from outer space?” Austin asked.

“This isn’t X-Files, pal,” Dean snorted, still searching.

Finally, he found the passage he was looking for and began to read aloud.

“And there fell a great star from heaven, burning like a torch, and it fell upon the river, and the name of the star was Wormwood. And many men died.”

“Revelations 8:10,” Tom completed without hesitation.

Dean blinked, looking up at him. “It’s... weird that you know that.”

“You’re the one who keeps calling me choir boy,” Tom shot back with a tight smile.

The pastor’s face had gone pale. “Are you saying that this is about the apocalypse?”

“You could say that,” Dean answered grimly. “And these specific omens, they’re prelude to what?”

“The Four Horsemen,” the pastor said in a hushed voice.

“Death, Famine, Pestilence...” Tom added quietly, “...and War.”

The pastor gave a stiff nod.

“And which one rides the red horse?” Dean pressed.

“War,” the pastor confirmed, voice barely above a whisper.

“That cherry Mustang parked on Main...” Dean said, his face grim.

“War,” Ellen murmured, connecting the dots.

Tom shifted uneasily. He felt his pulse quicken, anxiety burning in his chest like a coal. War was something he knew too well, something that clung to him like a second skin.

“You can’t seriously think this is about a car,” the pastor stammered. “It’s not possible, ”

“It's the way I'd roll,” Dean cut in sharply. “Think about it, everything fits. If War’s here, maybe he’s screwing with our heads.”

“Turning us on each other,” Ellen added quietly.

Dean nodded grimly. “You said Jo called you a black-eyed bitch . They think we’re demons, we think they’re demons. What if there are no demons at all? What if we’re just... killing each other?”

The room fell silent.

“It’s the apocalypse,” the pastor whispered, his voice breaking. “Isn’t it?”

Dean exhaled heavily. “Sorry, Padre.”

The pastor blinked several times, bowed his head, and began praying. Tom closed his eyes, his fingers curling tightly around his St. Christopher pendant. The words from earlier lingered in his mind: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...”

He swallowed hard, squeezing the pendant tightly in his palm as he muttered the end of the verse under his breath: “I shall fear no evil.”

He hoped to God it was still true.

#########################

The air in the church basement felt heavy with tension that seemed to wrap itself around the room like a coil tightening. The survivors gathered anxiously, shotguns clutched in uncertain hands, whispered prayers muttered under their breath. Tom stood to the side, quiet but watchful, his fingers flexing restlessly. He hated this,  the silence before everything went to hell.

“So now you’re saying there are no demons, and war is... a guy? ” Austin scoffed, voice dripping with doubt.

Dean gave a short, bitter chuckle. “You believed crazy before.”

Before anyone could respond, a furious hammering pounded against the church door.

“Open up! ” a muffled voice called. “It’s Roger!”

Austin darted to the peephole, checked it, and opened the door. Roger,  or the man they believed to be Roger, stumbled inside, gasping for breath, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.

“I saw them!” Roger wheezed. “The demons, they know we’re trying to leave. They said... they said they’re gonna pick us off one by one.”

“Wait, wait, wait—  what?” Dean demanded.

Austin frowned. “I thought you said there were no demons.”

“There’s not,” Dean insisted, eyes narrowing. “Roger, where exactly did you go?”

“I thought someone should go out and see what’s going on!” Roger shot back.

“Where exactly did you see these ‘demons’?” Dean pressed. “And what did they say exactly?”

“We can’t just sit here!” Austin cut in, panic mounting in his voice. “We’re gonna be dead!”

“No, we’re not!” Dean snapped.

Tom stepped forward, voice low and steady. “Austin, man, calm down,” he urged, his hand cautiously raised.

“They’re gonna kill us unless we kill them first,” Roger hissed, his voice like oil on water, smooth, slippery, and dangerous.

“Hold on,” Dean said, taking a step forward. “Hold on.”

But Austin wasn’t listening anymore. Fear had taken over, the same cold panic Tom had seen too many times in the eyes of soldiers moments before everything went to hell.

“No, man,” Austin barked. “We’ve got people to protect. All right? The able-bodied go hunt some demons!”

He grabbed a shotgun and shoved it into a young man’s trembling hands.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dean barked. “Slow your roll. This is not a demon thing.”

But Roger, actually War, twisted his ring, and Dean and Ellen’s eyes flashed pitch black.

“Look at their eyes!” War shouted, voice carrying across the room. “They’re demons!”

The room erupted into chaos. The pregnant woman gasped, eyes wide with horror. The pastor raised his shotgun, barrel quivering in his grip.

“Go, go!” Dean shouted.

He and Ellen bolted for the door as Austin fired. Salt shot blasted the wood just as they escaped.

“Move!” Dean bellowed at Ellen, rushing to get away from the gunfire. 

“Wait!” Tom yelled, surging forward to follow, but Austin grabbed him roughly, yanking him back.

“Don’t be stupid!” Austin barked. “I’m sorry the demons got them, I am, but we need you here! Come on!”

Tom’s breath hitched. He stared at the door, his instincts screaming at him to push past Austin and go after Dean. But... no. If he bolted now, the whole room would turn on him, too. His fists clenched tightly at his sides.

War stood back, watching with a smug, triumphant grin.

##################

The mood had soured further, the air sharp with fear and mistrust. Someone loaded salt canisters into a backpack, hands shaking. Austin stood at the table, methodically assembling another shotgun with grim determination.

“Those are real,” War said casually, watching the growing arsenal.

“Those two could’ve been demons the whole time,” Austin muttered. “All this salt and holy water talk, as far as I’m concerned, it’s all crap.”

“You sure about that?” War pressed, voice oily and persuasive.

Tom kept his head down, saying nothing as he carefully loaded shells. His mind was spinning, turning over everything Dean had said, everything he knew. This was wrong. Everything felt wrong. The fear wasn’t just present; it was manufactured and stoked like flames licking at dry wood.

“It’s them or us,” Austin said firmly, racking his shotgun with a sharp click-clack.

“I think I saw some knives in the kitchen,” War added smoothly.

“Great. Go,” Austin nodded.

Tom’s stomach twisted as Roger turned and walked out, smugness radiating from every step. The knot in Tom’s gut hardened.

This wasn’t fear, this was control. War was playing them like puppets on strings.

And Tom knew what happened when soldiers stopped thinking and started following fear,  they pulled the trigger on people they loved.

He swallowed hard and finished loading the shotgun, already preparing himself for what was coming next.

##################

The church door creaked open, and Austin stepped outside, scanning the street with sharp, deliberate eyes. His fingers twitched over the grip of his shotgun, scanning every shadow like it was waiting to lunge at him.

“All right,” Austin muttered, voice low but firm. “Let’s move.”

The young man and the young woman followed close behind, both gripping shotguns with tense, uncertain hands. Tom lingered near the doorway, watching them prepare to head into the unknown. Then War,  still parading as Roger, clapped a heavy hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“You coming?” War asked, voice far too casual for the situation.

Tom flinched at the unexpected contact, shrugging War's hand off. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’ll be right behind you.”

War grinned,  a thin, smug curl of his lips and turned to join the others.

“Tom?” Austin’s voice cut in. “You good?”

Tom forced himself to nod. “Yeah... just thinking.”

But he wasn’t just thinking, he was knowing. Every instinct screamed at him that something was off about Roger. The smug smile, the way he'd been stoking the fear and pushing Austin to take the offensive, it didn’t sit right. Tom had seen men like that before, leaders who thrived on panic because they knew scared soldiers didn’t ask questions.

But voicing those doubts now? When everyone was jumpy and ready to fire at shadows? No, he'd end up with a shotgun pointed at him. For now, he'd have to bide his time.

###########################

The group moved cautiously down the street, stepping over debris and past abandoned cars. The quiet was suffocating, no birds, no wind, nothing but the crunch of boots on gravel.

Tom drifted toward Austin, falling into step beside him.

“You sure this is the right move?” Tom asked, voice low.

“What other move is there?” Austin shot back, still scanning the area ahead.

“I’m just saying…” Tom’s eyes flicked toward War, who walked ahead of them, guiding the group like some twisted shepherd. “We don’t know what’s waiting out there. Charging headfirst... it’s a good way to get everyone killed.”

Austin’s expression darkened. “You think I want to do this? You think I like playing war games in the middle of a town gone nuts?”

“I’m saying that guy,” Tom jerked his chin at War, “is pushing you hard to go on the offensive. And the thing is, I know guys like him.”

“Oh yeah?” Austin scoffed. “You’re a mind reader now?”

“No,” Tom said grimly. “I’m a soldier. Five tours: Fallujah, Ramadi, Kandahar, Tikrit, Helmand. I know what panic looks like, and I know what manipulation looks like too.”

Austin slowed slightly, his eyes narrowing. “And you think Roger’s playing us?”

“I know something’s off with him.” Tom’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Back in the basement, when he called out Dean and Ellen as demons, you didn’t see how fast he pulled that shotgun. Like he was waiting for it.”

Austin’s expression twisted in frustration. “Yeah? And what if he’s right? What if Dean was a demon?”

“Then why was Roger still standing?” Tom shot back. “You’ve seen what demons are capable of. You think two demons would’ve just run like that without taking a few of us down with them?”

Austin faltered, chewing his lip. Tom pressed harder.

“Look, if you trust me at all, just keep everyone defensive, okay? Don’t go picking fights you don’t need to.”

Austin exhaled slowly. “Fine. But if you’re wrong, if they really are demons, I won’t hesitate to shoot first.”

“Fair enough,” Tom conceded.

But even as Austin moved ahead to address the others, Tom’s gaze flicked back to Roger; the man was still smug, still watching the chaos unfold like a twisted puppet master.

You're not winning this one, Tom promised silently. Not on my watch.

#############

The group moved swiftly, ducking behind a rusted car for cover. Austin crouched low, shotgun raised, eyes flicking toward Tom. Tom knelt beside him, scanning the area like he'd done a thousand times before, his mind slipping into the soldier's mindset he knew too well.

“All right,” Austin whispered, “You three go around back. Take the alley. Tom, on me.”

Tom nodded once, his movements sharp and clipped. The tension in his muscles shifted from unease to focus. The nerves were still there, but now they drove his instincts instead of clouding them. As the others split off, Tom fell into step with Austin, moving as one. They didn’t speak; they didn’t need to. Their hands did the talking,  Austin signalled forward, and Tom raised two fingers in confirmation. A silent, practised language that let Tom feel like he was back in the field, instincts guiding his every breath.

Gunfire erupted from an upper window, splintering the wooden fence nearby. Tom and Austin dropped low, Tom raising his hand to signal a shift in direction. Austin nodded, adjusting his stance, and together, they advanced in quick, silent steps in tandem.

Shots fired from across the street, the shaggy-haired man trading fire with another figure. The pregnant woman cowered behind the young man, who peered out from behind a corner. The chaos was spiralling, each side firing blindly at the other.

“People, cease fire!” Rufus’s voice thundered through the street. “Stop shooting! Stop!”

The sharp crack of Rufus's pistol-whipping one of the men brought a moment of quiet.

“I'm getting too old for this,” Rufus muttered as Tom advanced toward him.

“You Rufus?” Tom called.

“Not the best time to talk,” Rufus growled, still clutching the disarmed man’s collar.

In the upper window, the shooter turned their sights on the Pastor, who dashed to shelter. A shot rang out; the Pastor crumpled mid-stride.

“Father!” the young woman wailed, bolting toward him.

“Stop!” Tom barked, but it was too late; the gunman adjusted their aim. The young woman was in his sights now.

A blur of movement,  Ellen sprinted into view, pressing something against the Pastor’s wound. The pregnant woman gasped in horror, shaking as Ellen tried to calm her. “I’m not what you think, honey. Come on, keep this right here.”

Tom exhaled sharply; the panic had almost swallowed him whole. He turned back to Rufus.

“You seen my brothers anywhere?” Tom asked.

Rufus paused, narrowing his eyes. “Brothers?”

“One tall, moose-looking fella,” Tom said, voice tight, “and one shorter blondie?”

Rufus snorted. “Another Winchester? I ain't heard of you before.”

“Yeah,” Tom replied with a sigh. “I get that a lot.”

“I don't know where your brothers are, kid,” Rufus said flatly. “But I'm betting wherever they are, it's better than here.”

Rufus walked off without another word.

“Yeah,” Tom muttered under his breath. “Don’t count on it.”

##############

Tom emerged onto the street just in time to see Austin throw Ellen down and press his knife to her throat.

“Stop!” Tom shouted, raising his weapon. But before he could move, a figure, Roger, stepped in front of him, now fully revealed as War.

War smiled, smug and cold.

“Tommy boy,” War drawled, his voice practically purring. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

Tom raised his gun without a word, but War moved faster. His hand shot out, wrenching the weapon away like it was a toy. Tom barely had time to react before War’s fist crashed into his ribs, sending him stumbling back.

“You can’t run from it, soldier,” War sneered, stalking forward. “I know you. You don’t just know war. You loved it.”

“Shut up,” Tom spat, clutching his side.

“Five tours?” War chuckled darkly. “Five. And you were always the first to volunteer, weren’t you?” He smirked. “The sniper. The shadow in the dark. The guy they sent when they didn’t want someone coming back alive.”

Tom’s fingers curled into fists. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Oh, I know plenty,” War’s grin turned predatory. “I know what you did. You think your brothers have blood on their hands? Kid, you are soaked in it. You weren't a normal soldier, were you? The things you did, what you were payed to do. And you were damn good at it. Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

Tom’s breath caught. War’s voice dropped lower, almost gentle. “How many did you leave bleeding in some dark room, praying to a God that didn’t answer?”

Tom lunged, and War sidestepped easily and drove his elbow into Tom’s back, slamming him face-first into the pavement.

“You were one of my best,” War hissed in his ear. “My brightest.”

Tom groaned, spitting blood as War grabbed his collar and hauled him upright.

“Why fight it, huh?” War whispered. “You belong in this. It’s what you were made for.”

“You’re wrong,” Tom wheezed.

War grinned wider. “No, Colonel. I’m not.”

With a final shove, War hurled Tom back to the ground and stalked off.

War reached his red Mustang, smirking as he reached for the door. Before he could touch the handle, two figures—Dean and Sam—grabbed him from behind. Sam pulled Ruby’s knife from his jacket.

“Whoa, okay,” War grinned, barely fighting them off. “That's a sweet little knife,” he taunted Sam, eyeing Ruby’s blade. “But come on. You can’t kill War, kiddos.”

“Oh, we know,” Dean said, voice cold.

Sam grabbed War’s hand and slammed it against the Mustang’s hood, raising the knife.

War’s smug smile faltered.

Sam drove the blade down, severing War’s fingers. The red ring clattered to the pavement, and in an instant, War vanished.

Tom stumbled to his feet, still gasping for breath. He staggered to his brothers, hand still pressed to his bruised ribs. Dean noticed him first.

“You all right?” Dean asked, voice tight with concern.

Tom gave a faint, breathless laugh. “Yeah,” he coughed. “Yeah, I’m good.”

But as he stared down at War’s ring glinting in the dirt, Tom wasn’t sure if that was true. War’s words clung to him, bitter and burning.

“You loved it...”

#################

The mountain air hung heavy, cold and crisp, but neither Dean nor Sam seemed to notice. They sat at the weathered picnic table, worn wood rough beneath their arms. Dean turned the red ring between his fingers,  a dull gleam of crimson against his calloused hand.

"So, pit stop at Mount Doom?" Dean quipped, his voice dry and tight.

Sam didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, distant and troubled. His fingers twitched against the table, restless with thought.

"Dean..." Sam’s voice was quieter now, heavier. "We need to talk."

Dean shook his head, already knowing where this was going. "Sam, let's not."

"No, listen," Sam insisted. "This is important. I know you don't trust me."

Dean's jaw tightened. His eyes shifted away, focusing anywhere but on Sam.

Sam exhaled deeply. "Now I realise something... I don't trust me either."

That caught Dean’s attention. His head lifted, gaze locking on Sam's.

"From the minute I saw that blood, only thing I could think about..." Sam's voice broke off. He swallowed hard before continuing. "I told myself it was for the right reasons, that my intentions were good. And it felt true, you know? But underneath..." He gave a bitter, humourless chuckle. "I think I just...miss the feeling."

His fingers dug into the wood, knuckles white. "I know how messed up that sounds ,  which means I know how messed up I am. Thing is, the problem’s not the demon blood, not really. What I did... I can’t blame the blood, or Ruby, or anything." Sam shook his head. "The problem's me. How far I'll go. There's...something in me that scares the hell out of me, Dean. And in the last couple of days... I caught another glimpse."

Dean let the silence hang between them for a beat before speaking. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm in no shape to be hunting," Sam admitted. His voice was low, almost ashamed. "I need to step back. 'Cause I'm dangerous." His breath hitched. "Maybe it's best we just... go our separate ways."

Dean’s lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t speak right away; there were no sharp words, no defensive outbursts. Just quiet resignation.

"Yeah," Dean said finally, his voice gravelly. "I think you're right."

Sam blinked, clearly surprised. "I was expecting a fight."

"The truth is..." Dean said with a sigh, "...I spend more time worrying about you than doing the job right. And I can’t afford that. Not now."

Sam nodded faintly. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean exhaled hard, voice softer now. "I know you are, Sam."

Sam stood slowly, shoulders slumped like the weight of the world had finally pressed him down. He took a few steps away before pausing, turning back toward Dean.

"Hey... do you, uh... want to take the Impala?" Dean offered in a strained voice.

"It's okay," Sam answered, shaking his head.

Sam walked toward the car, grabbing his backpack from the trunk. As he closed it, Tom stepped forward from where he'd been leaning against a tree. He’d stayed out of earshot during the conversation, giving his brothers their privacy, but he knew now was the time to step in.

"You’re really going?" Tom asked quietly.

Sam gave a small, broken smile. "Yeah... yeah, I think I need to."

Tom nodded slowly. "Take care of yourself, Sammy."

"You too, Tom." Sam’s smile faltered before he turned away.

Tom watched as Sam exchanged quiet words with the pickup truck driver before climbing inside. The truck rumbled to life and rolled down the dirt road, disappearing over the ridge.

Dean hadn't moved. He just sat at the picnic table, shoulders slumped and gaze fixed on nothing.

Tom let out a long breath, then walked over and clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder. "I'm staying with you," Tom said firmly.

Dean didn’t turn, just shook Tom’s hand off. "Do what you want."

Tom sighed and shifted his weight back. He knew what was coming, the walls Dean would build, the coldness he'd cling to. And Tom knew he'd have to break through those walls one way or another.

"Yeah," Tom muttered under his breath. "This is gonna be a hell of a few weeks."

Chapter Text

The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee, the kind of place Dean Winchester had grown all too familiar with. He stood beside Tom, flashing his Pennsylvania state police ID to the doctor in front of them.

“Hi,” Dean greeted smoothly with a fake smile. “Detective Bill Buckner.”

Eager to follow suit, Tom flipped open his badge with an exaggerated flourish. “Detective Jett Harrison,” he added with an unnecessary smirk.

Dean’s head snapped toward his brother, eyebrows lifting in mild disbelief. “Jett Harrison? ” his expression seemed to say.

Tom shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

The doctor, a harried-looking man in a white coat, frowned as he sized them up. “Yes… how can I help you, Detectives?”

“We’re here about those patients,” Dean said, his voice calm and professional. “The exsanguinated ones.”

“If you would be so kind…” Tom added, gesturing with an exaggerated, sweeping motion like he was introducing the next act at a cabaret.

Dean turned to him again, giving a look that clearly said Stop talking.

The doctor’s frown deepened. “…Right. Uh, this way.”

As they followed the doctor down the corridor, Dean leaned toward Tom and muttered lowly, “Jett Harrison?”

Tom grinned smugly. “What? It sounds cool.”

“You’re not auditioning for a damn boy band,” Dean shot back.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Tom quipped, tossing his head back dramatically like he was posing for an album cover.

Dean groaned, muttering to himself, “I should’ve made Sam take you.”

“I’m not a puppy.” Tom replied indignantly but was predictably ignored. 

################

The cold night air clung to Dean’s skin as he shoved the man hard, sending him sprawling to the pavement. The guy hissed in response, his sharp, gleaming fangs bared in the dim light.

“Eat it, Twilight,” Dean sneered, raising his blade.

The vampire’s snarl turned to a gurgle as Dean’s knife sliced through his neck in one swift, precise motion. The body crumpled, and Dean scowled as he hacked at the neck.

Standing a few paces back, Tom grimaced as he watched the spectacle.

“Twilight?” Tom echoed incredulously.

Dean wiped his blade on his jeans and shot Tom a look. “What?”

“I mean,” Tom continued, “I’d have taken Lestat over Twilight any day.”

Dean paused, sheathing his knife. “Dude... shut up.”

Tom chuckled, shaking his head as they both turned to leave the alley, boots crunching on gravel. “Just saying…” he muttered under his breath.

###########################

The motel room smelled faintly of stale takeout and cheap air freshener. Dean stood at the sink, dampening a washcloth under the faucet. He muttered curses as he scrubbed at a fresh bloodstain on his jacket, another reminder that this job rarely ended clean.

He caught the reflection in the mirror a split second before the voice startled him.

"God!" Dean thumped the sink and whirled around. "Don't do that!"

Castiel stood inches away from him, unblinking as usual.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean threw him an exasperated look. "Cas, we've talked about this. Personal space."

"My apologies," Castiel said stiffly, stepping back no more than a foot. Dean huffed, grabbed his jacket, and walked toward the bed.

"How'd you find me, huh?" Dean asked, sliding his arm into one sleeve. "Thought I was flying below the angel radar."

"You are," Castiel said calmly. "Bobby told me where you were."

Dean stopped, pausing mid-button. "Of course he did."

Castiel's gaze shifted around the room, noting the absence of Sam’s belongings. His brow furrowed. "Where's Sam? I sense Thomas’ presence, but not Sam's."

Dean froze momentarily, lips thinning before he resumed buttoning his shirt. "Me and Sam are taking separate vacations for a while. So." He tossed his jacket onto the bed. "You find God yet? More importantly, can I have my damn necklace back, please?"

"No," Castiel said, straightening his tie. "I haven't found Him. That's why I'm here. I need your help."

Dean scoffed and returned to the sink, grabbing a cloth to wipe his knife. "With what? God hunt? Not interested."

"It's not God," Castiel corrected. "It's someone else."

Before Dean could respond, the door opened, and Tom strolled in carrying a six-pack of beer in one hand and a takeout bag in the other. He froze in the doorway, eyeing Castiel with bemusement.

"Thought I heard voices," Tom said dryly, setting the food down.

"Good evening, Thomas Winchester," Castiel greeted formally.

"Good evening, Angel of Thursday," Tom shot back with a smirk. "How’s it hanging?"

"Shut up, Tom," Dean cut in before Castiel could even attempt to answer. "Who?"

"An archangel," Castiel explained. "The one who killed me."

Dean blinked. "‘Scuse me? "

"His name is Raphael."

"Wait, like the Raphael?" Tom asked, his face full of awe, looking more like a fanboy at a convention.

Dean snorted. "You were wasted by a teenage mutant ninja angel?"

"Please," Tom groaned. "I'm begging you, read the Bible."

"Shut up, Tom," Dean barked again, this time without looking at him.

"I've heard whispers that he's walking the earth," Castiel continued. "This is a rare opportunity."

"For what?" Dean asked, wiping down his blade. "Revenge?"

"Information."

Dean paused, turning back to face Castiel. "So what, you think you can just find this dude and he's gonna spill God's address?"

Tom piped up, "Does God even have an address?"

Dean jabbed his knife in Tom's direction. "Shut up, Tom."

"You know," Tom muttered, crossing his arms, "you're getting meaner as you get older."

Castiel continued, ignoring their squabble. "Yes, because we are going to trap him and interrogate him."

Dean snorted, tossing the washcloth aside. "You're serious about this."

Castiel nodded. "Completely."

Tom raised a hand. "Am I invited?"

"You both should come," Castiel confirmed.

Dean scowled. "Give me one good reason why I should do this."

"Because you're Michael's vessel, and no angel will dare harm you."

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "Oh, so I'm your bullet shield."

"I need your help because you are the only one who will help me," Castiel said. His voice softened slightly. "Please."

Tom shrugged. "It’s not like we’ve got anything better to do."

Dean sighed heavily. "Fine. Where is he?"

"Maine," Castiel replied. "Let's go."

Without warning, Castiel reached out, two fingers poised to zap them away. Dean recoiled instantly.

"Whoa!" Dean barked, swatting Castiel’s hand away. "Last time you zapped me someplace, I didn’t poop for a week. We're driving."

Tom blinked. "Do I even want to know?"

Dean groaned and turned away. "Shut up, Tom"

"You see what I deal with?" Tom said to Castiel petulantly, who simply blinked at him. Tom sighed and followed after his brother.

#######################

The Impala rolled to a stop on a quiet Maine street, the cool morning air curling up from the pavement. Dean climbed out of the driver's side, slamming the door behind him. Castiel stepped out next, his trench coat flapping slightly in the breeze. Tom followed, grumbling as he stretched his legs.

"Next time, I'm calling shotgun," Tom muttered, rolling his shoulders. "I swear that backseat is built for hobbits."

Dean ignored him, eyes fixed on Castiel. "And we're here why?"

"A deputy sheriff laid eyes on the archangel," Castiel replied simply.

Dean shot him an incredulous look. "And he still has eyes? All right, what's the plan?"

"We'll..." Castiel paused, considering his words. "We'll tell the officer that he witnessed an angel of the Lord, and the officer will tell us where the angel is."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "That's a thought."

Dean snorted. "Seriously? You're gonna walk in there and tell him the truth?"

"Why not?" Castiel asked, deadpan.

"Because we're humans," Dean shot back. He pulled out another fake ID, stashing it inside Castiel's coat before straightening the trench coat's lapel and adjusting Castiel's tie with exaggerated patience. "And when humans want something really, really bad...we lie."

Castiel frowned, clearly still processing the information. "Why?"

"Because that's how you become President," Dean deadpanned, turning on his heel toward the sheriff's department.

"I don't understand. Why would you vote for a liar?" Castiel asked, bemused.

Tom let out a low chuckle as he followed them inside. "I'm starting to like you," he said to Castiel, clapping him on the back.

#############

Inside the sheriff's department, the air smelled faintly of stale coffee and paperwork. Deputy Framingham turned as the trio approached.

"Deputy Framingham?" Dean asked, flashing an FBI badge.

"Hi. Alonzo Mosely, FBI," he introduced smoothly. "This is my partner, Eddie Moscone."

Castiel, however, stood still, seemingly lost in thought.

Dean cleared his throat and gestured toward the angel. "Also FBI."

Finally catching on, Castiel pulled his badge upside down from his pocket. Dean reached over, flipped it right side up, and shot him a glare.

"He's, uh...he's new," Dean explained.

Tom pulled out his own badge, flashing a smile. "Supervisory Special Agent Andrew Davis. Pleasure. Mind if we ask you a few questions?"

The deputy sighed, then motioned to his office. "Yeah, sure. Talk here, though."

They followed Framingham inside. He tapped his right ear. "Hearing’s all blown to hell in this one."

Dean's brow creased. "That happen recently?"

"Yeah," Framingham said, leaning back in his chair. "Gas station. Why you're here, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, sitting down. "Mind running us through what happened?"

Framingham folded his hands. "A call came in. Disturbance out at the Pump and Go on Route 4."

"What kind of disturbance?" Dean asked.

"Wouldn't have believed my eyes if I hadn't seen it myself," Framingham said grimly. "We're talking a riot. Full-scale."

Tom leaned forward. "How many?"

"Thirty, forty...all-out kill-or-be-killed combat," Framingham said, rubbing his temple.

"Any idea what set 'em off?" Dean asked.

"It's angels and demons, probably," Castiel cut in.

Framingham stared at him, blinking. "Come again?"

Dean's eyes widened. "Nothing. Nothing," he said quickly.

"Demons," Castiel corrected simultaneously. "Demons."

Framingham's face scrunched in confusion. "What did he say?"

Dean rushed in. "Demons...you know. Drink, adultery...we all have our demons, Walt."

Tom snorted, smiling wryly. "I know I sure do."

Framingham gave them both a hard look, clearly debating whether or not they were screwing with him.

"I guess," Framingham muttered.

Dean shot Castiel a pointed look before turning back. "Anyway... what happened next?"

"Freakin' explosion, that's what," Framingham said. "They said it was one of those underground gas tanks, but, uh, I don't think so."

"Why not?" Dean asked.

"Wasn't your usual fireball," Framingham said. "It was, um..."

"Pure white," Castiel said firmly.

Framingham blinked. "Yeah...Gas station was leveled. Everyone was... it was just horrible. And I see this one guy kneeling, real focused-like, not a damn scratch on him."

"You know him?" Tom asked.

"Donnie Finneman," Framingham said. "Mechanic there."

Dean sighed. "Let me guess, he just vanished into thin air?"

Framingham shook his head. "Uh, no, Kolchak. He's down at Saint Pete’s."

"Saint Pete’s," Castiel repeated, his voice urgent.

Dean stood up. "Thank you."

Tom followed his lead and shook the deputy's hand. "We appreciate your time, sir. We’ll keep you informed."

As they stepped back into the hallway, Tom leaned toward Castiel. "I think you really nailed the whole ‘subtle FBI agent’ thing back there."

Castiel blinked. "I don't understand."

Tom chuckled, clapping Castiel lightly on the back. "Yeah... I figured.”

#############

Dean, Castiel, and Tom stood in the St. Peter’s Hospital corridor gazing through the small window of the room before them, Donnie Finneman sat motionless in a wheelchair, eyes glassy and vacant. The man looked hollow, a shadow of whatever he'd once been.

Dean stared hard at Donnie, jaw clenched. "I take it that’s not Raphael anymore."

Castiel stood beside him, gaze steady. "Just an empty vessel."

Dean scoffed bitterly. "So... this is what I’m looking at if Michael jumps in my bones?"

Castiel didn’t hesitate. "No, not at all. Michael is much more powerful. It'll be far worse for you."

Dean’s eyes flickered with something dark, anger or dread, before he turned away, refusing to let the thought linger. "Fantastic," he muttered.

Tom, who’d kept quiet during most of the conversation, finally spoke up. "Poor guy..." He shook his head sadly. "I'll... I'll keep him in my prayers."

Castiel turned toward him, a rare smile breaking his otherwise stoic face. "That’s kind of you."

Dean snorted from across the corridor. "What, Dean?" Tom asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

"Sorry, choir boy," Dean drawled. "Didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities."

Tom sighed, letting Dean's jab slide. "Yeah, well..." His voice trailed off as Dean wandered down the corridor.

Tom glanced at Donnie again, the shell of a man slumped in the wheelchair, and quietly leaned against the wall. Alone now, he folded his hands together and bowed his head.

"O most merciful Jesus, lover of souls, I pray Thee by the agony of Thy most Sacred Heart, and by the sorrows of Thy Immaculate Mother, wash in Thy Blood the sinners of the whole world who are now in their agony, and are to die this day. Amen.”

Tom let out a breath, shoulders slumping slightly as he finished.

"You still pray," Castiel’s voice murmured beside him. Tom turned his head, startled to see the angel standing silently at his side. The look on Castiel's face was soft, almost reverent.

"You told me to keep my faith, right?" Tom said quietly.

"I did," Castiel answered. "And it’s good that you have."

Tom gave him a faint smile, small but genuine. For a moment, the corridor felt less cold.

"Come on," Castiel said at last. "We should go."

Tom nodded, following the angel down the hall, leaving Donnie to his silence.

##################

The abandoned house smelled of stale air and dust, its creaky wooden floors groaning underfoot as Dean paced inside. He flipped through John's journal, the pages worn and scribbled with notes that seemed increasingly less useful by the day. Frustrated, he slapped it down on the table and turned only to find Castiel standing behind him, holding a ceramic jar.

Dean startled slightly but recovered. "Where've you been?"

"Jerusalem," Castiel replied flatly.

Dean arched a brow. "Oh, how was it?"

"Arid," Castiel said, as serious as ever.

“I’ve always wanted to go,” Tom chimed in from the corner, where he'd been quietly loading shells into his shotgun.

Dean scoffed. "No one cares, Tom."

Tom smirked, clearly unfazed.

Castiel carefully set the jar on the table.

"And what's that?" Dean asked, eyeing the object.

"It's oil," Castiel explained, taking a seat. "It's very special. Very rare."

Dean sat down across from him, giving the jar another suspicious glance. "Okay... so we trap Raphael with a nice vinaigrette?"

"No," Castiel deadpanned.

Dean snorted, then shifted back to business. "So, this ritual of yours... when does it have to go down?"

"Sunrise," Castiel answered.

Dean leaned back, crossing his arms. "Tell me something. You keep saying we're gonna trap this guy. Isn't that kinda like trapping a hurricane with a butterfly net?"

Tom chuckled darkly from his corner. "Wouldn’t be the dumbest plan we’ve followed through with."

"It's harder," Castiel corrected.

Dean let out a low whistle. "Fantastic. Do we have a chance at surviving this?"

Castiel met his eyes steadily. "You do."

"Great," Dean muttered. "So... odds are you're a dead man tomorrow."

"Yes," Castiel confirmed without hesitation.

Dean stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Well... last night on earth. What are your plans?"

"I just thought I'd sit here quietly," Castiel replied, as if that was the most logical response.

"Come on," Dean said, a grin forming. "Anything? Booze? Women?"

Castiel looked visibly uncomfortable. His hand rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck.

Dean’s eyes widened. "You have been with women before... right? Or an angel, at least?"

Castiel’s gaze flicked down. "I've never had occasion, okay?"

"Wow..." Dean let the word hang between them. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and pulled it on. "All right. Let me tell you something. There are two things I know for certain. One, Bert and Ernie are gay. Two—" he jabbed a finger toward Castiel, "you are not gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch. Let’s go."

Tom shook his head, putting the shotgun down. "For the record, I do not approve of this."

"Shut up, Tom," Dean shot back without missing a beat.

Tom sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Shutting up."

Dean turned and strode out the door. Castiel lingered, clearly uncertain, his gaze flicking between Tom and the now-empty doorway.

"Go on," Tom said with a teasing grin. "Don’t want to disappoint your 'wingman.'" Dean poked his head back in at that.

“Oh, and you're coming too,” Dean added, pointing at Tom.

Tom's brow shot up. “Uh, no thanks. I’m good right here.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Not asking.”

“Dean, seriously?” Tom huffed. “I don’t exactly want to be your third wheel while you play wingman for an angel.”

“Too bad.” Dean’s voice hardened. “Get in the car.”

Tom stared at him for a beat, shoulders tensing. “You know,” he muttered, “you’re getting bossier as you get older.”

“Yeah?” Dean shot back. “And you’re still talking. Get moving.”

With a sigh that bordered on theatrical, Tom grabbed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, muttering under his breath as he followed Dean and Castiel out the door.

“This is gonna be a story…” he grumbled to himself.

##########################

The flickering neon glow lit the brothel's bar in an unnatural pink haze. Dean sat at the bar, beer in hand, grinning lazily. Across from him, Castiel perched on the edge of his stool, looking as if he'd wandered into a war zone rather than a bar. Tom, on Dean’s other side, stared grimly at the worn wooden surface of the counter, fingers drumming anxiously.

“Hey,” Dean murmured to Castiel, “Relax.”

Castiel shot him an incredulous look. “This is a den of iniquity. I should not be here.”

“Seconded,” Tom muttered tightly.

“Dude, you full-on rebelled against Heaven,” Dean reminded Castiel with a smirk. “Iniquity is one of the perks.”

Before either man could respond, a tall blonde in red heels sauntered over, zeroing in on Castiel like a shark.

“Showtime,” Dean murmured with a wicked grin.

“Hi,” the woman purred. “What’s your name?”

Castiel looked frozen, eyes darting nervously like a man trapped in a burning building.

“Cas,” Dean answered quickly, clapping Castiel on the shoulder.

“His name’s Cas. What’s your name?”

“Chastity,” she said with a practised smile.

Tom choked on his drink.

“Chastity,” Dean repeated with a low chuckle. “Wow. Is that kismet or what?” He gave Castiel a nudge. “Well, he likes you, you like him, so... dayenu.”

Chastity grabbed Castiel’s arm, tugging him toward the back rooms. Castiel stumbled along like a stunned deer. Dean caught his arm before they could leave.

“Hey,” Dean muttered, pressing a handful of cash into Castiel’s palm. “If she asks for a credit card, no. Just stick to the basics, okay? Do not order off the menu. Go get her, tiger.”

Still looking like a man being led to the gallows, Castiel shuffled forward.

“Don’t make me push you,” Dean added with a grin.

Castiel reluctantly followed Chastity down the hall. Another hooker drifted by, catching Dean’s eye. Grinning, Dean grabbed his glass and followed her toward the bar. Tom sidled up next to him, collapsing heavily into the bar stool. 

“Well, cheers to you,” Dean quipped, raising his drink.

Tom’s stare remained fixed on the countertop, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood like it held the answers to the universe.

“Dude,” Dean said, nudging his shoulder. “What’s your problem?”

Tom huffed out a dry laugh. “I’m a married man in a brothel, Dean. What isn’t my problem?”

Dean snorted, about to reply, but then a blood-curdling scream rang out from the back corridor. Both brothers jerked upright.

“That’s never good,” Tom muttered, rising from his stool.

“Never,” Dean agreed, already moving.

#############

The narrow hallway was dimly lit and smelled faintly of stale smoke and cheap perfume. Chastity stormed toward them, heels clacking against the tile. Her face was red with anger, her hair mussed.

“Get out of my face!” she screamed. “Leave me alone! Bastard! Screw you, jerk!”

Castiel stumbled out after her, looking slightly dishevelled but otherwise unbothered.

“I’ll kill you!” Chastity snarled over her shoulder.

She stormed past Dean, who stepped aside to let her through. Tom edged even further away, clearly not wanting to be involved.

“Screw you too!” Chastity added with a furious glare at Dean before slamming the door behind her.

Dean turned back to Castiel, eyebrows raised high. “The hell did you do?”

Castiel frowned in confusion. “I don’t know. I just looked her in the eyes and told her it wasn’t her fault her father Gene ran off. It was because he hated his job at the post office.”

Dean groaned. “Oh no, man…”

“What?” Castiel asked, still perplexed. Tom gave a tired sigh, shaking his head. 

“This whole industry runs on absent fathers,” Dean explained. “It's... it’s the natural order.”

Two burly bouncers appeared from the back door, their expressions murderous.

“We should go,” Dean said quickly, gripping Castiel’s arm. “Come on.”

Tom sighed heavily. “Always an adventure,” he muttered as he hurried after them.

#################################

The trio stumbled into the alley, Dean slamming the door behind them. The cool night air cut through the haze of smoke and sweat that clung to them. Dean let out a sudden burst of laughter, doubled over slightly as he struggled to catch his breath.

Castiel stared at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” Dean choked out between gasps. “It’s just... it’s been a long time since I laughed that hard.” His smile faltered. “Been more than a long time. Years.”

Tom’s eyes softened. He looked away, giving his brother the moment.

“Yeah,” Tom muttered quietly, mostly to himself. “I know the feeling.”

####################

The hum of hospital lights buzzed faintly above as Dean and Tom lingered in the hallway, watching a nurse disappear around the corner. Once the coast was clear, they moved swiftly, slipping into the room and shutting the door behind them. Tom took a breath, fingers twitching slightly against the handle of his knife, an old soldier's reflex that refused to die.

Castiel was already inside, calm and precise as always. He poured the dark oil in a meticulous circle around Donnie’s wheelchair, moving with an eerie calm that seemed out of place.

"When the oil burns," Castiel explained, “no angel can touch or pass through the flames... or he dies.”

Dean gave a dry chuckle, tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair. “Okay,” he said, “so we trap him in a steel cage of holy fire, but one question.” He spread his hands. “How the hell do we get him here?”

“Very simple,” Castiel said matter-of-factly. “There's... well, almost an open phone line between a vessel and his angel. One just has to know how to dial.”

Without hesitation, Castiel knelt beside Donnie, lowering his face to the man’s ear. The strange and guttural sound of Enochian poured from his lips, words low and deliberate.

"I'm here, Raphael," Castiel muttered darkly. "Come and get me, you little bastard."

Tom grimaced. That felt personal.

Dean arched a brow. “Just out of curiosity,” he asked, “what’s the average wait time for an archangel to pick up the phone?”

“Be ready,” Castiel warned.

He struck a match and tossed it into the oil. The circle ignited in a sudden roar of flame, flickering brightly in the dim hospital room.

***

The Impala rumbled down the quiet stretch of road. The glow of streetlights blurred through the windshield as Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Tom sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, while Castiel brooded silently in the back.

“Well, that’s a day I’ll never get back,” Dean muttered, pulling up to a quiet, shadowed house.

#################

The air inside the abandoned cabin was stale and cold. Dean moved through the dusty room, John's journal tucked under his arm. Tom moved beside him, silently scanning the corners, always assessing.

“Dean,” Castiel warned suddenly. “Wait.”

The room flashed with sudden brilliance. Donnie was already inside, now transformed, no longer a catatonic victim, but Raphael. Wings of searing white lightning stretched behind him like jagged cuts in the air. The lightbulbs overhead shattered in a violent burst.

“Castiel,” Raphael greeted in a voice like cracking thunder.

“Raphael,” Castiel replied flatly.

Dean eyed the angel with unimpressed disdain. “And here I thought you were supposed to be impressive,” he snorted. “All you do is black out the room.”

Raphael’s cold gaze locked onto him. “And the Eastern Seaboard,” the archangel added icily. Lightning flickered across the sky outside.

Tom gave an awkward cough. “...Well, that’s new,” he ventured.

“It is a testament to my unending mercy that I do not smite you here and now,” Raphael warned, his voice low and deadly.

Dean’s smirk sharpened. “Or maybe you’re just afraid God’s gonna bring Cas back to life again and smite you and your candy-ass skirt.” He extended a hand. “By the way, hi. I’m Dean.”

“Dean,” Tom muttered, groaning. “Sister Mary Catherine would whoop your ass if she heard you say that.”

Dean shot him a sideways look. “Since when do you have a sister?”

Tom shrugged. “...You know what? Never mind.” He turned to Raphael, forcing a grin. “Anyway, big fan. Thomas Winchester.” Raphael looked back at him impassively.

Dean blinked. “Did you just say big fan?”

“What?” Tom shrugged. “Catholic, remember? It’s not every day you meet the angel that’s tattooed on your shoulder.”

“You have an angel tattooed on your shoulder?” Dean said flatly.

Tom shot him a defensive look. “Look, I’d just finished basic. Figured I needed some protection. Sue me.”

Dean groaned. “I can’t believe you.”

Raphael’s cold gaze sharpened. “I know who you are,” the angel said, voice like rolling thunder. “And now, thanks to him, I know where you are.”

“You won’t kill him,” Castiel said, voice quiet but firm. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“But I will take him to Michael,” Raphael answered coolly. His eyes flicked to Tom. “And the other one is destined as well. Even he has use.”

“Wow,” Tom blinked, “There was definitely a nicer way to say that.”

“Well,” Dean chimed in mockingly, “sounds terrifying. It does. But hate to tell you, I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Raphael’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk. “Surely you remember Zachariah giving you stomach cancer?” Tom shot his brother a wary look, confusion and concern mixing all at once.

Dean’s smile didn’t waver. “Yeah. That was hilarious.”

“Well,” Raphael said darkly, “he doesn’t have anything close to my imagination.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Yeah?” He pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it open. “I bet you didn’t imagine one thing.”

Raphael’s expression flickered with confusion. “What?”

Dean dropped the flame into the oil circle. The fire roared to life, flames rising high and trapping Raphael within.

“Don’t look at me,” Dean quipped. “It was his idea.” He jerked a thumb toward Castiel.

“I just want to clarify,” Tom added quickly, “I had no part in this.”

“Shut up and stop sucking up to the angel, Tom,” Dean grumbled.

Ignoring them both, Castiel took a step forward. “Where is He?” he demanded.

Raphael’s grin returned, colder than before. “God?” His voice was low, bitter. “Didn’t you hear?” He smiled cruelly. “He’s dead, Castiel. Dead.”

#####################

The air in the cabin was heavy, almost suffocating. The firelight flickered against the walls, and the embers of the holy oil still crackled at Raphael’s feet. The archangel stood still as stone, his imposing presence filling the room like a storm cloud.

“There’s no other explanation,” Raphael said, his voice cold and hollow. “He’s gone for good.”

“You’re lying,” Castiel said, his gaze fixed on the trapped angel.

“Am I?” Raphael sneered. “Do you remember the twentieth century? Think the twenty-first is going any better? Do you think God would have let any of that happen if He were alive?”

Dean’s scoff broke the tension. “Oh yeah? Well then who invented the Chinese basket trick?”

Raphael’s expression darkened. “Careful,” he warned, voice low and full of unspoken threat. “That’s my Father you’re talking about, boy.”

From the corner, Tom muttered under his breath, “That’s what I keep telling him.”

Dean barely spared his brother a glance. “Yeah, who would be so proud to know His sons started the friggin’ apocalypse.”

Raphael’s voice deepened. “Who ran off and disappeared. Who left no instructions and a world to run.”

“Daddy ran away and disappeared,” Dean shot back bitterly. “He didn’t happen to work for the post office, did He?”

