Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When his dad comes back into the clearing with a scrawny kid in tow, Dean isn't surprised.

He's disappointed. He's sad. He's angry, and there's something sick roiling in his stomach that feels like guilt and disgust, but he's not surprised. 

The tip came four days ago, that there was a Lilim kid currently in Wisconsin who, according to the grapevine, was seeing stuff about the Yellow-Eyed Demon. It was Steve who'd called John, told him that the kid was on the black market now, available for the right price. That the kid's powers were on sale to the highest bidder.

Dean hadn't known that this kind of shit happened among Hunters until they got to Wisconsin—his dad had, wisely, not told him what they were doing. But Dean knows what Lilim are, and everybody says that Lilim aren't human, that they're creatures, just like the other creatures they hunt every day. Like witches. Part human, okay, but demon-tainted. Part-demon. Enough demon to cancel out whatever humanity they have, with powers that are often useful to Hunters—usually stuff like precognition, but sometimes stuff like telepathy and pyrokinesis. They don't always have good control over their powers but the ones that do, they're invaluable, the others had told Dean. Could do things like spot omens and attacks days before they happened, give the Hunters the heads-up they needed to stay a step ahead, or help on a hunt. 

The ones that don't have that kind of control are still creatures, goes the argument.

But the kid that John's got by the arm, who's pulled as far away from Dean's dad as possible without actually trying to get his arm back, the kid whose eyes don't leave John and are bright with fear, the kid who looks like he hasn't eaten in a couple of days and is obviously favoring his left leg... 

This kid looks an awful lot like a person.

"Dad," Dean says, standing, and he knows his judgment is all over his face because John doesn't look at him. 

"Did you finish setting up camp?" John asks, marching the kid right past Dean. The kid doesn't even look away from John for a second. Dean, smaller and slighter than John even if he wasn't the son and therefore subordinate of the two of them, is obviously less of a threat.

"Yes, sir," replies Dean, a little offended that John would even ask.

"Salted and warded?" John barks from where he is by the tent, and now Dean doesn't know why he bothers to ask because he's obviously checking anyway.

"Yes, sir," Dean sighs. "And I made stew. It's just about done. Are you hungry?" He falters. "Either of you?"

And then the kid looks at Dean.

Dean freezes in place under his attention. The kid's eyes are wide and uncomprehending, and if he hadn't been obviously reacting to Dean's words and not just his voice, Dean would've wondered if he spoke English. As it is, Dean knows he understands the words individually; it's the sequence he's apparently having trouble with.

The kid keeps staring, so Dean starts to make some observations. He's filthy, a fine layer of dirt covering him pretty much all over, and his hair is matted and he's obviously injured in a couple of places. Dean had seen him limping, but he's also cradling his arm around his middle, which means either he's got a hurt arm or something happened to his ribs. There's a tightness in his lips, a grimace trying to come out, that says whatever it is, it hurts. Dean knows John didn't do that—wouldn't do that, not even if he didn't think the kid was human. Couldn't do that to something that looked so much like a kid. (Right?) Whoever had the kid before did it.

But what that means is the kid doesn't have great control. Even just picking things up over the past four days, Dean knows enough to know that if he could control his visions, nobody would dare lay a hand on him. He'd be worth too much.

(There's that roiling sensation again.)

His hair is a sort of middling brown and overgrown, and his eyes are a hazel that's mostly green, glossy with terror that's slowly fading into confusion. He's way smaller than Dean, skinny, gawky, all knobby knees and elbows and limbs that are longer than the kid seems to expect them to be, so Dean puts him at thirteen or fourteen.

And it takes so little time for him to calculate that it can't be anything but instinct: that's how old Sammy would have been.

Dean feels a swelling in his chest that he knows is going to turn into tears if he doesn't do something about it, so he walks up to his dad and the kid with a determined gait, only to stop screechingly short when the kid flinches.

John looks down at him with a lip curled, then looks up at Dean. "The warding's good," he says, and it's testament to how distracted Dean is that he doesn't even respond to the rare praise. "I'm not hungry. I'm going to go to sleep. You can take first watch?"

"Yes, sir," Dean responds quietly, watching the kid like he's some easily spooked colt. The fine trembling in the kid's limbs and the shallow rise and fall of his chest don't do anything to dismiss that impression.

"First watch also means watching him," John reminds him, and now it's Dean who flinches. John's eyes darken slightly as he says, "Dean."

"Got it, Dad," Dean interrupts quickly, not taking his eyes off of the kid. "Sleep well."

John looks like he wants to argue, but just goes into the tent instead.

Dean and the kid stare at each other for a long time, but the kid breaks first, looking down and fidgeting with his dirty tee shirt. "Sorry," he mutters.

Dean frowns, but doesn't ask the obvious question: sorry for what? Instead he clears his throat uncomfortably, and the kid looks back up, from under his bangs. "You hungry?" Dean asks. The kid nods, and Dean attempts a grin. "I made some stew. Nothing fancy, mostly potatoes, but I had some dried meat, too, so it's not just rabbit food. Come on, there's plenty."

The kid follows a couple of steps behind Dean and sits once Dean's seated by the small fire that the stew is bubbling over. Dean grabs two bowls and ladles them both full of stew. He hears, but doesn't feel, his stomach growl, and he frowns.

Oh. Not his stomach.

The kid looks mortified but just stares at the ground like he's willing it to swallow him up. Dean chuckles, and the kid startles. "Hey, man, it's cool, you're hungry," Dean says. "I'm hungry, too. Eat up." And to make sure the kid understands that it's okay to eat, Dean digs in despite the heat of the stew.

The kid watches him for a long moment, then picks up his own bowl, and Dean grins around a mouthful of stew. But then the kid gets up on his knees and rocks back onto his heels, looking around the campsite. "Where should I go to eat?" he asks softly.

Dean takes a minute to respond, swallowing the stew thickly. When he does respond, it's with, "What?"

The kid stares at him like he's stupid. "Um. Where would you like me to go to eat?"

Dean's sure he looks as stupid as the treatment the kid's giving him suggests, but he can't help but furrow his brow. "I don't know, here's fine, unless you want to go somewhere else," he replies, finally, with a shrug.

That seems to surprise the kid, who settles a little more firmly in his crouch as he echoes, "Here?" And then adds, "With you?"

Dean sets his bowl down on the ground and rubs the back of his head like he does when he's anxious. "Yeah, dude, where else would you go?" he asks. "We're in the middle of the freaking woods. Also, I mean, I'm here, the food's here, why wouldn't you stay?"

He doesn't like how his voice has taken on this note of pleading, but it's not really important right now, because the kid looks like he's halfway ready to bolt. Dean tenses minutely, ready to run after him if it comes down to it because John will kill him if the kid's gone when he wakes up. The kid's lanky, but he's small and injured and Dean figures he can catch him pretty easy without hurting him.

And that thought stops Dean, and he looks over at the kid, noticing the way his weight is on his right leg as much as he can manage while still balancing, how he's still got his arm pressed against his side. "Hey," he says, and the kid jerks, almost spilling hot stew all over himself. "Are you, um, do you even feel well enough to eat? Because I can get the first aid kit and patch you up if you want before we eat."

The way the kid shuts down is startling. He sits back on the ground with a thud and puts his bowl in front of him, crossing his legs and hunching his shoulders, eyes firmly on the ground. "I'm fine," he says quietly. "No, I'm fine. I'll eat. Sorry."

"It's all right, dude, it's whatever," Dean assures him, picking his bowl back up and waiting for the kid to follow suit. He finally does, lifting the spoon to his lips cautiously, watching Dean surreptitiously and spilling some of the stew back into his bowl from the shaking of his hands. But he eats.

That's all Dean's asking.

They eat in silence, the kid finishing his stew over the better part of an hour in small spoonfuls. Dean supposes that's good, because it looks like it's been a while since he's eaten and if he ate too fast he'd be likely to chuck it shortly after. But the fact that a kid that young understands that you can't eat fast when you're really hungry doesn't really speak well of the regularity of his meals. So Dean eats slowly, too, because he doesn't want to just be staring at the kid once he's done with his stew.

Dean's dad brought the kid back to the campsite about an hour ago, which Dean knows without looking at his watch means that it's creeping up on midnight. The kid's eyelids flutter once, but he shakes his head briskly and puts his empty (and that's empty—the kid scraped the sides and then sopped up the rest with a bit of hard bread Dean gave him) bowl on the ground. He tucks his knees under his chin and looks off to the side as Dean finishes his last mouthful.

When Dean goes to grab the kid's bowl, he finds it already gone and his own is plucked from his hands. He looks up, frowning, and sees that the kid is putting things away. "Is there somewhere I can wash these?" he asks, eyes flicking around the campsite uncertainly.

"Give 'em here," Dean says, taking them back, and the kid makes this soft, panicked noise in the back of his throat and Dean feels instantly terrible. "Hey, dude, no, it's fine. I just...I got it, okay? You've got to be wasted. I'm on watch for now so you can either just pull up some blankets and crash here or you can head into the tent with my dad. Either way."

There's no understanding in the kid's eyes. "I...you want me to go to sleep?" he asks.

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "Um. Yeah. I mean, aren't you tired?" The kid nods. "Then, uh, I mean, that's usually a good time to go to bed. And it's almost midnight." He forces a crooked smile as he adds, "Past bedtime for squirts like you."

That earns Dean briefly narrowed eyes, followed by a studious blanking of the kid's expression, and Dean realizes he's neither introduced himself nor asked for the kid's name. "What's your name, man?" he asks now.

The kid straightens a little bit, his gaze back on the ground as he says, "Luke."

"'M Dean," Dean replies, sticking his hand out. The kid—Luke—actually flinches back from it like he's afraid Dean's going to hit him. "Woah, dude, calm down," Dean soothes. "Just gonna shake your hand."

"Why?" Luke asks, suspicion twisting his features.

"'Cause it's what people do when they meet each other," Dean explains. He's surprised when the kid scoffs. "No, it is."

"When people meet each other," Luke repeats. "Not when Hunters meet Lilim. Okay? So you can quit pretending to be nice to me, because you and your dad aren't the first Hunters I've been with."

"It's not like that," Dean says unconvincingly.

"It's exactly like that, and it's always like that," Luke snaps, and he glares up at Dean, his bright eyes daring Dean to do something about it.

And when Dean steps closer to him, Luke ducks his head and braces himself.

"Dude," Dean breathes, stepping back and holding his hands up. "It's okay, man, I'm not gonna hurt you."

"I'm sorry," Luke murmurs. "I'm sorry. That was out of line. I'm sorry."

A thousand things run through Dean's mind to say, things like it's okay and I'm really not gonna hurt you and could you please stop acting like I'm some kind of serial killer because it's weirding me out, but instead he walks over to the tent and pulls a fistful of heavy blankets out. He stretches one out on the ground and hands another to Luke, keeping one for himself. "Get some rest, if you can," he says, watching the kid's hands as they tremble around his death-grip on the blanket. "We'll probably move pretty early in the morning."

Luke settles down onto the blanket, pulling the other one tight around him, and Dean sits a little ways away, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. Dean knows that the kid's not sleeping, and that he won't, not for a long time, if at all tonight. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't make a big deal about it, just sits huddled in his blanket with a rifle loaded with salt rounds in his hands.

About an hour passes in silence, Dean keeping his eyes keenly focused around the woods surrounding their campsite, the fire dying to embers, Luke still not sleeping to his left. It takes all of his will power not to turn and watch the kid, but he knows it would only make Luke uncomfortable. Scared, even.

Dean knows what it is to be scared. He spends a lot of his time scared. And he's had things be scared of him before. He's seen it in the eyes of the monsters he and his dad hunt right before his knife goes in, right before the light fades once the bullet hits true. He's seen that.

But kids, they aren't scared of him. He's great with kids. Everybody says so. When he was in school, before he dropped out after his sophomore year, the younger kids always liked him, always went to him if they were getting bullied, even if he'd only been at that school a little while. And when there are kids involved in a hunt, he's always the one who calms them down once the monster is gone. His dad's no good at that and they both know it. So he's the one who gathers the little ones into his arms and sits down in the corner with them, shushing them and wiping their tears away and telling them that it's okay, the monster won't hurt them anymore, he promises.

And he knows that it's the closest he'll ever come to making it up to Sammy for letting him get taken, all those years ago.

So the way Luke looks at him, that hunted, fearful look, the one that's just waiting for the pain to start...Dean can't take it.

So he doesn't look.

He doesn't look, but he hears the leaves crunch as Luke rolls over, and he feels the weight of the kid's gaze on him, and even then he's still and just keeps looking out into the woods because he'll be damned if he lets anything get the jump on him tonight.

He doesn't look until Luke says, "Thanks for the stew, and thanks for letting me sleep out here with you."

"Hey, man, no problem," Dean says quietly, fighting to keep the little smile off of his face at the reluctant tone of the gratitude. "But you're not sleeping, exactly."

"I always have a hard time going to sleep the first night with a new Hunter," murmurs Luke, and the smile is wiped from Dean's face.

"You can go to sleep," he replies. "I'll watch you, okay? Nothin's gonna happen while I'm here. I promise. I'll keep you safe."

It's almost too quiet to hear when Luke whispers, "Gotta protect Daddy's investment, after all."

"Got nothing to do with it," Dean says firmly, turning fully to Luke and ignoring the wince at his slightly raised voice. "You hear me? I don't give a shit what kind of fucked-up situation we're in right now, and I know that not caring isn't something you can afford to do, but all I know is this: I'm here, I'm older than you, I've got the gun, and if any fugly comes out of these woods I'm puttin' myself between you and it. Because you're a kid, and that's what I do. Doesn't matter who you are."

"Or what I am?" Luke's voice is almost challenging, but Dean hears the softness and the real question in his words.

"What you are is a kid," Dean replies, "and I protect kids. Always."

(Almost always.)

Dean shifts his gaze back to the woods because he's not gonna cry. Shit, it's been almost ten years, and he's not gonna cry about it tonight. Not in front of Luke. How's the kid supposed to believe Dean can protect him if he sees him crying like a bitch? So he stares resolvedly out into the woods, which means he doesn't see it when Luke scoots a little closer to him.

He hears it, though.

It doesn't help that tight feeling in his chest, but it makes it different. A little warmer. And he looks over and down, and Luke's looking up at him, a little wary like he's afraid Dean's gonna tell him to back off, but he closes his eyes and takes it when Dean ruffles his dirty hair. He doesn't even wince. "Go to sleep," Dean mutters. "You're gonna be wrecked tomorrow and the Impala's awesome but take it from me, sleeping in the back seat is no fun. And you are not riding shotgun."

For a moment Dean regrets his choice of words, afraid that Luke might take it wrong—you can't ride shotgun because of what you are—but then the kid smiles gently, sleepily, and says, "Because you're older?"

"'Cause I'm older," Dean agrees. "Go to sleep."

Luke's mumbled and unironic "Yes, sir" doesn't sit well with Dean, but he doesn't make a fuss about it, just tugs the blanket a little further up onto Luke's shoulders as his breathing gets heavier and more regular.

When John doesn't wake up for his watch until nearly four, Dean doesn't complain, and when John settles in without apology to take over, Dean pulls his sleeping bag from the tent and lies down next to Luke, between Luke and John.