“Dean,” Tom cut in sharply. His voice trembled with frustration. “I’m begging you, stop talking about God like that.”

Dean turned sharply. “Keep begging, choir boy.”

Raphael’s voice cut through like a blade. “This is funny to you?” His burning gaze landed on Dean, then shifted to Tom, eyes narrowing in interest. “You’re living in a godless universe.”

“And?” Dean shrugged. “What, you and the other kids just decided to throw an apocalypse while He was gone?”

“We’re tired,” Raphael said, his voice cold and final. “We just want it to be over. We just want... paradise.”

Dean shook his head. “So, what? God dies, and that makes you the boss? You get to do whatever you want?”

“Yes,” Raphael answered flatly. “And whatever we want... we get.”

The windows shattered in unison. Glass rained down, splintering across the floor like ice. The wind howled through the broken frame, extinguishing the few flickering candles in the room.

“If God is dead,” Castiel said quietly, “then why have I returned? Who brought me back?”

Raphael's smug grin faltered for a moment before he recovered. “Did it ever occur to you,” he said slowly, “that maybe Lucifer raised you?”

“No,” Castiel said firmly.

“Think about it,” Raphael pressed. “He needs all the rebellious angels he can find. You know it adds up.”

Castiel turned for the door. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

“Castiel,” Raphael called out, “I’m warning you. Do not leave me here. I will find you.”

“Maybe one day,” Castiel answered without turning. “But today, you’re my little bitch.”

Dean couldn’t help himself. “What he said,” he added with a grin. They both stalked out the door, but Tom remained, his gaze fixed on Raphael, hesitation flickering across his face.

Raphael’s cold gaze shifted back to him. “Something to say?”

Tom swallowed hard, fingers twitching slightly at his side. “Do... do you all hear our prayers?” he asked quietly.

Raphael’s expression shifted, not with anger, but something like confusion. “What?”

Tom shifted uneasily. “I prayed every night when I was in the Corps,” he said, voice quieter now. “Prayed to every saint, every angel who might listen. Was I just... talking to myself?”

For a moment, Raphael just stared at him. There was no cruelty in his gaze, just something thoughtful, distant.

“We are divine beings,” Raphael said at last. “We hear all.”

Tom exhaled shakily, as if those words lifted a weight off his shoulders. “Then... it wasn’t all for nothing.”

He smiled faintly, more to himself than anyone else. “I... I’m glad I asked.”

“Tom!” Dean’s voice rang from outside. “Get your ass out here!”

Tom closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing a sigh. Then, suddenly hesitant, he turned back to Raphael.

“Even if it had to be under these circumstances,” Tom said quietly, “it was an honour to meet you.”

Raphael's expression barely shifted, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “You are a strange one, Thomas Winchester.”

Tom chuckled softly. “Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I get that a lot.”

He turned and walked out, leaving Raphael behind in the circle of flickering flames.

################

The Impala rumbled down the dark highway, headlights slicing through the night. Dean gripped the wheel loosely, his fingers drumming on the leather. Castiel sat beside him in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window. The angel looked distant, troubled. In the back seat, Tom snored softly, his head slumped against the window.

“You okay?” Dean asked, breaking the silence.

Castiel didn’t respond. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, lost in some celestial thought.

“Look,” Dean said, shifting in his seat, “I'll be the first to tell you that this little crusade of yours is nuts... but I do know a little something about missing fathers.”

Tom stirred at the sound of Dean’s voice, his eyes half-opening, but he didn’t speak. He just listened.

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked quietly.

“I mean,” Dean began, his voice softening, “there were times when I was looking for my dad when all logic said that he was dead, but I knew in my heart he was still alive. I didn’t have proof, but I just... I knew.”

Castiel finally turned, watching Dean closely.

“Who cares what some ninja turtle says, Cas,” Dean added with a wry grin. “What do you believe?”

Castiel’s face shifted, doubt fading into something steadier, something firm.

“I believe he’s out there,” Castiel said with conviction.

Dean nodded, satisfied. “Good. Then go find him.”

For a moment, Castiel just sat there in silence. The faint rumble of the road filled the void, the tyres humming against the pavement.

“What about you?” Castiel asked after a while. “What do you believe?”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. “What about me?” he muttered. “I don't know.” He shifted his grip on the wheel, thumb tracing the seam on the leather.

“Honestly?” Dean continued, almost surprised by his own words. “I'm good. I can’t believe I’m saying that... but I am. I’m really good.” He flicked a thumb toward the back seat. “Hell, Tom isn’t even that much of a pain in the ass.”

Tom shifted again, muttering something unintelligible.

“Even without your brother?” Castiel asked.

“Especially without my brother,” Dean replied, his voice tightening. “I mean, I spent so much time worrying about the son of a bitch; watching his back, trying to keep him on the straight and narrow. Hell... I’ve had more fun with you in the past twenty-four hours than I’ve had with Sam in years. And you’re not even that much fun.”

Dean chuckled dryly, the sound brittle and bitter. “It’s funny, you know?” he went on. “I’ve been so chained to my family, but now that I'm not with him... hell, I’m happy.”

Dean turned to look at Castiel, expecting some kind of response— maybe a scowl, maybe a sarcastic remark.

But the passenger seat was empty.

Dean’s smile faded instantly.

“Of course,” he muttered. His fingers tightened around the wheel as his expression hardened again.

From the back seat, Tom’s voice cut through the quiet. “He’ll be back, Dean.” His voice was raspy, still thick with sleep. “You know Sam will come back.”

Dean let out a breath, something between a scoff and a sigh. “Yeah?” He forced a smile. “Sure, Tom.”

Tom didn’t answer, but the silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was steady, weighted with understanding.

Dean turned up the radio, the low croon of classic rock filling the car as they disappeared into the night.

Parris Island, South Carolina - 16 Years Ago

The buzz of tattoo guns filled the cramped little shop just off base, a low, constant hum under the occasional bark of laughter and the sharp scent of antiseptic and ink. Tom leaned back in a battered chair, twenty-one and freshly out of basic, his fatigues swapped for a plain tee that still clung to his frame with the stiffness of someone not yet used to the civilian fabric. His buddies were already half-drunkenly arguing over sleeve designs near the wall, voices echoing off the concrete like they owned the place.

The tattoo artist, mid-thirties, with a long beard, arms covered in old-school flash, flipped through a well-worn portfolio before him. Tom’s eyes skimmed over skulls, snakes, pin-up girls, and roaring eagles until something caught his eye: a black and white rendering, clean lines, sharp contrast. An angel, stoic and terrible, sword drawn across his chest in a defensive sweep. Not ethereal or soft like in the stained-glass windows of his childhood, this one looked ready to march into Hell itself.

He tapped the image with a calloused finger. “That Raphael?”

The artist blinked and looked up, brows rising. “Damn. Yeah. You know your angels?”

“Catholic,” Tom replied with a wry smile. “Comes with the territory.”

The artist nodded, flipping the book around for a better angle. “He’s one of the big ones. Protector, healer.”

Tom tilted his head, considering. “If I’m gonna keep running toward bullets for a living, might as well get a little divine backup.”

He rolled his shoulder, baring skin still unmarked. The artist prepped the stencil, and Tom murmured under his breath, the words instinctive and quiet but deliberate.

“Saint Raphael, of the glorious seven who stand before the throne of Him who lives and reigns, angel of health, the Lord has filled your hand with balm from heaven to soothe or cure our pains. Heal or cure the victim of disease and guide our steps when doubtful of our ways. Amen.”

The artist looked up mid-transfer, his expression softening into a grin. “That’s the first time I’ve ever had someone quote scripture before the needle hits. Respect.”

Tom smirked, biting back the nerves. “Let’s just say I’m hedging my bets.”

The machine came to life again, the sting of the first lines making his fingers twitch. He gritted his teeth but didn’t flinch, eyes locked on the mirror across the room.

By the time it was done, the angel stood proudly etched into his skin, sword gleaming in stark contrast against the raw, red flesh.

Tom studied it in the mirror, shoulders squared. “The angel on my shoulder, huh?” he said, half to himself. Then, with a flicker of that dark humour that always seemed to live behind his eyes, he added, “Well, this one had better get me into Heaven.”

The artist chuckled as he bandaged the fresh ink. “With an attitude like that? You might need two.”

Tom just laughed, low and rough, and for the first time in a long while, it sounded like something close to hope.

Chapter Text

The night air was cool as the Impala rumbled to a stop outside the Century Hotel. A man with a weathered face and a handful of pamphlets stood on the sidewalk under the flickering streetlight. His voice rang out, hopeful yet weary, as he called to passing strangers.

"Hi. Good evening, brother. Is your soul rapture-ready?"

The passerby ignored him, barely sparing him a glance.

"Thank you, sir. God bless," the man muttered.

Two more pedestrians hurried past him without acknowledgement.

"Good evening, folks," the man tried again. "Is your soul rapture-ready? Because what I'd like to do is just show you exactly what God's love is for you."

They ignored him, too.

"Okay," he continued. "God bless."

The Impala’s doors creaked open. Dean slammed his door shut, heading for the hotel entrance with Tom following close behind from his own truck. 

"Excuse me, friend," the man called, catching Dean’s attention. "Have you taken time out to think about God's plan for you?"

Dean stopped, glancing back at him.

"Too friggin' much, pal," Dean muttered darkly before walking inside.

The man watched him go, face unreadable.

Tom lingered. He rubbed a hand down his face, tired but unable to let the moment slide.

"Sorry about him," Tom said. "He’s not the religious type."

The man smiled faintly, shrugging. "Many sheep stray these days."

"Aye," Tom agreed. "But the shepherd is never far from his flock."

The man’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Are you a believer?"

Tom gave a small smile, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Hard not to be. Grew up Catholic, saw war... said more prayers to St. Michael than I’d like to admit." He paused, glancing at the stack of pamphlets. "Keep spreading the good word, eh?"

The man’s smile grew warmer. "Peace be with you, child."

Tom grinned at this, holding his hand out for a shake instinctively. "And with your spirit."

With that, Tom followed his brother inside.

###################

Dean sat at the edge of the bed, phone pressed to his ear. Across from him, Tom lay sprawled in the other bed, fast asleep, his arm flung over his face.

"We’re talking about the Colt, right?" Dean asked. "I mean, the Colt?"

“We are,” Castiel’s voice came crackling through the phone.

Dean frowned. "Well, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would the demons keep a gun around that, uh... kills demons?"

The faint sound of a car passing rustled in the background on Castiel's end. The angel's voice cut in and out. “What? What? I didn’t—I didn’t get that.”

Dean chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "You know, it’s kind of funny. Talking to a messenger of God on a cellphone. It’s like watching a Hell’s Angel ride a moped."

"This isn’t funny, Dean," Castiel said flatly. "The voice says I’m almost out of minutes."

Dean let out a laugh, louder this time. "Okay, all right. I’m telling you, Cas, the mooks have melted down the gun by now."

"I hear differently," Castiel replied. "And if it’s true... and if you are still set on the insane task of killing the devil... this is how we do it."

Dean let out a long breath. “Okay... where do we start?”

"Where are you now?" Castiel asked.

Dean grabbed the room key off the bedside table and squinted at the embossed numbers. "Kansas City. Century Hotel, room 113."

"I’ll be there immediately."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, no," Dean said quickly. "Come on, man. I just drove like sixteen hours straight, okay? I'm human. And there's stuff I got to do."

"What stuff?" Castiel asked.

"Eat, for example," Dean said dryly. "In this case... sleep. I just need like four hours once in a while, okay?"

"...Yes."

"Okay," Dean said, satisfied. "So, you can pop in tomorrow morning."

“Yes,” Castiel repeated. “I’ll just—"

Dean hung up, tossing his phone onto the table.

“—wait here, then,” Castiel finished into the empty line, staring down at his phone. He sighed, standing alone at the side of a dimly lit road. The quiet buzz of crickets filled the air as he adjusted his tie.

Dean shifted under the sheets back at the motel, glancing across the room at Tom, still sleeping soundly. His brother's face, relaxed in rest, seemed far removed from the hardened Marine Dean had been getting reacquainted with. He wasn't sure what had been going on in Tom’s head since they hit the road again, but something had shifted. The old reverence was back. The kind of faith Dean had long since lost.

Dean scoffed under his breath. " Choir boy ," he muttered before turning over to sleep.

##########################

The room was dimly lit, the faint orange glow from the motel sign flickering through the thin curtains. Dean lay sprawled on one of the beds, fully clothed, arm over his eyes. The vibration of his phone on the nightstand startled him awake. He groaned, blindly reaching for it.

"Dammit, Cas," Dean growled, pressing the phone to his ear. "I need to sleep."

A pause.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice came through. “It’s me.”

Dean blinked, groggy. He checked the time, 4:15 a.m. He let out a sigh. “Sam? It’s quarter past four.”

"This is important," Sam said, his voice tense.

From the other bed, Tom stirred under the covers but stayed quiet, listening.

Dean dragged himself upright and stumbled to the mini-fridge. He grabbed a beer, cracked it open, and took a long swig. “So... you’re his vessel, huh?” Dean muttered. “Lucifer’s wearing you to the prom?”

“That’s what he said,” Sam answered.

“Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in, huh, Sammy?” Dean’s voice was tired, bitter .

“That’s it?” Sam snapped. “That’s your response?”

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, wiping a hand down his face. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Sam shot back. “A little panic, maybe?”

Dean let out a short, mirthless laugh. “Guess I’m a little numb to the earth-shattering revelations at this point.”

Tom shifted again, turning over to face Dean. His expression was tense and worried, but he said nothing.

“What are we gonna do about it?” Sam asked, his voice tight with frustration.

Dean sighed. “What do you want to do about it?”

“I want back in,” Sam said. “For starters.”

Dean closed his eyes. “Sam—”

“I mean it," Sam insisted. "I’m sick of being a puppet to these sons of bitches. I’m gonna hunt him down, Dean.”

“Oh, so we’re back to revenge now, huh?” Dean’s voice hardened. “Yeah, ‘cause that worked out so well last time.”

“Not revenge,” Sam shot back. “Redemption.”

Dean let out a tired breath and shook his head. “So what, you’re just gonna walk back in and we’re gonna be the dynamic duo again?”

“I can do this,” Sam pleaded. “I’m gonna prove it to you.”

Dean sat quietly for a moment, fingers gripping the neck of the beer bottle. “Look, Sam,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever we do... turns out that you and me? We’re the fire and the oil of the apocalypse. On that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere and stay away from each other for good.”

Tom sat up at that, a frown deepening on his face. “Dean—” he started, but Dean raised a hand to stop him.

“Dean,” Sam said, his voice strained, “it doesn’t have to be like this. We can fight it.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered. “You’re right. We can. But not together.” His voice lowered, pained but certain. “We’re not stronger when we’re together, Sam. I think we’re weaker. Because whatever we have between us ,  love, family... whatever it is ,  they’re always gonna use it against us. And you know that. We’re better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer, Michael, and this whole damn thing if we just go our own ways.”

“Dean,” Sam’s voice cracked, “don’t do this.”

Dean swallowed, tightening his grip on the phone.

“Bye, Sam.”

He hung up.

For a moment, there was only the sound of Dean’s shallow breathing. The tension in the room felt like a thick cloud. Dean leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“That was stupid,” Tom said sharply from his bed.

Dean scoffed under his breath. “What?”

“You know Sam’s not gonna stop,” Tom said. “He’s stubborn aHellll. It’s not like he’s gonna walk away from this.”

“I know,” Dean said, voice flat. “But it’s better this way.”

“For who?” Tom asked, his tone turning sharp.

Dean set his empty beer bottle on the nightstand with a heavy clink. “For everyone.”

Tom exhaled slowly and laid back down, muttering quietly under his breath, “You’re wrong.”

The morning light slanted through the cracked blinds, filtering into the wreckage that had once been a motel room. Dean stirred, groaning as he pushed himself upright. His back ached from the springs of the bed that dug into him where the mattress should’ve been.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Dean looked around. The room was destroyed, furniture overturned, and the lamp shattered on the floor. The nightstand clock lay smashed to pieces, despite being fine when he'd answered his phone the night before. He stumbled to the window and drew back the curtain.

Outside was worse.

The city was a wasteland; broken glass littered the streets, graffiti marred the walls, and fires smouldered in the distance. Dean’s stomach twisted uneasily.

“Tom?” Dean called, turning back toward the room. No answer.

“Tom?” Louder this time. Still nothing. Dean swore under his breath.

He grabbed his jacket, shoved his gun into his waistband, and stepped outside.

#####################

The streets were empty save for the whispers of movement in the distance. Cars sat abandoned, doors left hanging open. Signs of chaos were everywhere: shattered storefronts, smeared handprints on windows, and the eerie silence that settled over the city like a shroud.

Then he heard it, the sharp crash of breaking glass.

Dean followed the sound, creeping along the wall of an alley. Ahead, a little girl sat on the ground, clutching a battered teddy bear.

“Little girl?” Dean called, stepping forward cautiously. “Little girl, are you okay?”

The child didn’t respond.

“You hurt?” he tried again.

The girl remained silent, her face shadowed. As Dean drew closer, he saw the red smear trailing down from her mouth. Blood. The girl’s lips curled back, revealing stained teeth, and with a shriek, she lunged at him, glass shard raised high.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean barked, twisting away and pinning her against the wall.

His breath hitched when he saw the word scrawled in crimson paint across the nearby brick.

CROATOAN.

“Oh, crap,” Dean mumbled.

Shouts echoed from the far end of the alley. Dean spun to see a group of people stumbling around the corner, bloodied faces, empty blackened eyes, moving with unnatural aggression.

“Infected,” Dean grimaced, bolting down the street.

They chased him, feet pounding, breath ragged. Dean skidded around a corner only to find a chain-link fence blocking the path. He cursed, bracing himself for a fight.

Gunshots rang out. Dean turned just in time to see several soldiers on tanks firing into the crowd of infected. The soldiers advanced in a line, unloading round after round. One flicked a switch on a speaker, and suddenly, The Contours' "Do You Love Me" blared over the sound of gunfire.

“Seriously?” Dean muttered, ducking for cover.

The infected fell in heaps as the soldiers advanced methodically. Dean seized the opportunity to break away, retreating down another alley.

###################

Hours later, Dean stood outside a chain-link barrier marked with bold red lettering:

CROATOAN VIRUS HOT ZONE — NO ENTRY BY ORDER OF ACTING REGIONAL COMMAND — AUGUST 1, 2014 — KANSAS CITY.

He stared at the date, swallowing hard.

“August first... 2014?” he whispered.

Dean hotwired a nearby car, the engine rumbling to life. Static hissed from the radio. No music, no news, just empty air.

“That’s never a good sign,” Dean muttered.

“You’re right,” a voice chimed beside him.

Dean jumped as Zachariah appeared in the passenger seat, holding a newspaper.

“Croatoan pandemic reaches Australia,” the angel read aloud. “Grim stuff, huh?”

Dean clenched his jaw. “I thought I smelled your stink on this Back to the Future crap.”

Zachariah smirked. “You’ve had quite the effect, Dean.” He rattled the paper. “’President Palin defends bombing of Houston.’ Buyers’ market in real estate. Oh, and what’s this? Ah yes, no more sports. Congress revoked the right to group assembly. Can you believe it?” He grinned coldly. “Hardly a quorum, if you ask me.”

“How’d you find me?” Dean growled.

“Afraid we had to tap some unorthodox resources of late, human informants.” Zachariah’s grin widened. “Your face is on flyers across the country. Inspirational visits to Christian fringe groups have really paid off.”

Dean screalisationisation dawning. “The Bible freak outside the motel. He ratted me out.”

“Onward, Christian soldiers,” Zachariah mocked. “Your brother could tell you a thing or two about that.”

Dean’s heart stuttered. “Sam?” he asked. “What about Tom? Is Tom—?”

Zachariah’s grin turned cold. “Oh, we’ll get to that. Both of your brothers are out there, but right now…” He tapped his watch. “You’ve got three days, Dean. Three days to see where your choices lead.”

Dean glared at him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Zachariah said, “that your decisions have consequences. This is what happens to the world if you keep saying no to Michael.”

The angel vanished, leaving Dean alone in the silent, empty car.

########################

The air inside Bobby’s house felt stale and heavy, as though no one had breathed within its walls for months. Dean stepped through the doorway cautiously, boots crunching over broken glass and dust. The place was trashed; papers were scattered, overturned furniture, and spiderwebs were thick in the corners. A sick feeling settled in his stomach.

“Bobby?” Dean called out, stepping further inside. “Bobby, I’m coming in!”

No answer. Dean's eyes swept the room and caught sight of Bobby’s wheelchair lying on its side. He hurried over, flipping it upright and froze.

Bullet holes punctured the back of the chair. Dried blood smeared the seat.

“Oh, no,” Dean whispered. “Where is everybody, Bobby?”

He moved quickly now, ignoring the ache in his chest. Reaching the familiar bookshelf, Dean pulled open the hidden compartment and grabbed Bobby’s journal. Flipping through the worn pages, a photo slipped out; a picture of Bobby, Castiel, three unfamiliar men, and a battered wooden sign: Camp Chitaqua .

####################

The camp looked more like a warzone. Dean crouched behind a tree, staring through the chain-link fence at the armed men patrolling the perimeter. They were on high alert, guns in hand, eyes scanning the wrecked cityscape. Dean was careful to keep low.

His eyes drifted to a rusted-out wreck resting beside a crumbling building, and his heart stopped. It was the Impala. His Impala. Or at least, what was left of her. The metal was twisted and rusted, windows shattered, tires long since deflated.

“Oh, baby, no,” Dean moaned under his breath.

He crept closer, reaching the driver's side door. The interior was stripped, seats torn, and the dash ruined.

“Oh no, baby,” Dean murmured again. “What did they do to you?”

Footsteps sounded behind him, but he was too late to react. Before he could turn, something hard struck him in the back of the head, and the world went dark.

###############

Dean groaned as he came to, his arms straining against metal cuffs locked around his wrists. His back rested against a wooden ladder, and his head throbbed like hell.

“What the hell?” Dean started, yanking at the cuffs.

“You tell me,” a voice drawled.

Dean blinked up to see... himself. Or rather, someone who looked like him: older, harder, armed to the teeth with a cold glint in his eye. The green army jacket on this version of himself was stiff and worn, no flannel or warmth. Future Dean stared at him while methodically cleaning a pistol.

“I should be asking that question,” Future Dean said. “In fact, why don't you give me one good reason why I shouldn't gank you right here and now?”

“Because you'd only be hurting yourself,” Dean tried, a weak grin on his face.

Future Dean snorted. “Yeah, real funny.”

“Look,” Dean pressed, “I'm no shapeshifter or demon or anything, okay?”

“Yeah, I know,” Future Dean said flatly. “Did the drill while you were out ,  silver, salt, holy water ,  nothing. But you know what was funny?” He tossed his rag aside. “You had every hidden lockpick, box cutter, and switchblade that I carry. Now, you wanna explain that? Oh, and the resemblance?”

Dean exhaled. “Zachariah.”

Future Dean's face hardened. “Come again?”

“Zachariah,” Dean repeated. “I’m you... from the tail end of 2009. Zach plucked me out of my bed and tossed me five years into this crap.”

Future Dean stared long and hard, calculating. “Where is he? I want to talk to him.”

“I don’t know,” Dean said honestly.

“Oh, you don’t know ,” Future Dean sneered.

“I don’t know, okay? Look, I just want to get back to my own friggin' year.”

Future Dean's eyes narrowed. “Okay. If you’re me... tell me something only I would know.”

Dean thought for a second, then grinned. “Rhonda Hurley. We were, uh... nineteen. She made us try on her panties.” His grin widened. “They were pink. And satiny. And you know what? We kind of liked it.”

Future Dean barked a short laugh. “Touché.”

“So,” Dean pushed, “Zach zapped me here to see how bad it gets?”

Future Dean’s face darkened. “I guess. Croatoan virus, right? That's their endgame.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered. “That’s what Zach said.”

“It’s worse than that,” Future Dean said grimly. “Started hitting major cities about two years ago. World really went in the crapper after that.”

“What about Sam?” Dean asked, voice quieter.

Future Dean went still.

“Sam didn’t make it,” he said curtly. “Heavyweight showdown in Detroit. From what I understand, Sam didn’t walk away.”

“You weren’t with him?” Dean asked.

Future Dean shook his head. “No. Me and Sam... we haven’t talked iHellll, five years.”

“We never tried to find him?” Dean pressed.

“We had other people to worry about.”

“What about Tom?” Dean asked, feeling an anxious knot tighten in his chest.

Future Dean’s expression soured. “Tom’s around here somewhere. Still mumbling his little prayers to a dead God.” He shook his head. “Told him it was pointless. Guy just doesn’t know when to quit.”

Dean swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “Where are you going?” he asked.

Future Dean grabbed his gun and a jacket. “I got to run an errand.”

“Whoa,” Dean said. “You’re just gonna leave me here?”

“Yeah,” Future Dean said coldly. “I got a camp full of twitchy trauma survivors out there with an apocalypse hanging over their heads. The last thing they need to see is a version of The Parent Trap . So, yeah... you stay locked down.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean muttered. “But you don’t have to cuff me, man. Come on... you don’t trust yourself?”

Future Dean paused at the door. “No.” His eyes were hard and unyielding. “Absolutely not.”

The door slammed behind him.

“Dick,” Dean cursed, yanking at the cuffs again.

After a beat, he flexed his fingers and felt the sharp edge of a nail hidden beneath the floorboards. He grinned slightly.

“Guess I still know how to be me,” Dean said, working the nail into the cuff’s lock.

######################

The window was cracked and smudged, and dust gathered thick in the corners. Dean leaned against the frame, eyes narrowed, breath fogging the glass as he stared out across the bustling crowd in the camp. The sun was slipping behind the gloomy clouds, dragging long shadows over the ground, but in the peeks of light, he could see them clearly. Dean glanced around to see if it was safe to leave when the sight of a man stopped him in his tracks. 

Tom knelt in the dirt, a ragged bandage roll between his fingers and a soft smile tugging at his mouth. A young boy sat on a plastic crate in front of him, sniffling but holding still, his arm scraped raw and pink. Tom worked gently, careful with each movement, his words low and calm, steady in a way Dean hadn’t seen in a long time.

A small circle of children had gathered around, their faces turned toward him like flowers reaching for light. They were dirty, tired kids with wide eyes and scuffed shoes, some clinging to blankets, others holding onto each other. And Tom was telling them a story.

Dean couldn’t hear the words, not really, but the cadence was unmistakable. Low, deliberate, a storyteller’s rhythm. Something about knights, maybe, his hands pantomimed swords, shields, and dragons. The boy in front of him cracked a smile as Tom wrapped the last loop of the bandage and tied it off with care.

Dean swallowed hard.

He hadn’t seen that look on Tom’s face since they were kids, before the weight of the world had carved lines into his brow and buried his smile beneath iron and grit. There was laughter in him now. Not loud, but real. Soft and surprising, like it had caught him off guard.

A little girl crawled into his lap without hesitation. Tom didn’t flinch. He simply adjusted her gently and kept talking, his voice a thread pulling them all in. When she tucked her head beneath his chin, Dean’s chest ached. He wondered if this was his little girl, Dean’s niece .

This wasn’t the version of Tom that barked orders in a firefight or stared down monsters without blinking. This was something older. Something sacred. The soldier wrapped in softness, the protector when no one else was left. A man who still remembered how to comfort, how to care, even when everything else was broken.

Dean let his forehead press against the cool glass.

He had almost forgotten. Forgotten what Tom looked like when he wasn’t fighting. When he wasn’t carrying the weight of the war. And seeing it now, seeing the quiet strength of it, made something sharp settle in his throat.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just watched, eyes locked on his brother, as dusk fell across a ruined world… and Thomas Winchester, tired and worn, became a light in the dark.

######################

The camp was a battered shell of what had onccivilisationzation ,  a mix of rusted-out trucks, half-collapsed cabins, and grim-faced survivors patrolling the perimeter with rifles slung over their shoulders. Dean scanned the area, feeling unease curl in his stomach. He had no idea how far down the rabbit hole this timeline had fallen.

“Hey, Dean! You got a second?”

Dean turned to see Chuck jogging toward him; the familiar panic was still etched on his face despite the hardened look he'd acquired.

“No—yes,” Dean stammered. “Uh... hi, Chuck.”

Chuck’s face relaxed just slightly. “Hi. So, listen, we're pretty good on canned goods for now, but we’re down to next to nothing on perishables and hygiene supplies. People are not gonna be happy about this. So, what do you think we should do?”

Dean blinked. “Uh... share? You know, like... at a kibbutz?”

Chuck squinted at him. “What’s a kibbutz?”

Dean ignored that. 

“Wait a minute, aren’t you supposed to be out on a mission right now?”

“Absolutely,” Dean said quickly. “And I will be.”

“Uh-oh,” Chuck muttered.

Before Dean could ask what he meant, a woman stormed up behind him, fist already flying.

“Whoa!” Dean ducked just in time, the punch sailing past his head. “Jeez! Easy, lady!”

Dean bolted behind Chuck like a kid dodging a playground bully.

“Risa,” Chuck greeted, looking less than thrilled.

Dean poked his head out. “Risa?”

“You spent the night in Jane's cabin last night, didn't you?” she accused, her voice sharp.

“Uh, what?” Dean stammered. “I—did I?”

Chuck winced and gave a small nod of confirmation.

“I thought we had a connection ,” Risa snapped, aggressively air-quoting the word.

“Well, I’m sure we do,” Dean tried, flashing a strained smile.

“Yeah?” Risa scoffed. “Screw you.” She turned on her heel and stomped away.

Dean sighed. “I’m getting busted for stuff I haven’t even done yet.”

Chuck frowned. “What?”

“Never mind,” Dean muttered. “Hey, Chuck... is Cas still here?”

“Yeah,” Chuck said. “I don’t think Cas is going anywhere.”

***

Dean entered another cabin, grimacing at the sound of soft murmurs and laughter.

Inside, Castiel was sitting cross-legged in a circle with a half-dozen women, all gazing at him in rapt attention.

“In this way,” Castiel intoned with a slow smile, “we’re each a fragment of total perception ,  just, uh, one compartment in that dragonfly eye of group mind. Now, the key to this total, shared perception... it’s, um... it's surprisingly physical.”

Dean gawked. What thHellll...?

Castiel’s eyes landed on Dean. “Oh,” he said cheerfully, “excuse me, ladies. I think I need to confer with our fearless leader for a minute.” He smiled. “Why not go get washed up for the orgy?”

The women giggled and left the room.

“You’re all so beautiful,” Castiel called after them with a dreamy sigh.

Dean stared at him, dumbfounded. “What are you, a hippie?”

Castiel stretched his back with a groan. “I thought you'd gotten over trying to label me.”

“Cas,” Dean said firmly, “we gotta talk.”

“Whoa,” Castiel murmured, his head tilting. “Strange.”

“What?”

“You’re... not you.” Castiel squinted. “Not now you, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Dean grunted. “That’s kinda the point.”

“What year are you from?” Castiel asked curiously.

“2009.”

“Who did this to you?” Castiel’s smile faded.

“Zachariah,” Dean answered, fists clenching. 

“Interesting,” Castiel muttered thoughtfully.

“Oh yeah, it's friggin' fascinating,” Dean snapped. “Now, why don’t you strap on your angel wings and fly me back to my page on the calendar?”

“I wish I could just, uh, strap on my wings,” Castiel said with a lazy grin. “But I’m sorry, no dice.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “What, are you stoned?”

“Uh... generally, yeah.”

Dean shook his head in disbelief. “What happened to you?”

“Life,” Castiel answered with a sad smile.

Before Dean could respond, the cabin door creaked open. A figure stepped inside, one hand covering his eyes.

“Cas,” Tom called out, his voice warm. “You decent in there? I need your help with—"

Tom stopped short at the sight of Dean. His brow furrowed in confusion, and then his expression softened with warmth. Before Dean could react, Tom was striding across the room and pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Whoa—uh...” Dean stiffened in surprise. “It’s—uh, good to see you too, buddy.”

Tom laughed brightly, the sound cutting through the grim tension of the camp like sunlight. “I missed you, little brother.”

Dean gave an awkward chuckle, clapping Tom’s back as Tom stepped away. “Yeah,” Dean muttered. “I missed you too... I guess?”

Tom beamed, stepping back and giving Dean an assessing look. “Man... you’re still just a kid,” Tom said with a shake of his head. “Guess I got a few more years on you now.” Dean stared at his brother in disbelief. 

“How did—“

“Please. You think I worecognisecognise the differences? 5 years ain’t a lot, but this war has aged us all. Of course, I aged like a fine wine.” Tom joked, but his eyes never left Dean. 

Dean gave a half-smile. “I’m guessing that doesn’t mean you’ve gotten any wiser.”

Tom grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. By the way,  how’s 42 look on me? I kept dying the greys til the dye ran out. Little self-conscious now.” 

Dean snorted despite himself. “It’s good to see you, man.”

“You too,” Tom said softly, the warmth never leaving his eyes.

In the corner, Castiel stared at the pair with a bemused smile. “This is surprisingly wholesome,” he muttered.

Dean shot him a look. “Don’t make it weird, Cas.”

Tom’s laugh boomed through the cabin again. For the first time in days, Dean felt like he could breathe again. Tom then looked at him with mischief glinting in his eyes. 

“Well, then, baby brother. Let’s see if you’re able to sneak past the big bad wolf and get home. I’ll go to the office and see if he’s there. I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve to annoy you enough for a good distraction.”

#################

Dean stood stiffly by the Impala as a jeep rumbled to a stop nearby. The future version of himself, hardened, colder, and somehow emptier, climbed out with a few soldiers trailing behind.

Future Dean reached into the jeep, grabbed two beers, and tossed one to a nearby soldier. They both cracked them open and drank. Then, without warning, Future Dean pulled his gun and levelled it at the soldier’s head.

“Hey!” Dean shouted. “Hey! Watch out!”

The shot rang out before Dean could blink. The soldier crumpled to the ground. Blood spattered the dirt. The other soldiers stood frozen, their eyes flicking back and forth between the two Deans.

“Damn it,” Future Dean hissed under his breath before turning to the group. His face was cold and impassive.

"I'm not gonna lie to you," he announced grimly. "Me and him—" He jerked his thumb at present-day Dean. "It’s a pretty messed-up situation we’ve got going. But believe me, when you need to know something, you’ll know it. Until then, we all have work to do."

The soldiers shifted uneasily, but no one argued.

***

The door slammed shut behind them, Dean stumbling inside as Future Dean pushed him roughly.

“What the hell was that?” Future Dean barked.

Tom, who had been waiting inside, stepped forward and grabbed Future Dean’s shoulder. “Hey,” Tom warned quietly. “Relax, and take a second.”

Future Dean shot him a look of pure disdain and shrugged him off.

“What the hell was that?” Dean echoed, stepping forward angrily. “You just shot a guy in cold blood.”

“We were in an open quarantine zone,” Future Dean replied coolly. “Got ambushed by some Croats on the way out.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, waiting for the rest of the explanation.

“Croats,” the Future Dean continued. “Croatoans. One of them infected Yeager.”

“And you knew how?” Dean demanded.

Future Dean scoffed. “Because after a few years of this, you start to know. I started seeing the symptoms about half an hour ago. It wasn’t gonna be long before he flipped. I didn’t see the point in troubling a good man with bad news.”

Dean’s face twisted. “'Troubling a good man'? You just blew him away in front of your own people. Don’t you think that freaked them out a little?”

“It’s 2014,” Future Dean shot back. “Plugging some Croat? That’s called commonplace. Trading words with my friggin’ clone, that might have freaked them out a little.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “All right, look—”

“No,” Future Dean cut him off, voice low and sharp. “ You look. This isn’t your time, it’s mine . You don’t make the decisions. I do. So when I say ‘stay in,’ you stay in.”

Dean held up his hands. “All right, man. I'm sorry. Look, I—I'm not trying to mess you—me— us up here.”

“I know,” Future Dean mustered, sighing as he looked away.

He moved to the table and poured two glasses of whiskey, sliding one toward Dean. Tom stood quietly in the corner, hands wrapped tightly around a rosary. The tension made his shoulders stiff as he thumbed the worn beads.

“You ain’t joining us?” Dean asked, eyeing Tom.

Future Dean chuckled bitterly. “ Father Thomas doesn’t partake anymore.”

Tom glared, shoving the rosary into his pocket. “Stop calling me that,” he muttered. “Just because I don’t want to add a drinking problem to my laundry list of issues doesn’t make me a priest.”

Future Dean snorted and tossed back his drink. Tom sighed heavily, pulled a knife from his holster, and absently began flipping it between his fingers, a restless habit he hadn’t shaken since his days in the Marines.

Dean raised his own glass. “It’s been a really wacky weekend.”

Future Dean’s chuckle was low and humourless. “Tell me about it.”

They drank in silence for a few moments before Dean broke it.

“So what was the mission, anyway?” he asked.

Future Dean smirked, reaching into his duffel. He pulled out a worn, familiar revolver… The Colt . Dean’s breath hitched.

“The Colt?” Dean said in disbelief.

“The Colt,” Future Dean confirmed.

“Where was it?” Dean asked.

“Everywhere,” Future Dean muttered. “They’ve been moving it around for years. Took me five years... but I finally got it.” His face hardened. “And tonight... tonight, I’m gonna kill the devil.”

Tom’s hand stilled on the knife. His lips pressed into a tight, thin line.

“You think that’s gonna work?” Tom asked softly, his voice carrying a quiet intensity.

“It has to,” Future Dean said flatly.

Tom exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “I... I gotta pray about this.”

Future Dean scoffed and shook his head. “Yeah, you let me know how that goes.”

Dean snorted into his drink. “What, Tom? Don’t tell me you’re actually gonna ask the big guy for advice?”

Tom gave Dean a hard look. “I have to believe in something,” he said quietly. “Even if it’s just... hope.” His fingers brushed over the rosary beads in his pocket as he turned for the door. “Somebody’s got to.”

As Tom stepped outside, Dean shifted uncomfortably, watching him go.

“Yeah,” Future Dean muttered to himself. “Good luck with that.”

##################

The cabin was dimly lit, barely enough to cast shadows. Dean paused just outside the door, spotting Tom kneeling in the corner of the room, head bowed and hands clasped tightly around his rosary. The quiet rhythm of his voice filled the air, soft yet steady.

"Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.
Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,
by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits
who prowl throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen."

Dean leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Isn't that a little... counterintuitive?" Dean asked dryly. "You know, given my state as his designated meatsack?"

Tom looked up, startled at first, then softened. His smile was warm, a stark contrast to the bleakness outside.

“Habit,” Tom said with a shrug. “Said it before every fight in the Corps. Guess I never really got out of it.”

Dean snorted faintly, stepping inside. “Guess old habits die hard.”

Tom rose to his feet, dusting off his knees. “Yeah, well, you start seeing the crap I’ve seen, you’ll take all the backup you can get.” He tucked the rosary back into his pocket and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “You, uh... need something?”

Dean shook his head. “Just... wanted to check in.” His gaze flicked to Tom’s tired face. “How are you holding up?”

Tom exhaled slowly, gaze lowering. “My brother ,  not you, not yet ,  he's... complicated.” He paused, rubbing a hand down his face. “A lot of people wouldn't be here without him. Doesn’t make him the nicest guy to be around.”

Dean gave a low chuckle. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

There was a pause before Dean’s tone shifted, more careful this time.

“What about Sam?”

Tom’s face hardened, his smile fading. “I wasn’t there when it went down,” he said quietly. “Whatever... it was.” His fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for the rosary again, but resisted.

Dean frowned, unsure how to push for more without making it worse. Instead, he asked carefully, “And Aoife?”

Tom stiffened as though the air had turned cold. His voice, when it finally came, was tight and forced.

“Aoife...” He swallowed hard. “She died a long time ago. I didn’t— I couln’t save her in time.” His eyes flicked toward the window like he was looking somewhere far away. “My daughter... my daughter died with her.”

Dean shifted, uncomfortable. “I’m... I’m sorry.”

Tom gave a hollow laugh, a sound so brittle it almost cracked the air. “Aisling,” he said, voice quiet and distant. “That was her name. Aisling Máire Keane-Winchester. Born seven pounds, eight ounces. Lived for... for a whole day before they got her.” His voice hitched and faltered. “I—I never got to hold her.”

Tom clenched his fists tightly, knuckles white, eyes shining in the dim light. Dean froze, unsure of what to say; what could anyone say to that?

But Tom, swallowing down the pain, quickly wiped his face with his sleeve and forced a smile, thin and pained but still somehow standing.

“But,” Tom added with a quiet breath, “we’ve all got our issues, right?”

Dean shook his head slightly. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, we do.”

For a long moment, they stood in silenc ,  two brothers from different timelines, both carrying the weight of too many losses.

“Listen,” Dean finally said, voice low. “For what it’s worth... I’m glad you’re still here.”

Tom let out a shaky breath, nodding. “Yeah... me too.”

###############

The air inside the room was heavy, the tension palpable as Tom stood near the far wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Risa's voice was sharp as she spoke.

"So that's it? That's the Colt?" she asked, eyeing the worn gun on the table.

“If anything can kill Lucifer,” Future Dean said firmly, “this is it.”

Risa scoffed, “Great. Got anything that can find Lucifer?”

Future Dean narrowed his eyes at her tone. “Are you okay?”

Dean took the opportunity to needle his future self, a smug grin stretching across his face.

“Oh, we were in Jane’s cabin last night,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. “And apparently, we and Risa have a... connection.”

Future Dean shot him a glare like a knife’s edge. “You want to shut up?”

Dean raised his hands in surrender, enjoying himself.

Future Dean ignored him and turned back to Risa. “We don’t have to find Lucifer. We know where he is. The demon we caught last week ,  one of Lucifer’s entourage ,  he knew.”

Risa narrowed her eyes. “And you believed him?”

“Oh, trust me,” Future Dean said grimly. “He wasn’t lying.”

“And you know this how?” she challenged.

From the corner of the room, Future Castiel laughed softly, his voice dry and sardonic. “Our fearless leader,” Castiel said, “is all too well-schooled in the art of getting to the truth.”

Tom, who had been quietly lingering in the background, snorted. “That's one way to put it.”

Future Dean shot him a cold look. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Dean’s face twisted with disgust. “Torture? Oh, so we’re torturing again.”

Future Dean’s eyes locked onto his past self’s. “It’s called survival,” he said coolly.

“No, that’s good,” Dean sneered. “Classy.”

Future Castiel chuckled again, his grin a shadow of the sombre angel Dean had once known. “What?” Castiel said with a lazy grin. “I like past you.”

Tom chuckled too. “Second that motion. Kid still has a sense of humour.”

“Shut up,” Future Dean barked. “Lucifer’s here. Now. I know the block, I know the building.”

“Oh, good,” Castiel muttered dryly. “Right in the middle of a hot zone.”

“Crawling with Croats, yeah,” Future Dean agreed. “You saying my plan is reckless?”

“Are you saying,” Castiel countered, “we, uh, walk straight up the driveway past all the demons and Croats... and shoot the devil?”

“Yes,” Future Dean said flatly.

“Well,” Castiel drawled, “if you don’t like ‘reckless,’ I could use ‘insouciant,’ maybe.”

“You coming?” Future Dean asked pointedly.

Tom shook his head. “Count me out,” he said firmly. “Someone has to watch base while you go on your little suicide mission.”

Future Dean scoffed. “Don’t worry, Father Thomas . Wasn’t expecting you to.”

Tom exhaled sharply at the nickname but let it slide.

“Cas?” Future Dean asked.

Castiel sighed. “Of course,” he said wearily. “But why is he coming?” He gestured to Dean. “I mean, he’s you five years ago. If something happens to him, you’re gone, right?”

“He’s coming,” Future Dean said without hesitation.

Castiel shook his head in disbelief but turned to leave. “I’ll get the grunts moving.”

“We’re loaded and on the road by midnight,” Future Dean called after him.

Once the others had left, Tom relocated to the window, watching the camp. Dean turned back to Future Dean, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you taking me?”

“Relax,” Future Dean said with a dismissive shrug. “You’ll be fine. Zach’s looking after you, right?”

Dean shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. I want to know what’s going on.”

Future Dean’s face hardened. “Yeah, okay. You’re coming because I want you to see something.” He paused. “I want you to see our brother.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. “Sam?” His voice caught. “I thought he was dead.”

Future Dean’s jaw tightened. “Sam didn’t die in Detroit. He said... ‘yes.’”

Dean’s breath stalled. “Wait. You mean...?”

“That’s right,” Future Dean said grimly. “The big ‘yes.’ Lucifer’s wearing him to the prom.”

Dean stumbled back a step, mind racing. “Why would he do that?”

Turning sharply, Dean’s gaze locked onto Tom, who was still standing by the window, staring out at the darkened camp.

“Why didn’t you tell me when I asked you earlier?” Dean demanded.

Tom’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t look back. “What’s there to tell?” Tom muttered. “If that’s how the Führer over here said it went down... that’s how it went down. I still wasn’t there.”

“Make yourself useful for once, Father Thomas ,” Future Dean snapped. “Go help Cas pack the supplies.”

Tom shot Future Dean a lazy salute before heading out. He lingered only long enough to press a brief squeeze to Dean’s shoulder. “Take care,” he muttered, then disappeared into the night.

Once they were alone, Future Dean’s voice dropped low. “Wish I knew why Sam said ‘yes.’ But now we don’t have a choice. It’s in him... and it’s not getting out. We’ve got to kill him, Dean.”

Dean’s face paled. “And you want me to see it?” His voice shook. “To see... him ?”

“You need to see the whole damn thing,” Future Dean said coldly. “How bad it gets, so you can do it different.”

Dean’s fists clenched. “What do you mean?”

“Zach said he was gonna bring you back, right? To ’09?”

Dean nodded.

“Well,” Future Dean said, “when you get back home... you say ‘yes.’ You hear me? Say ‘yes’ to Michael.”

“That’s crazy,” Dean barked. “If I let him in, then Michael fights the devil. The battle’s gonna torch half the planet.”

Future Dean scoffed bitterly. “Look around you, man. Half the planet’s better than no planet, which is what we have now. If I could do it over again, I’d say ‘yes’ in a heartbeat.”

Dean glared. “So why don’t you?”

Future Dean’s voice cracked, his mask faltering. “I’ve tried!” His fists slammed against the table. “I’ve shouted ‘yes’ until I was blue in the face! The angels aren’t listening! They just... left. Gave up. It’s too late for me, but for you...”

“No,” Dean snapped. “There’s got to be another way.”

Future Dean’s face twisted with bitterness. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he murmured. “I was cocky. Never actually thought I’d lose. But I was wrong. Dean... I was wrong .” His eyes met Dean’s. “I’m begging you... say ‘yes.’”

Dean shook his head slowly, resolute. “No.”

Future Dean’s face hardened again. “But you won’t,” he said flatly. “’Cause I didn’t.” His voice was grim now, hollow. “Because that’s just... not us, is it?”

#################################

The air at Camp Chitaqua was thick with tension, the kind that clung to your skin and made your bones feel heavy. Soldiers moved quietly through the camp, faces grim and shoulders hunched beneath the weight of too many years spent fighting a losing war. Dean stood near one of the rusted trucks, sharing a final word with Chuck.

"So... you're really from '09?" Chuck asked, still wrapping his head around it.

Dean huffed a tired laugh. "Yeah, afraid so."

Chuck gave him a look ,  part pity, part warning. "Some free advice?" he said, lowering his voice. "You ever get back there... hoard toilet paper."

Dean blinked. "Toilet paper?"

"Yeah." Chuck's expression darkened. "You hoard it. You hoard it like it's made of gold... 'cause it is."

Dean couldn’t help but smirk. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Oh, you'll thank me, all right," Chuck muttered, pointing at him with absolute certainty. "Mark my words."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean chuckled. "I'll see you around."

"Okay." Chuck gave him a stiff nod before heading back to one of the cabins, leaving Dean standing in the night air.

Dean turned and spotted Tom by one of the jeeps, cinching a strap tightly over the packs in the back. His brother’s shoulders were squared, but there was tension in his stance,  like he was holding back something that threatened to spill over.

Dean walked up beside him. "Guess this is goodbye for now," he said.

Tom let out a short breath. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Guess it is."

Before Dean could say anything else, Tom grabbed him, pulling him into a tight hug. Dean stood frozen for a beat, caught off guard, before he awkwardly clapped his hand against Tom’s back. He felt the weight in Tom’s grip, as if his brother was clinging to something he was afraid to lose.

"Stay strong, little brother," Tom murmured against his shoulder. His voice was low, heavy with emotion. "Don’t... don’t become him."

Dean blinked, feeling Tom’s words settle uncomfortably in his chest. "I won’t," he promised, unsure if he believed it himself.

Tom pulled back and pressed something into Dean’s hand. Dean looked down to see a worn rosary, the wooden beads darkened with age and the silver crucifix smooth from years of use.

“I know you don’t think much of it,” Tom said softly. “But I do. This belonged to Aoife, she believed it brought protection to those who… needed it most. And you’re gonna need all the help you can get.” He paused, then added with quiet reverence, " Beidh lá eile ag an bPaorach ."

Dean’s brow furrowed. "Gesundheit."

Tom barked out a laugh,  bright and clear, a rare sound that felt out of place in this grim world. "It’s Gaelige," Tom grinned. "It means... 'Live to fight another day.'"

Dean nodded slowly, fingers curling around the rosary. "Yeah... yeah, you too."

Tom smiled, but there was a weight behind it, something tired and worn out. "Look after yourself, little brother. I mean it."

Dean swallowed hard, not trusting himself to say much more. "You too, man."

Tom clapped him on the back and gave him a strained smile, “You were always the best of us, Dean. Don’t lose that. Not again.”

Dean nodded slowly and shoved the rosary deep into his pocket, like it might burn him if he thought too hard about it, before climbing into the vehicle. As they drove away, Dean watched Tom grow smaller in the rearview mirror, standing alone in the cold, face half-lit by flickering firelight, fists curled tight.

#################################

The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and wilting roses. Dean’s head throbbed as he blinked himself awake on the cold ground. The distant crack of gunfire rang out from inside the building, jerking him to his feet. His instincts flared , and he moved and bolted toward the sound.

Thunder cracked overhead, and in the sudden flash of lightning, Dean froze. His future self lay sprawled on the ground, a white shoe planted on his neck. Future Dean’s eyes flicked open, locking onto him. The figure in white shifted his weight. There was an audible snap.

Dean’s stomach turned.

He stared in horror as the figure lifted his head. It was Sam. But not Sam. Something was... wrong . Cold dread pooled in his gut as Sam’s mouth curved into an unsettling smile.

“Oh,” Lucifer said, voice silk-smooth. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean stood frozen as Lucifer’s smile lingered, lazy and knowing.

“Aren’t you a surprise,” the devil said, almost amused.

Thunder rumbled again, and before Dean could react, Lucifer was suddenly behind him.

“You’ve come a long way to see this, haven’t you?” His voice was low, almost conversational.

Dean set his jaw. “Well, go ahead,” he shot back. “Kill me.”

Lucifer laughed cruelly, like someone who knew something Dean didn’t.

“Kill you?” Lucifer glanced toward the crumpled corpse of Future Dean. “Don’t you think that would be a little... redundant?”

The devil sighed, the weight of something old and weary in his breath. “I'm sorry,” he added, his voice quieter now. “It must be painful, speaking to me in this shape. But it had to be your brother. It had to be.”

Lucifer reached out, fingers extended toward Dean’s shoulder. Dean jerked away.

“You don't have to be afraid of me,” Lucifer said gently. “What do you think I'm going to do?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Maybe deep-fry the planet?”

Lucifer chuckled at that ,  an unsettling sound ,  and turned toward a rose bush. He reached out, fingering a delicate crimson petal.

“Why?” he mused. “Why would I want to destroy this stunning thing? Beautiful in a trillion different ways... The last perfect handiwork of God.”

Dean bit down his revulsion, refusing to take the bait.

“You ever hear the story of how I fell from grace?” Lucifer asked, still toying with the rose.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh, good God. You're not gonna tell me a bedtime story, are you? My stomach's almost out of bile.”

“You know why God cast me down?” Lucifer’s tone remained calm, unshaken. “Because I loved Him. More than anything. And then God created...”

He turned back toward Dean, lips curling with a twisted smile.

“You,” he said simply. “The little hairless apes. And then He asked all of us to bow down before you, to love you more than Him. And I said, ‘Father, I can’t.’ I said, ‘These human beings are flawed, murderous.’ And for that, God had Michael cast me intHellll.”

Lucifer paused, eyes narrowing. “Now, tell me, does the punishment fit the crime? Especially when I was right?”

His eyes darkened, and his voice dropped low. “Look at what six billion of you have done to this thing. And how many of you blame me for it.”

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Lucifer’s next words stopped him cold.

“And Remiel,” Lucifer sneered. “He was the worst. Trying so hard to be the good big brother, be everyones favourite. Never picking a side until his hand was forced ,  and even then, he chose whatever path he thought would please everyone else.” Lucifer scoffed. “He doesn’realiserealize what he's walking into.” Dean’s mind raced; who   thHellll was Remiel?

Dean clenched his fists. “You’re not fooling me,” he growled. “With this sympathy-for-the-devil crap. I know what you are.”

Lucifer cocked his head. “What am I?”

“You’re the same thing, only bigger,” Dean spat. “The same brand of cockroach I’ve been squashing my whole life. An ugly, evil, belly-to-the-ground, supernatural piece of crap. The only difference between them and you is the size of your ego.”

Lucifer smiled. Not smugly, but fondly. Like he was impressed. “I like you, Dean,” he said with something almost like admiration. “I get what the other angels see in you.”

Lucifer turned away, walking lazily toward the ruined sanitarium. “Goodbye,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll meet again soon.”

Dean felt something boil in his chest,  anger, panic, defiance. “You better kill me now!” he shouted.

Lucifer paused and turned back, smiling faintly, curious. “Pardon?”

“You better kill me now,” Dean repeated, voice hard. “Or I swear, I will find a way to kill you. And I won’t stop.”

Lucifer’s smile widened. “I know you won’t,” he said softly. “I know you won’t say yes to Michael, either. Sweet, sweet Thomas will refuse Raguel until you die. Only then will he make his choice. And I know you won’t kill Sam.”

Dean’s heart pounded painfully in his chest.

“Whatever you do,” Lucifer continued, “you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up here.” His smile turned sharp. “I win. So... I win.”

“You’re wrong,” Dean growled.

Lucifer just smiled, quietly, knowing . “See you in five years, Dean.”

Thunder crashed, and in the flicker of lightning, Lucifer vanished.

Dean turned, breathless, and there stood Zachariah, reaching for his forehead with two fingers.

“Son of a—” Dean barely had time to react before the world went white.

#######################

The motel room was dimly lit, the glow from the nearby streetlamp casting jagged shadows across the walls. Dean leaned heavily against the kitchenette sink, shoulders tense and eyes narrowed. Across from him stood Zachariah, smug and self-assured as ever. Behind them, Tom lay on the bed, seemingly peaceful. His hand was curled tightly around his St. Christopher pendant; fingers locked like a vice over the worn metal.

“Oh, well,” Dean muttered, voice rough with exhaustion. “If it isn’t the ghost of Christmas screw you.”

Zachariah’s thin smile faltered. “Enough,” the angel snapped. “Dean, enough. You saw it, right? You saw what happens. You're the only person who can prove the devil wrong. Just say yes.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to Tom, who was still asleep, clutching that pendant like his life depended on it. He turned back to Zachariah with a bitter scoff.

“How do I know this whole thing isn’t one of your tricks? Huh?” He jabbed a finger at the angel. “Some angel hocus-pocus?” Even as he said it, he gripped the worn rosary stashed in his pocket tighter.

“The time for tricks is over,” Zachariah said, voice hardening. “Give yourself to Michael. Say yes, and we can strike. Before Lucifer gets to Sam. Before billions die.”

For a moment, Dean hesitated. He turned away, facing the worn wallpaper of the room as though it could give him answers. His eyes trailed over Tom again,  Tom, who had fought and bled beside him, who had never stopped believing in God, in Dean, in something greater than himself.

Dean shook his head. “Nah.”

Zachariah’s brow furrowed. “'Nah?” he repeated, incredulity giving way to rage. “You telling me you haven't learned your lesson?”

“Oh, I've learned a lesson, all right,” Dean said, turning back to face him. “Just not the one you wanted to teach.”

Zachariah’s face twisted with fury. “Well, I'll just have to teach it again!” He advanced, voice rising. “Because I got you now, boy, and I'm never letting you—”

The room shifted. Zachariah’s words cut off, and suddenly Dean wasn’t there anymore.

“Son of a...” Zachariah seethed, glaring at the empty space where Dean had stood.

####################

The air outside was cold and sharp, and the gravel beneath Dean’s boots crunched as he stumbled to a stop on the side of the dark road. Before he could process what had happened, Tom grunted from somewhere nearby, landing awkwardly on the pavement. He shot to his feet, instinctively spinning around like he was still under fire.

“What the hell just happened?” Tom demanded, eyes wide.

Dean turned, and there stood Castiel, calm as ever.

“That’s pretty nice timing, Cas,” Dean said with a small smile.

“We had an appointment,” Castiel replied matter-of-factly.

Tom shot them both a bewildered look. “What the hell just happened?” he repeated, louder this time.

Dean clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Don’t ever change,” he muttered.

Tom’s frustration boiled over. “Hello?” He gestured wildly. “Is someone going to answer me?”

“I’ll tell you later, Tom,” Dean said, already pulling out his phone.

Tom huffed. “Oh well, perfect. As long as you’ll tell me later .” He rubbed his face and muttered to himself, “I was having a really good dream too.”

Castiel shifted closer to Dean, lowering his voice. “How did Zachariah find you?”

Dean’s lips curled into a grim smile. “Long story.” He pocketed his phone. “Let’s just stay away from Jehovah’s Witnesses from now on, okay?” His gaze slid to Tom. “That includes you.”

Tom threw his hands up. “What did I do?”

Ignoring him, Dean dialled his phone and pressed it to his ear.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asked.

“Something I should’ve done in the first place,” Dean muttered grimly.

#########################

Dean sat on the hood of the Impala, elbows on his knees, head bowed like the words were too heavy to carry. His boots scuffed against the gravel as if the sound might drown out what he didn’t want to say.

Tom stood a few feet away, arms crossed, the wind tugging at the hem of his coat. He didn’t look at Dean. “So,” he said, voice tight. “You gonna tell me what the hell that was?”

Dean exhaled slowly. “Zachariah dropped me five years into the future.”

Tom turned his head, just slightly. “What’d you see?”

Dean’s jaw worked for a moment. “The world’s gone tHellll. Croatoan virus wiped out most of the population. The rest… just trying to survive.”

A long silence stretched between them. Then Tom asked, almost too quiet to hear, “Was I there?”

Dean looked up. “Yeah. You were.”

Tom’s lips twitched. “Still fighting?”

Dean gave a bitter half-smile. “Not like you think.” He reached into his jacket and pulled something out: a small, black-beaded rosary, worn down by years of touch. He held it out.

Tom stared. Didn’t breathe. “That’s not yours.”

“No,” Dean said gently. “It was yours. Or… hers. You said it belonged to Aoife.”

Tom moved forward like he was walking through water. His fingers closed around the beads, trembling. “Aoife…”

“Father Thomas. That’s what he called you, that future me. He wouldn’t shut up about it.”

Tom startled, eyes sharp with disbelief. “You’re telling me I became a priest?”

Dean snorted. “Hell no. Future me just called you that to piss you off. Same way I call you ‘choir boy’ now.”

Tom gave a tight, humourless smile. “That supposed to be funny?”

“No,” Dean said, and the smile faded. “You were still praying. Still lighting candles. Saying the rosary every night. It drove future me nuts. Still does.”

Tom looked down at the beads again, thumb brushing over the crucifix in a way that was muscle memory. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me from falling apart.”

Dean nodded. He didn’t argue. “You weren’t hunting anymore,” he said. “You ran a camp. Took care of people. Fed them, kept them safe. You were… different. Quieter. Still tough, but there was this sadness in you. Like something got hollowed out.”

Tom’s voice dropped. “What happened?”

Dean looked away, then back. “Aoife. A demon came for her. Said it was sending a message.”

Tom didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Dean’s throat worked. “Future you said he couldn’t save her. Wouldn’t say much else. And after that… he was just gone, man. Still breathing, still helping people. But part of him was gone.”

Tom closed his hand around the rosary until his knuckles went white.

“But that’s not going to happen,” Dean said, firm now. “We’re not gonna let it.”

Tom nodded once. His voice was raw when he finally spoke. “Damn right we won’t.”

They stood in silence, the only sound the wind rustling through the trees.

Dean cleared his throat, voice low but deliberate. “There’s more. Lucifer mentioned a name. Think we finally figured out your angel.”

Tom glanced over, brows lifting in wary curiosity. “Yeah?”

“Ever heard of Remiel?”

Tom’s brow creased, thoughtful. “Remiel… yeah. Archangel of hope and divine visions. A watcher. He’s said to guide souls ,  helps them find their path. Sometimes seen as a herald, sometimes as a witness. Not exactly frontline in Heaven’s army, but… close to it. Quiet power.” His voice grew quieter. “His name means ‘Mercy of God.’”

Dean blinked. “Okay, and how do you just know that?”

Tom shrugged like it was obvious. “I was raised Catholic, Dean. Irish CatMemorisingorizing angel lore was practically a sacrament in our house. Though, to be fair, Remiel’s more prominent in older apocryphal texts. Orthodox traditions, maybe some old mystics.”

Dean muttered under his breath, “Nerd.”

Tom shot him a dry look. “I like to read. Sue me.”

Dean huffed. “So, let me get this straight. I get the sword of Heaven, Sam gets the devil’s greatest mistake, and you get the quiet, poetic angel who guides lost souls. Great. It’s like the weirdest RPG loadout of all time.”

Tom snorted, but there was no humour in it. “Yeah. Quite the team.”

Dean’s smirk faded. “Think he’s the one that’s been knocking on your soul?”

Tom looked away for a long beat, eyes tracing the darkness beyond the windshield. “I don’t know,” he said finally, voice low. “But if it is… then I need to be ready.”

Dean looked at him carefully. “You didn’t say yes, by the way. Not in that future.”

Tom nodded slowly. “Good. Won’t happen in this one either.”

He stared out into the dark, rosary still clutched in his hand.

And that was the end of it. No tears. No shouting. Just quiet resolve, two brothers standing in the shadow of a future they refused to let happen.

Whatever was coming, they’d face it. Together.

#########################

The sky hung low and grey over the bridge as Dean leaned against the Impala, arms folded across his chest. He tapped his fingers idly against his bicep, eyes narrowed as he stared down the empty stretch of road. The engine of another car rumbled in the distance, and soon a familiar shape emerged.

The car stopped, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Sam stepped out, shoulders stiff and wary. He shut the door but didn’t move right away. Instead, he lingered, watching Dean with hesitation written all over his face.

Dean pushed himself off the Impala and walked forward. Sam followed suit.

“Sam,” Dean greeted, his voice low.

Dean reached into his jacket, pulling out Ruby’s knife. Sam’s eyes flicked to it warily, his body tensing. But Dean didn’t raise the blade, and instead, he turned it in his hand and offered the handle toward Sam.

“If you’re serious,” Dean said, his voice firm, “and you want back in… you should hang on to this.” His mouth twitched slightly. “I’m sure you’re rusty.”

Sam swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the knife. He reached out and took it, his fingers curling tightly around the hilt. He still wouldn’t meet Dean’s gaze.

“Look,” Dean started, shifting uneasily. “Man, I’m sorry. I don’t know...I’m—whatever I need to be. But I was, uh—wrong.”

Sam finally looked at him, brows furrowed. “What made you change your mind?”

Dean let out a breath, lips quirking in a faint smile. “Long story,” he said. “The point is...maybe we are each other’s Achilles’ heel. Maybe they’ll find a way to use us against each other, I don’t know. I just know…” Dean’s voice faltered for a second, but he pushed on. “I just know we’re all we’ve got. More than that. We keep each other human.”

Sam’s grip on the knife tightened. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Really. Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“Oh, I know it.” Dean’s smile widened, easy and familiar now. “I mean, you are the second-best hunter on the planet.”

Sam huffed a laugh, his relief clear. “Yeah? Who’s the best?”

Before Dean could answer, another voice called out from behind.

“That’d be me,” Tom said, approaching from the edge of the road with a grin stretched across his face. He clapped Sam on the back like they hadn’t spent any time apart. “Glad you’re back, Sammy.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, a little surprised but still smiling. “Me too.”

Tom’s grin softened as he turned to Dean. “You sure about this?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Tom nodded, satisfied. “Good.”

Sam glanced between them. “So…what now?”

Dean looked past his brothers, out toward the long stretch of empty road disappearing into the horizon.

“We make our own future,” Dean said firmly.

Sam nodded, shoulders squaring with determination. “Guess we have no choice.”

The three of them stood together, side by side,  Winchester strong.

Chapter Text

The Impala rumbled along the empty road, tires humming against the asphalt. Inside, the atmosphere felt tense despite Sam's attempt to break the silence.

"So," Sam started with a chuckle, "what's with this job?"

Dean shrugged, eyes locked on the road. "Dude suffers a head-on collision in a parked car? I'd say that's worth checking out."

"Yeah, definitely," Sam agreed, "but, uh, we got bigger problems, don't you think?"

"I'm sure the apocalypse'll still be there when we get back," Dean shot back dryly.

From the backseat, Tom let out a snort. "That’s the kind of certified positivity I love from you, Deany-poo."

"Shut up, Tom," Dean muttered.

Sam wasn’t done. "Right, yeah, but I mean... if the Colt is really out there somewhere—"

"Hey, we've been looking for three weeks, we got bupkis," Dean cut in sharply.

"Okay," Sam conceded, "but Dean... if we're gonna ice the Devil..."

"This is what we're doing!" Dean snapped. "End of discussion."

Sam looked away, defeated. A heavy pause lingered in the air.

"It's just that... this is our first real case, back at it together," Dean added, softer now. "You know, I think we oughta ease into it. Put the training wheels back on."

"So you think I need training wheels?" Sam asked, eyebrow raised.

"No, 'we'. 'We' need training wheels. You and me. As a team. Okay?"

Sam nodded, accepting the olive branch. "Okay."

From the backseat, Tom muttered, "I love how I'm just not included in this."

"Man, I really want this to be a fresh start, you know? For the both of us," Dean said, ignoring him.

"Okay," Sam nodded again.

"Still here, you know," Tom added with exaggerated irritation.

"Yeah, we know, Tom," Dean shot back.

"You're included, Tom," Sam reassured him.

"Damn right I am," Tom muttered.

#############

The next morning, Dean, Sam, and Tom stood outside the Sheriff’s Department, all clad in suits. They flashed their FBI badges at the sheriff standing at the entrance.

"Agents Bonham and Copeland," Dean announced.

"Supervisory Special Agent Cross," Tom added, flashing his badge. "How you doing?"

The Sheriff, Rick Carnegie, shook their hands firmly. "Good to know ya. So you're here on account of Cal Hawkins' death?"

"That's right," Sam said.

Carnegie shook his head. "Well, 'fraid you came a long way for nothing. We already booked the guy that did it."

Sam and Dean exchanged a confused glance. Tom crossed his arms over his chest, his expression hardening.

"I'm sorry," Sam asked, "who do you think did it?"

###############

In the interview room, Carnegie pressed play on a surveillance video. Sam, Dean, and Tom sat around the table, their eyes locked on the flickering screen. Jim Grossman’s shaky footage filled the TV, showing Cal standing beside a parked car.

"Cal? Is something wrong?" Jim’s voice wavered from the speakers.

Onscreen, Cal's head suddenly slammed into the windshield with brutal force. The screen fuzzed to static. Carnegie clicked off the TV and tossed the remote down on the table.

"Sicko taped his own handiwork," Carnegie grunted.

Dean and Sam frowned. Tom tapped his fingers against the table, troubled.

"I don't follow," Sam said slowly.

"It was Jim Grossman that killed Cal," Carnegie explained as if it were obvious.

"Wait, what?" Dean blinked.

"Well, he was the only one on the scene for miles," Carnegie shrugged.

"They were best friends," Sam pressed.

"Most violent crimes are committed by someone close to the victim," Carnegie countered.

Dean leaned forward. "And how exactly did Jim slam Cal into a windshield with all the force of an eighty-mile-per-hour crash?"

Carnegie blinked, seemingly stumped. "Drugs, maybe?"

Dean raised his eyebrows skeptically.

"Look, you know this ain't brain surgery, boys! Whatever it looks like, that's what it usually is. It's simple."

"Simple," Dean muttered.

"Right," Sam added, less than convinced. "If you don't mind, we'd like to speak to Jim Grossman anyway."

Tom stood, arms still folded. "Yeah... something doesn’t sit right with this."

#########################

Sam sat at the table across from Jim, with Dean standing just behind him, arms folded tightly across his chest. Tom leaned against the wall, fingers drumming steadily against his belt; an unconscious habit when he was feeling on edge. Reaching for a holster no longer strapped to his side, not while he was dressed in these monkey suits.

"I was in the house when it happened," Jim said, his voice strained. "I didn't even see it."

"For argument's sake, say we believe you," Dean said, leaning forward.

"Why would you? The cops didn't," Jim scoffed bitterly.

"Well, we're not your typical cops," Dean shot back.

"Yeah," Tom added with a crooked grin. "We're cool cops."

Silence. All three men turned to look at Tom, who let out a chuckle at his own joke.

"Ignore him," Dean muttered. "He's been hit over the head one too many times."

"Please," Sam interjected, trying to refocus Jim. "Just tell us what you saw."

Jim sighed heavily. "It's not what I saw... it's what I heard. Tires squealing, glass breaking."

Tom shifted uncomfortably against the wall as Jim's face hardened. "It was the car that did it."

"The car?" Sam repeated, eyebrows furrowing.

"I mean, I heard about the curse, but..." Jim trailed off. "I just thought it was a load of crap."

"Curse? What do you mean?" Dean pressed.

"The car," Jim said. "Little Bastard."

"Little Bastard?" Dean echoed, incredulity creeping into his voice. "As in the Little Bastard?"

"Wait," Sam cut in. "What's Little Bastard?"

"James Dean's car," Tom answered, stepping forward from the wall. "The one he was killed in." His voice lowered with awe. "You found it?"

"Yeah, that's the one," Jim said. "Cal had been looking for it for years. I mean, hell, we both had. But he found it first."

Dean's gaze slid over to Sam. "Oh, we are definitely checking this out."

Tom smirked. "Count me in."

######################

Dean circled Little Bastard with the same mix of awe and apprehension he'd reserve for a loaded shotgun. The blood-stained windshield, still bearing the shattered impression of Cal's head, stood as a grim reminder.

"So," Sam said, glancing from the twisted metal to Dean. "What, this is like Christine?"

Dean shook his head. "Christine's fiction. This..." He jabbed his thumb toward the car. "This is real."

"She’s just as beautiful as I thought she’d be," Tom murmured, stepping forward with something close to reverence.

"Enlighten me," Sam said, crossing his arms.

Dean gestured to the wreckage. "After James Dean died, his mechanic bought the wreckage and fixed it up."

"And it repaid him by falling on him," Tom added dryly. "Very ironic."

"And Tony McHenry," Dean continued, "was killed when it locked up on the racetrack."

"Death follows this car around like exhaust," Tom muttered. "Nobody touches it and comes away in one piece."

"In 1970," Dean added, "it vanished off the back of a truck. Nobody's seen it since."

Sam's expression darkened. "So how do we find out if this is really the Little Bastard?"

"Cal matched the VIN," Dean said. "But the only real way to know is the engine number."

Sam gave Dean a pointed look. "I'm guessing the engine number's... on the engine."

Dean huffed. "Yeah."

***

Dean and Sam stood side by side, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, and dread mounting in the air. Tom sat cross-legged on a nearby crate, rattling off James Dean facts as he typed on his laptop.

"James Dean was only 24 when he died," Tom said without looking up. "Three movies under his belt, an Oscar nomination... Hell of a talent. Oh! And the car's original custom paint job had 'Little Bastard' written in red script across the back."

"Thanks for the history lesson, Ken Burns," Dean muttered. He exhaled.

"You want me to do it?" Sam asked softly.

"No," Dean answered himself. "No... no, I've got it."

He addressed the car. "Okay, baby. I'm not gonna hurt you, so... don't hurt me."

He lay down on a roller board and slid beneath the car, a pencil clutched tightly in his teeth. Sam leaned over the side, watching nervously.

"Need a flashlight?" Sam offered.

"No," Dean grunted. "Don't... do anything. Just go away."

"You—uh, okay," Sam muttered, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender.

Dean squinted at the numbers printed on the engine. Just as he started to trace them with his pencil, the car shuddered . Dean froze.

"Don't move... don't breathe," Dean muttered to himself. "Don't even look at her... she might not like it."

Tom smothered a chuckle from his perch on the crate.

Finally, Dean slid out from under the car, pale and wide-eyed. He slapped the engine number's imprint into Sam's chest and exhaled deeply.

"Find out who owned it," Dean said, voice still shaky. "Not just the last owner, go all the way back to 1955."

Sam scowled at the paper. "That's a lot of research."

"Well," Dean said with an exaggerated grin. "I guess I just made your afternoon."

Dean turned to leave, shaking his head.

Tom blinked. "Where's Dean going?"

Sam sighed. "I think he needs some fresh air."

##################

Dean leaned against the bar, phone pressed to his ear as Sam’s voice crackled through the speaker.

“Yo,” Dean greeted, taking a swig of his beer.

“Hey,” Sam replied from the other end, his voice tired. “Took me a while, but I traced all the car's previous owners.”

From beside Sam, Tom’s muffled voice chimed in, “Hey, I helped!”

Sam ignored the comment, still focused on his notes and the spread of papers cluttering the motel table.

“Any of 'em die bloody?” Dean asked, tapping his fingers against the bar’s countertop.

“Nope,” Sam said, voice shifting slightly, like he’d just uncovered something.

In the background, the sharp crack of a pool ball triangle breaking apart interrupted the conversation. Sam paused.

“Dean... are you in a bar?” Sam’s voice held a note of accusation.

Dean stammered, “No, I—I'm—I'm in a restaurant.”

As if to betray him, the bartender returned at just that moment, setting a beer down in front of him.

“Here’s your beer,” the bartender grinned.

“Thanks,” Dean muttered, taking a sip. He glanced around guiltily, knowing full well Sam wasn’t buying it.

“That happens to have a bar,” Dean added quickly.

Sam scoffed. “I’ve been working my ass off here.”

“Why do you both always act like I’m not here?” Tom chimed in from Sam’s side.

“Shut up, Tom,” Dean and Sam snapped in unison.

Tom huffed dramatically. “No respect. None.”

“Hey,” Dean countered, not missing a beat, “world’s smallest violin, pal. I spent the afternoon up Christine’s skirt. I needed a drink.”

“Actually, you didn’t,” Sam countered.

Dean frowned. “Meaning?”

“The car’s first owner was a cardiologist in Philadelphia,” Sam explained. “Drove it until he died in 1972.”

“So you’re saying?” Dean asked, leaning forward, confused.

“That Porsche is not, nor has it ever been, James Dean’s car,” Sam clarified. “It’s a fake Little Bastard.”

“Broke my heart,” Tom added sadly, a forlorn sigh falling from his lips.

“Save your tears for the pillowcase,” Sam shot back, unimpressed.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Well then what was it that killed the guy?”

“Good question,” Sam replied, still looking at his notes.

“Oh, hey Dean,” Tom chimed in again, barely missing a beat. “Bring me back a panini?”

Sam turned to stare at Tom, his face a mixture of disbelief and irritation.

“What?” Tom shrugged. “I’m just checking out the ‘restaurant’ story.”

Sam shook his head, muttering under his breath as Dean smirked through the phone.

##############

The police forensic team moved methodically through the crime scene, snapping pictures and dusting for prints as Sheriff Carnegie barked orders at his officers.

“I want you to use a fine-tooth comb,” Carnegie instructed. “The evidence is here, we just gotta find it.”

Dean, Tom, and Sam entered the room, flashing their badges.

“Heard you got another weird one,” Dean remarked.

Carnegie, clearly frustrated, exhaled sharply. “Well, it’s a—a little strange on the surface, I admit, but, uh... you know, once you—you look at the facts…”

“William Hill died from a gunshot wound to the head,” Sam cut in. “No gun, no gunpowder, no bullet.”

Dean shrugged. “Nope. Nothing strange about that.”

“There’s gotta be a reasonable explanation,” Carnegie insisted, almost convincing himself. “There always is.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean shot back. “What’s your reasonable explanation?”

Carnegie glanced around before lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Professional killer,” he muttered.

“Come again?” Sam blinked in disbelief.

“CIA, NSA… one of them trained assassins,” Carnegie whispered. “Like in Michael Clayton .”

Sam and Dean stared at him, barely concealing their incredulity.

“Right…” Dean muttered.

“Hell, I’d believe it,” Tom said, arms crossed, his voice half amused. “Some of those idiots really do act like Clooney on a bender.”

Dean shot Tom a look sharp enough to cut steel, but Carnegie beamed, clearly appreciating the backup.

“You’re welcome to look around,” Carnegie sighed, still obviously at a loss. “But these guys don’t leave fingerprints.”

“Mind if we talk to the witness?” Sam asked.

“Be my guest,” Carnegie huffed. “She’s not making any sense, and she’s not making any sense in Spanish either.”

Dean raised his brows. “Right.”

#########

Consuela sat on a wooden bench outside the house, draped in a blanket, crying quietly. A police officer stood beside her, scribbling notes.

Dean and Sam approached her while Tom lingered behind, speaking with some of the detectives.

“ No puedo vivir aquí, ” Consuela sobbed. “ Necesito mi familia. Me voy ahora. Me voy a la casa en El Salvador ahora. ”

Dean cleared his throat. “Consuela Alvarez?”

She sniffed and looked up. “Yes?”

“FBI,” Dean said, flashing his badge. Sam did the same. The police officer stepped away, giving them space.

“You said you saw something in the professor’s house, right?” Dean asked gently. “Something in the window?”

Consuela sniffed again and started talking rapidly in Spanish. “ Estaba sacando la basura. Imiré por la ventana y vi al hombre que mató al Señor Hill! ”

Sam crouched beside her. “Uh... Señora Alvarez. Cálmese, por favor... Uh... díganos lo que vio? ”

Dean grinned slightly. “Nice.”

“Freshman Spanish,” Sam muttered with a shrug.

“ Era alto. Muy alto, ” Consuela said, describing a man she’d seen. “ Y llevaba el abrigo negro largo y tenía bigotes. ”

Sam translated. “A tall man... very tall. With a long black coat and a... beard?”

Consuela nodded firmly. “ Sí. ”

Sam translated again. “Beard.”

“ Y un sombrero. ”

Dean’s face wrinkled. “Dude was wearing a sombrero?”

“No,” Sam corrected. “A hat, not a...”

“ No, no, no, ” Consuela insisted. “ Un sombrero alto. ”

“A tall hat?” Sam repeated.

“Oh, like a top hat?” Dean added.

“ Sí! ”

Dean frowned. “Wait... like a stovepipe hat?” He mimed the gesture above his head.

“ Sí! ” Consuela’s eyes widened. “ El Presidente Lincoln. ”

“Abraham Lincoln?” Dean’s face twisted in confusion.

“Abraham Lincoln killed Mr. Hill!” she sobbed.

Dean and Sam shared a bewildered look as Tom returned from his conversation with the detectives. He paused, taking in the crying woman before stepping forward.

“ Hola, Señora Alvarez, ¿cómo está? ” Tom asked gently, his Spanish flawless.

Dean’s head whipped toward him. “Oh, what the hell?”

Tom ignored him, keeping his attention on Consuela. “ Espero que mis socios te hayan tratado bien. ”

“ Sí, sí señor, ” she nodded.

“ Bien. ¿Tienes a alguien que pueda venir a buscarte? ”

“ Sí. Mi hijo, él vendrá a buscarme. ”

“ Bien. Has sido muy valiente, gracias por contarnos todo. Atraparemos al hombre que hizo esto, te lo prometo. Que Dios esté con ustedes."

Consuela broke down again, pressing her hands to her face.

Dean blinked in disbelief. “Huh.”

“S-so I go home now?” Consuela stammered.

“ Sí. ” Sam nodded. “ Gracias. ”

Dean followed suit. “ Gracias. ”

“ Intenta descansar un poco, gracias por hablar con nosotros, ” Tom added, his tone warm and comforting.

As Consuela walked away, Sam turned to Dean, frowning.

“Since when can you speak Spanish like a native?” Dean asked, still surprised.

Tom smirked. “My bunkie bet me five bucks I couldn’t. I never turn down free money.”

Sam shook his head. “I feel like that shouldn’t make as much sense as it does.”

######################

The motel room was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the screens of Sam and Dean’s laptops. Sam sat at the table, scrolling through pages of lore while Dean, perched on the other side, played the video of Cal's death for what must have been the tenth time. Meanwhile, Tom was off to the side, texting Aoife with a small smile playing on his lips, seemingly in his own world.

“Whoa,” Dean muttered, suddenly frowning at the screen.

Tom glanced up from his phone, curiosity piqued. “What?”

Sam paused, looking over as Dean rewound the footage a few frames, then back again. He finally froze the screen and turned his laptop for Sam and Tom to see. Reflected faintly in the chrome of a car wheel was the figure of a man in an unmistakably iconic red jacket.

“Is that—?” Tom squinted.

“That looks like James Dean,” Sam confirmed.

“That definitely looks like James Dean,” Tom added with confidence.

Dean set the laptop back down with a sigh. “So we’ve got Abraham Lincoln...and James Dean?”

Sam frowned, still piecing things together.

“Famous ghosts?” Dean suggested.

“Maybe,” Sam admitted.

“Well, that’s just silly,” Dean scoffed.

Sam shook his head. “Actually, there’s a ton of lore on famous ghosts, more than the not-famous kinds. Honestly, I’m kinda surprised we haven’t run into one before.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, but now we’ve got two of ‘em? Two extremely pissed-off ghosts?”

“Who are apparently ganking their fans,” Sam added grimly.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, leaning in.

Sam scrolled through his findings. “Professor Hill was a Civil War nut. Big fan of Lincoln.”

“And Cal spent seventeen years tracking down James Dean’s car,” Dean muttered, starting to connect the dots.

“So you’re saying,” Dean continued, “we’ve got two super-famous, super-pissed-off ghosts killing their...super-fans?”

“That’s what it looks like,” Sam confirmed.

“And yet Selena still hasn’t received justice…” Tom sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “May Yolanda burn.”

Sam and Dean shared a look before shaking their heads. It wasn’t even worth commenting on.

“Well,” Dean muttered. “That is muchos loco .”

Sam grinned. “ Muy . Not muchos .”

Dean arched a brow, turning toward Sam.

“It’s ‘muy’,” Sam repeated smugly.

Tom groaned, rolling his eyes. “You’re both butchering it. It’s ‘muy,’ muy . You gotta work on your pronunciation.”

“Hey, listen here—” Sam started.

“Yeah, well,” Dean interrupted, steering the conversation back on track, “the big question is, what the hell are they doing here ?”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah, ghosts usually haunt the places they live. I mean, I get Abraham Lincoln at the White House—”

“And James Dean at a racetrack,” Dean added. “But what the hell are they doing in Canton?”

Tom straightened, grinning widely. “This looks like a job for... the Win-busters!”

Dean groaned. “Please. Never speak again.”

***

Later, the room had quieted once more. Sam was still hunched over his laptop, fingers clacking across the keys. Dean stood by the sink, sipping a can of soda, while Tom leaned back on the bed, tossing his phone in the air and catching it absentmindedly.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Sam muttered suddenly.

Dean lowered his drink and looked over. “What?”

Sam motioned him over, and Dean leaned in to read the screen.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean echoed, disbelief thick in his voice.

Tom sprang off the bed, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. “I smell a field trip!”

########################

The Canton Wax Museum smelled faintly of old wood polish and dust, the air cool despite the dim yellow lighting. Sam and Dean walked slowly through the exhibits, their gazes sweeping over the still, lifeless figures. Sam paused by a waxwork of John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon, studying the careful detail in their expressions. Then he stopped at Abraham Lincoln, gaze lingering thoughtfully. Tom seemed particularly taken with the rendition of Theodore Roosevelt and pulled out his cellphone to send a blurry snapshot to Aoife, a silly grin on his face.

Dean, meanwhile, frowned at Gandhi's statue, squinting at the small figure with disbelief.

“Dude, he's short,” Dean muttered.

“Hey,” Sam defended, “Gandhi was a great man.”

“Yeah,” Dean scoffed, “for a Smurf.”

Tom, trailing behind them, shot Sam an amused look. “If you really want to get into it,” Tom began with a grin, “he kinda wasn’t. When his wife was diagnosed with pneumonia, British doctors recommended penicillin to cure her, but Gandhi refused to inject her with the ‘alien’ life-saving medication... which he then took himself to treat his own malaria.” He shrugged. “Also, he was kinda racist, and—"

“Okay, we get it, nerd,” Dean cut him off, holding up a hand.

Tom chuckled to himself, clearly proud.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs, and the museum’s owner hurried toward them, slightly out of breath and wearing a leather jacket that was either vintage or a tragic fashion choice.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the man panted. “This is our busiest time of the year.”

Dean arched an eyebrow, looking around at the silent, empty room. “This is busy?”

“Well, not right now,” the owner admitted. “But it’s early.”

Dean smirked. “It's four-thirty.”

“So, what can I do for you?” the owner asked brightly, eager to move past the awkwardness.

Sam stepped forward, flashing a winning smile. “Uh, well, we're writing a piece for Travel Magazine .”

“Yeah,” Dean added, voice dry. “On how, uh, totally non-sucky wax museums are.”

Tom chimed in smoothly, “Truly, Madame Tussaud’s is a gift to humanity.”

The owner beamed, clearly loving the attention. “That's fantastic. A little press is just what we need.”

“Great,” Sam said. “We're interested in a few of your exhibits, specifically Abraham Lincoln and, uh, James Dean.”

“Two of our most popular displays,” the owner nodded proudly.

“Oh yeah?” Sam asked. “So they bring in a lot of visitors?”

“Yeah,” the owner said, chest puffing out. “We have our regulars.”

Dean glanced at Sam. “I don't suppose that, uh, William Hill and Cal Hawkins were regulars, were they?”

The owner's smile faltered. “As a matter of fact, they were. Yeah, I heard what happened to them. It's tragic, just tragic.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, you...that's not gonna be in the article, is it?”

“No,” Sam promised quickly. “No, no. ‘Course not.”

Dean shot the owner a grin. “You know, I gotta tell you, that Lincoln is so lifelike. I mean...you can just imagine him moving around. Ever see anything like that?

The owner frowned, clearly puzzled. “Uh...no.”

“No?” Dean pressed.

Sam leaned in. “Well, um, is there anything you can think of that would make your museum...unusual? You know, for the article?”

“Well,” the owner said, warming up again. “I'll say. There isn't another place like us, not anywhere.” Tom lifted an amused brow, thinking of several similar places across the globe… most of which shared the same name, but that was beside the point.

“How so?” Dean asked.

“Well, for one,” the owner said proudly, “that’s Honest Abe’s real hat.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “It is?”

Dean’s lips twitched. “Almost like his remains,” he muttered to Sam in a low voice.

The owner seemed puzzled at the phrasing but continued brightly. “Oh, yeah. Got a bunch of cool stuff: Gandhi’s bifocals, FDR’s iron lung. And this.”

He gestured to the leather jacket he was wearing. Sam frowned.

“And who did that belong to?” Sam asked warily.

The owner grinned and, with theatrical flair, raised both thumbs. “The Fonz ! Seasons two through four!”

Tom’s jaw dropped. “That belonged to Winkler?!”

The owner gave a cheesy grin, repeating his double thumbs-up. Sam forced a smile. “W-wow,” he said, voice tight. “Yeah, that’s—that’s really cool...ish.”

“Oh, this?” the owner laughed. “This is nothing . I’ve been working on a new collection of figures. Stuff that'll really wow the kids.”

“The kids?” Dean echoed.

“Yeah, Gen Y.” The owner shrugged. “Computer games, cell phones, sexting.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. The owner scoffed, amused at their reaction. “They're just fads,” he declared confidently. “I’m gonna make wax museums hip again.” He grinned, giving another double thumbs-up.

Dean chuckled in disbelief. Sam awkwardly returned the thumbs-up with a weak smile.

“I’m all for it!” Tom suddenly chimed in, clapping his hands. “Oooh, can I see the FDR section?”

Before Tom could wander off, Dean grabbed him by the chest, pulling him back.

“You’re staying with us,” Dean muttered.

Tom sighed, shooting the owner a sad look. “Rain check?” he asked with a grin.

The owner gave him a proud thumbs-up in response.

##############

The air in the Nite Owl Motel room was thick with tension as Dean paced, his phone pressed to his ear. His voice was sharp, his words clipped.

“Yeah, Abraham Lincoln and James Dean,” Dean muttered into the receiver. “Can you believe that? ...Why so kill-crazy? Ah, maybe the apocalypse has got 'em all hot and bothered. Yeah, well, we all know whose fault that is… Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

Sam, standing in the doorway, frowned at the conversation. He pushed the door shut with a little more force than necessary, causing Dean to spin around.

“I’ll call you later. Bye.” Dean hung up quickly, turning to face Sam.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked.

“Did you get the trunk packed up?” Dean countered, avoiding the question.

“Yeah,” Sam said warily. “Trunk’s packed. Who was on the phone?”

“Bobby,” Dean said curtly.

“And?” Sam pressed

“Nothing.” Dean’s reply was short, almost dismissive.

Sam's patience frayed. “So we're just gonna pretend I didn’t hear what I just heard?”

Dean shrugged, playing it off. “Pretend or don't pretend. Whatever floats your boat.”

Sam’s gaze hardened. “This was supposed to be a fresh start, Dean.”

Dean grabbed his jacket and muttered, “Well, this is about as fresh as it gets. Now are we going or not?”

Before Sam could answer, Tom entered the room, grocery bags in hand. He stopped abruptly, immediately sensing the tension.

“What did I miss?” Tom asked, setting the bags down.

Sam shook his head, sighing deeply before following Dean out the door. Tom exhaled, tossing his keys on the nightstand before grabbing water from the bag. He cracked it open, took a swig, and muttered to himself, “Never can get a straight answer in this family.”