John doesn't say anything.

***

Breathe in two three four 

Out two three four

In two three four

Out two three four

If he makes it look like he's sleeping the older boy will leave him alone

He won't ask any more weird questions or touch his hair like that again

Like Luke's a person

Like Luke deserves comfort

Like he's not going to turn around and hit Luke the first time he does something wrong which is going to be eventually because there's always something Luke does wrong, he can't help it, he just doesn't know how to keep a civil tongue in his mouth and he's still clumsy with his big long limbs so he knocks stuff over

He'll stop saying stupid things like "it's not like that"

(of course it's like that)

And anyway rule number seven is "never sleep the first night you're with a new Hunter"

Because if you sleep then you can't protect yourself and when you don't even know what you're protecting yourself from it's a hundred times worse

Nobody's tried to do anything yet but he's only been here for a couple of hours

But then the older boy

(Dean)

Then Dean comes up next to him with his own blankets, curls up in them, when his dad takes over the watch

He doesn't let Luke stay alone with his dad

(His dad who's so big and rough and frightening like a normal Hunter, who dragged Luke back without a word from his old owner's camp to Dean's camp with his hand so tight around Luke's arm that he's going to have bruises in the morning)

He stays with Luke like he thinks it'll make Luke less scared

And the worst thing

The very worst thing

The thing that goes against rule number two

("Don't ever, ever trust a Hunter")

Is that Luke is less scared with Dean next to him.

He doesn't go to sleep because that's stupid

But he feels something frighteningly like 'safe' when he hears the older boy's deep, even breathing beside him, between him and Dean's dad

And that is when Luke knows he is in trouble.

Chapter Text

Five-thirty sees everyone awake, if groggy. Breakfast is beef jerky and some slightly mealy apples but nobody complains, Luke least of all, devouring his food quietly like he hadn't stuffed himself full of stew the night before.

Dean figures he's learned to take his food where he can get it. 

But it's quickly apparent that with John awake, things are different. With John awake, Luke sits away from Dean, a couple of yards from the Hunters, eating fervently but quietly, keeping his eyes down. Dean keeps looking over at him, trying to make eye contact, to let Luke see him smile reassuringly. But the kid doesn't look up. Also, John's starting to frown, so Dean gives up and just finishes his breakfast in silence.

Packing the campsite is never a very chatty activity for the Winchesters, but this morning it seems even quieter than usual. Luke is a big help, watching carefully until he gets a sense for where stuff goes, then doing more than his third of the work. Dean is a little embarrassed, and just the slightest bit angry at the kid for showing him up, but god, can he never let that show. He thinks Luke might spontaneously combust if he gets wind of Dean being mad at him.

Luke's still moving around awkwardly (which only makes Dean feel worse about going slower than the kid packing), and once they're done Dean knows they're in for a significant hike back to the car. The kid can make it, Dean's sure, but it's going to be a painful trek for him without medicine.

"Hey, Dad, where's the first aid bag?" Dean calls, shoving the fabric of the tent more firmly into the wrap it fits in. John looks up, frowning a little.

"Why?" he asks.

Dean glances surreptitiously at Luke, whose eyes have gone wide and panicked. Dean suppresses a wince and spontaneously decides that a lie is his best course of action. "Got a headache," he says casually.

John glares at him briefly, going back to finishing packing the cooking gear. "We don't have aspirin to spare for a headache, Dean."

"Dad—"

"No, Dean."

Dean takes a deep breath, calming the anger that threatens to spill over into harsh words that he'll instantly regret. Instead he glances around the campsite, trying to guess which bag his dad would have packed the first aid kit in.

And it's probably the one Luke's holding. Bingo.

"Hey," he says, and Luke jumps. "Hold up, that can be packed better."

Indignation and fear war on Luke's face. The indignation, that's fair, because, if Dean's being honest, the bag could not have been packed better. It's tight and there's no wasted space. But the kid doesn't look inclined to argue with him, just to glare a little, which is fine. Dean drops the tent bag on the ground and kneels, motioning for Luke to follow suit, which of course he does. Dean sees John look at them briefly, then apparently decide that Dean's taking some initiative in training the kid, and look away to make a last sweep of the grounds.

Dean sticks his hand in the bag and feels around until he finds the zipper pack containing their meager medical supplies. He doesn't have to pull it out to know exactly where the bottle of aspirin is, and with deft fingers he pulls it out, unscrews the top, and taps two pills into his other hand. The bottle is closed and back in the kit before his dad has the opportunity to look back, and Dean shoves the pills into Luke's hand.

"But—" the kid argues, and a glare from Dean shuts his protest down.

"Take 'em," he hisses.

"But your father—"

"Fucking take them before he hears you," Dean snaps, still under his breath, but with more force. He doesn't take any pride in the way Luke's eyes shutter and there's a lax obedience, an automaticity in his movements as he swallows the pills. Like orders are something he can deal with. But hell, if he's going to have to boss the kid around to get him to take care of himself, fine. When Luke looks back up at him, his eyes wide beneath his shaggy bangs and seeming to ask did I do good?, Dean can only manage half a smile and a pat on the shoulder.

John's looking, now, and Luke seems to notice without turning, and so he says, his voice soft and even, "Thank you for showing me. I'll pack it right next time."

"Sure," Dean replies, pressing his lips together to keep from grinning, and Luke looks a little confused but Dean just guesses that he's never done this before: kept something from the adult, felt the little wriggle of excitement that having a secret brought. Because Dean dropped out of school when he was fifteen, but Luke probably never got to go.

They could figure out who was Lilim pretty young.

Again, fine. Dean might not know much about school, but he figures he can teach Luke what he needs to know about everything else.

"Let's head out," John orders, and while Dean straightens his back automatically, he's a little surprised to see Luke do the same. Well, almost the same. When Dean straightens up it's like a soldier: head high, shoulders back, spine ramrod straight. When Luke straightens up, it's like he just wants John to know he heard. The hunch leaves his spine but it doesn't leave his shoulders, and he ducks his head further than before. He readjusts the straps on his shoulders, shifting his burden up higher on his back, and doesn't move until Dean does.

Dean's okay with that, knows that the kid feels the need to stay a few steps behind, figures somebody taught him that was proper or whatever. But when John turns around, it's with a scowl. "Get in front of Dean," he snaps, his voice low and rough, and Dean startles almost as much as Luke because he's never heard his dad talk like that, not to a kid.

(They're creatures, Dean, just like witches or wendigos.)

But it lights a fire under Luke's ass real good and he flies in front of Dean, eyes firmly on the ground in front of him, hands white-knuckled against the black straps of his pack. "Don't want you gettin' it in your head to wander off," John mutters, and Luke nods mutely. Dean can't even find it in him to glare at his father when John's gaze turns briefly to him; he knows his expression is nothing but stunned horror, and he can't for the life of him change it. John glares a little harder, and says, "Keep an eye on him," then turns back around before Dean can gather his wits about him to respond.

It's halfway through their hike back to the Impala that Dean can't take it anymore. Luke's fucking shaking, and he wonders if it's not partially his fault. It can't be that the kid's not used to rough treatment, not with the state of him, because Dean's almost positive that his ankle's twisted and that he's got at least one bruised, maybe broken rib. A little bossing around from John shouldn't be enough to shake him like this.

But one thing Dean knows is that surprising pain is the worst kind. He knows that when he sees a fugly coming for him, when he can brace for a fall, when he knows the needle's going in for stitches, he can deal. It's when he thinks he's safe, when he thinks he shouldn't be hurting, but he does, that's when it's bad, when it's hard to take.

Maybe Dean let Luke expect something that he wasn't going to get. Not from John, at least. Maybe he led Luke to believe he was going to get something different here, something kinder, when that wasn't entirely true.

Quietly enough that he knows John wouldn't hear the difference, he speeds up a little and catches up with Luke, who keeps his head down, but Dean's heart tightens in his chest. The early morning light is soft, filtered through the sparse canopy, but Dean knows tear tracks when he sees them. He puts his hand on Luke's shoulder and squeezes gently.

Luke looks up and Dean doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. His hazel eyes are wet, and when he meets Dean's, it's not without fear. He looks right back down, but Dean squeezes again, and with reluctance he lifts his eyes.

Sorry, Dean mouths.

Luke drops his gaze and mouths back, Please stop.

And it's like a fucking knife in his ribs, but Dean stops.

It seems for a while like it's never going to happen, but eventually they do get back to the car, and it's like an oasis. John looks disapproving when Dean grabs Luke's bag and shoves it into the trunk of the Impala over the array of weaponry that has Luke's already-pale face paling further under the layers of filth, but Dean doesn't care. Dean doesn't care about the glare turning into a glower when he opens the door to the back seat for Luke and helps the kid in. He cares more about the gobsmacked, when-is-the-other-shoe-going-to-drop look on Luke's face, but he ignores it all the same.

"The guns and stuff are for monsters," he says softly as he helps Luke settle himself. "Werewolves and demons and stuff. Nobody's going to hurt you."

"Okay," Luke whispers, a panicky-hopeful light in his eyes like maybe if Dean believes that Luke believes him, Dean will make it be true, and he won't wind up with John's bowie knife in his gut.

"How's your foot?" Dean asks.

"I'm fine" is Luke's reply, which is probably a lie and also doesn't answer Dean's question, and Dean knows that if he pushes he'll get an answer, but he doesn't. He's weary and Luke's exhausted and John's getting suspicious and it's time to move on, so Dean shuts the back door and swings himself into the passenger's seat with practiced ease.

The rev and purr of the Impala is like music to Dean's ears and it's all he can do to not fall asleep on the spot, but he weirdly doesn't want to leave Luke the only conscious person in the car with his dad. It's not that Dean thinks John will hurt Luke—he doesn't. His dad wouldn't. Sure, maybe Dean and John get into it sometimes, maybe it gets a little rough sometimes, but Dean can take it. Dean's whole life has been building him up to where he can take a swing and give as good as he gets.

It's just that Luke's a kid. A skinny, awkward, hurt, terrified kid, and John hasn't had to deal with anybody but Dean in a long time, and Luke can't take a swing the way Dean can. So Dean's gonna do what he does, and put himself between a kid and anything they don't want to face. Even if that thing's his dad.

So he stays awake.

Creedence is playing low and scratchy on the cassette, and Dean distantly recognizes "Bad Moon Rising" and hopes it isn't like an omen or something. He starts humming along, because if it's an omen, there's nothing he can do about it.

It's only a couple of hours' drive back to the motel John had rented when they rolled into town, and Luke has nodded off in the backseat by the time they get there. Dean looks back and notices, though the kid doesn't make a sound—not a whistle or a snore. Dean wonders if it's always been that way, or if it's another way of keeping himself safe. Quiet and inconspicuous.

John glances back, too, and his expression turns unreadable—simultaneously darkening and softening, and Dean picks up on the opportunity. "I can bring him in, Dad," he says quickly. John's gaze turns to him, and he just nods once, sharply, before stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind him.

Dean doesn't miss Luke's jump at the sudden noise, or the panic in his eyes and his breathing as he wakes up. He leans back and puts a hand on the kid's knee, not wanting to restrain him too much, but wanting to ground him. "Hey, woah, buddy, it's cool, it's okay," he says, and Luke's eyes eventually find him, round and confused. He softens a little when he recognizes Dean, which Dean counts as a win. "We're back at the motel. Hang tight, I'm gonna help you out of the car."

"I can get out," Luke says quickly, struggling up to a sitting position while Dean circles around to open the door. "I can do it, don't worry about it, I got it."

"Oh, shut up," Dean retorts, and sighs when Luke falls instantly silent and still, staring at him with wary eyes as Dean reaches into the back seat and unbuckles him. "Sorry, man, I'll can it with the orders."

Luke sags against Dean when he frees the boy from the back seat, his legs probably cramping from disuse, but looks up at him with bright, puzzled eyes. "Why?" he asks.

Dean freezes for a moment before starting them off towards the room at a slow pace. "Because, you know, obviously it's weird," he stammers.

"It's really not," Luke replies with a forced kind of lightness while Dean unlocks the door with the key John gave him, stumbling into the room together. "I mean, your dad bought me. It's not weird that you'd give me orders."

"Stop that," Dean snaps, and there he goes again, and Luke's got this weird combination of tight fear and I told you so smugness on his face, and Dean just wants to scream. Instead he sucks in a deep breath and says, "Can you get to one of the beds okay? I'm gonna help Dad unpack."

Luke goes very still under his hands, but nods silently and crosses to the bed farthest from the door, his gait awkward and painful. Dean watches until he sees that the kid's settled safely, then turns and heads back out to the Impala and his dad.

He hasn't even announced his presence when John, not turning around, says, "Don't coddle him, Dean."

Dean stiffens. "Sir?"

"I said, don't coddle him. He's not a god damn wilting flower, he's Lilim, and he's here to help us find the thing that killed your mother. He's a GPS. He's not a pet."

"He's a kid," Dean argues, but his voice is soft and lacks conviction.

He jumps when John slams down the trunk of the Impala. His dad rests his weight heavily against it and still doesn't turn as he says, "He is not a kid. He is not human. He is one of the Lilim, and he's no better than a demon or a witch. Get it out of your head that he's anything else."

And Dean doesn't knowingly lie to his father, not about important things. About getting to third base with a girl named Polly back in Des Moines in the Impala when he was supposed to be making a food run, yes. About important things, no. But he's never told a bigger lie than he does when he says, "Yes, sir. I understand." He grabs the supplies duffel and the research duffel off of the ground and walks inside, leaving his father leaning against the Impala, a look Dean can't decipher on his face.

Luke is sitting exactly where he left him on the bed, watching Dean with hunted eyes as he enters and drops the bags, rooting around in the research one for some books. "You ever done research before, Luke?" he asks, not looking at the kid.

The voice that comes from the bed is quiet, uncertain. "Yes, sir."

Dean stops, and hears an accompanying squeak from the bed as Luke shifts. He turns around and the kid is staring at him, wide-eyed. "Where'd that come from?" he asks, working to keep his voice even. "What's all this yes sir? It's just Dean, man."

Luke's expression slips into something tired, and he says, "Can we not?" When Dean doesn't reply, he scrubs his hands over his face and lowers his eyes. "I know what you're doing, okay? And if you're waiting for me to screw up, okay, let's just do it. I'll screw up. Three, two, one."

Dean's just staring, open-mouthed, at Luke's display, as the kid's face starts to flush and his whole body shakes. "I know what you're doing and I hate this game. I might be young but you are not the first Hunter who thought it'd be funny to pretend to be nice to me until I forget, until I forget how I'm supposed to act, and then it just gives you a reason. Okay? You want it to be my fault? Okay, it's my fault. I'm talking back to you. So get it over with because I don't want to play."

His stomach feels like it's full of lead, and he can't tear his eyes away from Luke's quivering form, his hands clenched tight and eyes glassy with tears. He puts down the book in his hands and goes over to the kid, perching uncertainly on the bed next to him and trying to ignore the panicked hitch in Luke's breath as the mattress dips under his weight.

He puts his hands carefully, slowly, on both of Luke's shoulders, and waits until the kid turns to face him. He tries for a reassuring smile but is pretty sure it comes out as more of a grimace. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he says. "Okay? I'm not testing you. I'm not playing a game. I'm just trying not to be a dick."