#############################################

Later that night, they returned to the museum, ready to burn the haunted items. Sam busied himself near Lincoln’s statue while Dean admired the tall stovepipe hat.

“Check it out,” Dean grinned, plopping the hat onto his head. His voice lowered in a poor imitation of Lincoln’s. “Four score and seven years ago, I had a funny hat.”

“Dean,” Sam warned.

“That was the ‘height’ of fashion at the time,” Tom quipped with a grin.

Sam sighed, holding out his hand for the hat. “Let’s just torch the objects, torch the ghosts, and get outta here, okay?”

Dean reluctantly tossed the hat into the trash can. “I’ll go grab East of Eden’s keychain,” he muttered, walking off.

“I call FDR duty!” Tom chimed cheerfully, veering in the opposite direction.

Sam scanned the room carefully, flicking his gaze between Lincoln and Gandhi’s statues. His breath suddenly puffed visibly before him, and the temperature dropped.

“Dean?” Sam called.

The doors Dean had walked through suddenly slammed shut. Sam spun, gripping his shotgun tightly.

“Dean?”

There was a loud bang from the opposite room.

“Uh... guys?” Tom’s voice called out.

Sam grimaced, trying the door. It wouldn’t budge. His breath fogged again, and when he turned, he spotted movement from the corner of his eye.

Before he could react, the Gandhi statue sprang to life and launched itself at him.

“What the—?!” Sam yelped as the wax figure clamped its arms around his neck. Sam slammed it against the wall, dislodging it. Gandhi stumbled but leapt back onto Sam’s back, choking him again.

Sam crashed through a table, but the statue held on tight.

The doors burst open, and Dean rushed in, followed by a breathless Tom with his hair a mess.

“Dean!” Sam rasped.

“Is that Gandhi?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Yeah!” Sam barked, slamming Gandhi into a wall again.

“Dude, he's squirrelly! ”

“Get the—” Sam grunted before Gandhi drove an elbow into his ribs.

“Get the what?” Dean asked, unsure as he tried to free Sam from the statue's clutch.

“Glasses!” Sam choked.

Tom shoved Dean forward as he suddenly appeared, face flushed. Tom grabbed Gandhi from behind, yanking at its arms as Sam’s face began turning red. As he grunted with effort, he finally started to unlace Gandhi's fingers. Dean, meanwhile, dashed to the statue’s original display, snatching the glasses. He bolted to the trash can, tossing the glasses inside before dousing them in lighter fluid.

“Do it!” Tom shouted, struggling to hold Gandhi back.

Dean flicked a match. Flames engulfed the glasses, and Gandhi vanished in a burst of smoke.

Sam fell back, gasping for air.

“You couldn’t have been a fan of someone cool?” Dean muttered.

Sam glared at him. “Really? Gandhi?”

“Always remember,” Tom said, brushing himself off, “Gandhi was a freak to his own niece.”

Sam looked at him, still breathless. “And where were you?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Tom groaned, rubbing his arm. “I got distracted by the very techinological advancement that kept my second favorite president alive,” he grumbled. “Give me some grace.”

####################

The morning sun barely broke through the curtains of the Nite Owl Motel as Dean roughly shoved his shirts into his bag. He wasn’t in the mood to fold. He just wanted to get out of town.

“Ready to blow this joint?” Dean muttered as Sam emerged from the bathroom, zipping up his toiletries bag.

“Yeah,” Sam said, then hesitated. “But... didn’t it strike you as strange the way Gandhi just... vanished?”

Dean frowned. “Strange how?”

“Like,” Sam paused, sorting his thoughts. “No screaming, no big flame-out...that’s not the way ghosts usually go.”

Dean shrugged. “Still, I torched him, and he vanished.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmured. “But I—” He sighed. “Also... I feel like he was... trying to take a bite out of me.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “A bite?”

“Yeah,” Sam insisted. “Like he was hungry. But the thing is, Gandhi— or, the real Gandhi, he was a...”

“A what?” Dean pressed, growing impatient.

Sam stalled, clearly embarrassed. “He was a fruitarian.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Dean started to laugh, loud and incredulous.

“Let me get this straight,” Dean chuckled. “Your ultimate hero was not only a short man in diapers... but a fruitarian?”

From the bathroom, Tom’s voice called out. “He also had some choice words about the Holocaust!”

Sam shot a glare toward the bathroom door. “That’s not the point,” he said.

“Oh, but it’s good,” Dean grinned. “Even for you, man, that’s good .”

“Look,” Sam huffed. “I’m just saying, I’m not so sure this thing is over.”

Dean spread his arms wide. “It was a ghost. A weirdly super-charged fruitarian ghost, but still a ghost. Now let’s go.”

He grabbed his bag with finality.

“So first you drag me into town,” Sam said, frustration boiling over. “And now you’re dragging me back out.”

“You ain’t steering this boat,” Dean shot back. “Let’s go. Chop chop.”

Tom walked out of the bathroom, hair still damp from a shower. “Are you guys leaving again ? Can you start giving me some warning?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, we’ll get you an itinerary.”

Tom rolled his eyes as Dean moved toward the door.

“You know,” Sam said coldly, “this isn’t gonna work.”

Dean stopped in the doorway, turned, and narrowed his eyes. “What isn’t?”

“Us,” Sam said bluntly. “You, me... together. I thought it could, but it can’t.”

“You’re the one that wanted back in, chief.”

“And you’re the one that called me back in,” Sam shot back. “But I can’t keep doing this if you’re going to treat me like a liability.”

Dean’s eyes darkened. “I still think we’ve got some trust building to do.”

“How long am I gonna be on double-secret probation?” Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. “Till I say so.”

“Look,” Sam’s voice grew strained. “I know what I did. What I’ve done. And I’m trying, I am, but you’re not making it any easier.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Dean snapped. “Just let you off the hook?”

“No.” Sam’s voice lowered. “You can think whatever you want. I deserve it, and worse . Hell, you’ll never punish me as much as I’m punishing myself. But if we’re gonna be a team... it has to be a two-way street.”

Dean scoffed. “So we just go back to the way we were before?”

“No,” Sam said firmly. “Because we were never that way before. Before didn’t work.”

Dean frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam hesitated, then finally said it.

“Dean... one of the reasons I went off with Ruby?” He swallowed. “Was to get away from you.”

The words landed like a slap. Dean’s face went tight.

“What?” he said quietly.

“It made me feel strong,” Sam admitted. “Like I wasn’t your kid brother.”

Dean’s face hardened. “So this is my fault?”

“It’s my fault,” Sam corrected. “But if this is gonna work, it has to be different this time. We can’t just fall into the same rut.”

Dean’s gaze flickered to the floor, then back up. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“You’re gonna have to let me grow up,” Sam said softly. “For starters.”

Before Dean could reply, his phone rang. He answered it, holding Sam’s gaze the whole time.

“Yeah?” Dean’s face changed slightly, like something clicked into place. “Yeah. Okay.”

He hung up, grabbed his bag, and glanced at Sam. “Guess you were right about this not being over.”

With that, Dean walked out. Sam stood still for a moment, tension clinging to the air.

Tom’s voice broke the silence.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

Sam snorted bitterly. “What do you mean?”

Tom crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Between you and Dean.”

Sam shook his head. “You’re telling me Dean never told you?”

Tom shrugged. “I’m telling you I never asked. Figured you’d want to tell me yourself.”

“It’s complicated,” Sam muttered.

“Uncomplicate it,” Tom urged, his voice calm.

Sam leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping anxiously against the tabletop. His jaw worked, like he was debating whether to speak or swallow it down. Finally, he exhaled.

“I... I drank demon blood,” Sam confessed quietly.

Tom’s fingers stilled. Slowly, he sat on the bed, face unreadable.

“Yeah?” Tom said softly.

Sam blinked. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“Just keep talking,” Tom encouraged.

Sam shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to get that far. At first, it was just... a way to get stronger. I thought... I thought I could stop Lilith. Thought I could end it.”

His voice wavered.

“Turns out I was just being played,” Sam admitted. “By Ruby... by myself. And now? I don’t know... maybe Dean’s right. Maybe I’m...”

His breath hitched, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped.

“I keep telling myself I was doing it for the right reasons. But the truth is... part of me just liked the power.”

Silence lingered, heavy and uncomfortable. Sam swallowed hard, still staring at the floor.

Finally, Tom spoke.

“You’re my little brother,” Tom said quietly.

Sam looked up, startled by the certainty in Tom’s voice.

“And I don’t care what you’ve done or why you did it,” Tom continued. “You have a good heart. I know you did everything with the right intentions to start.”

Tom leaned forward, voice low but firm. “And as long as I walk this earth... you’ll never walk alone.”

Sam blinked hard, like he wasn’t sure how to take that in.

“Yeah... okay,” Sam muttered.

Tom gave a faint smile, just enough to take the sting out of Sam’s doubt. He reached over and clapped Sam on the shoulder, a brief but solid reminder that he was still here.

“Let’s go melt some wax, eh?” Tom added.

Sam exhaled shakily, like a weight had been lifted. He nodded.

##################

Sam and Dean, back in their FBI suits, strode purposefully into the sheriff's station, their eyes locking onto Sheriff Carnegie, who sat at his desk looking overwhelmed. Tom followed a few steps behind, his pace slower, distracted by something only he seemed to notice.

"Sheriff Carnegie?" Sam prompted.

"Sheriff, what happened?" Dean added, stepping forward.

Carnegie looked up, his face pale and his expression tired. He stammered for a moment before finally shaking his head in disbelief.

"I...uh... I don't know," Carnegie admitted, voice flat with confusion.

Tom, watching Carnegie's hands tremble slightly against the desk, stepped in. "Why don't you come with me?" he said gently. "I’ll get you a nice cup of sludge. These two can interview the witnesses."

He indicated the interview room where two young women sat at a table, crying. Carnegie didn’t argue, following Tom out of the room. As they walked away, Tom gave Sam and Dean a pointed look that said, Handle it.

Sam and Dean entered the interview room, closing the door behind them. The two young women looked up, their eyes red and puffy from crying.

"Excuse us, girls," Dean said, flashing his badge. "Hi, we're with the FBI."

"Can you tell us what happened?" Sam asked, his voice calm and steady.

"It was horrible!" one of the girls blurted.

"Way horrible," her friend added, her voice breaking.

"What was horrible?" Sam pressed gently.

"I thought she'd be nice!" the first girl cried.

The second girl shook her head in disbelief. "I still can't believe it."

"Believe what?" Dean asked, frowning.

"She took Danielle!" the second girl exclaimed.

"Who?" Dean’s brows furrowed in confusion.

The two girls exchanged a nervous glance before the second one finally whispered, "It was... Paris Hilton."

Sam and Dean stared at them, blinking in stunned silence.

"Sorry?" Sam finally asked, unsure he'd heard correctly.

"She looked really good, though," the first girl added weakly.

"Skinny," the second one said in agreement.

"Skinny and fast," the first one confirmed with a slight nod.

"Mm," her friend echoed.

Dean shook his head. "What, wait...huh?"

Sam cleared his throat, clearly trying to wrap his head around what he'd just heard. "Uh...where did they go?"

Both girls shook their heads.

"We don't know," one said quietly.

"They just vanished," the other added, her voice hollow.

Dean straightened up. "Would you excuse us for just a minute?"

He and Sam retreated to the doorway, lowering their voices.

"Paris Hilton's not dead as far as we know, right?" Dean muttered.

"Pretty sure, no," Sam replied.

"Which means it's not a—"

"Ghost. No," Sam confirmed.

"So, what? Paris Hilton is a homicidal maniac—"

"Or we missed something," Sam suggested grimly.

"What do you wanna do?"

Before Sam could answer, Tom reappeared, fingers tapping rhythmically against his coffee cup.

"So," Tom asked, "what do we have?"

Sam exhaled. "Girls are claiming..."

"What?" Tom prompted, curious.

Dean grimaced. "Paris Hilton. They’re saying it was Paris Hilton."

Tom snorted loudly. "If it was Lindsay, I’d get it. But Paris?"

Dean and Sam turned to Tom with incredulous stares.

"What?" Tom defended, shrugging. " The Simple Life is a riot. I am sliving ."

Dean just shook his head. "You worry me, Tom. You worry me."

"Seconded," Sam muttered.

As they turned to walk away, Tom threw his hands up in exasperation and hurried after them, evidently annoyed.

"You two have no taste," Tom grumbled as he followed, still sipping his coffee.

###############

The morgue was cold, the sterile scent of antiseptic heavy in the air. Sam stood contemplatively, thumbing through Cal's file with furrowed brows. Nothing stood out, nothing that he'd missed before. With a sigh, Sam closed the file, walked over to the freezer, and pulled out Cal's body. Taking a scalpel, he made a careful incision in the chest and reached inside. His fingers pressed past cold, wet tissue, and a sickening squelch followed. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, sharp and bitter, making Sam grimace as he closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. A squelching sound followed, and Sam grimaced, eyes closing briefly to steady himself.

"That's right," he muttered under his breath, pulling his gloved hand free. Blood dripped down his fingers, coating two small, round objects cradled in his palm. He stared at them, baffled. "What the hell?"

***

Outside the coroner's office, Sam, now back in his suit, met Dean and Tom by the Impala. Dean stood with his arms crossed while Tom leaned against the car, tapping away on his phone. As Sam approached, Tom slid his phone into his pocket.

"I can't believe I missed it," Sam muttered.

Dean straightened. "Missed what?"

"Went back over the other two vics. There was major blood loss." Sam explained.

"Oh, well," Dean shrugged, "being a gory smear will do that to you."

"No," Sam corrected, "I mean more blood loss than a car crash or a head wound should cause. Almost like it—"

"Something's feeding," Dean concluded grimly.

"Yeah," Sam confirmed.

"Awesome," Dean muttered dryly.

"And then..." Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag containing the two objects he'd found in the bodies. He held them up.

Dean squinted. "What are those, seeds?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. "They were in both vics' bellies."

Dean recoiled slightly, dropping the corner of the bag. "I hope you washed your hands."

"They're not like any seed I've ever seen before," Sam added, frowning.

"Vivipary? Hypogeal? Epigeal?” Tom interjected, a thoughtful look on his face.

“In English?” Dean snorted, and even Sam gave Tom a strange look.

“You know, seed growth patterns… like if the seed sprouts above or below the soil." Tom chimed in. "What? It could be important, germination matters more than you think."

Dean blinked. "Wow, just when I thought you couldn’t get any geekier."

"I actually don't know what any of that meant," Sam admitted.

"Welcome to the club," Dean muttered, clapping Sam on the shoulder before heading for the Impala.

"Why do I even try?" Tom mumbled, tossing his hands in the air before following.

############################

Later in the motel room, Sam sat at the table with his laptop, the seeds now out of the bag and on the table beside him. Dean lay stretched out on the bed, lazily scrolling through the channels. Tom sat on the opposite bed, tossing a baseball into the air and catching it. The dull thud punctuated the room's silence.

"Yahtzee," Sam said suddenly, grinning.

Dean glanced up. "What?"

Tom stopped tossing the baseball and leaned in.

"The seeds aren’t from around here," Sam explained. "In fact, they’re not from any tree or plant in the country."

Dean frowned. "Where are they from?"

"Eastern Europe," Sam said. "From a forest in the Balkans, which isn’t even there anymore. It was chopped down like, thirty years ago."

"So?" Dean asked.

"So," Sam continued, "local legend has it the forest was guarded by a pagan god named Leshi. A mischievous god that could take on infinite forms."

"And let me guess," Dean interrupted. "He liked to munch on his fans."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah. Could be appeased only with the blood of his worshippers. It would drain 'em, then stuff their stomachs with seeds."

"Vashta Nerada in real life," Tom muttered. "Cool. That’s the one Doctor Who villain I never wanted to deal with."

Dean and Sam exchanged baffled looks.

"Irish wife," Tom explained, shrugging.

"Well, that explains exactly nothing," Dean shot back.

"It doe— you know what? Not worth it," Tom huffed, "Moving on. So, Leshi likes to eat his followers? I'm guessing some followers weren't fans of that. They leave us any clues that might help sprout a plan on how to cut it down to size ?" Tom couldn't stop the smirk on his lips from spreading if he tried.

"Yep," Sam confirmed, firmly ignoring all the masterful puns his brother had blessed him with. "Could be killed with an iron axe."

"Good thing we got a couple. That's what I call a timber -iffic time, we'll have to make a log about this one." Tom continued, and both brothers shot him withering looks.

"Still got quite a few months left before you can start using Dad jokes like that, Tom." Sam grunted, and Tom put a hand over his mouth in mock shock.

Dean grinned, standing and clapping his hands together. "All right. Let's go gank ourselves a Paris Hilton."

"Why did it have to be her?" Tom groaned.

"Shut up, Tom," Dean quipped.

####################

The wax museum's lighting cast eerie shadows across the displays. Dean carried an axe, Sam a flashlight, and Tom followed at the rear, their eyes constantly scanning the darkness. They passed a hatless Abraham Lincoln figure before splitting up.

Sam found a locked door marked CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS and whistled for the others. Dean and Tom joined him as Sam broke the latch and pushed through the plastic sheet. Inside, the room resembled a forest clearing, complete with trees and a white house set at the back. A young woman, Danielle, stood tied to one of the trees.

"Hey," Sam called softly.

Tom rushed over, checking her pulse. "She’s alive," he confirmed, "but barely. We need to get her—"

An axe flew from Dean’s hand, embedding itself in a tree. Paris Hilton, or rather, the Leshi ,  stood grinning before she knocked Dean to the floor. Sam lunged at her but was thrown hard against the wall. Tom tried to attack, but she caught his arm, stole his knife, and stabbed him in the ribs. Tom groaned as he fell, clutching his side. 

"Awesome," the Leshi jeered, before stomping on Dean’s face with her stilettos.

###############################

The Leshi sat on a tree stump near the house, her crossed legs resting next to a second stump she had repurposed as a table. Knives of various sizes lay scattered across its surface. She picked one up and began filing her nails with slow, deliberate strokes, each scrape of the blade sparking faintly in the dim light.

Dean and Sam, tied tightly to trees side by side, stirred awake. Groggy at first, they both jerked at their bindings, quickly realising their predicament.

"Oh," the Leshi drawled. "I'm so glad you're awake for this. This is gonna be huge."

Dean shot Sam a sideways glance.

"Super," Dean muttered. "Yeah, I wouldn't wanna miss it."

"Where’s Tom?" Sam whispered under his breath, testing his ropes discreetly.

The Leshi chuckled, ignoring Sam’s question. "I mean, I've been stuffing myself with fast food lately. So it's nice to do the ritual right. Prepare a nice, slow meal for a change."

"Just like the good old days, huh?" Sam muttered dryly.

"You have no idea," the Leshi said with a fond smile. "People adored me. They used to throw themselves at me, with smiles on their faces."

"Yeah," Dean cut in. "I guess these days nobody gives a flying crap about some backwoods forest god, huh?"

The Leshi's face darkened as she fixed him with a glare. "No," she said tightly. "Not since they cut down my forest and built a Yugo plant."

"March of progress, sister," Dean quipped.

The Leshi resumed filing her nails. "For years now, I've been wandering. Hungry. Scared. Scrounging for scraps. So not sexy."

Dean made a face of disgust.

"But then," the Leshi continued with a smile, "the best thing ever happened."

She placed the knife down and leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Someone tripped the apocalypse. And I thought, what the hell, I'm tired of watching what I eat. I wanna pig out. So I found this little place. It's awesome. Adoring fans stroll right in the door."

"Yeah," Sam said flatly. "But they're not your fans."

"So?" she shot back with a smirk. "They worship Lincoln, Gandhi, Hilton... whatever. I'll take what I can get."

"You know," Dean chimed in, "I gotta tell you, you are not the first god we've met, but you are... the nuttiest."

"No," the Leshi said, her expression sharpening. "You people, you're the crazy ones. You used to worship gods. But this?" She gestured to her Paris Hilton disguise. "This is what passes for idolatry? Celebrities? What have they got besides small dogs and spray tans?"

Sam frowned. Dean raised his eyebrows, nodding slightly in reluctant agreement.

"You people used to have old-time religion," the Leshi scoffed. "Now you have Us Weekly ."

"I don't know," Dean mused. "I'm more of a Penthouse Forum man myself."

He winked and clicked his tongue at the Leshi. She stood abruptly and stalked over to him, her face dark with irritation.

"Maybe," she said coldly, "but... there's still a lot of yummy meat on those bones, boy."

Dean grunted. "Well, I hate to break it to you, sister, but, uh... you can't eat me. See, I'm not a Paris Hilton BFF. I've never even seen House of Wax ."

Sam gave Dean a look: one part disbelief, one part annoyance.

"No," the Leshi said smugly, "but I can totally read your mind, Dean. I know who your hero is. Your daddy. Am I right?"

Dean said nothing, jaw tightening. The Leshi smiled and turned her back, sauntering over to the tree with the axe embedded in its bark.

"And this belonged to him," she mused, her fingers brushing the handle. "Didn’t it? Poor little Dean. All you ever wanted was to be loved by your idol. And so jealous of your big brother. Well, I already took care of him. Now onto you two. One distant father figure, coming right up."

She reached for the axe just as Dean finally tore his wrist free from his ropes. In a sudden burst of movement, he sprinted across the clearing and tackled the Leshi to the ground. Sam strained at his bindings, pulling desperately at the rope cutting into his wrists.

The Leshi snarled, shoving Dean off and landing two vicious punches to his face. Dean grunted in pain as she pinned him down.

Suddenly, Tom burst into the clearing. His side was bleeding, but he ignored it as he dashed forward. Dean managed to land a punch of his own and roll away just as Tom reached the tree. He grabbed the axe and wrenched it free from the bark, tossing it across the clearing to Sam, who had finally torn free of his bonds.

Dean barely rolled out of the way as Sam brought the axe down hard, once, twice, five times,  until the Leshi’s head rolled free of her body. Sam staggered back, chest heaving, blood spattered across his face.

Dean groaned from the ground, looking up at Sam. "Not a word," he warned.

Sam grinned. "Dude. You just got whaled on by Paris Hilton."

"Shut up," Dean muttered, flopping back to the ground and clutching his head.

Tom stood nearby, breathing heavily and gripping his bleeding side. "That is so not hot," he muttered through a grimace.

"Tom!" Sam rushed to his brother's side as Tom’s legs buckled and he slid to his knees.

"I... I’m fine," Tom gasped. "She didn’t get an—" he winced and pressed his hand against the wound "—anything vital."

Dean groaned again from the ground. "Welcome back to the hunting life, Tom. Whiskey stitches coming right up."

Tom let out a sarcastic cheer, weakly raising one hand in mock celebration.

############################

The morning sun beat down on the parking lot of The Nite Owl Motel as Dean, Tom, and Sam walked toward the Impala, bags slung over their shoulders. Dean’s phone was pressed to his ear, the muffled voice of Sheriff Carnegie barely audible.

"Uh-huh," Dean said. "All right. Thank you."

He hung up and turned to his brothers. "Sheriff Carnegie," he relayed. "Danielle's gonna be all right. Sworn off The Simple Life , but other than that..."

"Glad she's okay," Sam said with a relieved nod.

"It gets better," Dean added, grinning. "Sheriff's putting out an APB on Paris Hilton."

He chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "That oughta be good."

"Poor Paris," Tom muttered with a wince, clutching his side. "Always getting the short straw."

Dean’s smile faded, and he gestured toward Tom’s side. "You good, Tom?"

Tom snorted, wincing again as he adjusted his posture. "All good, Florence Nightingale. Remind me to do my own stitches next time."

With a grin that barely concealed his discomfort, Tom tossed his bag at Dean before carefully sliding into the back seat of the Impala.

Dean popped the trunk, tossing in their bags. Sam followed suit, then Dean shut the trunk with a thud.

"Hey, listen," Dean started, voice softer now. "I was thinking about what you said yesterday. About me keeping too tight of a leash on you."

Sam turned toward him, curious.

"Hell, maybe you're right," Dean admitted. "I mean, look, I'm not exactly Mister Innocent in this whole mess either, you know? I did break the first seal."

"You didn't know," Sam said quietly.

"Yeah, well, neither did you," Dean pointed out. Sam dropped his gaze, uneasy.

"I'm not saying demon blood was a great way to go," Dean continued, "but you did kill Lilith."

"And start the apocalypse," Sam said, regret dripping from his voice.

"Which neither of us saw coming," Dean reminded him. "I mean, who’d have thought killing Lilith would've been a bad thing?"

He paused, hands resting on the trunk.

"Point is," Dean said finally, "I was so worried about watching your every move that I didn’t see what it was actually doing to you."

Dean paused again, his voice lowering. "So, for that... I'm sorry."

Sam looked up at him, eyes softer. "Thanks."

Dean offered a brief smile before turning and taking out his keys. "So... where do we go from here?"

Sam sighed. "The way I see it, we got one shot at surviving this."

"What's that?" Dean asked.

"Maybe I am on deck for the devil," Sam said. "Maybe same with you and Michael. Maybe there's no changing that."

"Well that's encouraging," Dean muttered.

"But," Sam continued, "we can stop wringing our hands over it. We gotta just grab onto whatever's in front of us, kick its ass, and go down fighting."

Dean considered this, then gave a small, tired nod. "I can get on board with that."

"Okay," Sam agreed. "But we're gonna have to do it on the same level."

Dean grinned slightly, "You got it."

"I say we get the hell outta here," Dean added.

"Hell yeah," Sam replied with a grin.

They turned to head for their respective sides of the car, but Dean stopped, keys still in hand.

"Hey," Dean called out. Sam turned back, eyebrows raised. Dean hesitated, then held out the keys.

"You wanna drive?"

Sam blinked in surprise. Tom, still stretched out in the backseat, couldn’t hide his smirk as he adjusted his position and gave a hushed, "Hell yeah."

"You sure?" Sam asked, glancing from the keys to Dean’s face.

"Yeah," Dean replied with a shrug. "I could, uh... use a nap."

Sam’s lips twitched into a small smile as he took the keys. Jeff Beck's Superstition began to play from the car’s speakers as Sam slid into the driver’s seat, Dean settled in beside him, and Tom, still nursing his sore side, sprawled out in the back with an exaggerated sigh.

"Don’t crash my car," Dean muttered as Sam started the engine.

"No promises," Sam shot back with a grin.

Tom chuckled from the back, wincing as he shifted. "I’m never letting you guys forget this one."

Chapter Text

The morgue smelled and looked like every other, the metallic chill in the air pressing against their suits. Dean, Tom, and Sam strode in, flashing their FBI badges with well-rehearsed ease.

"Agents Page and Plant, FBI," Dean introduced confidently.

"Supervisory Special Agent Bishop," Tom added, flashing his badge with an air of authority.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and an annoyed expression, raised an eyebrow. "Gentlemen. What brings you by?"

"We need to see Amber Freer's body," Sam said.

"Really? What for?"

Dean stepped forward, lowering his voice slightly. "The police report said something clawed through her skull?"

"You didn’t read the autopsy report I emailed out this morning?" the doctor asked, tone sceptical.

Sam faltered. "W-we had, uh, server issues."

"Yeah," Tom added smoothly, flashing a disarming smile. "You’ll have to forgive my associates here. We got the files just before leaving. That one’s got dyslexia ,  translating gets tiring sometimes."

Sam shot Tom a glare, clearly affronted. Tom grinned back innocently, and Dean shrugged. "Yeah, what he said."

The doctor shook his head and walked away. Dean and Sam followed, Sam muttering something unintelligible as he smacked Tom on the arm. Tom let out a muffled laugh, biting his knuckle to keep from grinning too wide.

The doctor reached one of the freezer compartments, unlocking it and pulling out a slab. He threw back the sheet to reveal Amber’s body; she was pale, cold, and disturbingly marred.

"When they brought her in," the doctor began, "we thought she was attacked by a wolf or something."

"Or something," Dean muttered grimly.

"But we were wrong." The doctor grabbed a plastic evidence bag from the nearby tray and held it up. Inside was a long, fake fingernail, smeared dark red with blood.

"Is that a—?" Sam started, staring at the bag in disbelief.

"It’s a press-on nail," the doctor confirmed. "We found it in her temporal lobe."

"Is that even possible?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"Wait," Dean cut in. "Are you saying she... she did this to herself?"

"Uh-huh," the doctor said matter-of-factly. "She scratched her brains out. It’d take hours, and it’d hurt like hell, but sure, it’s possible."

"How?" Dean asked, frowning deeply.

"Pick your acronym ,  OCD, PCP." The doctor shrugged. "It all spells crazy."

"Could be a nasty case of dermatillomania," Tom offered quietly.

Dean and Sam both stared at him.

Tom sighed, exasperated. "Skin-picking disorder. Also presents with scratching. I’m begging you two to pick up a book."

Sam, still frowning, leaned forward and pulled the sheet back a little further. Amber’s right hand was visible, four press-on nails still attached, but her middle finger was bare.

"My guess?" the doctor said, nodding toward her hand. "Some kind of phantom itch. I mean, an extreme case, but..."

"Phantom itch?" Sam repeated, curiosity piqued.

"Yup," the doctor confirmed. "Like Agent Bishop there said."

The doctor covered Amber’s head again, sliding the slab back into the freezer before shutting the door with a heavy thud.

"All it takes is someone talking about an itch ,  or thinking about one, even ,  and suddenly you can’t stop scratching."

"Thanks, Doc," Sam muttered.

As they turned to leave, Sam scratched under his collar, while Dean ran a hand over his ear. Tom rolled his eyes, smirking as he walked past them.

"Great," Tom said with a dry grin. "Now I'm itchy too."

#######################

The living room felt warm and lived-in, the faint scent of old furniture lingering in the air. Sam sat comfortably in an armchair, notebook in hand, poised to take notes. Across from him, Jimmy's father and Francine sat quietly on the sofa, their nervous glances betraying their discomfort. Dean paced behind them, restless as always, while Tom stood nearby, flipping open his own notebook. He caught Francine's eye and offered a warm smile, trying to ease the tension.

"Okay," Sam began. "Now, some of these questions might seem a bit odd, but please just bear with me."

The couple nodded reluctantly.

"Have you noticed any cold spots in the house?"

"Uh...no," Jimmy's father replied, his voice uncertain.

"Okay," Sam continued, scribbling a note. "Uh, what about strange smells?"

Dean, still restless, glanced around the corner toward the hallway. Jimmy stood there, barely visible in the shadows.

"Whatcha looking at?" Tom asked, joining Dean and following his gaze.

"Don't know yet," Dean muttered, eyes narrowing.

He walked over to the boy, and Tom followed closely behind.

"It's, uh, Jimmy, right?" Dean asked.

Jimmy nodded silently. Tom knelt beside him, lowering himself to eye level and giving the boy a warm smile.

"Nice to meet you, Jimmy," Tom said gently. "My name's Agent Bishop, and this is my associate, Agent Page. Is it okay if we ask you a few questions?"

Jimmy nodded again, clutching his shirt sleeve nervously.

"So, Amber was your babysitter?" Dean asked.

"Yes, sir," Jimmy answered softly.

"Yeah," Dean said, flashing a grin. "Most of my babysitters sucked."

Jimmy offered a small, uncertain smile.

"Especially Ms. Chancey," Dean added with a smirk. "She only cared about two things, Dynasty and bedtime."

Dean chuckled. Tom gave him a sideways look, brow furrowing in confusion as he tried to remember.

"Blonde," Dean whispered, "big tits, lots of hairspray."

Tom’s face lit up with recognition. "Oh," he said, nodding as if that explained everything.

Dean grinned at his brother's reaction before turning back to Jimmy. "Did you, uh, see anything strange that night?"

"No, sir," Jimmy replied quickly. Too quickly.

"You sure about that?" Dean pressed.

Jimmy shifted uneasily. "I—I would tell you if I knew something."

Dean studied the boy’s face, sensing hesitation. Tom leaned in slightly, his tone calm and encouraging.

"You don’t need to worry, okay? Just tell us the truth."

"I am," Jimmy insisted.

Dean knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. His voice softened, but the weight in it was unmistakable. "We gonna start talking truth, or are you and me gonna have to take a little trip downtown?"

Outside the house, Dean, Sam, and Tom walked back toward the Impala. Dean held up a packet of itching powder between two fingers like it was evidence in court. Tom was scrolling through his phone, loosening his tie.

"Kid said he put this on the babysitter's hairbrush," Dean said with a satisfied shrug.

"Dean," Sam countered, "there’s no way itching powder made that girl scratch her brains out. It’s just ground-up maple seeds."

"If you have any other theories," Dean shot back, "I'm open to 'em."

"I’m still thinking dermatillomania," Tom muttered without looking up from his phone.

Dean groaned. "And I’m still asking you to stop talking."

"...You are so rude," Tom grumbled, pocketing his phone. "I raised you better than this."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, sure you did."

A cell phone rang, cutting through their banter. Sam answered it, stepping aside. Dean opened the Impala’s driver's side door, but Tom slid in before him, shooting his brother a glare as he clambered into the passenger seat.

"Yeah?" Sam said, phone to his ear. "...Yeah, we'll be right there."

Sam hung up and rounded the back of the car. Dean, still muttering under his breath, dropped into the driver’s seat, shaking his head as Tom crossed his arms over his chest.

########################

The sterile scent of disinfectant lingered in the air as a nurse zipped up a body bag. Without a word, he and another nurse rolled the covered corpse out of the room while a doctor watched from the corridor. Sam and Dean walked toward the doctor, Tom lagging just a step behind, his eyes glued to his phone.

“Tom,” Dean muttered, voice low and sharp, “quit texting your wife and get your head in the game.”

“I will,” Tom replied absently, not looking up. “But... look at this ultrasound.” He turned the screen toward Dean. “Have you ever seen anything so perfect before in your life?”

Dean’s face twisted in exasperation. “Dude…”

“I think it’s sweet,” Sam said, shooting Tom a gentle grin.

Tom grinned back. “See? This is why Sam’s the favourite.”

“I will pay you actual money to shut your mouth,” Dean shot back, voice dry as sandpaper. Tom slammed a fist into his arm, and Dean buckled from it, shooting Tom a betrayed look as he rubbed his soon-to-be bruise. 

Tom smirked. “How do you always forget how hard I can hit?”

“Both of you, hush,” Sam cut in, silencing them before it spiralled further.

Together, the three moved up beside the doctor.

“What happened?” Sam asked, his tone turning serious.

“Guy got electrocuted,” the doctor explained.

“Any idea how?” Dean asked.

“Eh, maybe a loose wire or a piece of equipment shorted out,” the doctor replied with a shrug. “So far, we haven’t found anything.”

“Was he anywhere near any wiring?” Tom pressed, voice sharp.

“Not that we know of, as of yet,” the doctor said.

“Witnesses?” Sam asked.

The doctor motioned toward an elderly man seated in the room’s corner, gazing out the window. “Yeah, guy in there— Mr. Stanley. Says he saw it, but... he’s not making a lick of sense. Senile.”

“Thanks,” Sam said.

The doctor left, and the three brothers stepped into the room. Tom tucked his phone into his pocket, ultrasound photo lingering in his mind.

“Um, Mr. Stanley?” Sam asked gently.

The old man didn’t turn at first. “It was just a joke,” Stanley said quietly, more to himself than to them. “I didn’t know it would really work.”

Dean exchanged a look with Sam. “What would work?” Dean asked.

Stanley turned, finally facing them, and extended his hand, a joy buzzer clutched tightly in his palm.

“All I did was shake his hand,” Stanley said.

The brothers stared at the cheap, plastic toy. The faintest scent of scorched metal lingered on it.

“Well,” Tom muttered grimly, “this day just got a whole lot more complicated.”

###############################

The cheap motel room smelled faintly of mildew, and the lighting cast a sickly yellow glow. Dean adjusted his goggles, tugging on a pair of heavy gloves as Sam stood across from him, his own goggles perched over his eyes. Tom, arms crossed tightly, stood back, watching the whole thing with barely contained frustration.

“For the record,” Tom said flatly, “I do not approve of this.”

“For the record,” Dean said, “I do not care.”

Sam smirked slightly. “Hit it, Mr. Wizard.”

Dean raised the joy buzzer, hovering it over a large, uncooked ham that sat in a pair of aluminium-foil pans. He hesitated for a second, then pressed the buzzer against the meat.

Electricity crackled, sparks flickering across the surface. Steam hissed and rose from the ham as the pink flesh blackened and blistered before their eyes. When Dean finally pulled the joy buzzer away, the ham sizzled; it was now dark, crispy, and undeniably cooked.

“That’ll do, pig,” Dean muttered, pulling off his goggles with an impressed grin.

“What the hell?” Sam breathed, eyes wide.

Dean stared at the ruined ham like he’d just discovered fire. “This thing doesn’t even have batteries.”

“That’s no faulty wiring,” Tom added grimly.

Dean peeled off his gloves and cut a piece off the charred ham. “So... cursed objects?” he suggested.

“Sounds good,” Sam agreed.

“Maybe there’s a powerful witch in town,” Dean mused as he sliced off another piece of ham. Without hesitation, he popped it in his mouth.

Tom’s face twisted in disgust. “Is there any food you won’t eat?”

“Ham’s ham,” Dean mumbled through a mouthful.

“Is there any link between the joy buzzer and the itching powder?” Tom asked.

Sam flipped through his notes. “Uh... one was made in China, the other in Mexico, but they were both bought from the same store.”

Dean chewed thoughtfully, sliced off another piece, and held it up. Sam shook his head, unimpressed. Dean shrugged and popped it in his mouth anyway.

Tom stared at him, appalled. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to make ham disgusting to me, but by God you’ve managed it.”

#######################################

The small brass bell above the door jingled as Tom, Dean, and Sam entered The Conjurarium . The stale scent of old cardboard and cheap rubber hit Tom immediately,  the kind of store that felt like a relic from a different era. Toys, tricks, and oddities lined the shelves: fake vomit, plastic spiders, and rubber chickens all crammed into chaotic displays. The dim lighting made everything feel oddly theatrical, as if the room itself were waiting to perform a trick.

Tom instinctively scanned the room, cataloguing the exits before trailing after his brothers, old habits.

“Sam!” Dean’s voice called from one of the aisles.

Tom turned in time to see Dean triumphantly holding up a whoopee cushion, grinning like he’d found gold.

Sam sighed heavily and shook his head. “Of course you’d find that.”

“I bought you one of those once,” Tom remarked dryly. “Remember that?”

“Oh, I remember,” Sam said with a grimace. “Dean put it on my chair in front of Stacey Adams. I never lived it down.”

Dean snorted. “Eh, we were in a new city by the next month.”

“Yeah, well, that kind of trauma sticks,” Sam muttered.

Still grinning, Dean sauntered up to the checkout counter, tossing the whoopee cushion down with a slap. A display of rubber chickens wobbled precariously beside it.

From the back room, a man emerged. “Welcome to The Conjurarium ,” he greeted grandly, voice tired despite his theatrical attempt. “Sanctum of magic and mystery.”

“You the owner?” Sam asked.

“Yep,” the man said with a tired sigh.

Dean reached into his wallet. “You sell any itching powder or joy buzzers lately?”

The owner frowned. “Yeah, a grand total of one of each. They’re not exactly big-ticket items.” His voice took on a bitter edge. “Look, you boys here to buy something or what?”

Dean slapped down some cash with a smug smile. “Yeah. The whoopee cushion.”

Sam stepped forward, still focused on the bigger picture. “So, you get many customers?”

“Kids come in,” the owner said with a shrug. “They don’t buy much, but they’re more than happy to break stuff.” His face soured. “These days, all they care about are their iPhones and those kissing-vampire movies. The whole thing makes me just—"

“Angry?” Dean finished for him, eyes narrowing.

The owner hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah… yeah, I am angry.” He paused, his voice low and heavy. “This shop’s been my life for twenty years, and now it’s wasting away to nothing.”

“I don’t blame you,” Tom added quietly. “I’d be mad too... dedicating your life to something only to have some hot English vampires take it away.”

Dean shot Tom a look, half amused, half annoyed.

“You wish there was something you could do about it,” Dean pressed, eyes sharp now.

“Yeah,” the owner said, quieter this time. “I guess I do.”

Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing a rubber chicken from the display. He slapped it down on the counter beside the whoopee cushion.

“With this?” Dean said flatly, producing the joy buzzer from his pocket.

Before the owner could react, Dean pressed the joy buzzer to the rubber chicken. A crackle of unnatural electricity jumped between the two objects, and the rubber chicken sizzled and warped, its face drooping like melted wax.

The owner yelped, stumbling back from the counter. His face turned pale, and his mouth worked soundlessly like a fish gasping for air.

“Oh! No! No, no, no!” the owner babbled, staring in horror at the mangled chicken.

Tom arched an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he muttered dryly, “something tells me this guy’s not a powerful witch.”

“Sorry,” Dean said, more sarcastically than apologetic.

Tom pulled out a few bills from his wallet, tossing them onto the counter. “Many apologies,” he said with mock sincerity. Then, turning to Sam and Dean, “Walk, don’t run.”

The brothers filed out of the store, the confused and horrified owner still frozen behind the counter, staring at the smoking, melted chicken like it had personally wronged him.

#######################

The hospital buzzed with its usual chaos; nurses rushed from room to room, visitors paced anxiously in the halls, and the faint beeping of heart monitors echoed from various rooms. Tom stepped into the corridor, slipping his phone into his back pocket just in time to see Dean chatting up a nurse.

"Well, I, uh, appreciate that, Nurse..." Dean's eyes turned to her name tag. "...Fremont."

According to the tag, the nurse, Jen, politely smiled. "Please, call me Jen."

“Oh. Jen it is,” Dean said, flashing that familiar, roguish grin.

Jen smiled again and walked away. Dean stood watching her leave like a man admiring fine art.

Sam cleared his throat loudly. Dean turned to face him, clapping his hands once. “What's up with Toothless? Cavity creeps get ahold of him?”

Sam shook his head and lifted his notebook. “Yeah. Close. He wrote up a description.” He squinted at the scrawled notes. “Five foot ten, three hundred fifty pounds, wings, and a pink tutu. Said it was the tooth fairy.”

Tom snorted. “And here I was imagining Galadriel.”

“Yeah, well, obviously the guy’s whacked out on painkillers,” Dean muttered.

“Maybe,” Sam agreed. “But whatever it was? Got past locked doors and windows without triggering the alarm.”

“Come on,” Dean said skeptically. “Tooth fairy?”

“Weirder things have happened,” Tom added dryly.

“Oh, and get this,” Sam continued, “it left thirty-two quarters underneath his pillow. One for each tooth.”

Dean's eyebrows shot up. “Well, I’ll see your crazy and raise you some.” He pointed back toward the nurse’s station. “There’s a couple of kids upstairs with stomach ulcers, say they got it from mixing Pop Rocks and Coke. And another guy... his face...” Dean made a grotesque expression, pulling the sides of his mouth wide and crossing his eyes. “He held it too long... and it stuck. They're flying in a plastic surgeon.”

He wiggled his chin and poked at his cheeks to emphasise the ridiculousness. Sam stared at him, unamused. Tom just shook his head in disbelief.

“So,” Sam said slowly, “if you add all that up...”

“I got nothing,” Sam finished after a long pause.

Tom shifted his weight, bouncing slightly on his heels, thinking. “I mean... it’s all the old wives' tales and urban legends, right? Coming true?”

Dean’s face brightened. “I thought sea monkeys were real,” he muttered as they started walking down the hallway.

“They are,” Sam said flatly. “They're brine shrimp.”

Dean shook his head. “No, no, no. I mean like in the ads. You know, like the sea-monkey wife cooks the pot roast for the sea-monkey husband, and the sea-monkey kids play with the dog in a sea-monkey castle, real. I mean, I was six, but I believed it.”

Tom barked a laugh. “Jesus, you were obsessed with that commercial. Kept begging me to buy it for you.”

Dean shot Tom a wounded look. “Point is...” He stopped suddenly, planting his feet. Sam and Tom turned to face him.

“Maybe that’s the connection,” Dean said. “The tooth fairy, the Pop Rocks and Coke, the joy buzzer that shocks you, they’re all lies that kids believe.”

“And now they’re coming true,” Sam added thoughtfully. “Okay, so whatever’s doing this... is reshaping reality. It has the powers of a god. Or...” He exhaled sharply. “Or a trickster.”

Tom scoffed. “Yeah, like those actually exist.”

Sam and Dean exchanged knowing looks.

Tom’s face dropped. “No way. No way you’ve actually seen a Trickster.”

Dean snorted. “Dude killed me like a thousand times. They’re the real deal.”

Tom blinked, clearly struggling to believe him. “Okay, you owe me that story.”

“Anyway,” Sam interrupted, steering the conversation back on track. “The point is, it could be a Trickster.”

“Yeah,” Dean added with a smirk. “One with the sense of humour of a nine-year-old.”

“Or you,” Sam quipped before walking away.

Tom chuckled and shook his head, trailing after his brothers. “You know,” he muttered to Dean, “if that guy put you through the wringer like you say... I think I like him already.”

########################

The motel room felt stale, the air heavy with the lingering scent of cheap takeout and fried ham. Dean sat at the table, half a sandwich in one hand, the remains of the charred ham sitting like a crime scene on the table. Tom sat across from him, looking ill but unable to tear his eyes away.

“You gonna keep staring?” Dean muttered between mouthfuls.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Tom said flatly, shuddering as Dean took another bite.

The door creaked open, and Sam walked in, a folded map clutched in his hand. He paused, eyeing the sandwich with obvious distaste.

“Dude, seriously?” Sam asked. “Still with the ham?”

Dean mumbled around a mouthful of food, “We don’t have a fridge.”

Tom groaned softly. “I’m seriously gonna hurl.”

Sam shook his head, shutting the door behind him. He tossed the map on the table. “Well, I found something,” he said.

Dean pushed his sandwich aside and stood to get a better look. Tom shot the ham one last nauseated glance before following suit, keeping a cautious distance from the table.

Sam spread the map out, pointing to several red X’s scattered across a small area. “Tooth fairy attack was here,” Sam began, tapping a spot. “Pop Rocks and Coke incident was here… itching powder, face freeze, and joy buzzer, all within a two-mile radius.”

Dean squinted at the marked map. “So we’ve got a blast zone of weird,” he muttered, “and inside, fantasy becomes reality.”

“Looks like it,” Sam said grimly.

Dean’s finger traced the X’s before stopping at the map’s centre. “And what’s the A-bomb in the middle?”

Sam tapped the spot. “Four acres of farmland… and a house.”

Dean’s face scrunched in thought. “Our motel isn’t in that circle by any chance?”

Sam hesitated. “Yeah. Why?”

Dean sighed and slowly held up his right hand. The palm was covered in a thick patch of hair.

Sam recoiled, groaning in disgust as he turned away. “Ugh, dude—"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I think it is, is it?”

Dean smirked smugly. “I got bored. That nurse was hot.”

“Of course she was,” Sam muttered, his face still twisted in revulsion.

Tom’s expression shifted from mild horror to betrayal. “While I was in the shower? Really, man?”

“You know you can go blind from that too,” Sam added.

“I want to go blind,” Tom muttered in despair. “And deaf. And just erase the past five minutes from my memory.”

Dean snorted, already heading for the bathroom. “Give me five minutes,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll go check out that house.”

“Hey!” Sam called after him. “Do not use my razor!”

“Yup!” Dean’s voice rang out from behind the bathroom door.

Tom exhaled heavily and slumped back into his chair. “He’s going to use mine, isn’t he?”

“Yup,” Dean’s voice called again.

Tom groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I hate this family.”

###################################

Dean shifted his knife to a better position while Sam crouched to pick the lock. Before Sam could begin, the door creaked open.

A boy, maybe ten years old, stood in the doorway with suspicious eyes.

“Can I help you?” the boy asked.

Sam straightened up quickly. “Hi. Uh… what’s your name?”

“Who wants to know?” The boy’s eyes narrowed.

Sam and Dean shared a quick look before Tom took a step forward, crouching slightly to meet the boy’s eye level.

“My name’s Agent Bishop,” Tom said with a warm smile. “These are my partners, Agent Page and Plant.” He gestured back to Dean and Sam.

Dean cleared his throat and produced his badge while Sam did the same.

“FBI,” Dean added.

The boy squinted, unimpressed. “Let me see that.” He plucked Dean’s badge from his hand, giving it a thorough examination before returning it. Tom smiled as he handed his over next.

“That’s smart,” Tom said approvingly. “You should always check.”

The boy’s stare lingered for a second longer before suspicion crept back into his face. “So, what? You guys don’t knock?”

“Are your parents home?” Dean asked.

“They work,” the boy said flatly.

“Well,” Sam started, “you mind if we ask you a few questions? Maybe take a look around the house?”

“I don’t know…” The boy shifted uneasily.

Tom softened his voice. “Hey, I know it’s weird,” he said, leaning forward a little. “We promise we’re only here to check on a few things. I swear, we’re the good guys, okay?”

Dean lifted his badge again, but the boy’s unimpressed expression didn’t waver. His gaze shifted back to Tom, who extended his hand.

“Supervisory Special Agent Terry Bishop,” Tom said with a smile. “But you can just call me Terry. What should I call you?”

The boy hesitated, then shook his hand. “Jesse.”

“Nice to meet you, Jesse,” Tom said. “Is it okay if we come in?”

Jesse lingered for a beat longer, then stepped aside to let them in.

#######################

A pot of soup bubbled gently on the stove, the scent of tomatoes filling the room. Jesse hurried to turn it off as Tom, Sam, and Dean followed him inside. Dean hung back, eyes wandering to the artwork stuck to the fridge.

“What’s that?” Sam asked, nodding toward the pot.

“It’s called soup,” Jesse deadpanned, setting the pot aside.

“You heat it up, and you eat it,” Jesse added with a flat stare.

Sam chuckled awkwardly. “Right, yeah. I know. I used to make my own dinner too when I was a kid.”

“Well, I’m not a kid,” Jesse shot back, clearly tired of being underestimated.

“Right,” Sam murmured, feeling the conversation slipping. He extended a hand. “I’m Robert, by the way.”

Jesse eyed him carefully before shaking his hand. “Jesse.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said.

Tom sniffed the air and grinned. “What’s cooking? I love a good beef stew, but my potato soup is unmatched.”

“Uh… tomato,” Jesse said.

“An American classic,” Tom grinned. “You want a grilled cheese to go with that?”

“I guess,” Jesse muttered. “But I don’t know how to make one.”

Tom was already heading to the fridge. “Lucky for you, I’m a master. Why don’t you chat with my partners here? I’ll whip it up for you.”

Dean stepped closer to the fridge, holding up a crayon drawing of a man with a pink tutu and tiny wings.

“You draw this?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Jesse said. “It’s the Tooth Fairy.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you think the Tooth Fairy looks like?”

“My dad told me about him,” Jesse said, matter-of-fact.

“Huh.” Dean’s brow furrowed.

Jesse tilted his head. “What? Didn’t your dad tell you about the Tooth Fairy?”

Dean chuckled under his breath. “My dad?” His smile turned wry. “My dad told me different stories.”

Tom, flipping a grilled cheese on the stove, snorted. “He was creative, that one.”

“The Tooth Fairy isn’t a story,” Jesse said firmly.

“What do you know about itching powder?” Dean asked, voice sharp again.

“That stuff’ll make you scratch your brains out,” Jesse said.

“And Pop Rocks and Coke?” Sam added.

“You mix ‘em, and you’ll end up in the hospital,” Jesse said with certainty. “Everyone knows that.”

Dean reached into his pocket and held up the joy buzzer. “And this?” he asked.

“You shouldn’t have that,” Jesse said immediately.

“Why not?” Dean pressed.

“It can electrocute you,” Jesse said.

Dean shook his head with a grin. “Actually, it can’t. It’s just a wind-up toy. Harmless, doesn’t even have batteries.” He held it up again. “See? It just buzzes in your hand, kinda lame.”

With that, Dean pressed the joy buzzer against Sam’s chest.

The buzzing noise filled the air. Sam flinched and spun on his heel, fixing Dean with a murderous glare.

Dean smirked as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “What did you say your name was again, kid?” he asked Jesse. Tom turned from the stove, spatula still in hand.

“Grilled cheese is up!” Tom announced, setting the sandwich on a plate in front of Jesse. “And it’s golden brown perfection, if I do say so myself.” He paused, noticing Sam’s furious expression and Dean’s smug one. “…What’d I miss?”

“Don’t worry about it, Martha Stewart.” Dean replied with a laugh. 

#####################

The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the driveway as Tom, Sam, and Dean stepped out of Jesse’s house. The screen door creaked shut behind them, and Sam rounded on Dean, face pinched in irritation.

“Dude, what the hell?” Sam demanded.

Dean shrugged, casual as ever. “I had a hunch. I went with it.”

“You risked my ass on a hunch ?” Sam shot back.

“You’re fine,” Dean muttered dismissively.

Tom, trailing behind them, gave a tired sigh. “I hate to say it, but... it was a good hunch.”

Dean shot Tom a victorious grin. “See? Thank you, Tom.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief. “Great. Glad you two are bonding over how close I came to getting fried.”

“Besides,” Dean continued smugly, “now we know who’s turning this town into Willy Wonka’s worst nightmare.”

Sam stopped mid-step, turning back toward the house. “The kid,” he said grimly.

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed. “Everything Jesse believes comes true. He thinks the Tooth Fairy looks like Belushi, and boom...  Belushi in a tutu. He believes joy buzzers actually zap people, and they go from cheap toys to lightning rods.”

“He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it,” Sam added.

“I hate it when kids are involved,” Tom muttered under his breath, his eyes darkening.

Dean and Sam both turned to glance back at the house. From the upstairs window, the curtain shifted slightly. Jesse’s face appeared, peering down at them with cautious curiosity.

Tom raised a hand and gave Jesse a wide, bright smile and a friendly wave; the same warm grin he'd used to calm dozens of terrified children over the years. Jesse stared at him for a beat before disappearing behind the curtain.

“How’s he even doing it?” Dean asked, lowering his voice.

Tom shook his head. “I don’t know…” He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “But by God, I’m gonna find out.”

Dean scoffed, shaking his head with mock amusement. “See, lines like that make you sound like a character in a bad movie.”

Tom shot him a crooked smile. “You’re just upset because I didn’t make you a grilled cheese.”

“I’m just saying,” Dean muttered, “you had plenty of ingredients.”

Tom chuckled as he strode ahead, his smile lingering. Dean and Sam followed, their footsteps crunching against the gravel. The farmhouse stood quiet behind them, Jesse's face no longer visible in the window, but Tom couldn’t shake the feeling that the boy was still watching.

And somehow, he knew this was only the beginning.

#################

Dean was propped up in bed, still in his suit but with his jacket tossed aside. He flipped lazily through a book, not John's journal this time, but his focus was half-hearted at best. Across from him, Tom sat with his laptop, fingers dancing over the keyboard as he sifted through old records and news articles. His St. Christopher pendant caught the dim light as he shifted in his chair.

The door creaked open. Both Tom and Dean looked up. Sam stepped inside, still in his suit and jacket, his expression set with that tight, serious look that meant he'd found something.

“So,” Sam began, tossing his notebook on the table, “dug up what I could on Jesse Turner. It’s not much. B student, won last year’s Pinewood Derby. But get this, Jesse was adopted. His birth records are sealed.”

Dean closed his book with a snap and tossed it aside. “So you unsealed them. And?”

“No father listed,” Sam said. “But Jesse’s biological mom is named Julia Wright. She lives in Elk Creek, on the other side of the state.”

Tom groaned under his breath and rubbed his eyes. “Just for once,” he muttered, “I’d like an easy case.”

##############

The "NO TRESPASSING" sign swayed slightly in the breeze, half-hidden by overgrown weeds along the rusted fence. The house behind it didn’t look much better, the paint peeled in thin, curling flakes, and the front porch sagged with age.

Dean pushed open the gate with an ominous creak, leading the way up the narrow path. Tom and Sam followed, boots crunching over gravel. The air felt heavy, not supernatural, but heavy with something else: tension.

Dean rang the doorbell. There was a brief pause before a sharp voice barked from behind the door.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

Dean shot Sam a look. “We’re not salesmen,” he called back. “Agents Page and Plant, FBI.”

“Supervisory Special Agent Bishop,” Tom added, raising his badge for the peephole. “Also FBI.”

“Put your badge in the slot,” Julia’s voice called back. “Your partner’s, too.”

Dean huffed and shoved their badges through the small mail slot. After a pause, the sound of multiple locks clattering filled the silence. The door swung open just far enough for Julia to hand back their badges.

“What do you want?” she asked, cold and guarded.

Sam stepped forward, careful in his tone. “Um... we just had a few questions. About your son.”

“I don’t have a son,” Julia replied, voice hard.

“He was born March twenty-ninth, 1998,” Sam pressed. “In Omaha.”

Julia’s face hardened further, but her silence spoke volumes.

“You put him up for adoption?” Sam asked softly.

“What about him?” Julia muttered, her voice tight.

“We were just wondering,” Sam said carefully, “was it... was it a normal pregnancy?”

The air shifted. Julia’s expression ,  stony as it was ,  flickered. Something painful passed behind her eyes.

“Was there anything strange?” Dean added.

Without warning, Julia grabbed the door and slammed it shut.

“Mrs. Wright, wait!” Dean barked.

He surged forward and pushed the door open again, just in time to see Julia bolting toward the kitchen. Sam followed closely behind, while Tom, hands raised in surrender, called after her, “We just want to talk!”

But Julia wasn’t listening.

She grabbed a canister of table salt from the counter, tore it open, and flung it across the room in one wide arc. The grains scattered like tiny sparks, dusting Tom, Dean, and Sam.

Nothing happened.

Julia froze, staring at them with wide eyes, terrified, but confused.

“You’re... you’re not demons?” she stammered.

Dean’s face twisted. “How do you know about demons?” he demanded.

Tom ran a hand down his face, exhausted. “I really hate those little shits,” he muttered darkly.

##############################

The dining room was dimly lit, the air heavy with tension. Julia sat at the table, fingers wrapped tightly around a cup of tea. Her knuckles had gone white against the ceramic before she set the cup down on its saucer with a soft clink . Folding her arms tightly across her chest, she seemed to draw in on herself, as if she could physically shrink away from the memories clawing at her mind.

“I was possessed,” Julia said at last, her voice low and hard. “A demon took control of my body, and I... hurt people.” Her voice caught, a tremor bleeding into her words. “I killed people.”

Sam and Dean sat across from her, both tense. Tom sat further back, one elbow on the table, staring off into nothing. His fingers worried over the worn metal of his St. Christopher pendant: a restless, anxious motion. Sam glanced his way, brow furrowed, but didn’t press.

“That... that wasn’t you,” Sam said gently.

Julia shook her head bitterly. “But I was there,” she insisted. “I heard a woman beg for mercy... felt a young girl’s blood drip down my hands.”

“That wasn’t you,” Tom replied, his voice low but firm. His eyes flicked toward her, dark with anger. “All those bastards do is ruin lives. It’s all they know how to do.”

“...Right,” Sam murmured, uncertain whether Tom was still speaking to Julia or himself.

Dean shifted in his chair. “That’s how you knew about the salt,” he said.

“Yeah,” Julia admitted. “I picked up some tricks. The demon was in my head for months.”

“How many months?” Dean asked.

“Nine,” Julia said flatly.

Sam’s face twisted. “So your son…”

Julia’s gaze dropped to the table. “Yeah,” she said, voice breaking. “The whole time. The pregnancy, the birth… all of it. I was possessed.”

Tom pushed back from the table abruptly, rising to his feet. He dragged a hand down his face as though trying to wipe away whatever was boiling up inside him. Without a word, he walked away, leaving Sam and Dean to watch him go.

Julia’s gaze followed him, worried. “Is he alright?” she asked softly.

“Just give him a second,” Sam said haltingly, before refocusing on Julia. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Julia’s voice carried over the memory, shaking, hesitant. “The night the baby was born, I was alone,” she began. “And the pain was... overwhelming.”

***

In the dark, past-Julia lay sprawled on the floor, clutching her swollen belly, screaming. But the sound that escaped her wasn’t her own; it was a twisted, guttural laugh. Something dark and gleeful.

“Because the demon was happy,” Julia narrated. “It used my body to give birth to a child. And when it was over... something changed.”

Past-Julia’s eyes flickered black. The demon, smug and triumphant, stared back from her reflection in a broken mirror. Then Julia squeezed her eyes shut and forced them open again. They returned to human.

“Somehow, I took control,” Julia’s voice cracked.

Past-Julia lay panting, body wracked with exhaustion. The demon wailed inside her, hammering against her skull. She winced, pressing her fingers to her temples.

“I thought my head was gonna explode,” Julia said. “But I knew what I had to do.”

On the floor, past-Julia fumbled for a bag of road salt and tore it open with shaking hands. Without hesitation, she poured fistfuls into her own mouth.

Her body convulsed, black smoke gushing from her mouth as the demon was expelled.

***

The room felt colder now.

“When I was alone with the baby,” Julia said, voice thin as thread, “part of me… part of me wanted to kill it.”

Tom returned then, quieter now. His shoulders were stiff, but his face was calm, or at least calmer than before.

“But God help me,” Julia whispered, “I couldn’t do it. So I put him up for adoption... and I ran.”

Dean studied her for a beat. “Who was the father?” he asked.

Julia swallowed hard. “I was a virgin.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, one that said, Great, more weird crap.

“Have you seen my son?” Julia asked, her voice trembling. “Is he... is he human?”

“His name’s Jesse,” Dean said gently. “He lives in Alliance. He’s a good kid.”

Tom’s voice softened. “Smart one, too,” he added. “Loves a good grilled cheese. Pretty good at art, too.”

Julia managed a faint, watery smile. “He always was quiet,” she said softly.

Tom hesitated, then added, “I know it’s not my place… but you made a good choice.”

###############

Tom, Sam, and Dean walked back toward the Impala in silence.

“So now what?” Sam asked.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “We need help,” he muttered.

Tom was silent for a moment longer, walking with his hands in his pockets. “I hate demons,” he said quietly, voice rough.

Dean shot him a look. “What is up with you?” he asked. “I’ve never seen you react like that.”

Tom clenched his jaw. “I hate demons,” he repeated, voice tight and controlled. “Let’s go.”

Sam and Dean exchanged worried glances behind him but followed in silence.

#########################

The motel room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering overhead light. Tom, Sam, and Dean pushed inside, tired and worn. Tom dragged his fingers across his forehead, his fingers instinctively rubbing the pendant that rested against his chest. He kept his eyes low, still far away in his own head.

"If it ain't the Angel of Thursday," Tom greeted with a smirk as he looked up, stopping short. Standing stoic and still was Castiel.

The angel inclined his head. “Thomas.”

Sam took a breath and moved to the table. “I take it you got our message.”

Dean shut the door with a dull thud , glancing warily at Tom, who remained at the wall like he needed the stability. Castiel’s gaze flicked from Sam to Dean.

“It’s lucky you found the boy,” Castiel said flatly.

“Oh yeah,” Dean muttered. “Real lucky. What do we do with him?”

“Kill him,” Castiel said without hesitation.

The words hit the room like a slap. Tom’s fingers froze on his pendant. He turned toward Castiel, slow and deliberate. His shoulders tensed like someone preparing for a fight.

Sam paused, mid-motion of loosening his tie. “Cas…” he said warningly.

“This child,” Castiel explained, “is half demon and half human, far more powerful than either. Other cultures call this hybrid cambion or katako . You know him as the Antichrist.”

“He’s a child ,” Tom snapped, voice sharp and low.

Castiel barely acknowledged him. He moved to the table, sitting stiffly in a chair. A loud fart noise erupted from beneath him. The three hunters stared in surprise. Castiel shifted uncomfortably and reached under himself, retrieving a whoopee cushion. He held it up like an alien object.

“That wasn’t me,” Castiel deadpanned.

Dean failed to hold back a grin. “Who put that there?”

“Anyway,” Sam cut in. “I don’t get it. Jesse’s the devil’s son?”

Castiel sighed, the tension falling back into place. “No, of course not. Your Bible gets more wrong than it does right. The Antichrist isn’t Lucifer’s child. It’s just demon spawn. But it is one of the devil’s greatest weapons in the war against Heaven.”

Dean’s face hardened. “Well, if Jesse’s a demonic howitzer, then what the hell’s he doing in Nebraska?”

“The demons lost him,” Castiel said. “They can’t find him. But they’re looking.”

“And they lost him because?” Dean pressed.

“Because of the child’s power,” Castiel replied. “It hides him from both angels and demons… for now.”

“Well, that’s great,” Dean scoffed. “Problem solved.”

“We are not killing a child,” Tom cut in, his voice hard as steel.

No one acknowledged him.

“With Lucifer risen,” Castiel continued, “this child grows stronger. Soon, he will do more than make a few toys come to life ,  something that will draw the demons to him. Lucifer will twist this boy to his purpose. And then, with a word, this child will destroy the Host of Heaven.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Dean’s face twisted. “Wait. You’re saying that Jesse’s gonna nuke the angels?”

“We cannot allow that to happen,” Castiel said firmly.

“We’re the good guys ,” Sam argued, stepping forward. “We— we don’t just kill children .”

“A year ago,” Castiel said coldly, “you would have done whatever it took to win this war.”

“Things change,” Sam snapped.

“WE ARE NOT KILLING A CHILD!” Tom roared, voice breaking from a place raw and ragged inside him. Sam and Dean turned in surprise.

Tom surged forward, fists clenched. “How dare you even ask that of us?” His voice rose, bitter and furious. “A child has no choice in their parentage. A child has—”

“Whoa there, buddy,” Dean muttered, stepping between Tom and Castiel. He pressed a hand to Tom’s chest to hold him back, half comfort, half restraint.

Dean’s voice softened. “Okay. Hey, look, we are not going to kill him, alright? But we can’t leave Jesse here either. We know that. So... we take him to Bobby’s. He’ll know what to do.”

“You’ll kidnap him?” Castiel asked. “This town is what happens when this thing is happy. You cannot imagine what it will do if it’s angry. Besides… how will you hold him? With a thought, he could be halfway around the world.”

“Better than murdering a ten-year-old,” Tom spat.

“So we—” Dean began.

“So we tell him the truth,” Sam interrupted. “You say Jesse’s destined to go dark side ,  fine. But he hasn’t yet. So if we lay it all out for him ,  what he is, the apocalypse, everything ,  he might make the right choice.”

A long pause hung between them.

“You didn’t,” Castiel said darkly. “And I can’t take that chance.”

And with that, he was gone. The sudden absence hit the room hard.

“Damn it,” Sam muttered.

“What just happened?” Tom’s voice was sharp and strained. “He’s not going to hurt Jesse, is he?” His voice grew louder. “ANSWER ME!”

“Slow your roll, Rambo,” Dean said, hands raised. “He won’t hurt him.”

“We won’t let him,” Sam added.

Tom’s breathing hitched. “Damn it!” he cursed, and with a sudden burst of anger, he kicked a chair hard enough to send it skidding across the floor.

“...Tom,” Sam said softly.

“I can’t…” Tom’s voice faltered. “I can’t believe he would even suggest such a thing.”

“Tom,” Dean said carefully. “Just… take a breather.”

“Take a breather?” Tom scoffed, voice rising again. “TAKE A BR—” He cut himself off, breathing hard. He tried again, quieter this time. “I can’t…”

“Tom,” Sam said gently, “what’s going on? This isn’t just about Jesse.”

Dean crossed his arms, face tight with concern. “Talk to us.”

Tom exhaled shakily, then sank into the chair he’d kicked earlier. “During my...” His voice faltered. “During my last tour, I had to make an impossible choice.”

Sam and Dean were silent.

“There was a boy,” Tom said. “Barely eight. He was running toward camp... carrying a bomb. I was on watch. I saw him coming. I…” His voice broke. “It was him or us.”

“Oh God,” Dean breathed, eyeing him with muted understanding.

Tom shook his head tightly. “I promised that kid— not that it mattered. He was dead. But I promised him no other child would be hurt if I could help it. That I’d do anything to protect them.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Sam asked quietly.

Tom let out a bitter laugh. “When was I supposed to bring it up, Sam? Over brunch? ‘Oh hey, pass the syrup, also I killed a kid once’?”

“Alright,” Dean said, voice low. “We get it. Don’t take it out on us.”

“I’m not trying to,” Tom sighed. He scrubbed a hand down his face. “It’s just… there’s a lot I can’t talk about when it comes to my time… overseas. Stuff I never want to revisit. I’m not the same person who left you guys. I’ve done unforgivable things... seen unseeable things. I did it all to protect this country, but somedays... somedays I don’t know where the job starts and the man ends.”

He swallowed hard.

“If I can protect Jesse… I don’t know. Maybe I’ll feel like I’m doing something right.”

“For what it’s worth,” Sam said quietly. “I’m sorry, Tom.”

Tom chuckled bitterly. “Yeah? Me too.”

Silence held them for a moment.

Finally, Tom pushed back his chair and stood. “Enough reminiscing,” he said, rolling his shoulders back. “Let’s go get Jesse.”

###########

The glass hit the floor with a sharp crash , shattering into jagged shards. Jesse stumbled back, eyes wide with fear as Castiel loomed toward him, Ruby’s knife clutched tightly in the angel’s hand.

“Don’t be afraid,” Castiel said quietly. “I won’t hurt you.”

The words rang hollow in the room's stillness. Jesse kept retreating, his breath sharp and panicked.

“Mom! Dad!” Jesse cried out, voice trembling.

“Your mother and father are sleeping,” Castiel said, stepping closer. “I assure you, they won’t wake until morning.”

Jesse’s breathing grew faster, his gaze flicking toward the door. His small hands clenched at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel murmured. He raised the knife.

The front door burst open with a sudden, splintering crash. Dean and Sam charged inside, weapons drawn. Jesse’s head snapped toward them.

Tom rushed forward without hesitation, skidding to his knees beside Jesse and grasping his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked, voice low but urgent. “Did anyone hurt you?”

Jesse shook his head mutely, eyes flickering between Tom and the chaos unfolding before him.

“Was there a guy here?” Dean demanded. “In a trench coat?”

Jesse swallowed and shakily raised a finger, pointing at the floor. The three hunters followed his gaze. There, lying limply on the carpet, was a small action figure dressed in a rumpled suit and trench coat. In its tiny hand was a silver knife.

Dean bent down, grimacing as he picked up the miniature Castiel. “Oh, man…” he muttered, turning the figure over in disbelief.

Tom stared for a beat before his face cracked into a wicked grin. He clapped Jesse on the back with an approving chuckle. “Right on, Jesse,” Tom said proudly.

####################

The living room felt almost too normal: the worn carpet, the muted TV flickering quietly in the background, and the faint scent of tomato soup lingering in the air. Jesse sat on the couch, small and uncertain, while Sam perched on the arm of a nearby chair. Dean stood by the mantel, carefully placing the small Castiel action figure.

“Was he your friend?” Jesse asked, his voice tentative.

Dean glanced back at the tiny plastic Castiel, a stiff-faced, trench-coated miniature that still somehow managed to look grim. “Him?” Dean scoffed. “No.”

Tom snorted from his place by the window, arms crossed. “ Definitely not.”

Jesse shifted uneasily on the couch, casting a nervous glance at the figurine. “I… I did that,” he said, voice small. “But how did I do that?”

Dean turned back to Jesse, forcing a grin. “Because you’re a superhero.”

Jesse’s eyes widened. “I am?”

“Yeah.” Dean leaned closer, like he was sharing a secret. “Yeah. I mean, who else could turn someone into a toy? You're Superman, minus the cape and the go-go boots.” He knelt in front of Jesse, voice low and conspiratorial. “See, my partners and I? We work for a secret government agency. It's our job to find kids with special powers.”

Jesse’s expression flickered from fear to curiosity. “Really?”

Dean grinned and stepped closer. “Yeah, man! In fact, the guy we're taking you to, he's even in a wheelchair. You'll be a hero. You'll save lives. You’ll get the girl.” He waggled his eyebrows at Jesse, earning a faint smile. “Sounds pretty good, right?”

Jesse nodded slowly, still unsure.

“Hey,” Tom added with a grin. “Who’s your favorite X-Men?”

“Wolverine,” Jesse answered immediately, his smile growing stronger.

Tom grinned back. “ Mine too! See? I knew we’d be friends.”

Dean chuckled softly, a rare sound of relief after a long and exhausting day. For a moment, the tension in the room eased. Jesse looked… safe. Comfortable. Almost like a normal kid again.

And then it all shattered.

Without warning, Dean’s body rocketed backwards, slamming hard into the wall with a sickening thud . He gasped, his head snapping back against the plaster.

“Dean!” Sam shot to his feet.

Tom’s head whipped around just in time to see the figure in the doorway: Julia, her face twisted and dark, her eyes glinting cold and black.

The room seemed to twist in on itself as chaos erupted. Dean’s body slammed into the wall with bone-jarring force, a pained grunt ripped from him as he crumpled to the floor. Julia,  no, not Julia the demon, strolled inside with a sickening smile, her black eyes gleaming like oil on water.

“They’re lying to you,” the demon crooned.

Sam lunged to his feet, but the demon flicked her wrist lazily and sent him crashing into the wall beside Dean. Both brothers groaned in pain.

Jesse bolted upright, his small frame trembling with confusion and fear. Tom reacted instantly, stepping in front of the boy with protective urgency. His hand shot back, pushing Jesse behind him like a shield of muscle and rage.

“Stay behind me,” Tom warned, low and firm.

The demon’s gaze shifted, predatory and cold. “Stay right there, dreamboat,” she purred at Sam. “Can’t hurt you. Orders.” Her grin widened as her gaze flicked to Dean. “You, on the other hand? Hurting you’s encouraged.”

Another flick of her wrist, and Dean’s body slammed against the far wall, then back again, his head snapping against the plaster.

“ No! ” Tom barked. “Dean!”

“Leave him alone!” Jesse shouted, voice small but desperate.

The demon turned, her expression suddenly sweet and motherly. She leaned toward Jesse, her voice syrupy soft. “Jesse, you’re beautiful. You have your father’s eyes.”

Tom shoved Jesse farther behind him, stepping up to block her path. His hand went instinctively to the knife on his belt.

“Jesse,” Tom warned, voice sharp and urgent, “don’t talk to it. Don’t listen to it.”

The demon’s smile curdled into a sneer. “Oh?” She flicked her wrist again, and Tom’s body was ripped sideways, slamming into the wall before hitting the floor hard enough to leave him gasping. Pain exploded across his ribs, and he coughed wetly, the taste of copper filling his mouth.

“Gosh, so rude,” the demon drawled. “Not very Christian of you, Thomas.” Her smile turned cruel. “Not all of us are like the ones who killed your mother.” She giggled, a chilling, childlike sound. “Some of us are worse .”

“You...” Tom struggled to push himself up, his hand smearing red across the floor. “You don’t get to—”

Another flick of the demon’s wrist, and Tom’s breath cut off. His chest seized like a fist had reached inside him and started squeezing. His back arched as he coughed again, this time darker, thicker. Blood speckled the floor beneath him.

“You don’t have any right,” Tom choked out, each word strained and rattling.

The demon smirked, not even bothering to look at him. “No one cares, Thomas. Your mommy issues can wait for later.” She clenched her fist tighter, and Tom’s world narrowed to black spots and burning lungs.

“ Bitch... ” he croaked.

“Who are you?” Jesse’s voice broke through the haze, slight but firm.

The demon’s head turned back to him, her face softening once more. “I’m your mother.”

Jesse stared, confusion written across his face. “No, you’re not.”

“Mm-hm,” the demon cooed. “You’re half human... half one of us.”

“ She means demons, Jesse! ” Dean yelled hoarsely from where he lay crumpled on the floor.

The demon straightened, flexing her fingers, and Dean groaned in pain as if his very bones were bending. She leaned closer to Jesse, her voice honeyed poison.

“Those people you call your parents?” she said sweetly. “They lied to you, too. You’re not theirs, not really.”

“ Don’t you da— ” Tom tried again, dragging himself to his knees.

The demon rolled her eyes, barely sparing him a glance. She clenched her fist again, and Tom’s throat seized. He coughed violently, spitting more blood this time.

“Shut up, Thomas,” she hissed. “Save the martyr act.”

Jesse’s eyes flicked between Tom’s bloody face, Dean writhing on the floor, and the demon’s calculated smile.

“My mom and dad love me,” Jesse said shakily.

“Do they?” The demon’s voice oozed pity. “Is that why they leave you alone all day? Because they love you so much?” She stepped closer, voice lowering. “Those people ,  those imposters ,  they told you that the tooth fairy was real, that your toys could hurt you, and a hundred other things that aren’t true. They love you so much... they made your whole life a lie.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Dean groaned, but the demon squeezed her fingers again, and his voice broke into a strangled gasp.

The demon's black eyes glittered as she leaned down once more. “Look into your heart, Jesse. You’ve always known you weren’t theirs. You’ve always known you were different. Everyone has lied to you. They’re not FBI agents.” She smiled, eyes glinting. “And you’re not a superhero.”

“Then what am I?” Jesse asked softly.

“You’re powerful,” the demon whispered. “You can have anything you want. You can do anything you want.”

Jesse’s face twisted in uncertainty.

“Don’t listen to her, Jesse!” Dean gasped out.

The demon raised her hand again, fingers tightening into a fist. Dean’s voice cut off with a pained, guttural sound. Tom, barely upright, forced himself to speak.

“You’re good, Jesse...” he rasped. “You’re good... and you can choose that...” His vision blurred again as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Please... don’t... let her... win...”

“They treated you like a child. Nobody trusted you. Everybody's lied to you. Doesn't that make you angry?” The demon asked challengingly with a smirk.

The room felt like it was shaking apart, Jesse’s clenched fist acting as the trigger to the chaos. The air churned with tension, the fire in the hearth raging, the lights stuttering above them. Glass shattered somewhere in the house,  a picture frame, maybe a lamp and the demon grinned like a cat with a mouth full of feathers.

“See?” the demon said, her voice velvety and exultant. “It does make you angry. But I'm telling you the truth, Jesse.” Her smile widened. “Wouldn’t it be better if there were no lies? Come with me, and you can wash it all clean. Start over. Imagine that... a world without lies.”

Jesse’s breathing became shallow, and his face twisted in confusion and frustration. The walls groaned, and the floorboards rattled beneath their feet.

“She’s right,” Sam said suddenly, his voice strained. “We lied to you.”

The demon’s eyes flicked to Sam, her black gaze glittering contemptuously.

“But I’ll tell you the truth,” Sam continued.

Tom lifted his head from where he lay on the floor, still coughing weakly. His face was pale, blood still smeared at the corner of his mouth. His voice came out thin and breathless. “Please, Jesse,” Tom gasped. “Listen to h-him. Pl-please.”

The demon's eyes narrowed. She clenched her fist, and Tom’s breath hitched in his chest. Sam staggered, choking on invisible pressure at his throat.

“I just...want...to tell...” Sam wheezed.

“ Stop it, ” Jesse barked, his voice shaking with power.

Sam dropped to the floor, gulping air, released from the demon’s hold.

“I want to hear what he has to say,” Jesse said firmly.

The demon’s smile faltered. “You’re stronger than I thought.”

Sam dragged himself upright, still panting. “We lied to you,” he said. “And I’m sorry. So here’s the truth. I’m Sam Winchester. Those are my brothers, Dean and Tom. We hunt monsters.”

“Except when you are the monster,” the demon sneered, her gaze burning into Sam.

“And that woman right there,” Sam pressed on, “her name is Julia. She's your mother. But the thing inside her ,  the thing that’s talking to you ,  it’s a demon.”

Jesse’s face twisted. “A demon?”

Tom, still grimacing from pain, forced himself to speak. “Like... like the storybooks, Jesse,” he said hoarsely. “Evil creatures who only live to manipulate and hurt people.”

“Lies,” the demon spat. “He’s done nothing but lie to you since the moment you met him. Don’t listen to him. Punish him.”

“ Sit down and shut up. ”

The words barely left Jesse’s mouth before a chair skidded across the floor and smashed into the demon’s legs, forcing her to sit. Her body froze in place, and though her mouth opened, no sound escaped.

“There’s... kind of a war,” Sam explained carefully. “Between angels and demons. And... you’re a part of it.”

“I’m just a kid,” Jesse muttered, eyes wide.

“You are,” Tom said, voice still thin, still pained. “You’re innocent in all of this. You didn’t choose any of this.”

Sam stepped closer. “You can go with her if you want. I can’t stop you. No one can. But if you do... millions of people will die.”

Jesse’s lip trembled. “She said I was half demon. Is that true?”

Sam nodded grimly. “Yeah. But you’re half human, too.” He knelt slightly to be closer to Jesse’s height. “You can do the right thing. You’ve got choices, Jesse. But if you make the wrong ones... it’ll haunt you for the rest of your life.”

“Why are you telling me this?!” Jesse’s voice cracked, panic rising behind his words.

“Because...” Sam’s voice softened. “Because I have to believe someone can make the right choice... even if I couldn’t.”

For a moment, the room seemed to hang in a fragile stillness.

Jesse clenched his fists, not in anger now but in determination. His gaze turned to the demon, and his jaw tightened.

“Get out of her,” he said.

The chair flung back against the wall as black smoke erupted from Julia’s mouth, swirling in a violent storm before streaking up the chimney like a vulture fleeing the light. Dean crashed to the ground, coughing hard and clutching his ribs.

“How did you do that ? ” Dean rasped, blinking through the pain.

Jesse looked at his hand like it belonged to someone else. “I... I just did.”

Dean chuckled breathlessly. “Kid... you’re awesome.”

From the floor, Tom pushed himself upright on shaking arms. His ribs screamed in protest, but he forced himself forward, staggering to Jesse’s side. Without a word, Tom sank to his knees and grabbed Jesse, wrapping the boy in his arms and pulling him tightly against his chest.

“You’re safe,” Tom panted, voice hoarse and wet. “Oh, thank God. You’re ok... you’re safe now...”

Jesse froze, stiff in Tom’s arms for a moment before he caved, all his confusion and fear unravelling as he clutched at Tom’s shirt. He buried his face against Tom’s shoulder, hands gripping him like a lifeline.

“You were so brave,” Tom murmured, his voice catching. “You did so well.”

Jesse sobbed softly into Tom’s shoulder, fingers curling tighter into his jacket. Tom rocked him slightly, one hand cradling the back of Jesse’s head like something fragile and precious.

“I’m so proud of you,” Tom whispered. “You were so brave. You saved the day, Superman, ok? Now you get to relax. You’re safe... I got you.”

From across the room, Sam and Dean watched silently, their faces softened with quiet understanding. Sam swallowed the knot rising in his throat. Dean crossed his arms, exhaling softly.

Tom closed his eyes, holding Jesse tighter, and for a moment, he wasn’t just holding a frightened boy ,  he was holding a promise, made long ago in blood and grief.

He hadn’t failed this one. Not this time.

##################

The living room felt heavy with the aftermath; the air was still thick with tension despite the demon's absence. Jesse stood in the middle of the room, his gaze locked on Julia, still slumped in her chair. His voice, small and uncertain, broke the silence.

“Is she gonna be all right?” Jesse asked.

Dean followed his gaze to Julia. She was pale and weak, but her breathing was steady.

“Eventually,” Dean said, voice softer than usual.

He bent down, spotting the small Castiel action figure that had been knocked to the floor during the chaos. Dean picked it up carefully, turning it over in his hands. His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Look, uh… truth is, he’s kind of a buddy of mine,” Dean said, lifting the figurine for Jesse to see. “Any way you could turn him back?”

Jesse’s face twisted, his expression darkening. “He tried to kill me,” he said flatly.

“I vote for keeping him a figurine,” Tom muttered darkly, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall.

Dean shot him a glare. “Right,” he muttered. “Uh… but he’s a—he’s a good guy. He was just confused.”

Jesse said nothing.

“Okay,” Dean sighed, setting the Castiel figurine back on the mantel. “It’s been a long night. We’ll… talk about it later.”

Jesse watched him carefully. “What now?” he asked.

Dean glanced over at Sam.

“Now,” Dean said carefully, “we take you someplace safe, get you trained up. You’d be handy in a fight, kid.”

“Dean,” Tom cut in sharply, eyes narrowing.

Jesse shook his head. “What if I don’t want to fight?”

Sam stepped forward, lowering himself to Jesse’s eye level. “Jesse,” Sam said gently, “you’re powerful. More powerful than… pretty much anything we’ve ever seen. That makes you—”

“A freak,” Jesse finished bitterly.

“Don’t say that,” Tom interjected, stepping forward. His voice broke on the words. “You are not a freak.”

“To some people,” Sam admitted, “maybe. But not to us. See, we’re kind of freaks ourselves.”

Tom shot Sam a warning look before kneeling down in front of Jesse, his hands coming to cup the boy’s face. His thumbs brushed softly against Jesse’s cheeks, grounding him.

“You don’t have to fight,” Tom said firmly. “No one can force you to. Don’t listen to them, okay? You can do whatever you want to. You can be whoever you want to be. I promise.”

“Tom—” Sam started, but Tom silenced him with a glare so sharp it could have cut stone.

“I promise,” Tom repeated, softer this time. “You hear me, Jesse?”

Jesse swallowed hard and nodded. “I can’t stay here, can I?” he whispered.

“No,” Dean said quietly. “The demons know where you are. More will be coming.”

Jesse’s face crumpled slightly. “I won’t go without my mom and dad.”

“There’s nothing more important than family,” Sam said. His voice was earnest, softer now. “We get that. And if you really want to take them with you… we’ll back your play. But you gotta understand ,  it’s gonna be dangerous for them, too.”

“What do you mean?” Jesse asked.

Dean’s voice turned grim. “Our dad… he used to take us with him. Wherever he went.”

Jesse looked up at Dean, frowning. “Where is he now?”

Sam hesitated. “Dead,” he admitted. “A demon killed him.”

Tom exhaled sharply, his tone brittle. “But that was his choice,” he said firmly. “He chose that life. He chose to keep fighting until it got him killed. That was his choice. You get to make your own.”

Dean’s gaze hardened. He stepped closer, crouching low so he was eye level with Jesse. “Look, Jesse,” he said, voice low and serious. “Once you’re in this fight… you’re in it till the end. Win or lose.”

Jesse shifted uncomfortably. “What should I do?”

“We can’t tell you,” Sam said. “It’s your choice. It’s not fair… I know.”

Jesse’s gaze fell to the floor. “Can I… go see my parents?” His voice was quiet, fragile. “I… I need to say goodbye.”

Dean hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Sure.”

Jesse turned and started climbing the stairs. Tom glared at Sam and Dean,  one filled with unspoken defiance, before following Jesse without hesitation.

“Tom,” Dean hissed under his breath, stepping forward to stop him.

“Let him go,” Sam murmured.

“He’s just going to make this harder,” Dean muttered. “The kid doesn’t need more noise in his ear.”

Sam shook his head. “Tom’s been holding this together since the second we walked into that house. If anyone can make this easier… it’s him.”

########################

Tom stood just outside Jesse’s parents’ room, arms crossed and back pressed to the wall. The faint glow from the hallway lamp caught his tired face, strained lines at his brow, shadows dark beneath his eyes. When Jesse stepped out and quietly closed the door behind him, Tom straightened.

“You okay, Jesse?” Tom asked softly.

Jesse shook his head. “Not really.”

Tom sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look,” he started, glancing down the hallway like he expected Sam or Dean to appear any second. “Don’t listen to them, alright? They—” He paused, lips pressing into a thin line. “They mean well, but they didn’t get a chance to be kids. They don’t know any other way. But you?” He smiled faintly. “You have that chance.”

Jesse frowned slightly, uncertain.

“You can protect yourself,” Tom continued. “You can go anywhere. See the world. Ride a camel. Hell, maybe even meet Stan Lee himself. You don’t owe anyone anything, you hear me?”

Jesse just stared at him, like no one had ever said something like that before. Slowly, he nodded. Tom returned the nod with a gentle grin before stepping forward and pulling the boy into a firm, steady hug. Jesse froze at first but quickly melted into it, resting his head against Tom’s chest.

“You’ve been through hell, Jesse,” Tom murmured. “You deserve a vacation. You choose where, and let the rest come naturally, alright?”

Jesse pulled back slightly, blinking up at him. “You’re nice, Mr. Thomas.”

Tom swallowed thickly, his smile tight with something that looked like regret. “I’m not that nice,” he muttered. “But I do know that no kid deserves to go to war. You deserve to see sandy beaches, go scuba diving… You deserve to be free. And good kids should always get what they deserve.”

Jesse lingered in the hug for just a little longer before stepping back, giving Tom a slight but firm nod.

“Good luck, Jesse,” Tom said quietly. “Just promise me, no matter what, you’ll look after yourself, yeah?”

“I promise, Mr. Thomas.”

Tom’s breath hitched slightly, and he wiped his eyes quickly. “That’s… that’s good,” he said roughly. “I’ll keep those idiots downstairs busy. You do whatever you think is best, alright kiddo?”

Jesse nodded once more before retreating to his room. Tom lingered for just a moment longer, then turned and headed downstairs, his footsteps heavy.

##########

In the living room, Sam sat on the arm of the couch, turning the Castiel action figure over in his hand with none of the care Dean had shown earlier. He set it back on the mantel and sighed. Tom leaned against the wall, absently rubbing his St. Christopher pendant between his fingers.

“He’s been up there a long time,” Dean muttered, pacing near the window.

##########

Upstairs, Jesse sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the surfer poster on his wall, the one with the bold letters that read AUSTRALIA.

After a moment, his expression hardened with quiet resolve.

##########

When Sam and Dean finally pushed open Jesse’s bedroom door, the room was empty. Dean’s face fell.

“He’s gone,” Castiel’s voice said from behind them.

Still lingering in the hallway, Tom glanced down at his phone with a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Where?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know,” Castiel answered grimly. “Jesse put everyone in town back to normal, the ones still alive. Then he vanished.”

“Wherever he went,” Tom said quietly, still watching his phone screen, “it’s wherever he needs to be.”

Castiel’s gaze narrowed. “Did you have something to do with this?”

Tom’s head lifted sharply, and he turned to face the angel with a hard glare. “No,” Tom said, voice low and dangerous. “But even if I did? I’d say it’s a hell of a lot better than him being a pawn in your godforsaken war.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Tom turned and walked out, leaving Sam and Dean to exchange confused looks. Castiel stood silently, staring after him with an expression that hovered somewhere between curiosity and understanding.

Tom stepped out into the cool night air, taking a deep breath. He could still feel Jesse’s small frame pressed against him, still hear the boy’s shaky promise echoing in his ears.