Luke tilts his head down in what Dean briefly thinks is acquiescence, but then lifts a hand to his mouth and bites back something that sounds like a whimper. Dean's stomach contracts at the sound of it. "This isn't fair," Luke breathes, refusing to meet Dean's eyes even when Dean ducks to try to catch his. "This is really mean. I haven't done anything wrong yet."

"I'm not being mean," Dean argues, baffled, but Luke doesn't even acknowledge his words.

"I don't know what to do if you don't let me play by the rules," Luke continues, his breathing picking up, growing quick and shallow, and Dean's starting to worry about him passing out. "I don't want to be trouble, okay, I don't want to get in trouble, just let me do what I'm supposed to do, okay, please?"

"Jesus, Luke," Dean begins, aghast.

"I know what I am," Luke interrupts, and Dean quiets, eyes wide. "I know what I am and I know what you are and what your dad is, okay? And maybe you think you're gonna save me. But when your dad's done with me, when I've helped him find the demon you're looking for, he's gonna get rid of me. Because that's how this works. And I know he's not going to play any of these stupid games. He knows what's going on."

Dean flinches under the concrete certainty in Luke's gaze, the absolute knowledge that as soon as he's outlived his usefulness he's going to be discarded. The resignation. "Dad's rough, okay, I'm not gonna pretend he's not, but he won't—"

"He will," Luke says softly. "It's okay. It's what happens. It doesn't hurt my feelings. But it's easier if you don't pretend we're gonna be friends. Because when you realize we're not...that's..."

When it hurts.

The words go unsaid but Dean hears them nonetheless. So instead of replying he takes his hands off of Luke and goes over to the bags on the ground, pulling out two books and handing one to Luke. The kid accepts it wordlessly, and Dean sits at the foot of the bed, cross-legged, and says, "See what you can find about something called an Oschaert in there."

And Luke is the picture of obedience.

***

He hands Luke a book

And he helped him out of the car

And he defended Luke to his father

"He's a kid."

It doesn't sound like much, in the grand scheme of things, but Luke's been called a lot of things over the last eight years and kid hasn't been a frequently recurring one

More often 'idiot', 'useless', 'demon', or just plain, factual 'Lilim'

Not often 'kid', not often 'buddy', and almost never 'Luke'

But he heard Dean, and he also heard Dean's father, who put his son under instructions not to coddle him, not to befriend him

Which makes sense

Because they can't be friends

It's not right and it won't last, even if Dean thinks it will

And it's a little nice right now, for Dean to help him out of the car and make him take painkillers and get him settled and treat him like he's something that might break

Like something that's not broken yet

But it's not sustainable, and Luke knows that if it's going to fall apart, better now than later.

But Dean didn't let it go, and Luke recognizes that, recognizes that the book was a diversion rather than an acceptance

And his hands close around the worn, tattered pages, around the first book he's been given, hasn't had to sneak while his owner was gone, in years

And he wonders if it would hurt too much to pretend with Dean for a little while that things were going to be different.

Chapter Text

"Hey, get this." 

Dean looks up from his book—which isn't asking much, because he's gone cross-eyed about fifteen minutes ago and is just flipping through pages so his dad doesn't yell at him for not researching—and sees Luke sitting up a little straighter on the bed, still hunched a little over his injured side and oh, shit, the painkillers must have worn off hours ago, like most of the day ago. 

Still, Luke hasn't said a word or made the smallest sound of discomfort. 

But that's for later because John's right there, and if they don't have the aspirin to spare for his own son's headache, they certainly don't have it to spare for the Lilim's injuries. So Dean just sits up and says, "Whatcha got?" 

"Says here that to defeat the Oschaert it needs to be lured to a crossroads," Luke reads, his thin, still-dirty finger hovering just over the page as he follows the words. "It can't attack there. Then there's an incantation that'll banish it." He pauses. "Do you speak Belgian French?"

"Well enough to fake it," Dean replies quickly before John can say anything. He feels the heat of his father's gaze on him, but doesn't look over.

"It attacks lost travelers," Luke continues, his eyes fixed on the book. "Some stories say it focuses on people with guilty consciences. It mauls them and sometimes it's been reported to breathe fire. But if you get to a crossroad, or if you have a picture of the Virgin Mary, you can escape it. Then the banishment spell sends it back to the...to the ocean. Huh." He finally looks up, meets Dean's eyes, and shrugs. "And that ought to do it."

Dean lays back and stretches, flexing cramped feet and sighing in relief because thank God the research was done. It was his least favorite part of any hunt. Back before he dropped out of school his teachers said he was a 'tactile-kinesthetic' learner, which his dad said meant he was hands-on, like a good Hunter should be, and that bit of praise made him never want to pick up a book again. Research was for Bobby and boring old people like him. And Luke might not think he's good for anything but having visions about the demon that killed Dean's mom, but hell, if he's gonna be this good at research then Dean will double his pool hustling just to make sure the kid is taken care of.

A glance at the garish red readout of the digital clock tells Dean that it's a quarter past nine in the evening, and that the whole day has been wasted on research minus an hour where they ate Rice-A-Roni that John cooked on a hot plate. But it's Friday, and Friday means Chinese take-out.

Dean rolls off of the bed with surprising grace for how stiff he feels and grabs the phone book from under the lamp stand. Luke shifts a little, moves his feet out of the way, and watches Dean carefully. "Pick a letter," he calls out.

"N," John replies, and he can hear a small hint of a smile in his dad's voice.

Dean shuts his eyes and jabs his finger at a spot on the yellow pages, the opens his eyes and reads the words he's pointing to. "New China Garden it is," he says, and looks up at his dad, raising one fisted hand and another spread out beneath it.

John copies his motion, and out of the corner of his eye Dean can see Luke staring at them in bemusement.

Dean raises and lowers his hand three times, and throws scissors.

John throws paper, and Dean throws his arms in the air and crows his victory. "Yeah! Bam! Don't forget the egg rolls!"

John shakes his head, but when his eyes flick up to Luke his expression loses most of its warmth. "What do you want me to get?" he asks, and the question is directly solely at Dean.

But Dean's not taking that, not when Luke just spared him hours of research and probably a good telling-off, too, for not doing it well enough. "I'm a beef lo mein kind of guy, what about you, Luke?"

Luke does that freezing in place thing he seems to do when he's anxious, looks down quickly, and mutters, "Whatever you like."

"Me and Luke both want beef lo mein," Dean says, and the way John's posture stiffens tells him that his dad is taking it as the challenge he doesn't entirely not mean it as. "And egg rolls!"

John doesn't look at him as he collects his wallet and the keys to the Impala, and Dean's about to try to say something—anything—to break the tension, but then there's the tinny sound of John's cell phone going off.

(It's new, a shiny convenience that John calls a necessity but they've done without for years so Dean doesn't understand why they have to spend all that money on it. But John likes it and it made him happy for a few days, so Dean doesn't really complain.)

He nods to Dean when he tosses his dad the phone, and steps out of the room as he answers it. "Winchester," he says, and closes the door after himself.

Dean settles against the bed once his dad is gone, grabbing a gun out of the duffel and starting to meticulously clean it. "Man, if you haven't had lo mein before, you're in for a treat. Maybe. I mean I haven't gotten it from this place before, but it's kind of hard to fuck up—"

"Winchester?"

Dean stills, looking up at the bed to see Luke staring at the door. The kid's white as a sheet, and Dean puts the gun down on the ground, climbing up onto the bed and kneeling in front of Luke. He doesn't want to touch him, isn't sure if restraint is necessary or advisable, but the kid's obviously about to have an attack of some kind. "Hey, dude, it's okay. It's just our name. Winchester. Didn't my dad introduce himself to you?"

"Your dad is John Winchester," Luke says, his voice hollow. Dean's eyes widen fractionally at the weirdness of that tone, but he just nods.

"Yeah, man, that's right. My dad's John, and I'm Dean Winchester. It's just names, man. What's wrong? Are you okay?"

For a long moment Luke just stares, empty-eyed, at the door, trembling with a bloodless lividity in his face. Dean starts to move toward him, but just as he does, Luke spins around and meets his eyes with a fevered intensity. "Do you like me, Dean?" he asks. Demands.

Dean leans back against the sudden assault, frowns, but nods again. "Yeah, man, sure. Yeah, I like you." He tries for an easy smile. "I mean hell, you got that research done in no time. You're like a genius."

"I know I said earlier that we can't be friends, but do you think we're friends?" Luke presses, and there's something alarming about him, something desperate and primal for such innocent questions.

"I'd like to be," Dean replies carefully. "What's wrong?"

In the moment that it takes Luke to answer he makes this strange sound that Dean belatedly realizes is an aborted sob. It chills him while he listens to Luke answer, "Please help me, Dean. Help me get out. You've got to let me go. Please, Dean. If you think we're friends please let me go."

"Woah, woah," Dean says, holding his hands out but still not touching the kid. "Hey, calm down. It's okay. Just...tell me what's up, all right? Tell me what's got you upset." And even as he talks, quiet, soothing, the way Luke said his name picks at him.

He says Dean like it's still sir. Like he's saying it because he knows it's what Dean wants to hear.

When Luke's response is muffled, choked laughter, Dean shivers a little. "What's up," he echoes, and then his mirth drains away and he gets this pleading look on his face. "Please, Dean. I...I know who you are, okay? You and your dad." He frowns. "Do you think...we don't know?"

"Who's we?" Dean asks, his voice rougher than he intends.

"The rest of us," Luke replies. "Who aren't...human. You think we don't know about the Winchesters?"

And if he's totally honest, Dean's never thought about it before.

He's nineteen years old, and he's never had a house. He goes where his dad drags him, where the job takes them, stopping in cities for three weeks, for two months, never long enough to settle. He's had a gun in his hand since he was strong enough to carry one and a hole in his heart since he was old enough to fuck up protecting his brother. His life is full of rock salt and Latin spells and devil's traps, he's never been on more than two dates with the same girl, and he hasn't had a mom since he was four. He and his dad go up regularly against monsters, just the sight of which would send other kids his age into therapy for years, and yeah, they're good at fighting them—they've obviously won more than they've lost. But it doesn't mean he's not afraid.

Dean is pretty sure his life sucks, and he's pretty sure that all he is is a scared kid with an impressive weapons cache and daddy issues.

He's never considered that in some circles, he's the boogey man.

"Your dad's not going to sell me when I've done what he wants me to do," Luke says softly, before Dean can think of a coherent response. There's a brokenness in his voice that has Dean's head snapping up to meet his eyes. Luke lets him, but his eyes are dull, the bright fear starting to fade into resignation. "Winchesters don't take prisoners, and don't make exceptions."

"You're not—"

"He's gonna kill me when he's done with me." Luke barrels forward, ignoring Dean's words completely. "If I can even find the demon for you. I'm not too good with my visions. They just kind of happen to me. Maybe he'll just get tired of waiting and kill me then." When the kid swallows, it's audible, and the sound echoes pain in Dean's chest like a broken rib. "He's not gonna let me walk away. I'm Lilim. He won't let me go."

And with those words it's like a switch flips somewhere inside of Luke, and he presses both of his hands tight against his mouth and doubles over, sobbing silently.

Sammy's been gone for a long time, and Dean's had the opportunity to forget a lot of the subtleties of dealing with kids. But once an older brother, always an older brother, so Dean slides up next to Luke and grips him tight in a bear hug. The kid gasps, which seems to open the floodgates, and his sobbing becomes loud and unrestrained.

"I got you," Dean mutters fiercely. "Let it out. I got you."

"I don't want to die," Luke cries out before redoubling his sobs. Dean holds him, his grip just shy of restraint, rocking with him back and forth as his stomach-deep sobs wrack him. He feels his own eyes stinging, but it's not his grief, it's not for him to cry about this, so he holds it back.

Once Luke starts to calm down, once he goes from sobbing to gasping for air, Dean slows their rocking and takes one hand away from his grip to rub soothing circles on Luke's back. He's a little surprised that the kid doesn't shove him away, because if it was Dean that had been essentially kidnapped by two people that he believed to be heartless mass murderers, he's not sure he'd be real comfortable accepting a physical show of comfort from one of them. But then, and the realization comes with a sickening twist of his stomach, Luke hasn't been trained to be especially assertive. There's no telling if he's okay with it or not, just that he's taking it.

The gasps fade into stuttered breaths and wracking shudders, and it's quiet enough that Dean can say, "Can you hear me, buddy?"

Luke nods unsteadily, a random bobbing of his head.

Dean braces himself, knowing that the words he's about to say could too easily come out wrong, but he has to try something. So he takes a deep breath and he says, "I'm not gonna let my dad hurt you. You got me? I'm gonna keep you safe here. I know it's got to be scary, man, but I'm gonna keep you safe. My dad won't kill you. He won't touch you. I promise."

Luke coughs out a laugh, and Dean stops the circles, keeping one arm wrapped around Luke's chest in case the kid decides to make a break for it. He's not sure when the gesture changed from comforting to confining, but he doesn't want to think about it, either, so he doesn't.

He suddenly realizes Luke said something. "What?" he asks.

"I said, why?" Luke repeats. "Why would you do that?" 

Before he knows it's going to happen, he's talking, and he's not just talking, he's talking about it, and he whispers, "Because I let a kid down one time, I didn't protect him, and now he's gone, and it's my fault. I'm not gonna let that happen to you." 

And now Luke's staring at him, hazel eyes wide and still wet with tears but there aren't new ones to replace the ones that are slowly making their way down the kid's cheeks. "Who was he?" Luke breathes.

Dean does his best to school his features into something neutral, but from Luke's little flinch he knows he's not successful. He lets the kid go, pretty sure he's not going anywhere, and more sure that even if Luke tries to bolt he can catch him. So he focuses on scrubbing his face with his hands, takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down, to steel himself to say the name he hasn't said out loud in...Christ. Probably close to six years now.

He apologized to his dad all the time for losing Sammy for the first four years. After that, he never mentioned it, and no one else but Bobby and Pastor Jim had even known Sammy. And they never brought it up.

It's one of the things that hurts the most, even after a decade: that there are only four people in the world who mourn Sam Winchester.

"My brother," he says, finally, and Luke stills next to him. "Sammy. My...my baby brother." He runs a hand through his hair and squeezes the back of his neck. "He was four. I was nine. Dad was on a Hunt, and he left me alone with Sammy, and...the salt line got broken. Or I didn't check it well enough. But a demon got in and knocked me out, and when I woke up Sammy was gone. We never found him. Nobody's seen him since. They wouldn't've kept him alive."

"I'm sorry," Luke whispers, and isn't that just the kicker? Dean fucks up so bad that even the half-demon slave kid feels bad for him. Fucks up so bad that he doesn't even deserve the kid's sympathy.

"So you want to know why I won't let you get hurt?" Dean says instead of responding to that horrible I'm sorry. "You want to know why you should believe me? Because I know, people don't just do good things. Believe me, I know that. So here's the reason: because you're as old as Sammy would be now, and if I let you down like I let him down, I'm going to go crazy."

Luke doesn't respond to that, just nods, but his body loosens a little bit and he sniffles, wiping away the remaining tears from his face. It's good enough for Dean because it can't be otherwise, because he's not getting anything else, and because he doesn't have any more words to try.