“Be safe, kid,” Tom muttered under his breath, the prayer barely louder than a whisper. “Be safe.”

###########

The Impala rumbled steadily down the darkened road, headlights slicing through the night. The faint glow of streetlights flickered past in hazy intervals, barely illuminating the world outside. A heavy, lingering silence filled the space between Dean and Sam inside the car.

In the backseat, Tom lay sprawled awkwardly across the worn leather, his face pale, his breathing ragged. His chest rose and fell unevenly, fingers twitching against his thigh like battling memories even in sleep. Dean caught sight of him in the rearview mirror, frowning slightly.

“Did he finally knock out?” Sam asked quietly.

Dean’s gaze lingered on Tom a moment longer before answering. “Seems it.”

“Good.”

They drove silently for a while, the muted hum of the engine the only sound between them.

“You think Jesse’s gonna be okay?” Dean asked finally, his voice softer than usual, uncertain.

Sam let out a long breath, his fingers drumming thoughtfully against his knee. “I hope so.”

Dean shook his head slightly. “You know… we destroyed that kid’s life by telling him the truth.”

“We didn’t have a choice, Dean,” Sam countered. “If we hadn’t told him—”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, but his face remained tight. “It’s just… the more I think about it, the more I get why parents lie to their kids. You want them to believe that the worst thing out there is mixing Pop Rocks and Coke, protect them from the real evil. You want them going to bed feeling safe. If that means lying to them… so be it.”

He scoffed bitterly, the corners of his mouth tightening. “The more I think about it… the more I wish Dad had lied to us.”

Sam turned his head slightly, giving Dean a faint, understanding smile. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

They sat in silence again, until Dean rasped, “Tom definitely had something to do with Jesse leaving, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “But… I’ve never seen him look at me like that before. And I never want to again.”

“Yeah…” Dean’s fingers drummed restlessly against the steering wheel. “Yeah, I get that. It was like—”

“Like Dad,” Sam finished for him. “When you’d piss him off. It was the exact same expression.”

Dean exhaled sharply, like the memory itself winded him. “Right? Gave me goosebumps.”

Sam huffed a breathless laugh. “Yeah.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “At least… at least he was mad for the right reasons.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Was he?”

“I mean… yeah,” Sam insisted. “A guy like him? He’s seen what war will do to a kid. I’m not surprised if he helped get Jesse out.”

Dean’s face twitched, like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t. “I wanna be mad with him,” Dean muttered. “But…”

“You just can’t,” Sam finished knowingly. “I get it.”

Both brothers turned to glance back at Tom. He shifted in his sleep, face twisted in anguish, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. His fingers gripped his pendant tightly, knuckles turning white.

Sam’s gaze lingered, his voice softer now. “I wonder what happened to him… sometimes.”

Dean’s face hardened. “War, Sammy. War happened.”

Sam swallowed and looked back out the window, watching the darkness swallow the world outside. “I just wish he’d talk to us,” he murmured. “We’re his family.”

Dean’s expression shifted, his eyes flicking back to Tom once more. “I don’t know, man,” he said, voice low. “For some reason… I think he’s forgotten what that means.”

Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line, determination sparking behind his eyes. “Then we’ll remind him,” he said quietly. “One day at a time.”

Dean nodded, almost to himself. “One day at a time.”

####################

The motel room door creaked open, and Tom, Sam, and Dean shuffled inside. The air was heavy, tension clinging to the walls like smoke. Tom lingered by the door, staring blankly at the faded wallpaper. His shoulders hunched forward, like the weight of something unseen was pressing down on him.

“Tom?” Sam’s voice was soft, cautious.

“I need to go away for a couple days,” Tom said abruptly, still staring at the wall.

Dean frowned. “Tom—”

“Not forever,” Tom cut in. “Not for a long time even… but—” He sucked in a sharp breath, swallowing thickly. “I can’t keep doing this. The things you guys said back there? I— I just need a couple days.”

“Hey, don’t make us out to be the bad guys here,” Dean shot back, voice edged with frustration.

Tom snorted bitterly, shaking his head. “No. No, you were just trying to enlist a ten-year-old. How on Earth could you be a bad guy?”

“Tom—” Sam tried, stepping forward.

“No,” Tom snapped, spinning to face them. His eyes flashed with something raw, something old and broken. “See, this is just it. You—you two don’t think. You don’t know what I’ve lived, you haven’t seen it. Children too young to read, holding guns… taught how to fire.” His voice cracked, and he faltered, looking away. “It… it changes you. I guess… I guess I’ve been trying to pretend you understand that.”

“Tom, c’mon man,” Dean tried again, softer now.

“No,” Tom said, voice quieter now. “Just… just no. Give me a week to get my head on straight, alright? Just a week.”

“…Tom,” Sam said softly, almost pleading. “Please.”

Tom’s expression shifted, something haunted, flickering behind his eyes. “Just a week,” he murmured. His voice barely carried above a whisper.

He turned, grabbing his duffel from the bed. The zipper whined as he dragged it closed. His footsteps were slow, almost reluctant, as he moved toward the door.

“Tom,” Dean called after him.

Tom paused in the doorway, turning just enough to shoot them a weak smile — a sad, fragile thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then he stepped outside, and the door clicked softly shut behind him.

For a moment, the room was still. Silent. The kind of quiet that rings loud in your ears.

Then Dean took a heavy breath and dropped back onto the bed, the springs creaking beneath his weight.

“Son of a bitch,” he huffed, dragging a hand down his face.

Sam stood frozen in place, his gaze still fixed on the door. “He’s not okay,” Sam said quietly.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered. “I know.”

############

The night air clung to Tom’s skin like a cold shroud. His breath curled in thin wisps as he pressed the phone to his ear, trying to ground himself in something, anything , that felt safe.

“Aoife?” His voice wavered, thin and tired. “It’s me.” He forced himself to sound normal. Strong. “I’m, uh… I’m coming home for a couple days. What do you say we go out for dinner at that one spot?” He tried to smile, but it barely twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Okay. No, no, I’m good. Just been a tiring day.” His throat felt tight, like a fist had wrapped around it. “I’ll see you soon, love. Okay… love you, bye.”

He lowered the phone, feeling the ache in his chest swell. For just a moment, he let his guard down, his shoulders slumping, muscles loosening.

Then he turned, and his heart slammed to a stop. Castiel was standing right in front of him.

Before he could even think, Tom’s hand flew to his pistol, fingers wrapping tightly around the grip. His breathing hitched, a split-second away from drawing.

“You let the boy escape,” Castiel said.

Tom’s fingers twitched on the pistol, then he forced himself to let go, slowly unclenching his hand. His muscles trembled as he exhaled.

“If ‘letting him escape’ means the kid made his own choice to be free,” Tom said through clenched teeth, “then sure.”

“You are angry with me,” Castiel said, tilting his head as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

Tom scoffed, a bitter bark of laughter scraping out of him. “Jeez, Cassie… you think?”

“You were a soldier,” Castiel said, stepping closer. “Surely you understand a tactical decision.”

Tom’s eyes flashed, and his voice rose with sharp, jagged heat. “I understand tactical decisions better than most. But that all flies out the window when you decide to harm an innocent child.”

“The child has great power,” Castiel argued, voice flat and unwavering. “He could be a threat.”

“There were two very important words in that sentence,” Tom said. “‘Could’… and ‘ child .’”

They stood in silence, eyes locked. Tom’s breathing was shallow, and his pulse roared in his ears.

“I do not understand your anger,” Castiel said at last.

Tom let out a long, shuddering breath and dragged his hand down his face. His eyes burned.

“Yeah… didn’t think you would,” Tom muttered wearily. His voice was quieter now, drained of fight, just hollow and tired.

He turned on his heel and walked toward his truck, boots scuffing against the pavement. His chest was heaving by the time Castiel spoke again.

“You’re leaving?” Castiel asked, confusion creeping into his voice.

Tom stopped, staring up at the sky like the answer was somewhere among the stars.

“You know, Castiel…” His voice faltered. He swallowed thickly and tried again. “I’m a big believer in redemption.” His fingers fidgeted with his pendant, turning it over in his palm. “I believe in repentance and forgiveness… Practically the building blocks of my faith.” He turned slightly, just enough to look at Castiel from the corner of his eye. “So… redeem yourself. Please. Don’t ever put me in the situation you just did again.”

“I do not need your forgiveness,” Castiel said firmly.

“I know.” Tom’s voice broke. “But I don’t know if I can ever look you in the eyes again if you don’t at least pretend .”

The words lingered in the air like smoke, fragile and suffocating.

Tom kept walking. The dull thud of his boots against pavement was the only sound until Castiel’s voice called after him, softer this time.

“Thomas…” There was something almost pleading in his voice. “I just did what I thought I had to. I was following orders.”

Tom froze in place. His eyes closed tightly, and his head hung low. When he spoke, his voice trembled.

“I know,” he whispered. “That’s the worst part.”

His chest felt tight, like a steel band was cinching around his ribs. His breath hitched, and he forced himself to steady it.

“Because I’ll let this go,” Tom said hoarsely. “I’ll let this go… because I know what it’s like to follow orders you don’t agree with. But I’ll never forget it either.” He turned his head just enough for Castiel to see the pain carved deep into his face, old grief stirred up like an infected wound. “And the fact that those were your orders?” He let out a bitter laugh, choking on the sound. “Turns out Heaven’s not so different from the military after all.”

Tom’s boots felt heavier than ever as he climbed into his truck. He slammed the door and let his head fall back against the seat, staring at the ceiling.

His hands shook violently on the steering wheel, the same hands that had held Jesse Turner and promised him he’d be safe. The same hands that had once held a rifle steady, trained on an eight-year-old boy with a bomb strapped to his chest.

The memory twisted inside him like a knife. His breath hitched again, and this time he couldn’t stop it. His chest heaved as a raw, guttural sob forced its way free, grief too long buried crashing to the surface.

When Tom finally looked up again, Castiel was gone.

Tom wiped his face roughly with the sleeve of his jacket, hands still shaking. His fingers fumbled with the ignition before the truck rumbled to life. He drove off into the night, headlights cutting a narrow path through the darkness.

But no matter how far he drove, the memories followed. And for the first time in a long time… Tom wasn’t sure if he could outrun them.

Chapter Text

The gravel crunched beneath the tires as Tom pulled into the driveway. The house was dark except for the glow in the kitchen window; warm and golden, a beacon of comfort. For a long moment, he just sat there, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he tried to quiet his mind.

One week, he told himself. One week to breathe. One week to forget.

He reached up, thumb grazing his St. Christopher pendant. Then, with a deep breath, he climbed out of the truck.

The evening air was crisp, the faint scent of woodsmoke hanging in the air. Tom dug his keys from his pocket and stepped onto the porch. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, exhaling deeply before sliding the key into the lock.

The door swung open, and cold water splashed directly into his face.

“Jesus Christ!” Tom gasped, stumbling back. He instinctively caught the silver knife coming towards him in his palm and pulled it from her hands.

“Oh my God!” Aoife’s voice shrieked from inside before she burst out laughing. “I’m so sorry— oh God, Tom!”

Tom swiped the water from his face, blinking rapidly. “Still keepin’ the holy water by the door, huh? Tha's my girl.”

Aoife’s hands flew to her mouth, stifling her giggles. “I thought ye were—” But before she could finish, she lunged forward and flung her arms around his neck.

Tom caught her easily, wrapping his arms tight around her waist as he laughed. “God, I missed ye,” he muttered into her hair.

She squealed as he lifted her, spinning her once, her weight familiar and comforting in his arms. She pressed her hands to his face when he set her down, still grinning like a fool. “I missed ye too, ye absolute eejit.”

“You drenched me,” Tom said, wiping his sleeve down his face.

“Yeah, well,” she smirked, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “Better safe than sorry.”

Tom chuckled low and soft. “Yeah, I’m glad ye remembered. Good work on the knife too, always get ‘em while they can’t see ye.” 

“C’mon in,” Aoife said, tugging him by the arm. “I’ve got stew boiling away on the hob— oh, and don’t get me started on the neighbour’s cat. Little sod’s been clawing at the back door like he owns the place, and—”

She kept talking as she moved toward the kitchen, her thick Irish accent rolling over him like music. He didn’t even really hear what she was saying; he just closed the door behind him and followed her, drinking in the sound of her voice. It was warm and familiar, like something old and treasured.

Aoife turned back to him, her hair tied up in a loose knot, sleeves pushed to her elbows. “I’ll make ye some tea, yeah?”

But Tom wasn’t listening. He reached for her instead, pulling her in and kissing her. She froze in surprise for half a second before smiling against his lips, her hands curling at the collar of his shirt.

When he pulled back, she blinked up at him, confused now, her smile faltering just a little. “Ye alright?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, too quickly. He kissed her again, softer this time, slower, like he was trying to remember it, like he was trying to hold onto something that might slip through his fingers if he didn’t.

When he pulled away again, Aoife’s hand slid to his cheek. “Ye sure?”

Tom swallowed. “I just… I just needed to be home.”

Aoife didn’t press. She didn’t ask questions or demand an answer he wasn’t ready to give. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and tucked her head against his chest.

“It’s alright,” she murmured. “I’ve got ye.”

Tom held her tight, closing his eyes and resting his chin against her hair. They stood like that for a long time, just breathing each other in, until the knot in his chest started to loosen, just a little.

###############

The bedroom was lit only by the glow coming from the bedside lamp Aoife insisted on keeping low; “for ambiance,” she’d claimed once with a teasing smile. Now that warm light bathed her face as she lay beside him, her hair loose and spilling over her pillow. The faint scent of her shampoo lingered in the air: clean, familiar, safe.

Tom lay on his back, one arm resting behind his head, the other hand tucked beneath the covers. His mind wouldn’t quiet. It hadn’t since he got back. Jesse’s face, scared and uncertain, kept flashing behind his eyes.

Aoife shifted, rolling onto her side to face him. “What’s got ye all twisted up in there?”

Tom huffed softly. “Nothing.”

“Yer a terrible liar.” She propped herself up on one elbow, squinting at him. “C’mon, out with it.”

He almost brushed her off, nearly tried to pretend it was nothing. But she just knew. She always knew when something was clawing at him.

“I met a kid,” Tom said quietly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “About ten years old.”

Aoife’s gaze softened instantly. “What happened?”

He swallowed, fingers flexing beneath the covers. “His name’s Jesse. Sweet kid, smart… and powerful.” His voice dropped, weighted with guilt. “Half demon, half human, the kind of powerful that could end everything if he made the wrong choice.”

Aoife’s face didn’t change; there was no shock or judgment, just quiet understanding as she laced her fingers through his beneath the sheets. He clutched her hand tightly, like it might ground him.

“I almost lost him,” Tom went on, his voice breaking. “Some demon, inside his mum no less, tried to turn him. Said he could wipe the slate clean. He’s just a kid, Aoife… ten years old and caught in the middle of this stupid war.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t let them drag him into it. So I told him to leave, to go anywhere, to be safe. He’s out there now, on his own.”

His breath hitched. “And I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.”

For a moment, Aoife said nothing. Then she shifted closer, pressing her forehead to his shoulder, her voice soft and sure. “Did the right thing, a stór .”

Tom scoffed bitterly. “Did I?”

“Ye know ye did.” She lifted her head, eyes steady on his. “Ye gave him a chance, Tom. A chance to live without this madness breathin’ down his neck. A chance to be a kid. And if there’s anyone I trust to know what’s right, it’s you.”

Her thumb brushed gently over his knuckles. “Ye’re a good man.”

“I don’t feel like one,” Tom muttered.

Aoife hummed quietly, thoughtful. Then she kissed him on the nose, soft and warm, her smile small but certain. “Well, that’s how I know ye are.”

Tom closed his eyes, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“Listen,” Aoife murmured, her fingers threading into his hair. “Tomorrow? Go out. Visit yer old haunts, the bar, the VA, wherever ye want. Go be human again, yeah? Before yer brothers show up at the door with some fresh nightmare.” She kissed his temple. “Ye need this.”

Tom turned his head, looking at her, still in somewhat of disbelief how this woman he married could be so damn perfect. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I think I do.”

Aoife smiled, curling back into his side. “Good,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “About time.”

Tom lay there in the dark, his fingers still tangled in hers, and for the first time in weeks, the noise in his head quieted. Just a little.

#####################

The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, the faintest hint of coffee curling from the break room just down the hall. Thomas Winchester stood just inside the entrance, hands in his pockets, his St. Christopher pendant cool against his chest. The place hadn’t changed much: the same institutional beige walls, the same flickering fluorescent light above the check-in desk that no one had bothered to fix. Yet somehow, it felt like a lifetime ago.

A few heads turned when Thomas walked in. Conversations paused, murmurs rippling through the staff. He knew what they were thinking, what’s he doing here? The last time Thomas Winchester had walked these halls, he’d been their golden boy, the former soldier turned doctor who never turned his back on a patient. Now he was just a guy who disappeared one day without a word. A family emergency, they were told. No one knew the details.

“Tom?”

He turned at the familiar voice. Marie, one of the senior nurses, stood a few feet away, her face somewhere between surprise and relief. Her hair was streaked with more silver than he remembered, but her sharp eyes hadn’t softened a bit.

“Hey, Marie,” Thomas said, managing a smile.

“I didn’t think we’d see you again.” Her smile faltered. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m alright,” Thomas lied, forcing his shoulders to relax. “Just… thought I’d stop by. See how things were holding up.”

“Busy as ever,” Marie said, but her eyes were still studying him like she could see right through the cracks. “We could’ve used you during the flu outbreak last month.” She shook her head. “You always had a way with the tough cases.”

“I was just stubborn,” Thomas said, shrugging.

“Yeah, well, stubborn saved a lot of lives,” Marie shot back. Her voice softened. “It’s good to see you, Tom.”

A voice called her from down the hall, another nurse needing her assistance. Marie squeezed Thomas’s arm before walking away, leaving him standing there, still unsure why he’d come.

He started walking, instinct pulling him toward his old office. The nameplate was gone, replaced by someone else’s name. The door was ajar, and Thomas caught a glimpse of the desk, cleaner than he’d ever kept it. On the wall, where his battered map of Iraq once hung, there was now a motivational poster, "Every Day is a Chance to Change a Life."

He turned away. The place felt foreign now, like someone had rearranged the furniture in a home that no longer belonged to him.

“Dr. Winchester?”

Thomas froze. He turned to find an older man watching him, one of his former patients. Mr. Callahan, a Vietnam vet with a salt-and-pepper beard, one arm still stiff from an old shrapnel wound.

“Didn’t think I’d see you back here,” Callahan said, his voice rough as gravel.

“Didn’t think I’d be back,” Thomas admitted.

“Well… I’m glad you are,” Callahan said, sticking out his hand. “Never did get to say thank you. You were the first doc who didn’t treat me like I was crazy.”

Thomas shook his hand, a lump rising in his throat. “I was never gonna win an argument with you anyway,” he said, forcing a grin.

“You were good,” Callahan said earnestly. “Real good. Some of us figured you’d moved on to better things.”

“Yeah,” Thomas muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. “Something like that.”

He turned to leave, but Callahan’s voice stopped him.

“You’re still that guy, you know,” Callahan said. “The one who cared.”

Tom swallowed hard and kept walking.

############

The cold air hit Tom like a slap, the sharp breeze tugging at his jacket. He exhaled, the breath leaving him shaky. He pressed his thumb against his pendant, the metal warm now from his skin.

You’re still that guy…

But Tom didn’t know if that was true. Maybe once. Before all of this. Before Sam and Dean pulled him back into a life filled with blood and fire. Back when saving lives had felt like enough.

He climbed into his truck, gripping the wheel tightly. His chest ached, a dull, hollow feeling he’d gotten used to ignoring. He could still see the faces: Callahan, Marie… all the people who had once believed in him. The ones he’d left behind.

He knew he couldn’t go back. Not really. But for just a moment, sitting there in the parking lot, Tom let himself believe he could.

###############

Thomas lingered in his truck longer than he should have, fingers drumming restlessly against the steering wheel. The weight in his chest hadn’t lifted; if anything, it had settled deeper, pressing down like a stone. He was about to start the engine when he noticed his trunk was open slightly. He sighed, really realising he had never shut it properly. He hopped out, walking towards a voice, high and excited, calling out from across the lot.

“Mommy! Mommy, look! It’s him! It’s Dr. Winchester!”

Tom barely had time to turn his head before a small figure sprinted toward him. A little boy, no older than five or six, ran full tilt across the pavement, his sneakers slapping the concrete. Tom blinked in confusion, and before he could react, the boy barreled into him, arms looping tightly around his waist.

“You fixed my daddy!” the boy declared proudly, voice muffled against Tom’s jacket. “You made him better!”

Thomas froze for half a second, startled, before instinct kicked in. He laughed—not forced or bitter, but a real, honest laugh—and knelt to scoop the boy into his arms. The move was natural, his grip steady. The boy fit against him like he belonged there, like this was how things were supposed to be.

“Hey, kid,” Thomas said, grinning. “Didn’t know I was famous.”

“You are!” the boy insisted, his face lit up. “Daddy said you’re a hero!”

“I don’t know about that,” Thomas blustered, but the boy wasn’t listening. His excitement was too loud, too bright.

“I told you it was him.” The voice, softer and steadier, belonged to a man approaching from across the lot. He walked with a slight limp, a prosthetic peeking from beneath his jeans. His wife watched Thomas closely beside him, her hand resting lightly on her husband’s arm.

“Doc Winchester,” the man greeted with a smile. “I thought that was you.”

Thomas stood, the boy still perched comfortably on his hip. “Mr. Reynolds,” Thomas beamed, nodding in greeting. “Good to see you up and moving.”

“Good to be up,” Reynolds said, patting his prosthetic. “Never thought I’d be walking my boy to school again, but… here we are.” His smile faltered slightly, just for a moment. “Wouldn’t have happened without you.”

Thomas shook his head. “Nah,” he deflected. “That was you. All I did was show you how.”

“You did more than that,” Reynolds said firmly. “You gave me my life back.” He looked at his son, still clinging to Thomas like a koala. “Gave him his dad back, too.”

Thomas swallowed hard, something warm and unfamiliar swelling in his chest.

“Tom?” Mrs. Reynolds stepped closer, her eyes soft with something he couldn’t quite name. Before he could respond, she reached up and cupped his cheek with her hand. Her palm was warm, grounding him. “Have you been eating enough?” she asked, concern lacing her voice. “You look like you’ve lost weight.”

“I—” Thomas’s throat went tight, words sticking like thorns. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to tell her that he’d forgotten what real food tasted like. That some nights he couldn’t eat at all.

“I’m fine,” he said finally, his voice quieter than he intended.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said fondly, thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone. “You always were.”

For a moment, just one fleeting moment, Thomas felt like he was home. Like none of the horrors he’d seen, none of the battles he’d fought, had ever happened. Like he was still the man he’d been before everything had unravelled.

The boy shifted in his arms, tugging at Thomas’s shirt. “Are you coming back?” the boy asked, his hopeful eyes wide and searching. “Daddy says you went away to help your family, but… you can come back now, right?”

Thomas felt his heart twist painfully in his chest. He carefully set the boy down, kneeling so they were eye-level.

“I have to go take care of some things,” Thomas said softly. “But hey… you’re gonna take good care of your dad for me, right? Make sure he stays out of trouble?”

The boy grinned proudly. “I always do!”

“I bet you do,” Thomas said, smiling despite the lump rising in his throat.

“You sure you’re okay?” Mrs. Reynolds asked again, her hand still lingering on his arm.

“I’ll get there,” Thomas promised. “One day at a time.”

“Yeah,” Reynolds said quietly. “One day at a time.”

############

The bar wasn’t particularly busy; a quiet place on the outskirts of town, far enough from the base to avoid the rowdier crowd. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of old wood and stale beer, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It felt familiar and safe, a place for people who didn’t need to talk too much.

Thomas sat at the worn wooden bar, fingers curled around a cold beer bottle. The label was half-peeled from where he’d been absently scratching at it. He didn’t look up when someone slid onto the stool beside him; he didn’t need to. He knew that voice anywhere.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” said the man beside him, Corporal Ben Grady, one of the few guys Thomas had called a friend during his time overseas.

“Yeah, well,” Thomas said, forcing a half-smile. “Figured I owed you a beer.”

Grady laughed, low and dry. “Damn right you do.” He signalled the bartender and ordered a bottle for himself before giving Thomas a closer look. “You look like hell, man. Where’d you disappear to?”

Thomas took a long sip of his beer, buying himself a moment to think. He couldn’t tell Grady the truth: about demons, ghosts, or the apocalypse barreling toward them. No one knew what Thomas had walked back into after that first call from Sam and Dean. All they knew was that he’d dropped everything, his job and home, and vanished for “family reasons.”

“My brothers,” Thomas said eventually, voice low and rough. “They… uh, they called. Said they needed me.” He let out a dry chuckle. “Didn’t think I’d hear from them at all, but… turns out they were in a rough spot.”

Grady frowned, taking a swig of his beer. “So what, you’re back in their lives now?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, but the word tasted bitter in his mouth. He let out a breath, staring into his drink. “I spent half my tours worrying about those two idiots… wondering if they were safe, if they were warm, if they even remembered I existed.” He shook his head. “Now I’m back, and… I don’t know, man. It’s like they’re from a different world.”

Grady gave a short, bitter laugh. “They weren’t in it with us,” he said. “They didn’t see what we saw.”

“Yeah,” Thomas muttered. “They didn’t.”

He didn’t mean just the war. It was everything; the blood, the nightmares, the feeling of being too damn far gone ever to find his way back to normal. Sam and Dean knew what it felt like to wake up drenched in sweat because a distant memory had clawed its way out of the dark. What they didn’t know was what it was like to see a face, a young face, and remember pulling a trigger to stop that face from getting too close. How could they?

“I don’t know if they’re ever gonna understand,” Thomas admitted. His voice cracked slightly, and he took a longer pull from his beer to steady it. “I don’t even know if I want them to.”

Grady was quiet for a moment, eyes on his bottle. “I get that,” he said finally. “It’s not just the war, man… It’s what it makes you. People back home, they think we just come back and go back to normal. But you can’t shake it. It sticks to you.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, voice hollow. “Yeah, it does.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. They just sat, nursing their beers and staring at the worn wood of the bar.

“You staying in town?” Grady asked eventually.

“Couple days,” Thomas said. “Long enough to clear my head.”

Grady snorted. “Good luck with that.” He lifted his bottle in salute, and Thomas mirrored him, their beers clinking softly in the quiet space.

“Yeah,” Thomas muttered. “Good luck.”

##############.

Thomas sat at the worn wooden bar, his fingers loosely curled around a sweating bottle. He’d gone out to the bar the next day, too.  The man beside him, Corporal David Lopez, another one of his old buddies from his unit, leaned back in his seat, beer in hand, eyes sharp and attentive as Tom spoke.

“So,” Lopez said, grinning around the lip of his bottle. “I still can’t believe you just… bailed. Just dropped everything and left. Not like you, Tommy.”

Thomas snorted and shook his head. “Wasn’t much of a choice,” he said. “Family emergency.”

Lopez gave him a sideways look, one that said he didn’t believe a word of it, but he didn’t press. Instead, he took a sip of his beer and leaned forward, like he was settling in for a story. “So what now?” he asked. “You back for good?”

“Just for a few days,” Thomas said. “Needed a break.”

Lopez barked a laugh. “From your family emergency?”

“Yeah,” Thomas muttered, rubbing his hand over his face. “Yeah… something like that.”

Lopez let the silence hang for a moment before nodding to Tom’s bottle. “Guess you needed that.”

Thomas chuckled under his breath, lifting the bottle just enough to acknowledge it. “Yeah,” he said, “but you know… first beer I ever had?” He smiled faintly, the memory flickering back like an old photograph, warm and distant. “I was barely seventeen. John gave it to me.”

Lopez snorted. “Your pops? The hard-ass Marine you were always telling us about? Didn’t figure him for the sentimental type.”

Thomas’s smile twitched. “He wasn’t,” he said. “Not really. But this… this one night…”

The memory hit like a sharp inhale: the scent of stale beer, the faint hum of a TV playing in the background, and his father’s rare smile as they sat in the quiet.

###########

The house was quiet, a rare kind of quiet that Thomas hadn’t known in a long time. Dean was tucked into bed, breathing softly under the covers, and Sam had finally, finally settled down in his cot. Thomas lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching Sam’s tiny chest rise and fall. The kid had been fussy all night, and Thomas had practically walked a hole in the carpet pacing with him. But now? Now, Sam was peaceful, tiny fingers curled around the edge of his blanket.

Thomas let out a quiet breath and backed out of the room, easing the door closed with practised precision. He rubbed his face, feeling the exhaustion in his bones, and headed for the living room.

John was waiting for him, slouched in his armchair with two beers on the coffee table. He didn’t say anything; he just grabbed one of the bottles and held it out. Thomas hesitated before stepping forward and taking it.

“You earned it,” John muttered, twisting the cap off his own beer.

Thomas grunted as he sat down on the couch, uncapping his bottle and taking a tentative sip. It wasn’t his first drink, that had been with some friends outside the corner store a few months earlier, but it was his first beer; and it was his first one with John. The bitterness clung to his tongue, sharp and foreign, but he forced himself to swallow it. He didn’t want to look like a kid in front of John. Not tonight.

For a while, they just sat there, drinking in silence. The TV was on land; some late-night rerun was playing to an empty audience. John looked tired, the lines on his face heavier than usual. But there was something softer about him, too, like he wasn’t quite as tightly wound as usual.

“You did good tonight,” John said after a while, voice rough. He didn’t look at Thomas, just stared at his bottle. “With the boys.”

Thomas snorted softly. “Dean’s easy. Sam’s a pain in the ass.”

John actually chuckled, a short, dry sound, but a laugh all the same.

“Yeah,” John said. “He’s a stubborn little guy.” He paused, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer. “Mary used to say he gets that from me.”

Thomas wasn’t sure what to say to that. He just nodded and took another sip.

“I’m serious though,” John said after a beat. “You’re good with them. Better than I am sometimes.”

Thomas froze mid-drink, lowering the bottle slowly. John wasn’t one to hand out praise; when he did, it usually came in gruff half-sentences or frustrated grumbles. But this… this was something else.

“Thanks,” Thomas said quietly.

John took a longer sip, then let out a breath. “I know I haven’t… I haven’t been around much lately,” he said. “With everything…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely, like ‘everything’ was some distant storm no one could talk about directly.

“You’re here now,” Thomas offered.

John gave a tired smile, small but real. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

For a while, they just sat there, two tired souls in an apartment that felt too empty. The weight of Mary’s absence lingered in the corners of the room, but it didn't feel quite so heavy for the first time in a long time.

Thomas finished his beer slowly, savouring the rare moment of quiet comfort. For once, John wasn’t barking orders or snapping at him to ‘toughen up.’ For once, Thomas wasn’t fighting to be seen.

They were just two guys, just a father and son sharing a quiet drink.

###########

Tom’s smile faded as he traced the lip of his bottle with his thumb.

“Don’t know why that’s the one memory that always sticks,” Thomas muttered. “I mean… my dad wasn’t exactly the sentimental type. But… I don’t know. That night just… felt different.”

Lopez nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I get it.”

They just sat in comfortable silence for a moment, nursing their beers. The bar hum buzzed around them, murmuring conversations, laughter, and the clink of glass against wood.

“You know,” Lopez said finally, “I always figured you’d be the guy to put down roots. Start a charity, open some clinic or something. Hell, the VA still talks about you.” He shook his head with a grin. “You’re like this damn folk hero over there.”

“Yeah?” Thomas huffed a laugh. “Well… folk heroes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

Lopez clinked his bottle against Tom’s. “I don’t know, man,” he said. “I think they’re exactly what they’re cracked up to be.”

Thomas smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He took a long sip from his bottle, letting the warmth burn down his throat.

“I don’t feel like much of a hero,” he disputed.

Lopez didn’t answer. He just gave Tom a knowing look, one that didn’t need words. Because they both knew what heroes really looked like. They weren’t the ones who rode off into the sunset; they were the ones who crawled home in pieces and kept walking anyway.

And no matter how far Tom tried to run, some part of him knew he’d been walking that road ever since.

#############################

Tom’s footsteps were heavy against the creaking floorboards as he unlocked the front door. It was later than he’d intended, but the cold night air clung to his jacket, lingering in his bones. The evening at the bar had been good for him, as good as it could be, but his mind still felt tangled. The weight on his chest hadn’t lifted; if anything, it had settled in deeper.

The house was quiet. For a moment, Tom thought Aoife had gone to bed, but when he stepped into the living room, he saw her curled up on the couch. A book lay abandoned on her belly, one hand resting protectively over the soft swell beneath her shirt. She was half-asleep, head tipped to one side, hair spilling over her shoulder.

Tom hesitated in the doorway. He could’ve left her be, let her sleep peacefully without dragging his burdens into the room, but something about the sight of her stilled him. She looked so peaceful, so sure of her place in the world, like the chaos he’d seen could never touch her.

Aoife’s eyes flickered open. She blinked once and then smiled warm and easy, like seeing him walk through the door had just made her night.

“Hey,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Ye alright?”

Tom shifted, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he said, but it didn’t sound convincing, not even to himself.

Aoife didn’t push, didn’t pry. Instead, she just opened her arms, a soft invitation.

Tom stood frozen for a heartbeat too long, as if part of him believed he didn’t deserve that comfort, but then he stepped forward, sinking down beside her on the couch. Aoife’s arms came around him, and Tom let himself lean into her warmth for the first time in what felt like years. His head fell against her shoulder, and she rested her chin lightly on his hair. One hand found his chest, fingers curling against his shirt like she was grounding him, and her other hand shifted to her stomach, instinctive and protective.

They sat like that for a long time, neither speaking. Tom’s breathing slowed, his heartbeat gradually matching the calm, steady rhythm of Aoife’s own.

“Yer okay, a stór ” Aoife whispered, her fingers flexing slightly against his chest. “We’re okay.”

Tom closed his eyes, feeling her warmth surround him: the weight of her belly against his side, the scent of her shampoo, the faint thrum of her heartbeat. For the first time in weeks, something inside him loosened, not gone, not fixed, but lighter.

For a moment… he was home.

################

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, bleeding gold across the pavement. Tom sat on a worn park bench, nursing a paper cup of coffee that had long gone cold. He wasn’t sure why he’d come here; maybe just to think, or maybe because he’d driven aimlessly through town and ended up where he always did when things got too heavy.

This park had been his quiet place, where he’d come after shifts at the VA, when his mind and heart felt too heavy. It was where he’d sit and count the leaves swirling along the path, trying to convince himself the war was behind him.

Now, though… his thoughts felt messier than ever. The Jesse mess, the guilt, that’s what gnawed at him. That’s what kept him from sleeping.

“You know, I was starting to think you’d left for good,” a voice said from behind.

Tom startled slightly, blinking out of his thoughts. He turned and found Father O’Rourke standing a few feet away, a warm smile pulling at the corners of his face. The priest was older now: his white hair thinning, deep lines creasing his face, but his eyes were just as sharp as Tom remembered.

“Father,” Tom said, surprised. “Didn’t know you were still in town.”

“Retired now,” Father O’Rourke said, easing himself onto the bench beside him with a small grunt. “But old habits die hard.” He tapped his walking cane against the pavement and chuckled. “I still make the rounds. Guess I’m just stubborn like that.”

Tom huffed a tired laugh. “Yeah… stubborn’s one word for it.”

Father O’Rourke studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing with that familiar, knowing gaze; the one that always made Tom feel like the man could see right through him.

“You’ve been gone a while,” the priest said quietly. “Haven’t seen you in the pews.”

Tom shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at his coffee. “Been out of town,” he muttered. “Family stuff.”

Father O’Rourke hummed thoughtfully. “Funny thing,” he said, “you look like a man carrying something too heavy for one set of shoulders.” He reached out then, pressing a firm hand to Tom’s shoulder. “Whatever it is… you don’t have to hold it all on your own.”

Tom swallowed hard, gripping the paper cup a little tighter. “I’m alright,” he lied, voice low. “Just… tired.”

“Maybe,” Father O’Rourke said softly. “But tired men don’t look like they’re drowning.”

Tom flinched slightly, but enough for the priest to catch it.

“You know,” the old man continued, voice quieter now, “confession’s more than just listing your sins, Thomas. It’s more than guilt and shame. It’s a place to let go of what’s weighing you down. It’s… a reminder that you’re not alone. No matter how far you’ve wandered.”

Tom’s breath hitched, and he closed his eyes.

“Come back,” Father O’Rourke said, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze. “Even if you don’t know what to say… just sit in the quiet for a while. The church’s doors are always open. Even for stubborn soldiers like you.”

Tom let out a breath that felt shaky and weak, and somehow lighter than anything he’d felt in weeks.

“Thanks, Father,” he said, voice rough.

Father O’Rourke gave his shoulder one last squeeze before pushing himself to his feet with his cane.

“Don’t thank me,” the priest said with a smile. “Just… come home.”

He walked away then, leaving Tom sitting alone on the bench, still clutching his coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

##############

The air inside the confessional was stifling, the kind of quiet that pressed against your skin. Tom shifted on the narrow bench, his fingers tightening around the hem of his jacket. The faint scent of old wood and candle wax lingered, a familiar scent that felt like stepping back into a memory.

A screen slid open beside him, soft and barely audible.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Tom swallowed hard and made the sign of the cross. His voice came out hoarse, quieter than he intended.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…” He paused, pressing his thumb into the centre of his palm as if the pressure could steady him. “It’s been… at least a month since my last confession.”

He heard the priest shift slightly on the other side of the screen. There were no words, no prompting, just quiet patience—the kind that said, "Take your time." Tom had always appreciated that.

“I… I haven’t been to Mass.” He let out a breath, shaking his head. “That’s not the worst of it, but… it felt wrong not to say it.” He paused again. “I’ve been… angry. Really angry. At people, at… my brothers. At God.” His voice dropped lower, like someone might overhear. “I think I’ve been angry for longer than I want to admit.”

He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to force the words out.

“There’s this… kid.” His voice faltered. “A good kid, a really good kid. But people were scared of him. Thought he’d turn out… bad. Said it was better to remove him now rather than risk it later.” His throat tightened, the words threatening to choke him. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

His fingers twisted around his St. Christopher pendant, the metal biting into his skin.

“I did the right thing. I know I did.” The words came fast and defensive, like he was still trying to convince himself. “But it doesn’t feel like I did. It feels like I walked away from something that’s gonna come back worse than before. Feels like I made a mistake... like I let him down.”

The silence in the confessional seemed louder than before. Tom bit down on the inside of his cheek, waiting for some kind of judgment, something to confirm what he already knew—that he’d failed.

“You protected a child, that’s a good thing,” the priest said softly. “But it’s hard to see the good in what you’ve done when you’re still afraid of what might happen next.”

Tom blinked, staring at the screen like the priest might somehow see his expression.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Fear can do terrible things to us,” the priest said. “It can make us cruel. It can make us believe that acting out of love, out of compassion, is a mistake. But you know what’s worse than fear?”

Tom let out a humourless chuckle. “What?”

“Regret.” The priest’s voice was low but steady. “You said you’re angry, son. But what you’re really feeling isn’t anger, it’s guilt.”

Tom’s breath hitched slightly. He clenched his fist to keep it steady. “Yeah.”

“The truth is, sometimes doing the right thing doesn’t feel good right away,” the priest continued. “Sometimes it feels worse because you can’t see the outcome yet. But you saved someone. You gave him a chance at life. Don’t let your fear of what might happen steal the good you’ve already done.”

Tom bowed his head, staring down at his hands. The priest’s words dug deep, hitting something raw inside him.

“You sound like my mother,” Tom muttered, his voice softer now.

The priest chuckled. “Mothers have a knack for wisdom.”

Tom felt his chest tighten. He swallowed hard and finally asked, “What should I do?”

“Pray for that boy. And pray for yourself. Ask for strength, not just to face what’s coming, but to forgive yourself for what’s already passed.” The priest paused. “And try to remember that you’re not alone in this.”

Tom closed his eyes for a moment, then drew in a shaky breath.

“Thanks, Father.”

“God’s peace be with you, son.”

The screen slid shut. Tom lingered in the confessional for another few seconds, his fingers still curled around his pendant. The guilt hadn’t disappeared-not really. But the weight didn’t feel quite as heavy anymore. Something else was there for the first time in a long time.

Hope.

He left the confessional quietly, pausing only to kneel in a pew at the back of the church. The candles flickered before him, their light steady and warm. Tom closed his eyes and murmured the prayer his mother had taught him long ago.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death… ”

##############

The scent of incense clung to the air, warm and familiar. Stained glass windows painted the pews in splashes of colour, and a handful of scattered parishioners knelt in quiet prayer. Tom lingered in the pew for a moment, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. It had been so long, longer than he cared to admit.

Too long, he thought.

He stayed in his pew near the back, not trusting himself to go any closer. His fingers brushed the wood of the pew in front of him, tracing the worn grain beneath his fingertips. The choir was singing low and soft, and the familiar melody settled something deep inside of him. He closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him.

How can this still feel like home? After everything, after the angels, after Heaven’s schemes, after Castiel’s cold-eyed certainty that Jesse’s life was a fair trade for victory, how could he still feel comfort here?

Tom let out a bitter chuckle under his breath. Because this is all you know.

He knelt slowly, the old wood creaking beneath his weight, and bowed his head. The words wouldn’t come. The prayers he’d learned as a boy sat somewhere just out of reach, buried under exhaustion and doubt.

Instead, he whispered in his head, I don’t even know why I’m here.

He sat in silence for a long moment, gripping his St. Christopher pendant so tightly it dug into his palm. The cold metal grounded him. He remembered his mother’s voice, soft and low, murmuring prayers beside him in Mass when he was just a boy. “God hears everything, Tommy. Even when you’re angry. Especially when you’re angry.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. Then, barely more than a whisper, he began to speak.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to you.” His fingers twisted the pendant absently. “You were always the one who knew what to say, Mom. You knew how to make sense of it all, even when things were ugly.”

His voice caught, but he forced himself to continue.

“I haven’t been to Mass in… I don’t even know how long. At least a month. I kept telling myself I didn’t need it anymore. That I couldn’t believe in a God who’d let all this happen. I've met angels, real angels, and they’re no better than the rest of us. Worse, maybe.” He exhaled harshly. “But I’m here now. And… I hate that this still feels like home. Because after everything I’ve seen? After what Heaven tried to do?” He shook his head. “I don’t know how I can still believe in any of this.”

His eyes drifted to the row of votive candles near the altar, flickering softly in the dim light.

“But you believed.” His voice cracked. “You always believed. So… maybe I can hold onto that. Just for a little longer.”

Tom stood and walked slowly to the candle display to the right of the altar. He took a candle from the tray, striking a match with trembling fingers. The flame flickered to life, dancing in the still air. He stared at it for a moment before gently placing the candle among the others.

“I miss you.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I know I’ve done things you’d hate. I know I’ve done things I can’t take back. But I’m trying. I swear to God, I’m trying.”

He closed his eyes, and for just a second, he could almost feel her hand brushing against his hair, warm and soft, the way it used to when he was just a boy. Her voice seemed to echo in his mind, steady and sure.

“So no matter how far you go, you’ll always find your way back home.”

Tom opened his eyes. The candles flickered. His heart was still heavy, but the weight didn’t feel quite as crushing as before.

He turned and walked back down the aisle. The choir was still singing, voices lifting gently toward the rafters. For the first time in weeks, Tom felt like he could breathe.

As he pushed open the church doors, he whispered one last thing under his breath.

“Thank you.”

#############

The faucet dripped steadily, and the sound was like a ticking clock in the quiet. Tom stood shirtless in front of the mirror, one hand braced against the counter to keep himself upright. His breathing was shallow and laboured, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. Blood had soaked through the towel pressed tightly against his side, the fabric a dark, sopping mess.

“Come on,” he muttered to himself, voice shaking. “It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad…”

But it was that bad. The gash he’d taken during the last hunt, a jagged tear across his ribs, had reopened and hadn’t stopped bleeding. It was deep, deeper than he’d realised. He hadn’t felt it rip, and it hadn't hit him until hours later when the adrenaline wore off. Now his head swam, the room tilting dangerously.

With gritted teeth, Tom peeled the towel away, sucking in a sharp breath as fresh blood welled up. His vision blurred, pain pulsing through him. He grabbed the bottle of rubbing alcohol from the counter and twisted the cap off with clumsy fingers.

“This is gonna suck,” he muttered.

It did. The burn was white-hot as he poured the liquid over the wound, biting down on a folded washcloth to keep from crying out. His legs buckled, and he sank to his knees on the tile floor.

For a long moment, Tom knelt there, forehead resting against the cool porcelain of the sink, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt cold, cold in a way that scared him.

This could be it, a voice whispered in his mind. This is how it ends, bleeding out in your damn bathroom, alone.

He knew better than to pray. But still, in that quiet, he muttered, “Please… please not like this.”

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself back to his feet and grabbed the needle and thread he’d laid out earlier. He had to focus and block out the pain, the dizziness, the sheer panic threatening to crawl up his throat. His fingers shook as he started stitching the wound, his fingers clutching the wound shut tightly as he worked. He clenched his jaw and kept going, stitch after stitch, until the bleeding finally slowed. By the time he knotted the thread, he was exhausted, pale and clammy as he leaned heavily on the counter. There were ten rows of neat stitching, not perfect work, but any means, but functional nonetheless.