He leans over the bed and picks up the book from where he'd tossed it, opening it to the page about the Oschaert, staring at it without really seeing it. The illumination, crude and thick-lined, shows a large black dog-like creature standing on its hind legs, breathing fire at a cowering human figure. So it goes after lost travelers with guilty consciences.

Shouldn't be hard for a Winchester to lure him out, then.

"You really did good with the research, though," Dean hears himself say to Luke, not looking up from the book.

There's a pause, and then, softly, "Thank you."

They sit like that, both eventually with books on their knees, until John returns with the food. Dean doesn't have much of an appetite anymore, less so when he sees the hunted, cagey way that Luke watches his dad, but he forces down some of the lo mein so nobody gets suspicious. Luke is noncommittal about his own opinion of the food, murmuring that it's fine when Dean asks. John doesn't ask either of them anything, but eats silently and retires to the bathroom to shower before bed.

Their bedroom routine is typically eat-shower-TV-sleep, and it's no different tonight, except for the awkward, suffocating silence. It's like John wants to pretend that Luke isn't there, but can't bring himself to talk to Dean, either. Dean figures his dad's not stupid; he knows what Dean thinks about the whole situation. It's obvious in the unusually soft manner that Dean takes with Luke, the way he keeps bringing the kid into conversations, the way he refuses to ignore him.

Dean's just grateful that John hasn't yelled at Luke again. He doesn't want to fight with his dad, but he knows, deep down in a place that has nothing to do with volition, that if his dad puts that fearful, vulnerable look on Luke's face again, it's going to come to blows.

He doesn't put a lot of thought into why. He just knows.

He towels off his hair and walks out of the shower, startling Luke a little bit. He ignores the jump and says, "Go take a shower, dude, you stink."

Luke's eyes widen a little. "A shower?" he echoes.

Dean makes a face at him, and then replies with exaggerated slowness, "Yeah. You know. The place where you go and rotate the knob and then water shoots over you and you use the soap to make yourself smell less awful. A shower."

Something in Luke's face closes off, and Dean regrets his flippant tone, but doesn't say anything as Luke silently slips into the bathroom.

After a moment, Dean realizes that Luke doesn't have any clothes but what he was wearing when John...what he was wearing that day, so he opens the door just a crack and shoves in his extra pair of pajamas.

Dean's in bed watching TV, and John is in bed pretending to be asleep, by the time Luke comes out of the shower—which, to be fair, isn't long after he went in. He looks a little like a drowned rat, his hair hanging limp and stringy in his eyes and swimming in Dean's pajamas. He's a sight, trying to towel off his hair single-handed while holding his pajama pants up with the other hand. Dean stifles a chuckle, contenting himself with a sideways grin.

He's looking around the room, and it takes Dean a second but he eventually realizes that the kid is looking for a place to sleep. His eyes fall on a corner next to the kitchenette and he seems to decide that that's the best option as he dumps his towel back in the bathroom on top of Dean's and heads off to the corner.

"Hey, man," Dean calls, and Luke freezes, turning to him. "C'mon, you can share my bed." He considers adding I know you're still hurting, but he knows his dad's not asleep, and his offer is too much like 'coddling' anyway so he's not going to push it.

Luke's eyes get huge and doesn't move, but Dean can see that his hands are shaking. He frowns.

"Come on, it's late," he says, scooting over to give the kid room. Luke still doesn't move. "Dude, come on."

And, wonder of wonders, Luke shakes his head: a timid movement, but definitive. No.

It's the first time he's openly defied Dean, and while Dean is definitely weirded out by all the obedience, he's a little stunned.

And then, because it's late and he's grumpy from having to navigate the tricky waters of living with Luke and John all day, he's annoyed. "What the hell, man? You want to sleep on the floor? Just get in bed and stop being such a bitch."

Luke bites his lip and shakes his head again, an even more minute motion than before, and Dean grits his teeth. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

The two of them commence a staring contest, Dean's eyes narrowed in a glare and Luke's wide and panicked. The moment is only broken by John's rough voice—he doesn't even roll over, stays facing the wall, but mutters, "For God's sake. He thinks you're gonna fuck him, Dean. Tell him you're not going to and the two of you go the fuck to sleep."

Dean stills, his own eyes going as wide as Luke's, and he stares at the kid in horror. Luke casts his gaze down at the ground, flushing a deep crimson, and Dean's not sure what that means but he can't fathom that it's anything he wants to think about. It takes him a minute to find his voice, stammering, stumbling on consonants until he finally manages, "Jesus Christ, no, no no no, that's not what I meant, Luke, fuck. No. No, fuck no. I just meant you could—like, literally share the bed, like we could both sleep in the bed, so you didn't have to sleep on the floor. Not like—what the hell, man, no."

The flush doesn't leave Luke's face, but he shuffles over to the bed, slipping under the covers and staying as far from Dean as physically possible—which is fine, because Dean's doing the exact same thing on the other end of the bed. The bed trembles finely with Luke's shaking, but after a little while he calms down and the bed is still.

But Dean can't help but murmur, "How the hell old are you, anyway? I'm not into kids, dude, fuck. What the fuck do you think I am?"

Luke doesn't respond, but shivers again.

From the stillness in the bed it seems that they both fall into an uneasy sleep until Dean kicks out—as he does in his sleep—and his leg brushes and lands against Luke's leg. Then Luke freezes against him, his breath picking up, shallow and uneven, and the jolt rouses Dean from unconsciousness. It only takes him a second to figure out what happened, one more to figure out what's wrong with Luke.

Then Dean slides out of bed, grabs a blanket from the closet, and goes to sleep by the door, ignoring the way Luke sits up in the bed and watches him as he huddles on the floor.

He makes sure to wake up before his dad, put the blanket back in the closet, and ensure that there are no traces of his nighttime migration.

God forbid it look like he's coddling Luke.

God forbid he show a little compassion to a little kid, scared out of his mind and on the look-out for pain at every turn.

God forbid. But Dean's been pretty sure there's no such thing for a long time, and this whole clusterfuck is doing nothing to change his mind.

***

It's not that he's hurt when Dean gets up and goes to sleep by the door

It's not that he's afraid he'll be punished for it, for making a Hunter sacrifice for him

(Because Dean is weird like that and he knows he won't get in trouble)

It's just that the bed was warmer with Dean in it

And he felt safe with Dean beside him

And despite rule number two ("Don't ever, ever trust a Hunter") he believed it when Dean promised so desperately that he didn't want to touch him, believed the horror and the disgust and the anxiety in the older boy's voice

He just couldn't help the freezing up

Never could

Nobody's put a hand on him in kindness in

In

Maybe ever that he can recall

(Before Dean mussed his hair at the campsite)

Because he's a thing, of course, a creature, and among Hunters there is no room for kindness to creatures

Which is why he's lashed out at Dean so many times because Dean breaks everything that he knows, shatters all of his understandings, like it's nothing, like he's not taking away the very last thing that Luke has 

(He fell asleep in the car because Dean was staying awake and he could see it in Dean's eyes that he was tired but he stayed awake just for Luke but how stupid is that anyway)

(If something awful had happened he would have deserved it for being such an idiot)

Because the pain, the unkindness, the lack of love, it's terrible, but it's predictable and disregarding the occasional screw-up he's pretty good at avoiding punishment when he knows what the rules are

And Hunters are so alike, the rules are always the same

But Dean has no rules, evidently, and that's not fair

He hates him just a little bit for that.

But it doesn't change the fact that the bed is too big and too comfortable and too cold and too empty

And it doesn't change the fact that if anybody should be sleeping on the floor it should be Luke

And it doesn't change the fact that nothing has made sense since he showed up at the camp and Dean looked at him like he deserved pity.

Chapter Text

Dean loves hunts.

Yeah, they're scary as hell. Yeah, he knows that there's no guarantee he or his dad will come home from any given hunt. But when he's hunting, he's doing something important—he's making a difference, he's making the world safer, and he can just disengage and let his adrenaline carry him away.

He doesn't have to think about anything but survival when he's on a hunt. Not about Sammy, not about Mom, not about what he's going to do about his dad's drinking or what he'll do if something happens to his dad, not about the Yellow-Eyed Demon or any of it. It's all auto-pilot because if it's not he's not fast enough, and Dean is always fast enough.

Maybe it surprised him when Luke told him he was the monster under the bed for the monsters under the bed, but if he is, he's damn well earned it. Because Dean is good at what he does. Maybe he's not worth much else, but he's a damn good Hunter.

And there's a weird part of him that looks forward to getting to show that off for Luke.

He knows he'll have to be careful, to tread lightly, because it could easily be read as I'm good at killing things like you, but he thinks the Oschaert is the perfect hunt. It doesn't even look human, it's been killing in the area so they have the rationale, and it's a banishment spell to get rid of it rather than a kill.

His dad keeps telling him not to get attached to Luke—like the kid's a dog or something—but he can't help but want Luke to like him. To believe him. Most importantly, to trust him. To stop giving him that horrible look.

(Because every time Luke looks at him with fear, he just sees accusation. You didn't keep Sammy safe and you won't keep me safe, either. He can take it as a challenge or he can let it kill him. Those are his choices.)

The afternoon that they're supposed to leave for the hunt, Dean has finally found time to check out Luke's injuries. John's out doing a couple more interviews, just making sure his t's are crossed and his i's dotted before he brings Dean out to the crossroads, which means that it's just the boys in the motel room. The door is barely closed before Dean grabs some ice out of the freezer and gives it to Luke with the order to keep it pressed against his ribs where it hurts. Once that's situated to Dean's liking, he instructs Luke (dressed in some of Dean's cast-offs that he was getting ready to get rid of) to sit with his feet hanging off of the bed, and kneels in front of him.

"Your dad's gonna be mad if he finds out," Luke whispers, as if John can hear them from wherever he is. And for all Dean knows, that's exactly what Luke suspects. The Great and Terrible John Winchester, with his magical powers of telepathy and alcohol tolerance.

Dean snorts a little at his thoughts, and Luke's face screws up in a frown. "He will be. You're gonna get me in trouble."

"I'm not gonna get you in trouble, dude," Dean scoffs. "Dad's gonna be gone for two hours, minimum. And if you're coming on this hunt with us, you're gonna be a problem with a bum leg." His practiced fingers prod and pull at the kid's ankle, testing the ligaments and paying careful attention to every hiss and gasp that Luke lets slip. His lips twist down tight when Luke whimpers as his thumb presses in one particular spot. There's no doubt, it's sprained, and pretty bad, too. He rocks back on his heels, massaging the offended area gently, smiling just a little at the relieved sigh he hears from Luke.

"I gotta get some more ice for this," he says, "and then I'm gonna splint it. So hang tight."

Dean hurries to the kitchenette and rummages in the freezer for some ice, gathering it in a dubious-looking little towel, having used the real ice pack for Luke's rib. He's closing the door to the freezer when he hears Luke's voice from the other room. "Do you get hurt a lot?"

He pauses for a moment, then turns around, twisting the excess fabric up into his fist. "Sometimes," he replies noncomittally. He kneels again, propping Luke's ankle on his leg and pressing the ice against the swollen joint. Luke jerks his foot away, but Dean guides it back with his free hand. "Stay still, man, it's gonna make it feel better."

"You hunt a lot?" Luke asks, his voice small, and Dean can hear that he's talking through gritted teeth. He wonders idly how long the kid's been walking on his ankle like this. More than the two days he's been with Dean and his dad, that's for sure.

"Yeah." Dean adjusts his seat and then the angle of the ice, and he's rewarded by another sigh from Luke. "Me and my dad, we don't do anything else. Started off just looking for the demon that killed my mom, but now...we just try to save people."

"You just kill stuff that hurts people?" Luke asks, and Dean glances up at him, but can't read his expression.

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "We check obituaries, look for weird stuff, try to find the things doing it and stop them before they can hurt anybody else. You know. Cause it's not like the police can do it when it's monsters."

Luke nods, but his eyes are distant for a long moment. Dean's about to look away when Luke's eyes lock back on his. "I never hurt anybody," he says.

Dean smiles ruefully. "I know," he says. "I believe you."

And Luke just nods again, but Dean doesn't miss the tiny, hesitant smile that plays on his face for just a moment. He smiles, too, bigger and broader, and guides Luke's leg back up onto the bed. He hands the ice to Luke, then puts it against his ankle where it needs to go. "I'm gonna get the stuff for that splint real quick. Just hold that there. It'll help with the swelling." Luke nods and complies, watching Dean with sharp eyes as he delves into the first aid kit and pulls out some small boards and a roll of Ace bandages. The boards are a little too big, and it's going to limit his range of motion maybe more than necessary, but it's what they've got so it'll have to do. He sets the stuff down on the ground by the bed, getting back to his position in front of Luke and reaching his hands out expectantly. Luke obediently returns his ankle, handing the ice back to Dean. As he manoevers the ice back into place, he asks, "Have you been on hunts before?"

Luke nods, short and sharp. When Dean doesn't say anything, he looks down and his brow furrows for a moment before he says, "Yes. My other owners—"

"Don't call them that," Dean snaps, eyes wide in horror. Luke makes a face that seems to be the closest he's comfortable to rolling his eyes, and presses his lips together.

"Okay," the kid amends, "the other Hunters. They'd bring me on hunts sometimes."

"What did you do?" Dean asks, relieved at Luke's acquiescence.

Luke shrugs, obviously reluctant to answer. Dean doesn't press him, but the silence eventually gets to be too much for the kid, and he answers. "Bait, mostly."

"Christ," Dean hisses, glaring at the ice pack instead of turning to look at Luke's face. Every time he thinks he's found a good subject, Luke manages to turn it into something awful.

Not that it's the kid's fault. God, no. But Dean just wishes he could find something to talk about that didn't bring up such terrible memories.

"Nobody would give me a weapon," Luke continues, pilling a bit of his borrowed sweater idly between thumb and forefinger. "I guess they were afraid I was going to try something stupid. But I wouldn't have. I know you don't try to start a fight with a weapon you're not familiar with. I'm not dumb."

"That's for sure," Dean agrees, and risks a look upwards at Luke. The kid's looking back down at him in surprise, and Dean cracks a grin, though it takes effort to smile. "What? You're obviously a genius."

"What?" Luke looks baffled, which only makes Dean grin wider.

"Dude. Come on. Your research skills are like, practically Bobby-level, and I know you don't know who that is, but he's the boss when it comes to the book work." Luke's eyes are searching him, though what he's looking for is lost on Dean, so he just keeps talking. "And hell, man, you've got to be smart to survive the stuff you've survived. No dummy gets through shit like that."

Luke actually does roll his eyes at that, but his voice is hesitant and a little hopeful when he says, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean asserts, and then decides that that is plenty of chick-flick for one evening. "Anyway, if you got no combat training, that means you're gonna have to stick close to me. And you do what I say on the hunt, got it? I tell you to run, you run. I tell you to get up a tree, you get climb. I tell you to do a handstand and do the chicken dance, you hop to it, am I clear? Because nobody's got time to explain why when the Black Dog's coming at you."

"Oschaert," Luke corrects, and Dean pulls a face at him.

It's a little bit of a relief—okay, a lot of a relief when Luke doesn't flinch or back down at the expression. "The Oschaert, excuse me, professor," Dean amends exaggeratedly, and Luke actually smiles a little. "But you'll do that? You'll stay close?"

"Of course," Luke replies.

"Good," Dean says. "Later on I'll teach you how to shoot, some basic knife work and hand-to-hand. When we have some time. But I don't want you trying anything dumb or trying to be a hero or whatever tonight. You stay clear of the Oschaert and close to me."

"I will," Luke promises, and Dean pats him on the leg.

"Awesome," he murmurs, taking the ice off of Luke's ankle and carefully pulling off the kid's sock and rolling up his pants. He has Luke help him hold the boards in place while he wraps the bandage around his ankle, tight enough to stay but not so tight that it cuts off his circulation. "Get up, walk around on it for a sec, let me know if it's digging in anywhere." He puts his hand out and Luke takes it after a moment's consideration, standing carefully. Dean stands after him, watching critically as the younger boy walks around the room, testing out his ankle. He's gratified when Luke's eyes light up a little bit, and he smiles at Dean.

"Feels good," he says, and Dean grins. "Thanks, Dean. It feels a lot better."

"You're welcome," Dean replies, and he's pretty damn happy with the way his name sounded like a name this time. "You think you can hike on that?"

Luke nods, and he looks confident and a little bemused. It occurs to Dean that he's probably borne worse without being allowed to complain about it, which just makes him all the more grateful that there's a hunt tonight.

Dean really needs to hurt something right now.

He has Luke sit back on the bed and takes off the splint, icing his ankle and manoevering it gently. It takes him a while, but eventually Luke's leg goes pliant in his hands, and when Dean looks up, the kid's eyes are closed and he looks the most relaxed that Dean's seen him. His breathing is deep and even, and if it weren't for the fact that he's keeping himself upright and keeping the ice pack against his ribs, Dean might think he's asleep. He can't resist the urge to ask, "Feels okay, buddy?"

Luke doesn't open his eyes, which Dean thinks must be a major milestone, and he murmurs, "It's the first time it hasn't hurt since it happened."

"Where'd you get hurt?" Dean asks, one hundred percent sure he doesn't want to hear the answer, pressing the ice at a new angle against Luke's injury.

"Hunt," Luke gasps, his eyes flying open at the sudden burst of cold in a new place. Dean hisses in sympathy, re-wrapping the ice so it's hidden under more towel.

"Sorry, dude," he says, and Luke just nods his acceptance. "You got hurt on a hunt?"

"Yeah," Luke replies, settling back down. "It was a Rawhead out in Minnesota, and they—"

"Go after kids," Dean finishes grimly. Luke stills a little at his tone, but continues.

"Right. So my—um, the Hunter I was with, he sent me out in the woods at night and told me to curse up a storm. Apparently kids swearing gets' em riled up." Dean snorts at that, and Luke gives him a weird, surprisingly bitchy look, which only makes Dean laugh harder. "Seriously."

"I believe you," Dean says, finally, still chuckling, much to Luke's annoyance. Dean's just glad that Luke feels like he can be annoyed and let it show. "Sorry, sorry. I won't interrupt."

Luke seems skeptical at best of that promise, but plows ahead. "Anyway, I did, I went out into the woods and started cursing, and sure enough the Rawhead came out charging like a bull. I ran, messed up my ankle, but I couldn't stop. It would've caught me if I did. I made it up a tree and my—the Hunter got it, but I knew I'd hurt myself pretty bad."

And yet. Dean holds the kid's ankle in his hand, staring at it, silent long enough that Luke shifts uncomfortably. "Dean?" he asks, his voice soft and unsure.

"And he didn't do anything to fix it?" Dean says flatly.

Luke stiffens a little. "Who?" he asks, even though he knows damn well who.

"The son of a bitch who was supposed to be taking care of you," Dean snaps, and can't even bring himself to care about the way Luke flinches. "Jesus, Luke, you see that that's fucked up, right? That it's fucked up for that guy to have a kid get hurt following his orders and not even try to fix it?"

Luke mutters something Dean can't hear, and Dean pulls the ice away and begins to reassemble the splint around his foot. "I didn't hear you," he says through gritted teeth.

"I said he wasn't responsible for taking care of me," Luke repeats dully, but there's just the smallest spark of anger in it that has Dean looking up. Sure enough, the kid's glaring at him.

"Yes, he was," Dean argues, binding Luke's foot with the ace bandage. "You were a kid, he was an adult, and you didn't have anyone else to go to. It was his fucking duty to take care of you. As a fucking human being."

Luke's glare turns sullen, and Dean huffs out a breath of frustration. "Don't tell me you're going to defend this sick fuck."

"Yeah, sure, Dean," Luke hisses, and Dean stares at him. "Yeah. I'm gonna defend him. The guy who beat me and threw me out as bait for hunts and made me sleep outside when we camped and on the floor in motels even when the only rooms available had two beds. The guy who made me call him master and who'd put me in the back of his pickup, chained to the bed, who'd drag me to Hunter dives and make me sit at his feet while he made fun of me with his friends, like I was a dog. Yeah. I'm gonna defend him. That's what I'm gonna do."

Dean finishes wrapping his foot in silence, sliding it back into his shoe, and then slipping up onto the bed next to the younger boy, who's shaking in fury and grief and fear. He doesn't make a move towards him, knowing that if Luke needs comfort, he feels he can ask, now. "Luke," he says, but the kid's not done.

"I just said I wasn't his responsibility," Luke murmurs, and Dean listens. "And I wasn't. He kidnapped me. I don't care if he gave somebody money for me. He kidnapped me. A kidnapper doesn't owe his victim anything. I'm lucky he let me live."

It's the wrong thing to ask, but Dean asks anyway: "Am I your kidnapper?"

Luke meets his eyes dead-on, and says, "I hope not."

It's the last thing either of them says for a long while. Dean gathers the medical supplies and puts everything back in place so John doesn't notice anything out of order. Once that's done he slides back down to the ground by the bed, grabs a book out of the research duffel and hands another one to Luke, and they read in silence. The only movement before John comes back an hour later is Dean going to the kitchen to prepare lunch, and that's done in silence as well.

When his dad walks through the door, Dean doesn't look up. "Lunch is just about ready," he says quietly, and he can feel the puzzled look John gives him at his tone, but ignores it.

"Intel's still good" is John's reply as he puts down his FBI briefcase and sticks his badge in it. "We're gonna go ahead with the hunt as planned. You two ready?"

From his place on the ground Dean can feel Luke go still, surprised by John including him in the question, but Dean just says, "Yes, sir. We're packed and ready. We gonna roll out after lunch?"

"That's the plan," John grunts as he pulls off his dress shoes that Dean knows he hates so much. "Damn, I hate playing FBI. These damn shoes are going to be the death of me."

"That would be ironic," Dean remarks, walking into the kitchenette. He grabs a couple of paper plates and stirs the Tuna Helper on the hot plate, declaring it done. He scoops it into roughly equal thirds on the plates, sticks some forks in it, and carries John's and Luke's out. "Bon appetit," he says mildly before returning for his own plate.

"Did you brief the boy on the plan?" John asks, looking unusually enthralled by his pasta. As he sits back down on the ground next to Luke, Dean sends his father a glare over his own food that is ignored.

"He's got his orders," Dean replies, knowing it's not the answer John was expecting, and is therefore unsurprised when his father looks up at him.

A few different emotions flash over John's face—confusion, anger, hesitance, before a wary acceptance settles. Dean gets it. John's in charge of this hunt. It's not really Dean's business to be giving Luke orders, not about the hunt. On the other hand, he's been trying to get Dean to stop treating Luke like a rescue puppy, and orders sounds pretty much as little like coddling as he probably supposes Dean will get. Either way, before John can really rally his thoughts, Dean adds, "He's been on a few hunts before, but isn't combat-trained. I told him this time he's to observe and stay out of harm's way, until I have the time to get him trained in firearms, knives, and hand-to-hand. Nobody wins if we give him a gun and he gets nervous. I'll be responsible for him, and he's to stick close to me."

John narrows his eyes, but nods sharply. "Good. Finish eating, clean the room, and let's be ready in thirty."

"Yes, sir," Dean says easily, letting his shoulder bump against the stiff board bracing Luke's ankle. He glances upward, and Luke is watching him with an expression that Dean can't read.

But it's not fear, it's not pain, and it's not grief.

So Dean will take it.

*** 

Luke tries really hard not to think about his last owner

And when Dean's around, it's easier

Because Dean is so little like him in every way possible, from the way he expects Luke to join in his easy sarcastic banter to his gentle, steady hands wrapping the splint around Luke's ankle

Mr. Winchester isn't like him either, because he's cold and he's hard and he's not kind but he's not cruel, either, just distant and firm

Which Luke can deal with, he's dealt with so much worse, but sometimes there's a glint like steel in Mr. Winchester's eyes that reminds Luke a little bit of his last owner, and then sometimes he can feel the cold metal of the truck bed or the ache of a fist across his jaw or that cigarette-ravaged voice saying

"What're you crying for, boy, you'd better do as I say"

and

"You don't get out and play bait then you won't have to worry about the wendigo killin' you 'cause I sure as hell will"

and

"You can't even help yourself, boy, what makes you think you can take care of her?"

and

"You don't shape up, I'll sell you to Johnny Winchester, and he'll have his boy carve you up for huntin' practice, I hear the boy's got a way with knives, do you want that?"

And Luke would say no, no sir, I don't want that, I'll be better, but if he'd known then what he knows now he'd have said yes sir, go ahead, give me to John Winchester's boy because if this is carving up then I'll take it gladly over truck beds and beatings

And there's a part of him that thinks that even if this all ends like he suspected at first that it would

(although that suspicion is falling away piece by piece and that scares him as much as the name 'Winchester' had)

Even if it ends bad and it ends bloody, it's better than what he'd known before, and he'll take a bad end if it means he got to spend these days with Dean

Which is absurd

It's absurd

It's more than that, it's stupid and it's dangerous and it's the kind of thinking Luke has never allowed himself to indulge in

Because Luke knows better

Because Luke was first sold when he was six years old and he's had five owners since then and sometimes they were nicer than other times but none of them cared about him

None of them liked him or protected him; they'd protect their investment, but not Luke, and if he wasn't in danger of dying he'd just have to deal with the hits he took on his own

None of them ever gave a damn about his feelings

And neither does Dean

However convincingly he plays the good cop,

Dean's just like the others.

He has to be.

Luke can't afford to hope otherwise

And he most certainly can't afford to believe otherwise, which is, terrifyingly, what has already started to happen

So Luke has to do what he does best, and shut down.

Chapter Text

Luke moves really quietly.

Dean supposes that shouldn't surprise him. After all, the kid's most important skill, when it comes down to it, is the ability to go unnoticed when he needs to. The only way to survive being used as bait is to be able to disappear once your job is done. Up a tree, behind foliage, wherever, just get gone and get quiet. And for all of Luke's scars and bruises, he's survived.

But he's like, really quiet.

Kind of creepy-quiet.

So Dean keeps turning around, making sure he's still there. The motivation ratio is about 1:8, the world of pain John would open up for him if he lost Luke to concern for the kid's safety. But each time he turns, Luke is a few steps behind him, staring ahead of him with a focused but deliberately blank expression. Dean recognizes it. It's a gearing-up-for-some-truly-heinous-shit expression.

Luke doesn't believe he's gonna take care of him.

Dean almost falters when the realization hits him, but he catches himself in time. A very soft noise behind him sounds like it's probably an aborted are you all right? from Luke, but he ignores it and sets his jaw.

He turns again and watches Luke, who's looking at him now, brow furrowed just a little. His eyes search Dean like he's looking for a clue, but finds nothing obviously wrong. There's something wary in that look, too, and Dean wonders what he did to lose the progress he'd made.

"Hey," he whispers, and Luke immediately snaps to attention, his eyes finding Dean's. "You know the plan, right? Stick close to me, don't be a hero."

That slightly-confused-and-slightly-insulted look that Luke gets when Dean says something he finds stupid is back. "Yes, Dean," he says.

Dammit.

"Say that again," Dean says, and Luke frowns harder, but obeys.

"I said yes, Dean."

And it's back: Dean-as-title.

What the hell happened?

Dean checks his weapons quickly, including the full-color computer print-out of an icon of the Virgin Mary. He motions for Luke to show him his own picture, which the kid does obediently before stuffing it back into his pocket. John's a few paces ahead of them, checking his shotgun, loaded with silver bullets blessed with holy water.

Won't kill the Oschaert, but it'll hurt like hell, that's for sure.

Dean shivers slightly, even under his jacket, and he's glad that he shoved Luke into a couple of extra layers, even if they haven't found time to get the kid a proper winter coat yet. At least he had an extra pair of gloves to give him. Luke doesn't show any signs of being cold, but Dean's all too aware of how uncomfortable Luke can be without letting it slip. He'd probably catch hypothermia before he shivered.

John's intel has provided them with an epicenter for the attacks, which is where they head. There's no guarantee that they'll find the Oschaert there, but it's their best lead, so they'll take it. Dean's game; he wants to get the hell out of this town with Luke, maybe hit a few nice, simple salt-and-burns and let the kid unwind a little bit.

"The plan," he whispers to Luke as they move all but soundlessly through the woods.

"Stay close, stay quiet, stay behind you, don't be a hero, use the picture if it gets too close, do whatever you say," Luke whispers back, really quickly and with a note of annoyance in his voice. "I know. I got it. This isn't my first hunt."

"Yeah, well, excuse me if I don't want you using your past hunts as...as an example for this one," Dean snaps back, and Luke glares at him with a full-on fiery intensity for all of about half a second before his gaze blanks and drops to the ground.

"Okay," he mutters, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Don't okay me," Dean mutters back, and Luke steals a look at him from under his eyelashes and visibly resists the urge to scowl. "What the hell is wrong with you, man?"

"If the both of you don't shut up right now I'm going to haul your asses back to the Impala and tan your hides." John's voice is quiet and clipped, matter-of-fact, but packed with enough menace that both boys straighten up real quick and do as he says.

Dean keeps glancing at Luke the rest of the way to the Oschaert's supposed lair, watching the cautious blankness of the kid's face, the subtle way his fingers twitch in a peculiar Morse code of anxiety, the sweep of his eyes over their surroundings. The way he bites his lip, swallows hard, and flinches just a little at any unexpected sound. He's fucked up, somehow, lost him, lost whatever fragile trust he thought he'd built. Lost the smile and the more confident eye contact he'd earned when he fixed Luke's ankle. He doesn't know what he's done, but whatever it was, it must've been bad.

Maybe after this, after the hunt's over, Luke will tell him what he did. Let him make it right.

They pick their way up to the cave, and everything goes textbook-well, perfectly according to plan. For all his twitchiness, Luke blends in flawlessly, sticking with Dean like his shadow but never so close that they bump into each other when John stops abruptly, or so far that Dean is ever unsure of the kid's location. Dean had gone over John's hand signals with Luke before they left, and Luke never misses a cue.

Survival skills, Dean reminds himself. In Luke's life, he either catches on or he gets left behind. And getting left behind isn't an option.