He caught his reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes, a hollow and wornface— he looked like hell. He looked like his father.

And that thought hit him like a punch to the gut.

John had always done this: taken the pain, refused the help, patched himself up like he was the only one who could carry the weight. Tom had promised himself he’d never be like that.

But here you are, that same voice sneered. Alone. Bleeding. Dying on your own terms.

His gaze drifted to the mirror again, this time not at his face, but at the faded photo tucked into the corner of the frame. Aoife, smiling widely, one hand on her growing belly.

The thought came fast and sharp: If you die, you leave her alone. You leave your daughter without a father.

The weight of that truth settled deep in his chest, heavier than any injury. For years, he’d believed that his life was something he could throw away; just another soldier in the field, fighting for something bigger than himself. But now… now there was something worth surviving for.

He staggered out of the bathroom and into the small writing desk in the corner. His hand shook as he grabbed a notebook and pen. The pain made his vision blur, but he forced himself to focus. If things went wrong, if the next hunt was his last, she had to know.

The room was quiet, save for the scratch of pen against paper. Tom sat hunched over his desk, the dim lamp flickering faintly beside him. The air felt too still, like it was waiting for him to finish, like it knew he didn’t want to write this letter.

He stared down at the half-filled page, his handwriting uneven, like he wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. Maybe he wasn’t. But he knew he couldn’t leave it unsaid.

He sighed, flexed his fingers, and forced himself to continue.

***

Dear Aisling,

I hope you never have to read this. I pray to God you never do.

But if you are… if you’re holding this letter someday… it means something’s happened. Something I couldn’t fix. And I’m so damn sorry.

I’m not sure where to start, sweetheart. I guess I should tell you that I love you, but that feels too simple. “Love” doesn’t feel big enough for how I feel about you. From the second I knew you existed… you’ve been the most important thing in my world. And you haven’t even been born yet.

I know your mom probably thinks I’m a mess right now. And she’s right. There’s a lot about me that I can’t explain, a lot that your Mum might have to. But what I need you to know, what I need you to understand, is that none of it changes how much I love you. Not one damn bit.

I don’t know what kind of man I’ll be when you’re old enough to know me. Maybe I’ll be the father I want to be: the one who makes you laugh, who shows you how to ride a bike, who kisses your scraped knees when you fall. But there’s a chance I won’t be. There’s a chance I’ll still be this… broken thing I’ve become. And that scares me. It scares me more than anything.

I’ve seen things I can’t forget. Done things I can’t take back. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to let go of the guilt. Some days, it feels like I’m drowning in it. And I’m scared that if I don’t get my head on straight, I’ll end up dragging you down with me. That’s the last thing I want; you deserve better than that.

You deserve a good dad. A dad who’s whole. I don’t know if I can be that man, but I swear to you, I’m trying. And if I don’t make it… If you’re reading this because I didn’t… I want you to know that none of it was your fault.

I need you to know that if I’m gone, it’s not because I didn’t want to be there. It’s not because I didn’t love you enough. It’s because this life, this fight I’ve been stuck in, it doesn’t leave room for much else. I hope I found a way to stay. I hope you never have to read this. But if you are… if you’re holding this letter in your hands… I need you to know that I love you. I love you so much it hurts. And no matter where I am, no matter what happens…

I will always be with you. Always.

With all my heart,

Your dad, Tom.

***

Tom laid the pen down carefully, his hand shaking. He stared at the words on the page, his vision blurring. For a long moment, he just sat there, hollow and tired, before folding the letter carefully and slipping it into an envelope.

He wrote Aisling Keane-Winchester on the front, underlining her name twice before setting the envelope in the desk drawer.

His hand lingered on the worn wood as he whispered softly, “Please… God… don’t let her need this.”

Then he closed the bag, pressed his fingers to his St. Christopher pendant, and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written there.

#################

The room was bathed in a warm, amber glow from the bedside lamp flickering softly in the corner. The window was cracked open just enough to let the cool night air drift in, rustling the sheer curtains. The air smelled faintly of lavender, and the low hum of distant cars whispered through the room.

Tom lay on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Aoife curled beside him, her hand tracing soft circles along his arm.

“Yer thinkin’ too loud,” she murmured, her Irish accent gentle, drowsy.

Tom let out a quiet chuckle, but it was hollow. “Yeah… guess I am.”

Aoife shifted closer, propping herself up on one elbow. Her ginger curls fell over her shoulder as she looked down at him, her eyes sharp with concern.

“Ye wanna talk about it?” she asked softly.

Tom shook his head. “Not much to say,” he muttered. “Just… my mind won’t quit.”

Aoife studied him for a long moment, then reached for his hand.

“Here,” she whispered, guiding his palm down to her belly.

Tom’s hand twitched against her skin, hesitant, like he didn’t belong there. He started to pull away, but Aoife caught his wrist, pressing his palm more firmly against the gentle curve of her stomach.

“Wait,” she said. “Just wait.”

For a moment, there was nothing, just warmth beneath his hand, the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Then, a thump. A small, insistent kick against his palm.

Tom froze.

“Ye feel that?” Aoife smiled softly, watching his face.

Tom swallowed thickly, nodding once. His fingers spread wider, pressing gently as if afraid to miss it. Thump. Another kick, stronger this time.

“Little one’s gettin’ feisty,” Aoife murmured, her smile widening.

But Tom didn’t smile. His breath caught, and his face crumpled before he could stop it. His eyes squeezed shut, and a quiet, shuddering sob tore free from his throat.

“Hey…” Aoife’s smile faltered, her hand reaching for his face. “Hey, a stór …”

“I can’t… I can’t lose ye,” Tom choked out, his voice breaking. His hand trembled against her stomach. “I can’t… I can’t…”

Aoife shifted, sitting up enough to cradle his head against her chest. Tom broke apart then, the dam shattering, his sobs muffled against her skin as his arms locked tightly around her.

“I’m so scared,” he gasped. “I’m so scared I’m gonna lose ye… or the baby… or both… God, Róisín… I can’t… I can’t…”

“Ye won’t,” Aoife whispered fiercely, her hand sliding into his hair. “Ye won’t lose us.”

Tom just kept crying, all that fear and guilt and grief bleeding out of him in ragged sobs. Aoife rocked him gently, her fingers threading through his hair, smoothing it back like a mother calming her child.

Then, softly, she began to sing.

“Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are callin’…”

Her voice was soft and low, barely a whisper, but it wrapped around him like a blanket, warm and safe.

Tom’s breathing slowed, his sobs fading to quiet shudders. His grip on her loosened, one arm sliding off her waist, his fingers still faintly curled in her shirt.

“From glen to glen, and down the mountain side…”

Aoife’s voice trembled slightly but she kept singing, her fingers brushing tenderly through his hair.

And slowly… Tom’s breathing evened out. The tension drained from his body, and his head grew heavy against her chest.

Aoife kissed the top of his head, her lips lingering there a moment longer than needed.

“I’ve got ye,” she whispered, her hand still tangled in his hair. “I’ve got ye, Tommy… Always.”

Tom drifted off like that, safe in her arms, her voice still singing softly in the dark. His lighthouse in the storm.

#############

The room was bathed in morning light, familiar but wrong, like a memory blurred at the edges. The battered old couch, the scarred coffee table, the scent of motor oil and whiskey faint in the air, it was their old place in Lawrence. The home they lost. The home that never really felt like home at all.

Tom stood in the doorway, dressed in the same worn boots and flannel he’d fallen asleep in. The walls seemed to breathe, shifting slightly if he looked at them too long. He knew this wasn’t real.

“You’re late,” John Winchester’s voice rumbled from the shadows.

Tom’s head snapped toward the kitchen. His father was standing there, nursing a beer like it was just another night after work. He looked younger, the lines on his face less pronounced, his hair still dark at the temples. Like a man who hadn’t yet been completely broken by grief and rage. The man he'd once called Dad.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Tom muttered, stepping further into the room.

John huffed a humourless laugh. “Didn’t ask for your permission.”

Tom clenched his jaw. “Of course you didn’t.”

They stood there for a while, two men bound by blood and bitterness, staring each other down like rivals.

“You’ve been busy,” John said finally. “Messy work you’ve been getting into.”

“You mean saving lives or taking them?” Tom shot back. “I learned from the best.”

“Don’t start with that,” John warned, his voice low and sharp.

“Why not?” Tom barked. “You think I didn’t pick up a thing or two from watching you?” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re the reason I know how to keep my mouth shut. The reason I know how to push everything down and just… get on with it, no matter what it costs me.”

“You think I wanted that for you?” John snapped.

“I don’t know what you wanted,” Tom shot back. “I never did.”

John stepped closer, face hard and unreadable. “You think I had a choice?”

“You always had a choice,” Tom growled, his voice rising. “You just never chose us. Not really.”

John’s eyes darkened. “I kept you boys alive.”

“You kept us breathing,” Tom spat. “That’s not the same thing. You taught us to fight, to follow orders, but you never taught us how to live. All we knew was war, and you made sure we were damn good at it.”

John’s expression twisted, something between anger and regret. “I did what I had to.”

“No,” Tom said coldly. “You did what you wanted. What made you feel better. You told yourself you were protecting us, but you weren’t. You were just dragging us into your own damn war.”

His breath shook as he forced himself to keep going. “You know what I hate most? That I started doing the same thing. I left Aoife. I abandoned her because I thought… I thought that’s what you had to do, pick the fight before the family.” He swallowed hard. “But I’m not you.”

John’s expression faltered, just for a moment. “No,” he muttered. “You’re not.”

Tom’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected that.

“You think I don’t regret it?” John said quietly. “You think I don’t see Mary’s face every time I close my eyes?” His voice was rough, almost broken. “I lost her, Tom… and I didn’t know how to be anything but angry after that. So yeah, I screwed up. I screwed all of you up.”

For a second, just a second, Tom felt something ache inside his chest. But then his father’s face hardened again, like the admission had cost him something, and now he was scrambling to recover.

“But I kept you boys alive,” John said firmly. “And I’d do it again.”

Tom huffed a bitter laugh. “Yeah… I know you would.” He shook his head. “But I’m not gonna make the same mistakes.”

John’s face shifted, not anger this time. Something softer. Resigned.

“Good,” he said quietly.

Tom blinked, unsure if he’d heard him right.

“You take care of yourself,” John added, turning toward the door. His figure was fading now, the room flickering around him like a candle guttering out. “And take care of Aoife… and that baby of yours. My granddaughter only deserves the best.”

Tom’s breath caught. “How do you know about—?”

But John was already gone.

Tom woke with a sharp breath, blinking against the dim morning light spilling through the curtains. His chest felt hollow and heavy all at once. He lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, the ghost of his father’s voice still lingering in his head.

You’re not me .

##################

The afternoon sun hung low, painting the world in soft golds and lazy shadows. The park was alive with gentle noise: children laughing from the swings, the distant bark of a dog, the rhythmic creak of a stroller’s wheels rolling along the path. Tom’s hand remained locked in Aoife’s, his fingers curled tight around hers, like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

He couldn’t help it, his eyes kept darting around, watching every corner, every figure that moved too quickly. Old habits died hard, and for Tom Winchester, they never seemed to die at all.

Aoife didn’t seem to mind. She walked with her usual grace, her arm linked with his, a bright smile on her face. Every few steps, someone would greet her: “Afternoon, Aoife!” “How’s the baby doing?” “Tell Tom to take you out for dinner soon!” And she’d smile, every time, chatting back with warmth like she had all the time in the world.

Tom kept scanning, tracking a man walking his dog, clocking the old couple feeding pigeons, and counting the steps between himself and the nearest bench. His hand twitched against Aoife’s, knuckles tight. He couldn’t shake the feeling that anything could go wrong at any second.

But Aoife just squeezed his fingers, like she knew. Like she always knew.

“Relax, a stór ,” she murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “The world’s not out to get ye here.”

Tom huffed out a breath, forcing a smile. “Yeah?” His eyes flicked to a man with a leather jacket too heavy for the warm afternoon. “Yer sure about tha’?”

Aoife smiled, a real one, and turned her head, calling out, “Mornin’, Danny!” to the man Tom had been watching. He turned and grinned, raising his hand in greeting.

Danny. The bloke who ran the hardware shop.

Aoife looked at Tom, the corners of her mouth twitching with something just shy of teasing. “See?” she murmured, “Not every stranger’s a threat.”

“I’m still not convinced,” Tom muttered, his voice dry.

Aoife laughed quietly, her hand shifting to his arm, looping tighter like she could squeeze the tension right out of him. “Well,” she said, voice softer now, “ye don’t have to be.”

Tom blinked, turning to look at her fully: at her smile, at the way her hair caught the light, her eyes so warm and steady it made his chest ache. She wasn’t worried about the strangers, about the crowd or the noise. She was calm. She was safe. And somehow… she made him feel that way, too.

His hand loosened against hers, the tension draining from his shoulders, and for the first time in weeks, he let himself breathe.

They kept walking, slow and steady, and Tom found himself matching her rhythm, one easy step at a time. He wasn’t watching every corner now, wasn’t counting exit points, wasn’t calculating distance.

He was just there with her, listening as she told some long, winding story about the butcher’s cat sneaking into the bakery. He wasn’t even sure what the point of the story was, but Aoife’s voice? That was enough. Her voice was like a melody, filling the spaces in his head that were always too loud.

And for a beautiful, but brief fleeting moment, Tom let himself forget the weight of his life, the shadow of war and grief that had followed him for so long.

Because Aoife was his calm.

His peace.

His happiness.

################

The house smelled like butter and warm bread the moment Tom stepped through the door. The rich scent of something savoury lingered in the air, and faintly, the unmistakable sweetness of caramel.

“Róisín?” Tom called, toeing off his boots by the door. The house was dim, just a few warm lamps glowing in the corners.

“Living room!” she called back, her voice lilting and bright.

Tom turned the corner and stopped cold.

The coffee table was cluttered with plates, hot dogs piled high, each one dressed to perfection with mustard, relish, and onions. A big bowl of buttery popcorn sat in the middle, with smaller bowls of peanuts and Cracker Jacks circling it like some kind of snack altar. Two cold beers waited on coasters, and the old Yankees blanket; the one Aoife always claimed was “scratchy as hell” was draped across the back of the couch.

The TV was paused on the pre-game broadcast, players warming up on the field.

Aoife stood by the couch, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Thought ye could use a proper send-off,” she said, her hands proudly on her hips.

Tom just stared at her, eyes wide, and then he laughed. A deep, rich laugh that bubbled out before he could stop it. “Ye’re kiddin’,” he said, still grinning. “Where the hell did ye find Cracker Jacks?”

“I have my ways,” Aoife said smugly, winking.

Tom shook his head, still laughing as he crossed the room. “Ye’re impossible,” he muttered, and then he pulled her in, arms wrapping tight around her waist. He kissed her, hard and deep and desperate, like he was trying to pour all the words he couldn’t say into her.

Because God, he loved her. He loved her so much it hurt.

Aoife melted into him, her hands curling around his neck. When they finally broke apart, her forehead rested against his, her breath warm on his skin.

“Ye’re amazing,” Tom said softly, his voice rough.

“Ye’re damn right,” Aoife teased, but her smile turned softer, her fingers brushing his hair. “Now, c’mon,” she said, tugging him gently toward the couch. “Game’s about to start.”

Tom let himself be pulled, dropping down on the couch beside her. He didn’t even reach for his beer at first; he just sat there, watching her as she settled in beside him. She tucked her legs beneath her, resting her head against his shoulder like she always did.

For the next few hours, Tom let himself forget. Forget the monsters. Forget the war. Forget the mess waiting for him back on the road.

Instead, he laughed at the bad calls, groaned when the Yankees stranded a runner on third, and stole bites of Aoife’s popcorn when she wasn’t looking. She caught him, of course, she always did; but the mock glare she shot him was worth it just to hear her laugh again.

At some point between the sixth and seventh inning stretch, Aoife fell asleep against his shoulder, her breath soft and steady against his neck.

Tom didn’t move.

He just sat there, holding her close, memorising the curve of her pressed against his side, the way her fingers curled loosely into his shirt.

Tom didn’t feel like a soldier. He didn’t feel like a hunter. Or a man running from something dark and angry inside of him. He just felt like himself.

And for one perfect night, that was enough.

##############

The air hung heavy, still and warm, the faint hum of cicadas slipping through the cracked window. Tom sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The duffle bag at his feet looked too familiar, like an old friend he never wanted to see again.

Aoife shifted behind him, her hand sliding across his back, warm and grounding.

“Yer thinkin’ too loud again,” she murmured, voice soft with sleep.

Tom chuckled weakly, turning his head just enough to see her face. Her hair was a mess, her eyes still heavy-lidded; and yet, somehow, she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“I don’t wanna go back,” he said quietly, like the words might shatter something fragile in the air.

Aoife’s hand stilled, then shifted to his arm, curling around his wrist like an anchor.

“Then don’t,” she said simply, as if it were that easy. “Ye don’t have to.”

And God, she meant it. He could see it in her eyes, the way she held him like she could keep him safe from the weight of the world itself. He could stay. He could stay here with her, with their child, be the husband and father he always wanted to be. There was no judgment in her gaze, no expectation. Just endless, unwavering love.

For a moment, he let himself imagine it: mornings spent changing nappies and half-burned breakfasts, evenings spent laughing at Aoife’s bad jokes while their baby gurgled in the bassinet. Late-night feedings where he’d hum lullabies in Gaelic, whispering promises that this world would be kinder to her than it had been to him.

But no matter how much he wanted it or how desperately he craved that peace… he couldn’t do it.

“I have to,” Tom said finally, voice thick. “I’ve left them too many times already.” He blinked hard, jaw tightening. “If I don’t go… I don’t know if they’ll make it.”

Aoife’s fingers twitched, gripping him tighter like she was trying to hold him there. “They always make it,” she whispered.

“Not without scars,” Tom rasped. His voice broke, and his eyes fell shut. “And I don’t know how many more of those they can take.”

Aoife shifted closer, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. Her hand slid down to his palm, her fingers curling between his own.

“Ye’ll come home,” she murmured, squeezing his hand. “Ye hear me? Ye’ll come home, Tom.”

Tom swallowed hard, breathing in her warmth, the scent of her hair, like fresh linen and lavender, and let it soothe the storm inside his chest.

“I’ll come home,” he promised, squeezing back. “I swear.”

Aoife’s lips pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder before she whispered against his skin, “Good. Because if ye don’t… I’ll drag yer stubborn arse back meself.”

Tom laughed quietly, the sound breaking on something like a sob. He turned, cupping her face with calloused hands, and kissed her, slow and desperate, like he was trying to memorise the feeling.

“I love ye,” he said, forehead pressed to hers.

“I know,” Aoife whispered, fingers curling into his shirt. “I love ye, too.”

For a moment, they just breathed together, her heartbeat steady beneath his palm. Steady enough to carry him through whatever waited on the other side.

################

The night was still, the kind of quiet that only came in the small hours before dawn. Tom worked in silence, moving steadily from door to door, blade in hand. He painted angel sigils into the wood, precise, practised movements, his fingers tracing each line as though he could will the whole world to leave his family alone if he just bled for it enough.

Aoife stood nearby, watching quietly. She said nothing but just stood there, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression a careful mask. But Tom knew her. He knew the way her brows pinched when she was worried. He knew the way her fingers tapped against her arm when she was biting her tongue.

“You know why I’m doing this,” Tom said softly, finishing the final line of the sigil on the back door. “Just… just in case.”

“I know,” Aoife said, her voice equally soft. “I still hate it.”

Tom set the knife down and turned to her. “I know,” he said again.

But she didn’t argue. She just walked with him as he moved from room to room, painting a devil’s trap on the ceiling of each entrance. His strokes were smooth and steady, but he knew she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched when his ribs ached from the bruises that hadn’t fully healed yet.

By the time he set the brush down, Aoife’s hand was on his arm. “Ye’re done now,” she said. It wasn’t a question, it was a plea.

Tom nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m done.”

They turned in for the night, but neither of them slept much. Aoife curled into his side, her arm draped over his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. Tom kept his arm wrapped tight around her, fingers splayed wide over the gentle curve of her belly in a silent promise.

He didn’t remember drifting off, but when the morning came, he knew it was time.

The morning light spilt golden across their kitchen floor, turning Aoife’s ginger hair into spun gold as she stood barefoot by the doorway, arms wrapped around herself. She looked like something out of a warm, glowing, heartbreakingly beautiful painting.

Tom swallowed hard and crossed the room to her, pulling her into his arms. He held her tight, tighter than he probably should have but she didn’t protest. Instead, she clutched him right back, her fingers fisting in his shirt like she never wanted to let go.

“Ye’re so loved,” Tom whispered into her hair. His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. “Both of you, you and our girl. I need you to know that.”

“I know,” Aoife whispered back, her breath warm against his collar. “I know.”

“I’m coming back,” Tom swore. “I’ll be back before you know it, and I’m gonna hold my little girl. I swear to God, Aoife. I’m gonna hold her.”

“You better,” she choked out.

Tom cupped her face, thumbs brushing over her cheeks. He kissed her once, slow and lingering, trying to memorise her. Then he kissed her again, desperately, like he was trying to convince himself to stay.

But he couldn’t. He knew that. And she knew that, too.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” Aoife said back. “More than anything.”

Tom lingered on the porch, duffle slung over his shoulder. He didn’t look back when he reached his truck, he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave if he did.

He tossed his bag in the passenger seat, exhaled, and started the engine.

As the wheels crunched against gravel and the house disappeared in the rearview mirror, Tom felt his heart ache, hollow and heavy.

But the promise stayed with him; a quiet, burning thing in his chest.

He would come home.

He would hold his little girl.

And no matter what came next, he would fight like hell to make sure he kept that promise.

#################

 Sam sat at the table, flipping through John’s journal, though his eyes barely scanned the pages. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, rolling a poker chip absently between his fingers. Neither of them spoke. The tension sat between them like an unwelcome guest; a mixture of frustration, concern, and something else they hadn’t found the words for yet.

The click of the lock broke the silence. Both brothers looked up just as Tom stepped through the door. He lingered in the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder, face drawn and exhausted. He hesitated, scanning the room like he wasn’t sure he belonged there anymore.

“Hey,” Tom said, his voice low and unsure.

Dean’s fingers stilled on the poker chip. “Took you long enough,” he said flatly.

Tom let out a dry breath, like he’d expected the jab. He set his bag down by the door and shrugged off his jacket, never meeting their eyes.

“I said I’d be back in a week,” Tom muttered. “It’s been a week.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice tightened. “And what, you just needed some me time? Needed to… what? Clear your head?”

His tone was sharper than he intended, too much hurt bleeding through.

“Yeah, Dean,” Tom shot back, just as tired. “Something like that.”

Sam stood slowly, the tension curling in his chest. “Tom… you okay?”

Tom scoffed under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked hollow, like whatever weight he’d been carrying when he left was still dragging behind him. Finally, he met Sam’s eyes, and something in his face faltered.

“I don’t know,” Tom admitted. His voice was quieter this time, like he hated the words as they left his mouth. “I thought… I thought if I just took a few days, if I got some space… I could get my head right. Figure out how to stop feeling like I’m drowning all the time.”

He let out a bitter laugh, sharp and humourless. “Turns out you can’t outrun this crap.”

Dean’s voice hardened. “You could’ve talked to us.”

Tom’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with something volatile. “What, like you’d understand?” His voice cracked with the weight of it, too raw, too much.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to have blood on my hands?” Dean fired back.

“It’s different, Dean!” Tom’s voice rose sharply, breaking on the words. His breath hitched, and he ran a hand over his face, voice shaking now. “You hunt monsters, you kill things that deserve it. I shot a kid.” He swallowed hard. “An eight-year-old kid. He looked right at me, and I… I pulled the trigger. Because I had to. Because that’s what the job demanded.”

The words came out in a rush, like they’d been bottled up too long and now wouldn’t stop. His voice cracked again, quieter this time, unsteady.

“I can still see his face,” Tom whispered. “Every time I close my eyes… I still see him.”

Dean sat still, face tight with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. His fingers curled into his palms.

“You think I don’t see faces too?” Dean asked, voice low.

Tom’s shoulders slumped, his breath unsteady. “I know,” he murmured. “I know you do… but you didn’t shoot a child. A human child whose only crime was being born on the wrong side.”

The room felt too small, too quiet. Tom reached absently for his St. Christopher pendant, fingers closing around the worn metal like a lifeline.

“I keep thinking… maybe if I’d hesitated just a second longer, if I’d tried harder… I could’ve… I don’t know… found a way to save him.”

Dean shifted forward. “You know what Dad used to say… ‘You can’t save ‘em all.’”

Tom’s laugh was bitter, sharp enough to cut. “Yeah, well… I wasn’t trying to save them all. Just one. Just one kid.”

For a long moment, no one said anything. Then Sam moved quietly across the room, placing a hand on Tom’s shoulder, steady and warm.

“You’re here now,” Sam said softly. “That’s what matters.”

Tom’s face crumpled, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. Dean crossed the room too, resting a firm hand on Tom’s back, no words, just a solid, grounding presence.

“Yeah,” Tom rasped. “Yeah, okay.”

A beat passed, and then Dean clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt him upright. “All right, enough with the chick flick moment,” Dean said, grinning just enough to break the tension. “You buying dinner or what?”

Tom barked out a laugh, rough but real.

“Yeah,” Tom said, grabbing his jacket. “Yeah, I’m buying.”

Sam lingered just long enough to watch Tom as he headed for the door. He looked better; still worn, still tired, but steadier now. Stronger.

Sam smiled to himself and followed them out. The door clicked shut behind them, the weight of the evening lifting just enough to let them breathe.

Chapter Text

The television flickered in the motel room, the familiar sounds of overly dramatic dialogue and synthetic hospital beeps filling the air. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, engrossed in Dr. Sexy, M.D. The exaggerated romance and tension played out on screen as a doctor and nurse tangled themselves in a passionate embrace. On the other side of the room, Tom sat at the small table, a disassembled handgun laid out neatly in front of him. His fingers moved methodically, cleaning each piece with precision. His return had been a quiet one, and although tension still surrounded the three, Tom seemed to readjust quite quickly.

“What are you watching?” Sam asked, stepping into the room while adjusting his suit jacket.

“Hospital show,” Dean muttered, eyes still glued to the screen. "Dr. Sexy, M.D. I think it's based on a book."

Sam scoffed. “When did you hit menopause?”

Dean grabbed the remote and turned the TV off with an irritated grunt.

“It’s called channel surfing,” he grumbled defensively.

From the table, Tom snorted without looking up. “Yeah,” he muttered dryly. “That’s why you’ve been watching it for the past two hours.”

Dean shot him a petulant glare but didn’t argue. Tom resumed assembling his gun, sliding the magazine back into place with a sharp click. He wiped his hands on a rag, sighing heavily.

“You ready?” Dean asked, reaching for his keys.

“Are you?” Sam shot back with a knowing smirk. Dean huffed and led the way out the door, Tom following closely behind.

#############

The police station smelled like stale coffee and cold metal. A tired-looking officer leaned forward across his desk, clearly unimpressed with the three men before him.

“One more time,” the officer said wearily. “The FBI is here why, exactly?”

Tom opened his mouth to speak, but Dean beat him to it. “Might have something to do with one of your locals getting his head ripped off,” Dean said. Tom shot him a look but chose not to comment.

The officer rubbed his temple. “Bill Randolph died from a bear attack.”

“How sure are you that it was a bear?” Sam pressed.

“What else would it be?” the officer replied with a shrug.

Dean leaned forward slightly. “Well, whatever it was, it chased Mr. Randolph through the woods, smashed through his front door, followed him up the stairs, and killed him in his bedroom. Bears usually give up before redecorating the whole house.”

“Depends how pissed off it is, I guess,” the officer grunted. “Look, the Randolphs live way up in high country. You got trout runs to make a grown man weep.”

“And bears?” Tom cut in.

The officer gave him a firm nod. “And bears.”

Sam leaned in. “Right. Now, what about Mrs. Randolph? The file says she saw the whole thing.”

The officer sighed. “Yeah, she did. My heart goes out to that poor woman.”

“My condolences to her,” Tom added quietly. “Hell of an ordeal.” The officer nodded in appreciation.

“She said bear,” Dean cut in.

“Kathy Randolph went through a hell of a trauma,” the officer said defensively. “She’s confused.”

Sam frowned. “What did she say?”

#############

The interview room was cold and clinical. Kathy Randolph sat across the table, her fingers wringing a damp tissue. Sam and Dean flanked her on either side of the table, while Tom leaned silently against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His sharp gaze never left her face.

“No, it must have been a bear,” Kathy said shakily. “I mean, what else could it have been?”

“Mrs. Randolph,” Sam asked gently. “What do you think it was?”

She looked down, fingers twisting her tissue into shreds. “No, I... I remember clearly now. It was definitely a bear.”

Dean smiled faintly. “We’re sure it was. But see, it helps us to hear every angle. So just tell us what you thought you saw.”

Tom shifted his stance against the wall, unfolding his arms. His voice softened. “Any detail could be important, ma'am. Trust me when I say we've heard it all.” He offered her a gentle smile, encouraging her to continue.

Kathy took a breath, voice lowering. “It's impossible, but... I could have sworn I saw... the Incredible Hulk.”

Sam blinked. “The Incredible Hulk.”

Kathy sighed miserably. “I told you it was crazy.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Bana or Norton?”

Kathy shook her head. “Oh no, those movies were terrible. The TV Hulk.”

“Lou Ferrigno,” Dean said, surprised.

“Yes.”

“Spiky-hair Lou Ferrigno?”

“Yes,” Kathy insisted.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. Tom stared hard at the floor, his instincts flaring. Something wasn’t right.

“You think I’m crazy,” Kathy muttered.

“No,” Dean said quickly. “Uh, no, it's just... is there, uh, would there be any reason that Lou Ferrigno, the Incredible Hulk, would have a grudge against your husband?”

Kathy gave a small, defeated laugh. “No.”

“No,” Dean echoed, clearly uncertain.

Tom pushed away from the wall, stepping forward. "Thank you for your time, ma'am," he said softly. "That will be all, and trust us when we say we'll look into this for you."

Kathy managed a small, grateful smile. Tom held her gaze for a moment longer before following Sam and Dean out the door, his gut churning with unease.

##########################

The motel room was dimly lit, the flickering lamp on the table barely illuminating the peeling wallpaper. Dean sat hunched over his laptop, fingers clacking against the keyboard as he scrolled through an article titled "Local Man Killed in Bear Attack" from the Wellington Guardian. Across the room, Tom sat on the edge of the bed, fingers rhythmically stroking the silver St. Christopher pendant around his neck. His gaze was distant, lost somewhere far away, somewhere darker.

The door creaked open, and Sam walked in, shrugging off his jacket. Tom barely looked up, his thumb still tracing the smooth metal.

"Hey," Sam greeted, tossing his jacket on the chair.

Dean didn’t look away from his screen. "Find anything?"

"Well," Sam began, "I saw the house."

Dean’s head tilted up slightly. "And?"

"And there's a giant eight-foot-wide hole where the front door used to be. Almost like, uh—"

"A Hulk-sized hole," Dean finished with a grim smile.

"Maybe," Sam muttered. "What do you got?"

"Turns out Bill Randolph had quite the temper." Dean clicked to another tab, turning the screen slightly so Sam and Tom could see. "He's got two counts of spousal battery, bar brawls, and court-ordered anger management sessions. You might say you wouldn't like him when he's angry."

Tom let out a humourless scoff under his breath. "Yeah," he muttered. "Sounds like karma caught up with him."

"So a hothead getting killed by TV’s greatest hothead," Sam added, crossing his arms. "Kinda sounds like just desserts, doesn’t it?"

Dean snorted in agreement.

"It's all starting to make sense," Sam continued.

"How is it starting to make sense?" Dean asked, brow furrowing.

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of brightly colored wrappers. "Candy wrappers," he announced, dumping them onto the table. "Lots of them."

Dean stared for a second before realisation dawned. "Just desserts, sweet tooth, screwing with people before you kill 'em..." His voice hardened. "We're dealing with the Trickster, aren't we?"

"Sure looks like it," Sam agreed.

Dean’s lips curled into a vindictive grin. "Good. I've wanted to gank that bastard since Mystery Spot."

Sam glanced up, tension flickering behind his eyes. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Dean replied firmly.

"No," Sam interjected. "I mean, are you sure you wanna kill him?"

Dean’s expression soured. "Son of a bitch didn’t think twice about icing me a thousand times."

"I know," Sam said quickly. "But I’m just saying, "

"What are you saying?" Dean shot back. "If you don’t want to kill him, then what?"

"Talk to him?" Sam suggested, voice unsure.

Tom blinked, eyebrows raising slightly. "Talk to him? Seriously?"

"Think about it," Sam pressed on. "He's one of the most powerful creatures we’ve ever met. Maybe we can use him."

Dean scoffed. "For what?"

"Okay, Trickster’s like a Hugh Hefner type, right? Wine, women, song… maybe he doesn’t want the party to end. Maybe he hates this angels and demons stuff as much as we do. Maybe he’ll help us."

"You’re serious," Dean said flatly.

"Yeah."

"Ally with the Trickster," Dean repeated dryly.

"Yeah," Sam confirmed.

"A bloody, violent monster, and you wanna be Facebook friends with him? Nice, Sammy."

"The world is gonna end," Sam argued. "We don’t have the luxury of a moral stand. Look, I’m just saying it’s worth a shot. That’s all. If it doesn’t work, we’ll kill him."

Dean sighed heavily. "How are we gonna find the guy, anyway?"

"Well," Sam said, "he never takes just one victim, right? He’ll show."

The room went quiet, save for the dull scrape of Dean sharpening a wooden stake. Sam stared blankly at the police scanner on the table, its static occasionally breaking into words. Tom still hadn’t spoken since his earlier comment, instead quietly dismantling and cleaning his handgun on the bed. His hands worked methodically, almost mechanical in their precision.

"Hey," Sam muttered suddenly, sitting forward.

Dean stopped sharpening, focusing on the scanner.

"Um, Dispatch?" the crackling voice over the scanner stuttered. "I, I got a possible 187 out here at the old paper mill on Route 6?"

"That sounds weird," Dean muttered.

"Weird enough to be our guy," Sam said grimly.

Dean grabbed his stake and headed for the door. Tom didn’t move immediately, finally setting his gun down and exhaling slowly. He didn’t like this one bit.

##################

The three of them pulled up to the old warehouse. The Impala’s headlights cut through the gloom, highlighting the empty lot. No police lights. No patrol cars. No signs of life.

Dean stepped out first, surveying the area. "There was a murder here, and there’s no police cars. There’s nobody. How’s that look to you?"

"Crappy," Sam answered.

“The most obvious trap of all time,” Tom grunted.

Dean went to the trunk, pulling out two stakes and two flashlights. He handed one of each to Sam and wordlessly offered a stake to Tom. Tom hesitated for a beat before taking it. His grip tightened around the wood like a vice.

"You good?" Dean asked quietly.

Tom’s gaze lingered on the darkened warehouse. "Yeah," he muttered. "Let’s finish this."

The three brothers fell into step, shoulders tense, as they moved toward the shadows ahead.

##############

Tom opened his eyes to the dim glow of fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The air smelled like sweat, stale coffee, and gun oil: sharp, metallic, and all too familiar. His head throbbed as he sat up, blinking against the haze clouding his thoughts.

"Rise and shine, Winchester," a voice called out.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder, rough and friendly. Tom flinched. The man standing beside him wore dusty fatigues, his face smudged with dirt and exhaustion. His name was stitched over his chest, Morrison, and he grinned like they’d known each other forever.

"Time to go," Morrison said, grabbing his rifle from the rack. "Gear up. We’ve got movement at checkpoint four."

"Wait..." Tom rasped, voice dry. "I... I don’t..." His eyes swept the room; rows of battered metal bunks, soldiers groaning as they forced on boots and jackets. It didn’t make sense. He hadn’t been here in... years.

"C'mon, man," Morrison said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "We need your eyes out there. Let's go."

Tom felt his hands moving before his brain could catch up. Muscle memory kicked in, and soon, his boots were laced, his jacket on, and his rifle slung across his back. His fingers brushed his St. Christopher pendant under his shirt, and for a brief second, he felt like this wasn’t real. But then Morrison barked at him again, and that doubt slipped away. Instinct had taken over. Just follow orders. Just keep moving.

The patrol crept along the tree line, mud sucking at Tom’s boots as he crouched low in the underbrush. His rifle settled against his shoulder, his eye lined up perfectly with the scope.

Something’s wrong, his mind whispered. This isn’t right. But the scope narrowed his world to a tunnel, and that cold, familiar focus drowned out the noise in his head. All that mattered now was what was in front of him.

Morrison tapped his shoulder and pointed toward a clearing ahead, at three figures moving between trees—shadows in the dark.

"Hostiles," Morrison whispered. "We need you to take the shot."

Tom’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. His finger hovered over the trigger.

"Take the shot," Morrison ordered, his voice firmer now. "Do it."

Tom didn’t remember deciding to pull the trigger, but suddenly the shot rang out. One of the figures dropped. Then came the screams.

"Another!" Morrison barked.

Tom swivelled the rifle, finger trembling on the trigger. Another shot. Another body fell. The third shadow bolted into the trees, but Tom got him before he could stray too far. His body crumpled mid-run, body lying still. The smoke cleared, and the silence was deafening.

"Nice work," Morrison muttered, clapping him on the back again. "Right between the eyes."

Tom’s stomach twisted as he lowered his rifle. He forced himself forward with the others, boots crunching through leaves and brush until he was standing over the first body. The figure stared blankly at the sky, face slack and still.  He was a young man, barely older than 18.

"No..." Tom whispered. His vision blurred. "No, this... this isn’t..."

"Rough break, huh?"

The voice made him turn sharply, and suddenly Morrison was gone. Instead, the Trickster stood there, flashing a smug grin, lollipop tucked between his teeth like he didn’t have a care in the world.

"Who are you?" Tom rasped.

"Me? I’m just your friendly neighbourhood Trickster! Nice to finally meet you, big brother," the Trickster shot back, grinning widely. "You know, you’re better at this than I thought. Real clean shooting, soldier." He popped the lollipop out of his mouth and twirled it lazily between his fingers. "Bet it’s just like riding a bike."

"This isn’t real," Tom muttered, shaking his head. "I didn’t,  this didn’t happen."

"Oh yeah?" The Trickster grinned wider. "Could’ve fooled me." His tone shifted, but it was too light, too casual. "But hey, you’re used to this, right? Putting ‘em down and moving on? Do your job and pretend you’re not leaving a trail of bodies behind you?"

"Shut up," Tom snapped.

"No, no, keep listening." The Trickster stepped closer, a lollipop tapping against his chin like a conductor's baton. You think you can fix what you’ve done by patching up a few broken soldiers back at the VA? You think that makes you better? Like you’re... what... washing the blood off your hands?" His smile sharpened. You really think you’re ever going to scrub clean?"

"I’m not a killer," Tom growled, voice shaking. "Not anymore."

"You’re exactly that," the Trickster sneered. "You think you’re done fighting? Nah, Tom. You’re gonna say yes when the time comes." He stepped closer, close enough that Tom could see his reflection in the Trickster’s eyes: haunted, worn, and bloody.

"You’re a good soldier," the Trickster murmured, almost kind. "And you know what good soldiers do? They follow orders. Remiel’s gonna call you up when your brothers screw up again... and you’re gonna step right in, same as you always do." He grinned, flashing his teeth. "Because you just love bleeding for people who don’t deserve you."

"I won’t," Tom whispered.

"Oh, you will." The Trickster’s grin widened. "Because deep down? You know you’re not here to save anyone. You’re just here to take the hit so they don’t have to. Because that’s all you’ve ever been good for."

The Trickster snapped his fingers, and the world fell away.

########################

The sterile scent of disinfectant hung heavy in the air, the faint beeping of heart monitors echoing down the pristine hospital corridor. Sam and Dean stood in the middle of the hall, both clad in crisp white lab coats. Sam glanced around, brows knitting in confusion. Dean mirrored the look, checking his own attire with a furrowed brow.

"What the hell?" Dean muttered.

A blonde doctor passed by, nodding politely.

"Doctor," she greeted.

"Doctor," an Asian doctor, her badge reading Dr. Wang, responded in kind as she strode past.

"Doctor?" Sam echoed, bewildered.

Still visibly unsettled, Dean turned and yanked open the door they had just entered through, only to be met with the sight of a janitor’s closet. Inside, a man and a woman were pressed against the shelves, locked in an intense make-out session. Dean’s eyes widened, and he slammed the door shut again, his face twisted in disturbed confusion.

“Okay, what the hell…” he muttered.

Before either could process the situation, a brunette doctor turned away from the receptionist's desk and marched directly toward them. Sam barely had time to register her resemblance to someone familiar before she stopped in front of him.

"Doctor," she greeted curtly, then slapped him hard.

"Ow!" Sam staggered back, cradling his face.

"Seriously?" the brunette snapped, glaring at him.

“What?” Sam spluttered.

“Seriously?” she repeated, incredulous. "You're brilliant, you know that? And a coward. You're a brilliant coward."

Sam blinked, utterly baffled. "Um... what are you talking about?"

The brunette doctor scowled and slapped him again, even harder this time.

"As if you don't know!" she snapped before storming off down the hall.

Dean stood frozen, his expression pure awe, like he'd just witnessed a miracle. His gaze followed the brunette, practically starstruck.

“I don’t believe this,” Dean muttered, dazed.

“What?” Sam demanded, still rubbing his face.

“That’s... that’s Dr. Piccolo,” Dean said with reverence.

“Who?” Sam shot back.

“Dr. Ellen Piccolo,” Dean said, pointing toward the woman’s retreating form. His eyes lit up with something akin to childlike wonder.

“The sexy yet earnest doctor at—"

Before he could finish the thought, his gaze shifted to the large sign behind the receptionist’s desk. His face twisted with frustration as he read it aloud.

“ Seattle Mercy Hospital,” Dean muttered in disbelief.

“Dean,” Sam began warily, still half-wincing from his stinging cheek. "What the hell are you talking about? And where the hell is Tom?"

“The doctors' getups. The sexy interns. The ‘seriously’s. It all makes sense.”

“What makes sense?” Sam pressed. “What's going on?”

Dean’s face twisted in grim realisation. “We're in Dr. Sexy, MD. ”

###############

Dean and Sam moved through the brightly lit hospital corridors. Fluorescent lights flickered faintly overhead, bathing everything in a harsh white glow. Dean’s scowl deepened with every step.

“Dude, what the hell?” Dean hissed.

“I don’t know,” Sam said, glancing over his shoulder.

“No, seriously, what the hell?” Dean repeated, his frustration mounting.

“I don’t know,” Sam shot back with growing irritation.

Dean huffed. “One theory. Any theory.”

Sam shrugged helplessly. “Uh… the Trickster trapped us in TV Land?”

“That’s your theory?” Dean scoffed. “That’s stupid.”

“You’re the one who said we’re in Dr. Sexy, M.D. ”

“Yeah, but TV Land isn’t… TV Land,” Dean argued. “There’s actors and lights and crew members. This looks real .”

“It can’t be,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Dean, how can this possibly be real? And where the hell is Tom? I could’ve sworn he was with us.”

Dean frowned, unease curling in his gut. “I don’t know.”

Ahead, Dr. Wang strode past them, clipboard in hand.

“Doctors,” she greeted flatly.

Dean turned to follow her with his gaze, recognising her instantly. “There goes Dr. Wang,” he muttered. “The sexy but arrogant heart surgeon.”

As he tracked her down the hallway, Dean’s eyes caught another figure, a man perched on a gurney. His breath hitched. “And there’s Johnny Drake,” Dean said, voice incredulous. “Oh, he’s not even alive. He’s a ghost in the mind of…”

His voice trailed off as another brunette doctor joined Johnny, sitting at his side.

“…Of her,” Dean added grimly. “The sexy yet neurotic doctor.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “So… this show has ghosts now? Why?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know… it’s compelling.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a fan.”

“I’m not,” Dean snapped quickly. “I’m not.”

Then Dean froze mid-step. His expression faltered, eyes wide. “Oh boy.”

“What?” Sam asked, instantly on alert.

“It’s him,” Dean said, voice almost reverent.

“Who?”

Dean’s gaze locked on a tall, imposing figure walking down the corridor in scrubs. It was none other than Dr. Sexy, MD. “It’s him,” Dean said in awe. “It’s Dr. Sexy.”

Dr. Palmer stopped in front of them, looking them both over. “Doctor,” he greeted.

Dean ducked his head, trying to hide the giddy smile creeping onto his face. “Doctor,” he replied shyly.

Dr. Palmer turned to Sam. “Doctor.”

Sam, still baffled, just nodded awkwardly. Dean punched him in the arm.

“Doctor,” Sam corrected hastily.

Then Dr. Palmer turned to someone neither Dean nor Sam had noticed before. Tom stood in scrubs, blinking heavily as if adjusting to the light. His face was pale, eyes glazed, like someone who had just stepped off a battlefield and found himself in a hospital ward. His shoulders were rigid, his movements uneasy. It was like he was still listening for explosions in the distance.

“Doctor Thomas,” Dr. Palmer ordered, curt and authoritative. “Follow that intern. You’re needed elsewhere.”

Tom’s head jerked up, confusion flickering in his eyes. “I— I don’t understand,” Tom stammered. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. “I was just… where am I?”