A closed fist at shoulder-level stops Dean and Luke both where they stand, wary and set to sprint if it's necessary. Dean's got his sawed-off at the ready, and glances back at Luke, who has a hand in his pocket, around his printed picture of the Virgin. Dean nods approvingly. Luke doesn't react.

John goes into the cave by himself after signalling the boys to stay put, which Dean doesn't like even the smallest amount, but he's not in a position to argue with his dad. He starts a count. One. Two. Three. Four. He's under orders to stay where he is, but if his dad isn't out in a reasonable amount of time, he's bringing Luke back to the car and coming in after his dad.

Two minutes and sixteen seconds have passed and Dean's starting to get worried, because the cave's not that big and if the Oschaert isn't there then John should have realized it by now, and even Luke is starting to shift uncomfortably behind him. He checks behind him and gestures to his watch when he meets Luke's eyes, then gestures for Luke to follow him on his mark, and Luke nods grimly before all hell breaks loose.

"Run!" John bellows, hauling ass sideways out of the cave, blowing consecrated rounds at the bundle of black rage tumbling out of the cave behind him, and Dean doesn't hesitate for a second as he grabs Luke by the arm and barrels out ahead of John.

The reports of John's gun punctuate their flight, and the silence is otherwise only broken by the crunch of leaves under their feet, the distant, low growl of the Oschaert, and Luke's labored breathing. Dean's hand is still around his arm, and he risks a look back at the kid.

Luke is deathly pale, and Dean can see a sheen of sweat on his brow that doesn't vibe with either the chilly air or the amount of physical exertion he's under. Could be fear, but Luke's got to be used to this. By the kid's own tell of it, this was his life before he met Dean. Running from a fugly should be a piece of cake.

Muffled curses chase them through the forest as John reloads, and it spurs Dean forward, his hand tightening around Luke's arm. The kid stumbles, but Dean drags him on until he can find his footing.

"Come on!" Dean hollers. The ground seems to tremble as the Oschaert gains on John, gains on all of them. Dean wants to look back but can't chance it, can't trip. It'll be the last thing he does, and the last thing Luke does, too.

Luke, who's starting to breathe really heavy now, and kind of uneven, too. Another shot rings out and he cringes, his eyes shutting tight against the sound.

Hell, maybe the kid had been lying. Maybe this is his first hunt, and he was just trying to act all hard in front of Dean for the normal reason fourteen year olds tell big stories: to look cool.

Holy crap, though, if that's true, Dean's gonna kick Luke's ass, hard-won and fragile trust be damned. Because you don't lie about hunting. You don't lie about being on hunts, because that gets everybody killed.

"Get to the crossroads!" John roars, and it spurs Dean on, even though he's having to drag Luke along harder than before.

"Christ, Luke, move your feet!" Dean shouts, tugging sharply at the kid's arm, and feels a stab of alarm at the sob that he hears as Luke's response.

A twig snaps under his foot wrong and he almost falls, he staggers a little, but keeps going, keeps pulling Luke, keeps ahead of his dad and of the monster, keeps closing on the crossroads that he knows he knows he knows isn't too much farther.

Another sob, and Dean is realizing with dawning horror that it isn't a sob of fear. It's pain. Something's wrong.

The crack of the shotgun reminds Dean that whatever's wrong with Luke isn't the only thing that's wrong, not even the most pressing thing, because the Oschaert is much closer than it should be, and he plows forward.

"Come on, Luke!" he cries, and when he peers back, the second-long glimpse of Luke's face that he gets chills his blood. The kid is chalk-pale, his eyes glazed over, and he's not entirely sure that he didn't see a trail of blood from his nose down to his lip.

Damn it.

But it's at that moment that the trees part and in the clearing he can see the crossroads, the blessed crossroads, and he almost laughs with relief. "Just a few more yards, buddy!" he shouts back to Luke. "Hang on!"

"Dean!" John's voice is ragged, and two cracks in quick succession from the shotgun tell Dean that something happened, something that wasn't part of the plan, and he wants to help his dad but he can't leave Luke before they get to the safety of the crossroads so he runs faster and faster and they're almost there—

—and Luke's heels dig into the dirt and his wrist is wrenched from Dean's grip—

—and he collapses to the ground like he's gone suddenly boneless—

Dean can hear someone calling Luke's name and is fairly certain that it's him, but he feels like his body is on autopilot. He also hears someone calling his own name, probably his dad, but he doesn't respond because Luke isn't at the crossroads, he's not safe, he's still where the Oschaert can get him and he promised he'd protect him.

There's a cry from John, but Dean is already running back to Luke, already skidding down to cover the boy's body with his own, already raising his shotgun, because the Oschaert's almost on top of Luke and Luke is shaking on the ground, sightless eyes rolling, and god, it looks like this one time that a kid in Dean's third grade class had a seizure—

And then his back is against Luke's chest, and he's sitting over him, leaning on him, and the Oschaert is right on top of them, all bloodied fur and slavering mouth and hunt-crazed eyes and he lets off the shot—

crack

—and the Oschaert howls in pain and veers off course, right to the crossroads, right where John is waiting with his blessed rounds, his picture of the Virgin, and the incantation.

Dean leans over and scoops Luke up, which is a terrible idea because if he's having a seizure you're not supposed to move them, Dean knows, but he carries him quickly to the crossroads while he shouts the French incantation in time with his dad. He lays the kid's shuddering body on the dirt at the center of the crossroads and runs back out, still chanting, and swings around to get another shot in at the Oschaert, to bring it back towards John so it can't escape before the spell is completed.

"Au nom du Père, et du Fils, et du Saint-Espirit," John shouts, and Dean (feeling like some of the machismo of hunting is diminished by the French) answers, "Ainsi soit-il," and fires one more shot at the Oschaert before it dissipates with a roar.

One more shot, for Luke 

He and his dad stand, breathing heavily for a moment once the Oschaert's gone, and Dean turns and walks quickly to Luke, ignoring his dad's bitten-off "Dean, what the hell were you thinking?"

He kneels by Luke, who's stopped shaking, and is still breathing, which is good. He rolls the younger boy onto his side, because he read that somewhere about seizures, that putting them on their side was a good thing, and Luke's probably not having a seizure anymore at this point but better safe than sorry. He opens the kid's mouth, just to make sure he didn't swallow his tongue, but it's all okay, it's still there. And he thought he was okay, but Luke won't stop shaking, after all, and maybe he's still having the seizure, and what are you supposed to do with the tongue? Pull it? Just put your fingers on it? What are you—

But oh, no, it's just Dean's hands that are shaking. Luke is still.

Dean breathes unsteadily, one deep breath, two, and leans over, putting his forehead against Luke's. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "You're okay, though. We're okay. I didn't let it get you. Like I promised. I didn't let you get hurt."

John's footsteps get louder in Dean's ears as he approaches, but he doesn't move, doesn't look up. "What the hell were you thinking?" John demands, but his voice is softer than Dean would have expected. "Dean, you almost got yourself killed."

"He was having a seizure, Dad," Dean says, quietly, no fight in him. "I couldn't let it kill him. I promised him I'd take care of him."

"I don't want you sacrificing yourself for him," John responds, crouching by him and putting a hand in his hair. It's more affection than John normally shows, and it would have stunned Dean, had he not been in the middle of an adrenaline crash. "Dean. You're my son, and it would kill me to lose you. You understand? When I saw you slide under that thing, when I didn't know if you'd get that shot off in time..."

He trails off. John Winchester trails off, and Dean wonders briefly at the irony of the fact that he's just not present enough to really care. Not that a part of him doesn't warm at his father's words, but Luke almost died just minutes ago, and it's nice that his dad loves him, but right now he can't deal with it.

"We've got to get him back to the motel," Dean says, his voice suddenly brisk, standing unsteadily. John catches his arm and helps him balance, pulling him up to his knees. Dean, in turn, lifts Luke. "I don't know what happened to him, but we've got to make sure he's okay."

"Dean—"

Dean turns to his dad, and there's surprise on John's face when he sees his son's expression. "I made him a promise, Dad," he says. "And you told me that a Winchester always keeps his promises. We need to get him back to the motel. And I need access to the first aid kit."

"Dean, I want you to listen to me."

"No, Dad." Dean shifts Luke's weight in his arms, feeling the ragged puff of warm breath against his neck. "I want you to listen to me. I promised I'd take care of him. And if you want him to find the demon that killed Mom, you've gotta let me get him better."

They stand that way for a long moment, Luke cradled in Dean's arms, John staring at his son like he's never seen him before, and Dean can swear that he can still hear the echo of the Oschaert's roar faint in the breeze.

They go after those with guilty consciences.

He tips his head towards Luke's, not breaking eye contact with his father.

When John turns and walks back towards the Impala, Dean doesn't try for anything more, shifting Luke into a fireman's carry and following his dad.

They arrive at the car, and Dean eases Luke into the back seat, sliding in next to him silently and propping the kid's head on his legs. John drives slowly, carefully, back to the motel, and Dean is mutely but intensely grateful for it. Luke is still wracked by the occasional shudder, and low groans tell Dean that he's in some pain. Dean tries to adjust him, to make him as comfortable as he can, but it's no use. Luke's brow furrows and he continues to make small noises of pain throughout the silent, tense car ride.

The car is barely parked before Dean kicks the door open and drags Luke out, cradling him against his chest and stepping into the room as soon as John opens the door. He lays Luke out on the bed, head propped up by a few pillows, and kneels on the bed next to him. He pulls out a flashlight he took from their gear and checks the kid's pupil dilation, then moves on to heart rate, breathing, reflexes, temperature. Everything seems normal with the exception of an elevated heart rate, which makes sense given the trauma, but Dean can't ignore the racing of his own heart, the sick dread that coils through his stomach. What if he doesn't get better?

John slips out after a few hours, on the excuse of finding something for them to eat. Dean doesn't respond or look up when his father leaves, but stays at his place beside Luke. He sits next to the kid's head, obsessively placing his palm against Luke's forehead, checking for fever. Running his fingers through sweaty hair, pressing cold rags against his flushed cheeks. Murmuring, "Wake up, man. Come on. Please, wake up."

What goes unsaid is I don't know what I'll do if you don't.

What goes unsaid is I can't lose you like I lost Sammy.

A lot goes unsaid as Dean keeps a silent vigil, kneeling by Luke, praying like he hasn't in a decade.

*** 

He can feel it coming on

And his heart plummets to the floor

No no no no, please, not now

Not when he can't protect himself

Not when he'll be completely at Dean and Mr. Winchester's mercy

Not when he can't even hide it from them

But he can't help it, can't stop it, and his body clenches tight with the pain

And he sees it

Like he always sees it

And he can't even open his mouth to scream

But he feels himself fall to the ground and he can hear, distantly, the thud thud thud that means that the Oschaert is coming closer

And there isn't anything he can do about it

Can't even brace himself

And he thinks:

This is it.

Fourteen years of pain and servitude and misery wrapping up in one final moment of agony

And he should have known it, should have known that what he had with the Winchesters was too good to last

Even if he's still property and he's still scared and by any reasonable standards his life is still awful

It's too good for him

And now the Oschaert is going to kill him just when he started thinking he might have something to live for again.

Okay.

Okay.

If he's going to die, he'll do it with his eyes open.

And then, just as it coalesces in his vision, the Oschaert is obscured, and he feels heavy weight and heavy breathing and warmth against him, before the sharp report of Dean's sawed-off

the howl of the Oschaert

the sensation of being lifted and the scent of leather and sweat

and the sound of French incantation as he's placed gently back on the ground

And before the darkness takes him, his last thought is

Dean saved me.

Chapter Text

The next several hours are spent in roughly the same way.

Dean kneels beside Luke, or sits on the bed beside Luke, or lies on the bed next to (but a respectful distance away from) Luke. His eyes rarely leave Luke's face, searching for some sign that he's going to wake, making sure he's still breathing. His palms twitch and tremble until he allows himself to touch Luke's chest, feeling relief flood through his body at the even rise and fall. He takes his hands away, only to relive the same ritual over again fifteen minutes later.

John comes in and out, making sure nothing's gone wrong, but Dean barely acknowledges him. He doesn't eat, and he doesn't sleep. He just stands vigil.

It's about two hours in when he starts talking to Luke.

The kid's head is resting on his leg, and he's holding a damp rag to his forehead, trying to chase away the slight fever that's bringing a flush to Luke's cheeks. The younger boy looks even younger like this, rosy-faced and unguarded, and in sleep he doesn't hesitate to curl in to Dean's warmth.

"It's gonna be all right, kiddo," Dean says quietly, pressing the rag against Luke's cheek. "You're gonna pull through this. Too fuckin' tough to let something like this take you down. You outran that Rawhead in Minnesota, and you think some seizure's gonna take you out? Yeah, right."

Luke doesn't respond, doesn't even shift. Dean watches him closely, looking for any sign that he's been heard, any fluttering of eyelashes or change in breathing. There is none.

So he shifts, scooting himself under Luke so that the boy is propped up against Dean's chest, nestled between Dean's legs. Dean dips the rag into the small bowl of lukewarm water at his side, then tugs down the kid's collar and rests the rag against the nape of his neck.

"Look, I promised you I'd take care of you, and damn it, I've been trying," Dean says as he watches the small trails the water droplets leave darken the back of Luke's shirt. "But you gotta make an effort, too, man. I need you to buckle down and come back to me. Okay? It'll get better, I promise, but you gotta come back to me."

Dean imagines that Luke agrees to the terms when his head lolls to the side, coming to rest in the crook of Dean's neck before falling still again.

An hour later Dean is re-wrapping the bandage around Luke's head from where he hit a rock when he fell. John's out again. Dean doesn't know where he went, and he doesn't really care. Every entrance is salted and he's got a gun in his waistband. Nothing's getting the jump on him. And without John there, he doesn't have to deal with the awkward staring and the indecipherable glances his father keeps giving him.

He can focus on Luke, on the way the skin of his forehead just below his hairline is painted purple and yellow and green with bruising like some kind of demented Mardi Gras decoration, how a robin's egg is swelling beneath his hair, how his brow stays just a little furrowed like he's never quite not in pain.

Once he tucks the end of the bandage in, he fiddles with the blood-caked locks on top of Luke's head. He hasn't wanted to move Luke enough to get him into the bath tub yet, so he's still filthy, covered in blood and dirt. Dean rubs the strands back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. The blood flakes off onto the sheets, onto his hand.

It doesn't coat his skin like he thinks it ought to.

"As soon as you wake up, we'll clean you up," Dean promises, still flaking the blood out of the kid's hair. It's methodical and easy and it doesn't require thought. It's perfect. "This place even has an okay bath tub. It's not too gross. I've done worse—I'm sure you have, too."

Luke's weight is heavy against Dean's chest. Dead weight, Dean's brain offers helpfully, and the older boy pushes the thought away with violence. Luke's not dead. Luke's not dying. Lots of people sleep off seizures for a long time. He just has to wait. He just has to wait, and to not give up on the kid.

He can do that.

He owes him that much.

He's adjusting him carefully, getting ready to do a check of his pupil dilation, when he's aided in the process by Luke shifting. He almost falls off of the bed when he realizes what's happening, but catches himself and steadies Luke with hands on his shoulders. "Hey, woah, man, take it easy, I got you. You coming around?"

Luke tilts his head up and focuses with hazy eyes on Dean for just a moment, before blinking once, long and slow and languid. "Dean?" he murmurs.

"Right here, buddy," Dean answers, grinning like an idiot. "I got you. Go slow, okay?"

Luke nods unsteadily, and Dean helps him down slowly, lowering him onto his back. The kid still can't seem to focus on anything too well, his eyes flicking around the room like he's trying to figure out where he is. When his eyes finally find Dean again, his body relaxes a little, but there's something weird in his expression. Dean files it away under think about it later.

"I'm gonna get you some water," he says, and Luke nods again while he reaches to the lamp stand and grabs a bottle of water and a straw. Luke's eyes follow him the whole way, locking with Dean's when he straightens back up and lowers the straw to Luke's lips. The younger boy opens his mouth obediently and takes a few weak sips of the water before turning his head away, just slightly, just enough for the straw to fall. Dean takes the hint and puts the water back up. "You scared the shit out of me, man. How are you feeling?"

Luke closes his eyes and leans his head back against the pillows, his brows furrowed, and it looks to Dean like he's gathering his strength. His eyelids flutter like he's trying to open them, but eventually he gives in and just says, "Tired."

Dean chuckles, brushing the kid's hair out of his eyes. "I know, dude. It's all right. You had a long day."

As he goes to pull the covers up around Luke, he feels a pressure around his wrist. When he looks up he sees Luke's hand over his. He glances at Luke, puzzled, and only more so when the kid whispers something that sounds like sorry.

Dean stops what he's doing and shifts so he's facing Luke, whose hand still covers Dean's. "Sorry?" Dean echoes, and Luke closes his eyes again and nods, the smallest movement of his head. "Sorry for what?"

Luke shakes his head, like he can't even bear to talk about it, and to Dean's horror a single tear slips from the corner of his eye and down his cheek. Dean leans over closer to him and brushes the tear away, putting his hand against Luke's cheek until the kid pries his eyes open. "What hurts?" he asks softly.

And Luke shakes his head one more time before he can't fight off sleep any longer and his eyes close reluctantly, and his head falls back down onto the pillow. His hand remains on top of Dean's as he succumbs to unconsciousness.

It's then that John walks through the door, stilling at the sight of Dean hovering over Luke, one hand on his face and the other covered by the younger boy's. "Did he wake up?" John asks, his voice quiet.

Dean nods.

"Did he say anything?" John asks, closing the door behind himself and walking in with the provisions he'd gathered at Dean's command. When Dean glances over he can see the outline of saltine cracker boxes and Gatorade and canned chicken soup, as well as—wonder of wonders—some medicine.

Dean swallows hard, and his dad puts the groceries down by the kitchenette and walks over to him. He stops at the bed, and doesn't sit, doesn't touch Dean, just stands there watching the two of them. And it's been a while since Dean cried, since he even considered it, but he finds himself biting down on his lip, hard, before he says, "He woke up for just a second. He—he said he was sorry."

Dean hears his dad cross over to the other bed and sit down, feels the weight of his gaze on his shoulders, but doesn't look away from Luke's sleeping form. Where there had been a kind of resigned peace on his face earlier, now there's tension and the salty tracks of tears. Dean wants to comfort him, wants to wipe the tear tracks away, but that whispered sorry makes him not want to touch Luke at all. Not when he might wake up and misunderstand. "He said he was sorry," Dean echoes.

"For almost getting you killed?" John asks, and while the question lacks vitriol, Dean whips his head around and glares at his father.

"For having a fucking seizure," he snaps. "Luke didn't do anything to me, Dad. He's sick, and I made the decision to protect him. Okay? He didn't do anything."

John looks ready to argue, but then instead covers his face with his hands. "Right," he says. "Exactly. He didn't do anything. Like tell us he has a seizure disorder. Like tell us he's prone to convulsing on hunts."

"Like he's gonna tell you anything that makes him look weak," Dean retorts, and the hush that falls over the room makes the blood flood out of his cheeks.

But he doesn't take it back.

"What does that mean?" John asks, his voice low and measured.

And damn it, if Dean's in for a penny he's in for a pound, so he says, "I mean that you scare the shit out of him, Dad. And he's afraid you're gonna hurt him just for being Lilim, so why the hell would he tell you something else you can use against him? Something that would give you a reason to se—to send him back?"

"As if I would give up our best shot at finding your mother's killer," John rumbles, and usually the tone would be enough to make Dean back down, but not today.

"He knows that that's all he is," Dean says, "and what do you think that makes him feel like? You think that makes him want to get all sharing-is-caring with the medical histories? It's not like you asked. It's not like you even told him your name."

John begins to say something, but Dean barrels on. "And speaking of that, if you'd cared at all, you might've known that he's heard of us before. And that when you answered the phone with your name he all but had a heart attack in the damn motel room. I don't think you understand how bad this kid's been fucked up, Dad, and I think you need to, or you're gonna make it worse."

"I haven't laid a finger on him," John snaps. "God knows, you haven't let him out of your sight for long enough for anyone to have hurt him."

"Why, would you?" Dean asks. "If I let him out of my sight? Would you hurt him?"

John looks disgusted, but Dean's not sure he buys it. "Jesus, son, what the hell do you think of me?" he mutters, shaking his head. "He serves a purpose. He can't do that if he's not taken care of."

"Just as long as he's not coddled, right?" Dean sneers, shifting his position on the bed so that he's firmly situated between John and Luke.

John stiffens and then rises violently from the bed, snapping "I don't have to listen to this crap", grabbing his coat and storming out of the room. The door slams behind him.

Dean feels Luke shiver under his hands, but can't tear his eyes away from the door. "It's okay, buddy," he says quietly. "He's just being a dick. I promised you I wouldn't let him hurt you, and I won't. Doesn't matter if he gets pissy."

Luke buries his face in Dean's shirt, still asleep, instinctively moving towards the warmth of Dean's body. And the movement is so trusting, so open, that Dean has to stifle a sob.

It feels to him, in this moment, that he doesn't know who his father is anymore. And his dad is he only person he has to turn to, his only companion and source of safety and comfort. The only constant in his life.

And yet, this kid feels more like his anchor right now, with his nose pressing against Dean's ribs, the little sigh he lets slip when Dean puts his hand tentatively on his back.

In his sleep, Luke trusts Dean to keep him safe. And what Luke trusts Dean to keep him safe from is John.

When Luke wakes up, it'll be big fearful eyes and whispers of I'm sorry and a wariness that Dean can't take, not when he's ruining his relationship with his father over this.

All of a sudden he's awash in nausea, and nearly stumbles off the bed disentangling himself from Luke. He runs to the bathroom and empties his stomach of the little food he's eaten since the hunt, heaving until there's nothing left.

And as soon as the thought

God, I wish I'd never met that damn kid

crosses his mind, he banishes it, feeling a guilt that would curdle his stomach if there was anything left in it.

He doesn't wish he'd never met Luke.

He just wishes Luke didn't act like he wished he'd never met Dean.

After brushing his teeth and splashing some water on his face he walks back into the room, and is startled to see Luke propped up against the headboard.

He's less startled and more disappointed to see the look on Luke's face, half of resignation, half of fear.

"Morning, buddy," he says carefully, keeping his hands where Luke can see them as he approaches the bed. "Feeling any better?"

Luke nods mutely. Dean sighs and sits at the edge of the bed, as far away from Luke as he can. Luke's face is still flushed with sleep, his cheek bearing the lines of the covers he'd been resting so heavily on, so it's doubly weird to see this look of wariness on him. "Good," he says, knowing how dumb it sounds. "I'm glad. You want to talk about what happened?"

"If you do," Luke replies, his voice barely above a breath. His eyes drop down to the comforter that he's worrying between his fingers.

"I do," Dean affirms. "I didn't know you had seizures."

Luke makes a coughing sound that could be the chronically depressed cousin of a laugh.

"And I know, I didn't ask," Dean continues, "but I wish you'd said something, man. We could've left you at the motel. I didn't—I don't want you putting yourself in that kind of danger, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Luke whispers.

"Stop that," Dean snaps, and Luke's eyes flick up briefly before returning to the comforter. Dean sighs and runs his hands over his face and through his hair. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like that."

"It's okay," Luke says, and when he pushes the comforter off of himself Dean suddenly gets the five-alarm feeling that he's not responding to Dean's apology. He slides out of the bed with a gracelessness that's not surprising given his injuries, but he lands more or less steadily on his knees in front of Dean. "It's okay," he repeats, staring at Dean's shins. "I know you have to."

"Have to...snap at you?" Dean asks, his throat suddenly dry. Luke risks a glance up at him, looking puzzled, then lowers his eyes again. "You lost me, Luke. What do I have to do?"

And Luke staggers a little as he tries to keep upright, screwing his eyes up in what looks like pain. Dean jumps off the bed and steadies him, and when Luke opens his eyes it's with that same bitter resignation Dean saw the first day in the motel. The look of I don't want to play this game. He wonders what rule he's misunderstood now 

"I have to say it?" Luke asks, his voice barely audible.

Despairingly, Dean replies, "I don't know what you're talking about, man, I really don't."

Luke tips his head back like he's marshaling all of his energy, and, still looking up at the ceiling, says, "I understand that you have to punish me. It's okay. I'm ready."

They stay like that for a second, kneeling in front of each other, Luke staring up at the ceiling until he closes his eyes, Dean staring at Luke. Finally the older boy breaks the silence, putting the palm of his hand on Luke's cheek, ignoring the flinch, and pulling his head back to where their eyes meet. "You're a fucking nutcase," he says, not without affection.

"Thanks," Luke says, and it's obviously supposed to come out sarcastic but the break in his voice halfway through somewhat mars the effect. So do his wide eyes, staring at Dean like he's speaking Klingon.

Dean stands and pulls Luke up with him, settling the younger boy back on the bed. "I'm taking back all that stuff I said about how you're so smart," he continues, jerking the blankets from under Luke and settling them back on top of him. "Because that was the dumbest thing I've ever heard. What the hell would I punish you for?" 

"I almost got you killed, Dean," Luke exclaims, though he sinks back down onto the mattress. The look on his face says he's completely aware of the paradox. "I totally mismanaged myself on a hunt and I almost got my owner killed. I froze up and I slowed you down."

"I'm not your owner," Dean argues. "And it wasn't your fault."

"You are, and it was," Luke argues back. "I put you in danger. It's because of me that the Oschaert almost hurt you."

"You can't help a seizure," Dean interjects, but Luke's not listening.

"I should've known it was coming on. I'd been feeling sick all day. I should have said something, I shouldn't have been so scared of getting scolded or punished that I kept quiet about it." He shuts his eyes tight, and tucks his head, his chin all but touching his chest. "I know you have to. Just get it over with. Please."

Dean sits next to Luke, who flinches away, and grabs the kid's face. That forces Luke's eyes open with shock, and when Dean says, "Fine," Luke looks almost relieved.

When Dean flicks Luke between the eyes with his thumb and forefinger, that look of relief is quickly replaced by confusion and a little bit of indignation. Luke sputters incoherently for a moment.

"Next time you don't feel well, tell me," Dean says. "The next time you think something I'm asking you to do will put you—you, not me—in danger, tell me. You won't get punished for speaking up for yourself. Okay? I promised, didn't I?"

"You did," Luke murmured.

And the million dollar question: "Do you believe me?"

Luke hesitates.

So Dean adds, "Because you've been acting weird. Like, closed off. Like at first. I thought we'd gotten a little better. But you...you've been a little strange lately. If you don't believe me, it's okay. I'll prove it. You can tell me."

Luke closes his eyes. "I didn't," he admits, and Dean feels a lump rise in his throat. "Well, that's not it. Not quite. I did. And I'm not supposed to."

"Says who?" Dean demands, and Luke's eyes open. He looks up at Dean.

"Says me," Luke replies. "Says me, 'cause nobody else has ever protected me, okay? And I don't want to get my hopes up just to be disappointed again."

There's silence for a moment, and Dean searches Luke's face unabashedly, though he couldn't say what it is he's looking for. Luke, in his turn, doesn't seem to mind, though he keeps his eyes averted. Finally, Dean says, "You said you didn't."

Luke smiles ruefully.

"Do you now?"

Luke snuggles down under the blankets, his shoulder nudging against Dean's knee. "There's something about you that makes me want to trust you," he says softly. "And after what you did with the Oschaert..."

"I won't let you down," Dean promises.

Luke slips his hand out from under the blankets and reaches out. Dean takes it. "I believe you," Luke whispers.

Dean squeezes his hand, and Luke smiles a little bit. "We do still have to talk about the seizure, though," he says regretfully.

Luke mumbles something that Dean can't understand. Dean leans in and hums his confusion, and Luke repeats: "It wasn't a seizure."

Dean feels his blood run cold as he asks the question to which he already knows the answer. "Then what was it?"

Luke swallows hard, and his grip tightens around Dean's hand. "A vision."

Dean bites the inside of his cheek and tries to keep his breathing even. "Did you see..."

"I did." Luke nods, and meets Dean's eyes resolutely. "I saw the demon you and your dad are hunting. I know where he's going next."

***

Nothing is solid

And he's floating

There's sound and color

Sometimes sensation

But he's still floating

And he knows that when he finally finds the ground, there will be pain.

Not just where he fell

Not just where Dean's weight crushed him

But punishment

(How could he have ever convinced himself that he was done with punishment?)

So when he wakes up, it's reluctantly

But when he wakes up, he does so instantly

Because there's no point in putting it off

So he slides to his knees

And he waits.

But.

When Dean's hands fall on him, they're gentle

And when Dean's hands fall on him, it's not to cause pain

He tucks him into bed

And he worries over him

When he thinks Dean is finally going to do it

To punish him

(To hurt him)

He feels a wave of relief, because it's what he understands

But the only discomfort he feels is when Dean flicks him on the head

And even that is done with affection, with fondness.

The only correction he's given is to take better care of himself

Not so that he can continue to serve the purpose he was purchased for

But so that he's safe

And when Dean even says it's okay if he doesn't trust him

If he admits that he doesn't trust him

It's then that Luke realizes that he doesn't have any more walls left that can stand up to Dean

No more defenses that can withstand his gentle but unrelenting presence, his insistence that he cares

And while it's not without trepidation,

When he tells Dean that he knows where the demon is going next,

He's glad that he can do it.

He's glad that he can do it for Dean.

Chapter Text

An hour after Luke's revelation, he's sitting in the bed with a bowl of chicken soup on his lap, a zip-loc bag full of ice on his neck, and a perturbed look on his face. His eyes are flicking between the two Winchester men standing in front of his bed, both showing tension in every line of their body. Dean's face is flushed, and John's lips are white from being pressed together so hard.

It's been about ten minutes since John got back, seven since Dean explained what was going on, and the time since then has passed in more or less the same way: with Dean and John shouting at each other, and Luke sitting there in silence, watching them with wide eyes.

"We need to head out, now," John says, his voice tight with restrained anger and impatience. "We have the advantage but it'll take hours to get there."

"When'll you be ready to roll, Luke?" Dean asks, his eyes still on his father, his voice a parody of lightness that contrasts starkly with the fierceness of his glare.