“I won’t repeat myself,” Dr. Palmer snapped. “Follow the intern.”

“But—”

“Just listen to the doctor,” Dean cut in, voice low and wary.

Tom’s mouth opened as if he wanted to argue, but the weariness in his eyes won out. He blinked, still dazed, and allowed the young woman beside him to guide him away gently. His movements were stiff, as if every step hurt. Sam stared after him, a flicker of concern crossing his face.

“Where the hell did he come from?” Sam muttered.

“I don’t know,” Dean said darkly. “But this just got a whole lot weirder.”

Turning back to Dr. Palmer, Dean was suddenly met with a hard stare.

“You want to give me one good reason why you defied my direct order to do the experimental face transplant on Mrs. Biehl?” Dr. Palmer demanded.

Dean’s awe faded into confusion. He blinked at Sam, then back at Dr. Palmer. “One reason?”

Dr. Palmer nodded stiffly.

“Sure,” Dean wavered, narrowing his eyes in thought. He glanced downward and froze—white tennis shoes.

“You’re not Dr. Sexy,” Dean growled, seizing Dr. Palmer by the collar and slamming him into the wall.

“You’re crazy,” Dr. Palmer sputtered.

“Really?” Dean shot back. “Because I swore part of what makes Dr. Sexy sexy is the fact that he wears cowboy boots. Not tennis shoes.”

“You’re not a fan, huh?” Sam snarked, smirking.

“It’s a guilty pleasure,” Dean shot back.

“Call security!” Dr. Palmer barked.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Dean challenged, gripping tighter. “See, we know exactly who you are.”

Suddenly, the hall shifted. Dr. Wang, the blonde doctor, and a security guard all froze mid-stride. The extras were frozen in place, motionless. Only Dean, Sam, and Dr. Palmer remained active.

Dean’s grip faltered as Dr. Palmer’s face split into the smug, familiar grin of the Trickster.

“You guys are getting better!” the Trickster said with a laugh.

“Get us the hell out of here,” Dean growled.

“Or what?” The Trickster grabbed Dean’s arm and twisted painfully.

“Don’t say you’ve got wooden stakes, big guy,” he sneered.

“That was you on the police scanner, right?” Sam shot in. “This is a trick.”

“Hello? Trickster,” the Trickster said proudly. “Come on! I heard you two yahoos were in town. How could I resist?”

“Where the hell are we?” Dean barked.

“Like it?” The Trickster grinned, rapping his knuckles against the window of a nearby door. “It’s all homemade. My own sets... my own actors…” He gestured toward the frozen extras. “Call it my own little idiot box.”

“How do we get out?” Dean demanded.

“That, my friend, is the sixty-four-dollar question.”

“Whatever,” Sam cut in. “We just— we need to talk to you. We need your help.”

“Let me guess,” The Trickster drawled. “You two muttonheads broke the world, and now you want me to sweep up your mess.”

“Please,” Sam urged. “Just five minutes. Hear us out.”

The Trickster gave a lazy smile. “Sure. Tell you what. Survive the next twenty-four hours… we’ll talk.”

Dean glowered. “Survive what?”

The Trickster’s grin widened. “The game.”

“What game?” Dean growled.

“You’re in it.”

“How do we play?” Sam asked.

“You’re playing it.”

“What are the rules?”

The Trickster’s grin sharpened, and with a snap of his fingers, he vanished in a burst of static. The extras unfroze as if nothing had happened.

Dean exhaled sharply. “Oh, son of a bitch.”

##############

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Tom stumbled down the corridor. His breath came fast and shallow, his mind still stuck somewhere far away. His boots, no, his shoes now, white and too clean, scuffed against the tile floor. His fingers twitched like they were still searching for his rifle, like his body couldn’t entirely accept that the warzone had vanished.

“Doctor?” the intern’s voice broke through the fog. Tom blinked rapidly, turning to her. The concern in her eyes was clear, her gaze flicking over him like she was trying to figure out if he was about to faint.

“Yeah,” Tom rasped. His voice sounded off: too thin, too unsure. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just…” He shook his head as if that might clear the smoke from his mind. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Oh.” The intern smiled, bright but uncertain. “Well… your next patient’s through these doors.” She gestured toward a set of sliding glass doors, giving him a smile that tried to be reassuring.

Tom barely nodded before pushing through the doors.

His heart stopped.

The room was quiet except for the faint mechanical beeping of monitors and the soft hiss of oxygen. A baby inside an incubator was in the centre of it all, small and fragile. Tubes and wires trailed from her tiny limbs, her thin chest rising and falling with each strained breath. She couldn’t have been more than two pounds, a preemie fighting desperately to survive.

“She was born at 26 weeks,” the intern began, her tone clinical and steady as she rattled off the long list of medical complications. “She’s got a perforated bowel, pulmonary hypertension, and a ventricular septal defect, that’s the hole in her heart.” The medical jargon blurred together, a tangled mess of unfamiliar terms that Tom couldn’t follow.

“How would you like to proceed, Doctor?” the intern asked, pen poised over her chart.

Tom’s gaze shot to her. “Me?” he repeated incredulously. “I don’t know what to do here!”

The intern blinked at him, confused. “You’re the number one pediatric surgeon in the country, Doctor.” Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“ I-I’m not,” Tom stammered, his voice low and rough. “I don’t know what to do here.”

The intern’s frown deepened. “Doctor… I know the Thompson case was tough,” she said gently. “I know you lost the kid, but that doesn’t erase every single child you’ve saved.” She gestured to the glass window on the far side of the room. A man and a woman stood just beyond it, holding each other tightly, their faces blotched with tears. The mother’s face was pressed to the father’s shoulder, shaking with barely-contained grief.

“Are you going to tell them you can’t save their child?” the intern asked softly.

Tom swallowed hard. His chest tightened, the weight of those words settling heavy on his ribs. He could feel the pressure rising, the same helplessness that clung to him on the battlefield when the gunfire was too loud and the bodies lay still in the dirt.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to tell them,” he muttered.

The intern blanched. “Doctor Tho—”

“Don’t,” Tom cut her off, his voice sharp and uneven. “I’m… I’m sorry. Find someone else. I can’t save her.”

“You’re just going to walk away?” a new voice cut in, smug and cruel.

Tom’s head jerked up, and the intern, the monitors, the crying parents all vanished like smoke. The sterile hospital room twisted and warped, and suddenly the Trickster was there, lounging beside the now-empty incubator with a lazy grin on his face.

“You see, Tom?” The Trickster’s voice dripped with mockery. “You get it deep down. You can’t save anyone.”

“You son of a bitch,” Tom growled, clenching his fists.

The Trickster smirked wider. “I’m just saying what you already believe.” He stood, pacing lazily around the room. “You can blame it on the war, on the choices you made, but the truth?” He jabbed a finger at Tom’s chest. “You know it’s not just bad luck. You’re a grenade with the pin half-out, just waiting to blow. Everyone around you? They pay the price.”

“Shut up,” Tom said coldly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, I get it,” the Trickster sneered, leaning closer. “It’s easier to pretend you’re still a soldier. You know, taking orders, following orders, shutting everything else out. Because you know if you stop and think for even one second…” The Trickster chuckled darkly. “You’ll realise it’s all your fault.”

Tom’s breath hitched, fingers curling tighter into fists.

“You’ve been telling yourself you can fix things,” the Trickster went on, voice low and silky. “Like you’re gonna make things right, like you’re gonna save the day. But you know the truth. You can’t save anyone.”

“Shut up!” Tom barked, but his voice wavered, too thin to sound like a threat.

The Trickster only grinned wider. “And the sooner you admit that…” He snapped his fingers, and the room shifted again, the incubator, the sterile hospital floor all dissolving into nothing. “…the easier it’ll be.”

Then everything blinked out of existence.

#####################

The flashing lights beamed harshly, flickering reds and yellows casting a dizzying glow over the garish game show set. Tom, Sam, and Dean stood stiffly behind their podiums, each man eyeing the dreaded padded ball-whacker with dread.

“What the hell is this?” Dean grunted, voice tight.

“Some kind of Japanese game show, signs say Nutcracker.” Tom absently responded, his gaze fixed on the grinning Japanese host who now bounced excitedly at centre stage.

Dean’s head jerked toward him. “Since when do you know Japanese?”

“I like to read,” Tom shot back sourly, eyes never leaving the host.

The host shouted something rapid and theatrical, clapping his hands together and gesturing to the Nutcracker.

“What’s he saying?” Sam asked warily.

“Answer the questions,” Tom answered grimly. “Or get whacked.”

“Oh great,” Dean groaned. “That’s fantastic.”

The host’s grin widened as his gaze locked onto Sam.

“Sam Winchester,” the host announced with a theatrical flourish.

Then came a rapid burst of Japanese. Tom caught every word.

"What was the name of the demon you chose over your own brother?"

Tom's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. He couldn’t; he felt frozen. Nothing made sense, and no Trickster could be this powerful. His mind was stuck on the same thing. This shouldn’t be possible. 

“What?” Sam baulked.

The countdown on the LED screen began ticking down.

“Uh, what am I supposed to say?” Sam stammered.

“You think I know?” Dean shot back.

“I, I don't understand Japanese!” Sam said in frustration, addressing the host directly.

The host grinned wider, repeating the question.

"What was the name of the demon you chose over your own brother?"

“Is he screwing with me?” Sam stammered. “I... I can’t speak Japanese!”

“Wait, Tom, didn’t you say you know Japanese? Do you know what he’s saying?” Dean rushed, but Tom wasn’t listening. This shouldn’t be possible. 

“Tom? Little help here?” Sam prompted, voice wavering with unease. 

The screen hit zero. A loud buzz filled the air. The crowd quieted, excitement teeming. 

“The answer is…” the host declared smugly, “Ruby!”

“I’m sorry, Sam Winchester,” the host said mockingly in English.

“Sorry? Sir? For what?” Sam asked cautiously.

The host’s grin widened even further.

WHACK!

The Nutcracker shot up, nailing Sam squarely in the crotch. Sam gasped, eyes watering, as he doubled over. The crowd erupted in wild laughter.

“Sam?” Dean blurted, horrified.

“Nutcracker!” the host declared triumphantly, and the scene replayed dramatically across the screen.

Dean winced. “Oh yeah… hilarious.”

“You’ll love it until it’s your turn,” Tom muttered darkly.

The host gestured to one of the women, who smiled brightly and lifted a bag of Shrimp Chips as the crowd cheered.

“Have we discussed these nutritious Shrimp Chips?” the woman chirped in Japanese. “Lots of nutrition, tastes great... and the more one eats, the slimmer they get, just like you.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “What the hell?”

“You okay?” Dean asked Sam.

Sam just groaned in response.

“Oh, now what?” Dean grumbled as the flashing doors opened again and Castiel stumbled onto the stage.

“Cas?” Dean blurted.

“Is this another trick?” Sam asked warily.

“It’s me,” Castiel said urgently. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

“Us?” Dean retorted. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Castiel said. “You've been missing for days.”

“Well, get us the hell out of here, then!” Sam demanded.

“Let's go,” Castiel said, lifting his hands to touch their foreheads.

Before he could, static crackled and Castiel disappeared in a burst of white noise.

“Cas?” Dean shouted.

The host grinned smugly as he stepped forward again. “No, no, no, no,” he chuckled. “Mr. Trickster does not like pretty-boy angels.”

He turned back to the cards, flipping to the next one.

“Dean Winchester,” he announced. Then, with a wicked grin, he delivered the question in Japanese.

"Would your mother and father still be alive if your brother was never born?"

The countdown began. Tom stared straight forward, every inch of him screaming to translate for Dean, but he couldn't get the words out.

“What do I do?” Dean panicked. “What do I do?”

“I don’t wanna get hit in the nuts,” he added hastily.

“I don’t know!” Sam urged. “Just answer!”

Dean slammed the button and stammered something in broken Japanese. The host was silent for a moment; the audience held their breath.

The host’s face lit up with exaggerated surprise. “Dean Winchester, Nutcracker champion for first round! The next round starts NOW!”

The crowd erupted in applause.

“How did you do that?” Sam asked.

“I have no idea,” Dean muttered.

“That’s it,” Sam said. “We play our roles, we survive.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered grimly. “But for how long?”

The host’s grin sharpened again, eyes settling on Tom now.

“Next question is for you, Thomas Winchester.”

Tom’s posture stiffened. The host’s tone had shifted; it was less theatrical now. Darker. Mocking. Tom’s jaw clenched.

The words that followed punched like a fist to the gut.

“How many lives did you take in Kandahar?”

Tom’s breath caught. The sounds of the audience faded into white noise. He could still hear the crack of gunfire, the deafening echo of explosions, the agonised cries that haunted his dreams. He knew the number. He always knew the number.

“Seventy-three,” Tom said coldly in Japanese, his voice somewhat deeper than usual.

The buzzer dinged. Correct.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “What did you just say?”

Tom ignored him.

The host pressed on, sensing the cracks forming beneath Tom’s icy exterior.

“How many children did you orphan during your tours?”

Tom’s fingers curled tightly against the podium. His knuckles blanched as memories surged, faces twisted in grief, children clinging to lifeless bodies.

“Thirty-two,” Tom muttered hoarsely.

Another correct ding.

“Tom…” Dean started, his voice uncertain now.

Tom didn’t look at him. His gaze locked solely on the grinning host.

Another question followed, sharper this time.

“How many innocent civilians died because you were too slow?”

“Forty-six,” Tom muttered, voice thin and cold.

The buzzer dinged again.

“Tom, what the hell is going on?” Dean barked. “What are you even saying to that guy?”

Tom’s head snapped toward him, his eyes cold as ice. “Stay out of it. ”

Dean’s frustration boiled over. “Out of it? You're standing here answering God-knows-what in Japanese like it’s a damn confession booth!”

Tom’s expression darkened. His voice, low and firm, cut like a knife.

“This isn’t about you. This isn’t about Sam. This is between me and the Trickster.”

Dean stared at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

“I said stay out of it,” Tom growled.

The finality in his voice silenced Dean. Tom turned back to the host, eyes like flint. Whatever this was, whatever the Trickster had dug up, Tom was determined to face it alone.

“Shall we continue, or are you satisfied?” Tom challenged the host in flawless Japanese. “I can do this all day.”

Sam and Dean exchanged uneasy glances as Tom stepped away from his podium, striding toward the host.  The boots that had been holding him there had disappeared, like they were never there to begin with. It was as if the Trickster was saying, "Game on."

“Tom!” Dean barked. “What the hell are you doing?”

Tom ignored him, his eyes locked on the Trickster. He knew what was bothering him so badly now, and it was confirmed with the way the host had erased Castiel. This was another disguise, and Tom was not afraid to face it. 

“You’re playing with the wrong guy,” Tom said coldly in Japanese.

The Trickster’s grin flickered, a hint of surprise before he plastered his smug expression back on.

“Oh?” the Trickster drawled, still in Japanese. “Will you bore me with another sob story, soldier boy?”

“What the hell are they saying?” Dean muttered to Sam.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You think this is funny?” Tom shot back, his voice cold and sharp. “You think digging up memories I’ve spent years trying to bury makes you clever?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Tom!” he barked. “Talk to us, man! What’s going on?”

Tom ignored him again.

The Trickster’s grin stretched wider, smug as ever. “If you can’t face the weight of what you’ve done,” he sneered in Japanese, “that’s not my fault.”

“You think I can’t face it?” Tom’s voice dropped dangerously low. “I’ve lived it. Every face. Every scream. Every kid left crying in the dust.” He took another step forward, voice like gravel. “But you? You’ve been running for God knows how long. I can tell, you’ve got that shifty look in your eyes. You’re hiding from something, or someone. Hiding behind jokes and cheap parlor tricks. And when I get the chance…”

His voice lowered to a whisper that was sharp enough to cut.

“…I’m putting you in the ground.”

“Tom!” Sam’s voice broke through, anxious now. “What the hell is going on? What are you saying?”

Tom still didn’t answer.

The Trickster’s smile flickered briefly, then returned, broader than before.

“Oh... I like you,” he said darkly in Japanese.

“Tom!” Dean barked again. “Answer us!”

With a snap of the Trickster’s fingers, the set vanished in a burst of light, and Tom felt himself flung through the air, spinning toward the next twisted game.

As he tumbled through the void, Dean’s last words echoed faintly in his head, sharp and accusing.

“What aren’t you telling us?”

###############

The bright glare of the sun sparkled off the lake’s surface, calm and inviting. A serene-looking woman stood on a yoga mat, arms raised high above her head in a perfect warrior pose. Her voice was calm, almost meditative.

“I’ve got genital herpes,” she said with unsettling tranquillity.

The scene shifted abruptly.

An elderly man slumped on a worn-out couch, his face empty with resignation. He sighed, voice gravelly and distant.

“I’ve got genital herpes,” he muttered flatly.

The next cut landed on a basketball court. The sound of sneakers scuffing against pavement filled the air as a group of men played a casual pickup game. One of them, after landing a shot, turned around, and there was Sam.

“Seriously?” Sam grumbled, looking utterly miserable.

Dean jogged past, smirking as he clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Hey, you’re the one who said play our roles.”

“Yeah. Right.” Sam’s shoulders sagged in defeat before muttering, “I’ve got genital herpes.”

Tom stood just outside the court, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He hadn’t said a word since they’d been shoved into this bizarre nightmare. His head still buzzed from the game show: those numbers, those memories bleeding through his thoughts like ink spilt on paper. Seventy-three. Thirty-two. Forty-six. 

He couldn't shake the feeling that they were still clinging to him.

The woman on the yoga mat transitioned into a seated pose, her face still frustratingly serene.

“I try to be responsible,” she said gently.

Tom barely registered the shift before the scene cut back to the elderly man, now staring mournfully across the room at a woman sipping tea.

“Did I try…” the man muttered, voice thin.

Tom exhaled sharply. What the hell is this?

“Now I take twice-daily Herpexia to reduce my chances of passing it on,” Sam’s voice cut in from the basketball court.

Tom blinked, momentarily thrown back to the present. Sam looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

“Ask your doctor about using Herpexia,” the yoga woman added, blissfully unaware of the absurdity.

The elderly man and his partner swayed gently to slow music in their dimly lit living room, while the yoga woman twisted into yet another complicated pose. Tom stared blankly at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Patients should always consult with a physician before using Herpexia,” Dean’s voice chimed in over the absurd montage. “Possible side effects include headache, diarrhea, permanent erectile dysfunction, thoughts of suicide, and nausea.”

Tom barked out a dry, bitter laugh. Fitting.

“I am doing all I can to slightly lessen the spread of... of genital herpes,” Sam muttered miserably from the court. He dragged a hand down his face before trudging back into the game.

The bright pink Herpexia logo appeared on the screen, garish and loud against the suffocating weight in Tom’s chest.

Tom hadn’t moved. His fingers dug into his arms, nails pressing hard enough to leave crescents behind. He could still hear the Trickster’s voice in his head; those cold, cutting questions that had pulled apart pieces of himself he’d spent years trying to bury.

“Tom!” Dean’s voice cut across the court, snapping him back to the present. “You alive over there?”

Tom blinked hard. His brothers were playing their roles: laughing, forcing smiles, treating this like a joke. Like things were normal.

“Yeah,” Tom muttered to no one in particular. “I’m great.”

He walked past a trash can on the way back to the game, gripping the basketball he hadn’t even realised was still in his hands. Without pausing, Tom lobbed it into the bin with a sharp thud and kept walking, hands curling into fists at his sides.

###################

The light blasted across his vision, but it was too sharp, too clean, too forced. Tom flinched, lifting a hand against the glare. The turf beneath his boots was stiff and wrong, like astroturf painted neon. The sky above him was a matte canvas, and the smell in the air was sickeningly sweet, a horrifying blend of sugar, paint, and plastic.

He stood centre-stage in a garish green vest and floppy felt hat. Glitter clung to his cheeks. A box of Lucky Champ Crisps lay at his feet. Something was horribly wrong.

“This—” Tom muttered under his breath, brogue slipping out unbidden, tight with confusion. “This can’t be real.”

A disembodied voice called out off-stage—a male voice: calm, smooth, businesslike. “You’re live in five, Tom. Smile for the kids.”

Tom’s fingers twitched.

“I’m not doing this.”

“Don’t worry, it’s just a commercial,” the director chimed in, voice casual and amused. “You’ve got the look. You’ve got the charm. Just play along.”

The music swelled, looping and bright, with tin whistles and jigs. Three children bounced onto the set, grinning too wide, clad in shamrock hats and plastic suspenders. One rattled a cereal box, and another clapped in rhythm.

Tom didn’t move.

A cue card popped up behind the camera.

THEY’RE MAGICALLY DELICIOUS!

Tom’s eyes flicked toward it, then away. He stood frozen.

“Tom,” the director warned, “line, please.”

He said nothing.

The laugh track chimed in: automated, too clean, not attached to anything real.

“I’m not—” Tom started, but the words stuck in his throat. His jaw clenched. His breathing picked up.

“We’ll try again,” the director said lightly. “More energy this time.”

Snap.

The world folded.

***

Colour drained from the world like paint down a drain. The cereal field vanished, replaced by wet pavement and chain-link fences. A rusted fire escape loomed overhead. The buildings were narrow and crowded. Trash bins lined the alley.

His vest was gone. His jacket returned, but even that didn’t help.

Then he spoke.

“Oh, you gotta be kiddin’ me…”

But the words and the voice came out wrong.

Sharper. Faster. Clipped with an edge that hadn’t been there seconds before. The rhythm of it. The vowels. The cadence.

It wasn’t his voice.

His breath caught.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no. Change it back, change it back .”

“You’re doing great,” the director said calmly from somewhere overhead. “I didn’t touch a thing.”

Tom staggered back a step. The alley felt too narrow, too loud. The lights flickered. His hand flew to his mouth like he could shove the voice back inside him.

“I don’t sound like this,” he rasped. “I don’t talk like that.”

“You sure?” the director asked. “Sounds pretty natural to me.”

Tom’s hands were shaking now. “Where are my brothers?” he barked suddenly, voice cracking. “Where the hell are they?!”

No response.

“Dean! Sam!” he shouted into the dark. Nothing answered. Just the buzz of old sodium lights and the distant echo of a train.

The accent, still lingering in his mouth, made it worse.

“I said change it back!” His voice rose to a shout, desperation seeping through every word.

“I’m not doing anything, Tom,” the director said. “You’re the one pulling from memory.”

That stopped him cold.

Tom blinked hard. His chest heaved.

“Don’t go there,” he whispered. “Not now.”

“Go where?”

Tom pressed a hand to the side of his head like the sound alone was burrowing under his skin. “This isn’t who I am. This isn’t me.”

“You seem awfully sure for someone so lost.”

He tried to breathe. In. Out. But the world was pressing in too tightly, too loud, too much.

“Where are they?” he whispered again. “Where are my brothers…”

The alley didn’t answer.

Only the camera did.

Still watching.

***

A fake laugh track hummed in the background. Sam and Dean sat in a garish living room, dressed in ridiculous retro sweaters, feet planted on a shag carpet. A TV flickered in front of them.

And then it played.

The commercial.

Tom appeared onscreen in a bright green vest, smiling hollowly. The children danced. The jingle sang.

“LUCKY CHAMP CRISPS!” a voice trilled.

Tom’s voice followed, strained, artificial, but unmistakable. “They’re magically delicious.”

Dean blinked. “Is that—?”

“Yup,” Sam said tightly.

Dean sat forward. “Was he… dancing?”

“Yup.”

They watched in stunned silence as Cartoon Tom shot a rainbow out of his cereal bowl.

Sam slowly turned to his brother. “We need to find him.”

Dean didn’t argue.

From the TV, the laugh track swelled again, but the smiles had long since faded from the room.

###################

The world twisted again, harder this time.

Colours bloomed and faded in a blink, and suddenly Tom stood in the centre of what looked like a musty old sitting room. The wallpaper peeled in faint curls at the edges, yellowed by time and decades of cigarette smoke. A plastic statue of Saint Brigid sat crookedly atop the mantel, its eyes painted too bright. The air smelled of boiled cabbage and incense.

A sheep bleated somewhere behind him.

Tom didn’t speak. He just stared.

His cassock was black, buttoned wrong. The white collar at his throat itched like a rope. A chipped mug of tea had somehow made its way into his hand, steam rising from it in thin, ghostly threads.

He didn’t say a word.

From the hallway came the clatter of something heavy falling, followed by a sharp, familiar voice. “Tom! The feckin’ sheep’s eaten the missal again!”

The laugh track kicked in like a punch to the head. It was sharp, forced, and far too loud.

Tom closed his eyes.

The door slammed open and a dishevelled figure stormed in: wild-haired, sweater vest lopsided, a bucket in one hand and a dripping sponge in the other. “And the bishop’s comin’ for tea in ten minutes! Have ya seen the good biscuits?”

Tom opened his eyes slowly, his voice low. “No.”

Laugh track.

“Not in a helpful mood today, are we?” the man said with a grin, elbowing him as he passed. “You need to lighten up. You’re worse than that statue of Saint Joseph with the squint.”

Tom didn’t answer. He set the mug down on the nearest table with care, but his hand trembled slightly as he pulled it back.

“Feckin’ useless,” the man muttered cheerfully, and vanished down the hall.

The door burst open again, this time revealing a portly bishop in a wine-red stole and furiously clacking rosary beads. He looked like a man whose sole hobbies were moral outrage and writing angry letters to newspapers. His eyes bulged at the sight of Tom.

“WINCHESTER!” he roared, and the laugh track blared again.

Tom’s fingers curled into his palm.

“You’re a disgrace!” the bishop declared, flinging a manila folder down on the coffee table. “Missed morning Mass, spilled whiskey on the altar linens, and told the nuns to ‘go boil themselves’—!”

“I didn’t,” Tom said, voice tight.

“You thought about it, and that’s just as bad!”

Laugh track.

The bishop wagged a finger at him like a weapon. “And you’ve frightened the curate! He says you’ve been muttering about demons and the end of days again!”

Tom’s jaw clenched.

“This is a parish, Father,” the bishop barked. “Not a battlefield!”

The lights in the room brightened just a little too much. The laugh track echoed faintly even in the silence.

Tom’s gaze drifted to the peeling wallpaper. “This isn’t real,” he muttered.

“Pardon?” the bishop blinked.

Tom turned, slow and deliberate. “None of this is real.”

The laugh track clicked on again, then stuttered like it didn’t quite know if this was still funny.

Tom’s voice stayed low. “You think this is clever?” he asked the air. “You think this is the button to push?”

He turned his eyes to the ceiling. “I got it. You want me to crack. I get it.”

Nothing answered.

Not yet.

Tom took a breath and tried to steady himself, but his heart was pounding. The room smelled too much like old carpet and sanctuary wax, and the collar was too tight, and the damn sheep kept bleating.

And then, 

The Trickster's voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere. “Ah, Father Winchester. How very Irish of you.”

Tom stiffened.

The bishop froze mid-gesture as if waiting for stage directions.

The Trickster’s voice was smooth as oil. “I thought you might like this one. You wear the guilt so well, it practically radiates . Thought we’d lean into it.”

Tom’s fists curled.

“You’re the caretaker again,” the Trickster drawled. “Cleaning up after the mess. Always the oldest boy. Always the responsible one. But no one listens, do they? No one thanks you. They just spill more tea and bleat at you.”

Tom swallowed hard.

“You’re tired, Tommy,” the Trickster said gently. “So tired. And what do you get for it? Laughter. A collar. A joke.”

The laugh track began again, this time warped and wrong, too low, too slow.

Tom whispered, “Stop.”

He didn’t.

“Come on,” he said. “Give us a smile, Father. Bless the room. Make a joke. You’re good at pretending.”

Tom’s head dropped. His breath hitched.

And then he whispered, not to the Trickster this time, but to himself:

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

The laughter cut out. The lights dimmed.

The set began to dissolve at the edges, colours draining away like watercolour in the rain. The bishop flickered once, then twice, then vanished. The sheep let out one final bleat and collapsed into light.

Tom was left alone, standing in an empty room that was no longer anything at all.

Just shadows. Just silence.

Just him.

##########

The Sun ’n Sands Motel gleamed with an unnatural brightness, the cheap décor now distorted in garish, oversaturated colours. The artificial warmth seemed to cling to the walls, a constant reminder that none of this was real.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean joked, eyes darting over to the fake audience. 

Laugh track.

Sam hurriedly ushered the bikini-clad woman out the door, flustered and awkward.

“Uh, I am really, really, very sorry, but, uh, we’ve got some work to do.”

“But we did do work! In depth,” she replied cheerfully.

Laugh track. Dean waved smugly as she exited. Sam shut the door behind her, shaking his head.

“How long do we have to keep doing this?” Dean muttered through clenched teeth.

“I don’t know.”

Applause.

“Maybe forever?”

Laugh track.

“We might die in here,” Sam added grimly.

Laugh track.

Dean’s face twisted. “How was that funny?” He shot a glare at the invisible crowd. “Vultures.”

Laugh track.

The door creaked open with a cheery little ding ! as the laugh track swelled to life, cued for a grand entrance.

Tom stepped inside.

He wore a black cassock, the collar slightly askew, the hem scuffed and dusted with ash. His expression was anything but comedic; eyes flat and distant, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. There was a smear of something, ash or maybe soot, along the edge of his cheek. He didn’t speak.

The audience erupted.

Thunderous applause, canned whistles, and someone’s over-enthusiastic “WOO!” rang through the set like it was a live taping of Cheers.

Tom didn’t react. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

“Don’t. Ask.” His voice was low, sharp, and frayed at the edges, like it had barely survived the last scene.

Dean stared at him, mouth slightly open.

“…Okay,” he muttered, slowly raising his hands in surrender.

Before anyone could process Tom’s unexpected arrival, the door burst open again. Castiel stumbled in, his face battered and clothes rumpled.

Applause.

“Cas?” Tom stepped forward instinctively. Sure, the last time he’d seen him had ended pretty badly, but Tom never gave up on a fellow soldier. 

“You okay?” Dean asked, beating him to the question.

“I don’t have much time,” Castiel muttered, his gaze darting toward the door.

“What happened?” Sam demanded.

“I got out.”

“From where?”

“Listen to me.” Castiel’s voice was tight with urgency. “Something is not right. This thing is much more powerful than it should be.”

“More powerful?” Tom muttered darkly, his fists clenching.

“What thing? The Trickster?” Dean pressed.

“If it is a Trickster…” Castiel started, before he was yanked backwards and slammed into the wall. His mouth was instantly sealed with duct tape.

The Trickster strolled casually through the door, grinning ear to ear.

“Hello!” he greeted cheerfully with the air of a showman.

Applause.

Castiel staggered to his feet, glaring murderously behind the silver tape.

“Thank you. Thank you, ladies!” The Trickster gestured grandly to the imaginary crowd.

“Hi, Castiel!” he added with a smile, before flicking his wrist. Castiel vanished in a burst of static.

Sam stepped forward, face hard. “You know him?”

“Where did you just send him?” Dean demanded.

The Trickster shrugged lazily. “Relax, he’ll live… maybe.”

Laugh track.

Tom hadn’t moved from where he stood: arms folded tightly, watching the Trickster with cold, unreadable eyes. His silence spoke volumes.

“Alright,” Dean snapped. “I’m done with the monkey dance, okay? We get it.”

“Yeah?” The Trickster’s grin widened. “Get what, hotshot?”

“Playing our roles, right?” Dean spat. “That’s your game?”

“That’s half the game.”

“What’s the other half?” Sam pressed.

“Play your roles out there.”

Tom’s brow furrowed. “Out there?” he echoed darkly.

“Oh, you know.” The Trickster’s smile sharpened. “Sam starring as Lucifer. Dean starring as Michael. Ole’ Tommy boy as Remiel. Your celebrity death match. Play your roles.”

Tom’s chest tightened. His gaze darkened, muscles tense like a coiled spring.

“You want us to say yes to those sons of bitches?” Sam demanded.

“Hell yeah.” The Trickster’s grin turned wolfish. “Let’s light this candle!”

“We do that, the world will end,” Sam shot back.

“Yeah? And whose fault is that?” The Trickster barked. “Who popped Lucifer out of the box? Hm? Look, it’s started. You started it. It can’t be stopped. So let’s get it over with!”

“Heaven or Hell,” Dean cut in. “Which side are you on?”

“I’m not on either side.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean scoffed. “You’re grabbing ankle for Michael or Lucifer. Which one is it?”

The Trickster’s smile faltered just enough to reveal the sharpness beneath.

“You listen to me, you arrogant dick,” the Trickster seethed, seizing Dean by the collar and slamming him into the wall.

Tom stepped forward immediately, muscles taut.

“Don’t touch him,” Tom warned, voice like ice.

The Trickster ignored him, leaning close to Dean’s face. “Don’t you ever, ever presume to know what I am.”

“You’re gonna suck it up,” the Trickster said darkly, “accept your responsibilities, and play the roles that destiny has chosen for you.”

“And if we don’t?” Sam demanded.

The Trickster grinned again, cocky and smug.

“Then you’ll stay here in TV Land. Forever. Three hundred channels… and nothing’s on.”

“Tom, you hold back a second.” Dean opened his mouth to argue, but there was no point. He snapped his fingers, and reality shifted once more.

***

There was silence.

The Trickster’s gaze flicked over to Tom, expression shifting into something far less amused.

Tom let out a sharp breath through his nose. “You think this is funny? Jerking my chain around, making me relive my past? Like it’s some kind of joke?” His voice was quiet, but it cut like glass.

The Trickster smirked. “Ain’t it?” Tom didn’t bother with a reply, seething at this point. 

“You,” the Trickster said smoothly, pointing with casual malice. “You’re different.”

“Oh, yeah?” Tom growled. “Enlighten me.”

“You’ve been dodging your part in this mess,” the Trickster sneered. “Pretending you’re just another grunt when you’re more than that.”

Tom’s fists clenched. “I’m not pretending anything.”

“Please,” the Trickster chuckled. “Tell me, Tommy… how long you think you can outrun destiny?” He paused, his smile turning razor-sharp. “Remiel’s waiting, you know.”

The air felt like it had been sucked from the room. Tom’s expression turned to stone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom said coldly.

“Oh, but you do,” the Trickster purred. “Maybe you never wanted to hear it, but you can’t ignore it. And when Remiel shows up? Well… let’s just say you won’t get the luxury of ‘running’ anymore.” His smile widened cruelly. “Guess you should’ve said ‘yes’ while you had the chance.”

The room hung in suffocating silence. Then Tom lunged for the creature, but the Trickster merely grinned and snapped his fingers. 

################

The sterile glow of the overhead lights buzzed faintly in Tom’s ears, blending with the hum of his own restless thoughts. He stared awkwardly in the centre of the interrogation room, feeling like he’d been shoved into someone else’s shoes, someone far more confident and collected than he felt right now. The sleek glass in front of him reflected the uneasy lines in his face, his fingers tightening instinctively around the file in his hand.

“Gotta talk to the suspect first,” the officer had barked before shoving the folder into his chest. “Captain’s orders.”

Tom had barely processed the command before snapping back, “Yeah? And that’s supposed to matter to me?”

“Whoa,” the officer sneered, holding his hands up. “What crawled up your ass and died, detective?”

Tom regretted his tone immediately, closing his eyes and forcing a slow breath. “Get it together,” he told himself, shoving the bitterness back down. “Just… tell me what I’m walking into.”

The officer, still unimpressed, snatched the folder back and flipped it open. “Guy’s name’s Paul Hensley,” he said flatly. “Former Navy, honorable discharge. PTSD’s got him strung out real bad, guy’s been on meds for years, paranoid as hell. He keeps to himself. Last night someone turns up gutted outside his apartment building, and guess who the only person we can place nearby is?” He slapped the file back into Tom’s chest. “Look, just go in there, talk to him, and try not to piss him off.”

Tom had barely nodded before stepping through the interrogation room door, and now here he was, standing in front of a man who looked like he’d barely slept in weeks.

Paul Hensley sat hunched at the table, fingers twitching as they rubbed over the edge of his coffee cup. His eyes flicked up, wide and bloodshot, tracking Tom’s every move like he expected a blow to land at any moment.

Tom cleared his throat awkwardly, forcing his voice to be steady. “Can you…tell me where you were last night?”

Paul’s gaze darted back to the table. “At home,” he muttered. “Alone. Like every night.”

“Any way to verify that?” Tom asked, softening his tone, but Paul still flinched.

“I’m not exactly the social type anymore,” Paul said bitterly, fingers curling tighter around his cup. “Haven’t been for a long time.”

Something in his voice snagged Tom’s attention, a brittle sort of resignation he knew too well. He shifted forward, leaning slightly closer. “Look, I just need you to help me understand,” he said quietly. “We found evidence placing you near the scene, and I don’t want to believe.

“Believe what?” Paul cut him off, his voice rising. His eyes, exhausted and hollow a moment ago, now blazed with sudden fire. “That I snapped? That I lost it? Because yeah, maybe I’ve been scared of exactly that for years now!”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. Paul’s anger collapsed as quickly as it had flared, his shoulders sagging. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the sweat beading on his brow.

“I have PTSD,” Paul said quietly, voice cracking. “I know my mind’s messed up. That’s why I lock away my firearms. I even left my wife.” He swallowed hard, looking up at Tom with desperate eyes. “I left her because I was terrified I’d hurt her one day.” His voice dropped lower, almost pleading. “But I swear to you, whatever I am, whatever I’m going through… I’m not a killer.”

Tom inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to stay still. His fingers unconsciously drifted toward his pendant, thumb brushing over St. Christopher’s worn face.

This isn’t your warzone.

But Paul’s words hit too close to home. That fear of losing control, of becoming the very thing you swore to protect others from, was a weight Tom knew all too well.

“I know what it’s like,” Tom said softly, feeling the tension bleed into his voice. “To feel like your own mind’s your worst enemy. To wake up sweating because you thought you hurt someone , only to find out it was just a dream.” He swallowed thickly. “And the scariest part? That you’re never really sure if one day it won’t just be a dream.”

Paul’s gaze lifted, uncertain but grateful, like someone had finally spoken a language he understood.

“I… I don’t know what happened last night,” Paul said shakily. “But I didn’t kill that man.”

Tom nodded slowly. “We’ll look into other leads,” he promised. “Just sit tight.”

As he turned to leave, Paul’s voice stopped him.

“You got it bad too, huh?” Paul asked quietly.

Tom hesitated, fingers still curled tightly around his pendant. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I do.”

And with that, he walked out, the echo of Paul’s words following him like footsteps in the dark.

###########

The crime scene was bathed in harsh artificial lighting, the kind that gave everything an unnatural, sterile glow. The strobing flashes of cameras flickered over a man’s body sprawled on the pavement, a stomach wound darkening his shirt. Markers dotted the ground, each one signalling another grim detail in the carefully reconstructed death.

Dean and Sam stood behind the yellow tape, both clad in ridiculous matching suits, sunglasses perched awkwardly on their faces.

“Oh, come on,” Dean groaned.

The two barely noticed Tom emerge from the car behind them, clad in a suit identical to theirs. His tie was crooked, and his sleeves were hastily rolled up. His face was tight, and his eyes were hard. He hadn’t spoken much since the last channel switch.

“This just gets better and better,” Tom muttered under his breath, voice low and tight.

A police officer ducked under the tape, approaching with forced professionalism.

“So, what do you think?” the officer asked.

Dean scowled. “What do I think? I think go screw yourself, that’s what I think.”

Sam cut in hastily. “Uh, could you give us a sec, please? Thanks.”

The officer backed off, leaving the trio alone.

“You gotta calm down,” Sam muttered.

Dean ripped off his sunglasses with a frustrated growl. “Calm down? I am wearing sunglasses at night.” He waved them angrily in the air. “You know who does that? No-talent douchebags.”

Tom snorted under his breath, more bitter than amused.

“I hate this game,” Dean continued. “I hate that we’re in a procedural cop show, and you wanna know why? Because I hate procedural cop shows. There’s like three hundred of them on television and they’re all the freaking same. It’s ‘Ooh, plane crashed here’ , oh, shut up.”

Tom’s gaze flicked toward the crime scene. The body twisted on the pavement, his arms splayed, looked too familiar. His stomach twisted.

“Hey,” Sam said suddenly, drawing their attention.

“What?” Dean muttered.

Sam nodded toward the crime scene. “Check out sweet tooth over there.”

The officer in question leaned casually against the tape, sucking a lollipop between his teeth.

“Think that’s him?” Dean asked.

Tom squinted at the officer’s face. Something about the lollipop, the smug smile, stirred something ugly in him.

“Just... follow my lead,” Sam instructed.

The three of them moved under the tape, sunglasses slipping back into place with a synchronised click.

“You, uh... You okay?” the officer asked, eyeing Tom’s rigid stance.

Tom barely heard him. His eyes were locked on the corpse, on the blood seeping from the man’s abdomen. The unnatural red stain glistened under the lights, soaking into the pavement. Something in Tom’s mind twisted sideways; suddenly, it wasn’t a staged crime scene anymore. It was a dusty road in Kandahar. Blood in the dirt. The faces of the men he couldn’t save, the men he didn’t save.

“Tom?” Dean’s voice snapped him back.

Tom blinked hard and forced his breathing to steady.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m good.”

Dean turned back to the officer. “Yeah. What do we got?”

The officer knelt beside the body. “Well, aside from the ligature marks around his neck, he has what appears to be a roll of quarters jammed down his throat.”

Dean crouched down, poking the wound with a stick.

“Well, I say... jackpot.”

Sam followed suit, grimacing.

“Also, there’s a stab wound to the lower abdomen,” the officer added, motioning with his lollipop.

Tom’s stomach clenched.

He couldn’t stop staring at the blood.

Dean grabbed the stick again, poking at the shirt’s bloodied hole before smugly muttering, “Well I say, no guts, no glory.”

The chuckles rose, the sound grating on his frayed nerves. Tom’s fists clenched at his sides.

“Get that guy a Tums,” Sam quipped, forcing a smoulder.

“Gutter ball,” Dean added smugly.

The officer laughed, sharp and loud.

Tom heard laughter echoing in his head and shifting to something else. Memories twisted into place. Mocking voices. Shouts from the other side of the wire. Blood seeped into the ground.

His breath hitched.

“Stop laughing,” Tom muttered under his breath.

The officer kept chuckling.

“I said stop laughing.” His voice rose, rough and shaky.

Dean’s smile faltered. “Tom?”

The officer, still laughing, turned, but froze at the look on Tom’s face.

“You’re treating this like it’s all one big game,” Tom growled. His voice was cold, sharp, and nothing like his usual, tightly contained self. “You think this is some damn joke?”

“Tom, hey—” Dean reached out, but Tom jerked his arm free.

“This isn’t a joke!” Tom barked. His eyes burned, fists clenching and unclenching. “You think you know what this looks like? You think you know what it smells like?” His voice broke, and the words trembled. “You weren’t there... you didn’t see...”

“Tom,” Sam said carefully. “He’s not real.”

Tom’s eyes locked on the lollipop-sucking cop, his breathing ragged. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

His grip tightened on the stake at his side. “But I’m done playing.”

He stepped forward.

The officer straightened, a casual grin still pasted across his face. “Whoa, easy there—”

Tom drove the stake straight into his chest.

There was a sickening crunch, a sharp gasp. The officer jerked once, lollipop clattering to the ground. Then he sagged backwards, limbs twitching, and collapsed onto the pavement.

Blood pooled quickly, dark and viscous beneath him.

Sam, Dean, and Tom stared down at the body in silence. None of them moved.

Tom’s expression was blank. Dean’s jaw was tight. Sam looked almost mournful, but not surprised.

They knew. Real or not, illusion or not, this wasn’t justice. But it was the only kind of control they had left.

The silence cracked with a slow, taunting, and deliberate laugh.

Behind them, another cop stood against the yellow tape, arms crossed. His face twisted into a wide, amused smirk.

“Gotcha,” the officer sneered, and just like that, his features shifted. The Trickster.

“You've got the wrong guy, idiots.”

Dean’s hand shot toward Tom’s chest, fingers tightening on his shirt and yanking him back before Tom could lunge.

“Did we?” Dean shot back.

Sam stepped in behind the Trickster, stake in hand, and drove it through his back.

The Trickster gasped, stumbled and vanished in a burst of static.

The room twisted, and they found themselves back in the warehouse.

Dean’s grip on Tom lingered a second too long. “You good?” he asked carefully.

Tom’s breath hitched once, but he forced himself to nod. “I’m good,” he lied.

But his hands still shook. And the bloodstain on the pavement, real or not, was still burned into the back of his mind.

###################

The bathroom sink sputtered as Dean rinsed his toothbrush under the tap. He spat into the basin and wiped his mouth, eyes flicking toward the dim motel room behind him.

"I'm worried, man," Dean muttered, voice tight with frustration. "What that SOB did to Cas... you know, where is he?"

No answer.

"Sam? Tom?" Dean called again, louder this time.

Silence.

Frowning, Dean stepped into the room. The space was empty, no Sam, and no Tom.

"Where are you?" Dean muttered to himself.

The late afternoon sun glinted off the Impala’s hood as Dean stormed across the parking lot, phone pressed to his ear.

"It's Sam," came Sam’s automated message. "Leave me a message."

Dean snapped his phone shut in frustration and climbed into the Impala. Before he could start the engine, Sam’s voice echoed from seemingly nowhere.

"Dean?"

Dean’s head jerked up. His eyes swept the empty car.

"Sam?" he barked. "Where are you?"