Luke swallows his mouthful of soup and a chunk of chicken almost goes down square, but he manages to get it down and looks up anxiously at Dean. He's silent for about a count of ten as he obviously tries to calculate the best answer. "I'm ready to go now," he lies, and Dean can see that he's lying because a muscle in his right eyelid jumps a little.

Dean nods as though that settled it. "Two hours it is."

Luke and John both say "Dean" at the same time, though in very different tones of voice.

Dean turns first to Luke, pointing firmly to the bowl of soup the younger boy is holding. "You. Eat your damn soup," he says, "and let the grown-ups talk." Luke scowls, then glances at John and evens out his expression, but nonetheless obeys. He lifts the spoon to his lips and takes another mouthful. Dean nods approvingly and turns to his father. "You. We're not moving him until he's ready."

"The boy just said he's ready now," John snaps, and Dean can see in the twitch of his father's fingers that he does need to adjust the time frame—just a little.

When John's fingers get twitchy like that, something usually dies pretty soon.

"He's lying, Dad," Dean says, but this time his voice is a little bit more soothing, a little bit less confrontational. "He's exhausted and he's hurt."

"'M okay," comes Luke's soft voice from the bed, but neither Winchester turns to him, though Dean does spare the time for a curt "Shut up, Luke." The younger boy's mouth tilts down into a frown, but he does as he's told, sipping his Gatorade almost sullenly, like it's a rebellion.

"Vision or not, what he had looked a hell of a lot like a seizure," Dean continues. "It took it out of him, and he's sacrificed enough helping us find this lead."

"The trail's going to get cold," John argues.

"His soup isn't even cold," Dean retorts. "Call some contacts, get the scoop on the omen situation down in Lincoln. Narrow down the area a little bit, give us some ideas about where to canvas. And give me an hour and a half to get him ready to go. An hour and a half, Dad."

"Hour and fifteen," John counters.

Dean closes his eyes to suppress the instinct to roll them, and nods. "Hour and fifteen. You call Bobby and get the buzz on Lincoln, and I'll get Miss Cleo here set."

"On the road in an hour fifteen," John clarifies as he grabs his cell phone and walks to the door.

"Shutting the door in an hour fifteen," Dean shouts at his father's back as John dials Bobby's number and closes the door. Since he got the last word, Dean's pretty sure he won, so he's content. And either way, Dean's not moving Luke for an hour and ten minutes, and God help the person who tries to persuade him otherwise.

Once the door is closed, though, what little energy remained after fighting with his father drains out of him, and he suddenly feels unsteady, like his knees are going to give out any minute. He sits heavily on the bed by Luke's feet, putting his face in his hands and taking a few deep breaths. He jumps a little when he feels a hand on his shoulder, but only a little, and he tries to control the movement so as not to startle the cause of it. He pulls his hands away from his face and looks over at Luke, who's put his soup on the lamp stand and is hovering hesitantly by him.

The progress that it indicates, that Luke is willing and able to try to comfort Dean, doesn't escape the older boy's notice. But neither does the pallor of Luke's face, the way that the hand on his shoulder is shaking just a little bit. He's still scared shitless of John, and Dean can't say that he blames the kid.

"Don't let him get to you," Dean murmurs. "He's just—" He trails off. He's not sure just what John is, anymore.

A week ago he wouldn't have thought John was just the kind of man who'd buy a kid. Dean would've guessed more like he'd kill the slavers and send Dean with the kid to child services, much as that particular government agency was the villain of his childhood. And a week ago, Dean wouldn't have thought John was just the kind of man who'd fight his son on letting said kid take an hour to recover from a seizure.

"It's okay," Luke says, and fuck if Dean isn't tired of hearing that from Luke. "He's desperate. I understand."

"You don't have to say that," Dean protests, but Luke just grins sideways, a lot like Dean does, and Dean quiets.

"Your dad isn't the first Hunter to buy me," Luke says, ignoring Dean's second aborted attempt at a protest that comes out as way more of a whimper than Dean's willing to admit. "And I've gotten pretty good at reading people. Your dad's not proud of what he's doing. I get it. But he thinks I'm his best bet at finding this demon. He doesn't like me, he doesn't like what I am and he doesn't like what he's doing to me, whether he thinks I'm human or not. It's got him on edge."

"Doesn't give him the right to treat you like shit," Dean returns heatedly. "And it doesn't give him the right to shove you around when you need time to recover."

"Maybe not," Luke says lightly, lips tilted slightly upwards. Dean doesn't know if the smile is genuine or for his sake, but either way, it's twisted. "But it's what it is. And you promised you wouldn't let him kill me when it's done. Right?"

"Right," Dean manages around a throat that's quickly constricting, when all he can think is there is no dimension in which it's okay for a kid to say that with a smile.

"Then the best thing for me to do is do my best to find the demon, and then trust you to figure out what to do with me after that," says Luke, and the way he says it, the ease of it, the way it sounds fucking natural in his voice to talk about giving control of his life to someone else, makes Dean's blood boil and it makes his heart clench.

But maybe he's learning some of Luke's weird, obscure rules...maybe he's finally deciding to give the kid what he actually needs instead of what Dean thinks he should need, wants him to need. So he threads his fingers through Luke's hair and pushes him a little, affectionately, and he mutters, "I'll take care of you, kid. You don't have to worry about that."

Luke rolls with the push and grins as he sits back up. It's the biggest smile Dean's seen from him so far, and he thinks it's a good look on the kid. "I'm not worried," Luke replies, and Dean doesn't even think he's lying.

Maybe it's the way Luke seems a little surprised at his own words.

Whatever the cause, Dean's satisfied, and he puts his hand on Luke's forehead. The kid doesn't flinch away, doesn't lean in, just darts his eyes up towards the hand and then looks at Dean expectantly, waiting for the diagnosis. "No fever," Dean reports, and then tugs Luke closer with a hand on his shoulder. Luke scoots over compliantly, and Dean checks the shallow head wound beneath the bandages. "And looking good," Dean announces. "Now that you took a bath and scrubbed some of the dirt out of it, I don't think it'll even get infected."

"I told you I was ready to go now," Luke says, sounding a touch exasperated. Nonetheless he lets Dean mother him, taking the Gatorade when Dean offers it to him and handing it back to him when he's done, obeying Dean's impatient gesture to finish eating his soup. He lets Dean take his foot out from under the blankets and check his range of motion while he sips the last of his soup from the bowl, and Dean's pretty sure he catches a smile when he declares the foot to be healing nicely. Luke even takes the painkillers Dean gives him without complaint.

When Dean's done, he takes the bowl away and pushes Luke softly, more of an encouragement to lay down than anything else. The younger boy takes the hint and falls back onto the pillows, unable to stop a little sigh of relief at the comfort.

"We have an hour before my dad makes us evacuate the premises, forty-five before I need to re-wrap your ankle for walking," Dean says, pulling the blankets up to Luke's chin and shoving them under his body in a way that's a little too rough to be described as tucking in, a little too gentle for manhandling. "Sleep. I'm gonna pack up, and I'll wake you when it's time to move you out to the car."

"I can help," Luke says, but it's laughably drowsy, so Dean just goes ahead and laughs. Luke frowns at him, a picture of grouchiness, but it's without heat, and he barely maintains it when Dean ruffles his hair. "I can."

"You'd pass out," Dean says, already moving away from the bed to start gathering their supplies together.

"I would not," Luke argues, but then he yawns, and Dean laughs again. "Dean!"

"Go to sleep," Dean calls from across the motel room, and Luke opens his mouth to protest again, only to be met by a spare pillow thrown at high velocity.

He adjusts under the blankets until he's got them curled around himself just like he likes, closes his eyes, and is quiet and breathing deeply within minutes.

Dean watches him as he packs. The circles under his eyes look like bruises, a matching set that complement the actual bruises littered around his body from the fall he took and the subsequent convulsions. He's pale as death and Dean still feels the need to check his pupils every ten minutes, to put a hand over his chest and make sure he's breathing, to put fingers to his wrist and feel the reassuring throb of his pulse.

But he's alive, and he's okay.

It fills Dean with a relief the violence of which he can barely understand.

He pauses in packing, hesitates, then rolls up the leg of his jeans to the knee. He suppresses a hiss at what he sees: a deep purple, nearly black bruise covering most of his kneecap, spreading onto his shin. He has no doubt that his other leg looks similar. He hadn't really realized how hard he crashed into the ground when he saw the Oschaert coming for Luke. He's lucky nothing's broken.

But it was like his brain shut off, when he saw that Luke was in danger. Something else altogether took over, something instinctive and involuntary, and in the moment that he dove in front of Luke there was nothing else he could have done. There was no other choice he could have made. It had been like his dad was in danger—no thought, just action, just go move hurry protect.

And he had barely even noticed the pain in his legs until now, past the adrenaline and the fear.

He still doesn't regret it even a little bit.

He packs and gathers and cleans away the remnants of their stay there. In another hour it'll be like they never came. It bothers him, sometimes, especially on the bad days when he's thinking about Sammy, that their lives are so transient, so invisible. That nobody knows when they show up and nobody cares when they leave.

It bothers him that when Sammy died, he and his dad and Bobby and Pastor Jim were the only ones who grieved.

It bothers him that when he dies, it'll only be three people who mourn him.

This time, when he thinks it, he glances over at Luke.

There's something about you that makes me want to trust you.

I'm not worried.

Well. Maybe four.

And that thought makes him smile, makes his heart feel a little lighter, as he finishes packing up their scant belongings and then sits at the foot of the bed, waiting for the time when he'll have to wake Luke.

He's content to wait.

***

Luke hates being caught between the Winchesters

It's like being caught in a vice

And the pressure might feel, for a while, like comfort, like an embrace,

But he knows that eventually it'll crush him.

It's easy with Mr. Winchester; he knows what he wants, and it's easy enough for Luke to provide, given that the man can have patience

And Dean said that his mother died fourteen years ago, so obviously Mr. Winchester can be patient

So Luke can prove himself to Mr. Winchester, can make him understand that he's worth keeping around

But Dean

Dean is something else altogether

Luke still can't figure out what it is that Dean wants

Other than to make it really, really hard to make Mr. Winchester happy

Mr. Winchester wants to go right away and Luke's ready to jump up and into the car

But Dean says no

Even though Luke can heal in the back seat of the Impala as well as he can in a motel room

Dean says no

And Mr. Winchester leaves it alone

But Luke knows better than to think that it's over.

This kind of thing never is, until it's been taken out of his skin.

But he sits and watches Dean quietly have a breakdown

And he realizes that past the icy fear and dread, there's something warm in the center of him

And he realizes that he's touched by the way Dean is sacrificing for him, for his comfort, for what he thinks Luke needs or ought to need.

It's not his place to be touched by his owner's actions towards him, he knows that, but he can't help that he forgets everything he's been taught when Dean's around

And while Dean denies any claim resembling ownership towards him

(Which scares him more than he ever dreamed it would)

(Which makes him feel protectorless when Dean insists again and again that he is not Luke's owner)

When he says that he trusts Dean to decide what to do with him after they find the demon, he means it

And when Dean, in turn, promises that he'll take care of him, Luke believes it.

Whether he wants to or not, Luke believes that Dean will protect him.

Chapter Text

If there's one thing in the world Dean Winchester is familiar with, it's road trips.

From intra-state hops to massive cross-country treks, Dean's done it all, and he does it with style and without complaint. He's got it down to a science.

But somehow, this trip to Lincoln feels like the longest he's ever taken.

It's not even that it's uncomfortable this time. It's just boring. Luke dozed in the back seat for the first couple of hours of the trip, having woken groggy from his nap in the motel room and subsequently been stuffed full of painkillers and shoved into the car. John had watched dispassionately as Dean fumbled him into the back seat, and when Dean shut the door, he looked up at his dad.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," Dean mumbled.

"You were upset," John replied, which was pretty much as close to forgiveness as he got.

"But I didn't say anything I didn't mean," Dean continued, and while John fell silent, the look on his face simply became cautious, not angry, which emboldened Dean. "I know what you think about him. So does he. But we're supposed to be protecting people, Dad, and I know he's not exactly human, but he needs our help. He doesn't have anybody else. Can you try?"

John sighed, running a hand over his face, and said, "Dean."

"He wants to help us," Dean pressed. "He does. He wants to make you happy, and he wants to help us find the demon that killed Mom. He's killing himself trying to be exactly what you and I want him to be. Give him a chance, Dad. Please."

And John had stared at his son for a long moment, like he'd never seen him before, and Dean stood there and accepted the scrutiny. Finally John sighed again and said, "You have a big heart, son. It'll get you hurt if you let it."

As John had started around the car to get to the driver's side, Dean said, "That's not an answer."

John hesitated by the door, then nodded. "I'll try, Dean."

Dean grinned as he slid into the passenger's seat, and glanced back at a thoroughly passed-out Luke.

Three hours later, Luke is beginning to be less thoroughly passed-out. Dean's got the map out and he's just finished figuring out which exit they need when he hears Luke shifting in the back seat.

"Wakin' up back there?" Dean asks, and Luke mumbles a response. From the reflection in the rear view mirror Dean can see Luke's eyes shift to John, and the kid straightens up.

"I'm awake," he says blearily, rubbing his eyes quickly and buckling his seatbelt. "Where—" he begins, then seems to think better of it, once more glancing at John before quieting.

Dean also glances at John, his version significantly more pointed. And while his father doesn't turn, he sets his jaw and says, "We're just about to pass Iowa City, Luke. We're almost halfway there."

Luke stares, his mouth just the slightest bit open as an homage to the slack-jawed countenance he looks like he wants to have, and he shakes his head once to clear it before saying, "Yes, sir," which Dean thinks is a weird response, but he's clearly too flabbergasted to say anything coherent.

"Speaking of which," John adds, glancing down at his watch, "are either of you hungry? We need some gas anyway so now's a good time to stop."

"I'm starved," Dean replies enthusiastically, and Luke just nods his head silently, still staring at John.

Then his eyes turn quickly to Dean, and it's a panicked glare, and Dean frowns.

They pull over at some greasy spoon on the side of the interstate, and John drops them off to get a table while he goes to get some gas. It's not like Dean doesn't know what he likes to eat at these places anyway, so he can order for both of them.

But as soon as John's gone Dean lets himself be spun around by Luke's hand on his arm, and finds himself facing an irate teenager. "The hell is wrong with you?" Dean asks, startled.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Luke hisses, and Dean can feel that the hand that holds his arm is trembling. Still, Luke presses in close and looks as threatening as he can while still being a whole head shorter than Dean as he demands, "What did you do? What did you say to him?"

"Get the fuck off," Dean snaps, pulling his arm away from Luke and glowering down at the kid. He can see in Luke's eyes the war between the submissiveness that's been beaten into him and the frantic anger that's overwhelming him, and at least for now, the anger wins. "I didn't say shit."

"Right," Luke says. "So your dad just spontaneously decided it would be fun to care about my opinions."

Dean scoffs, but he narrows his eyes as he peers into Luke's face, trying to unravel the cause of this outburst. "You are like, the king of looking gift horses in the mouth," he mutters.

"If they're gonna bite you one way or another, might as well get it over with," Luke snipes. "So what did you say?"

"I told him it wouldn't kill him to be nicer to you," Dean admits. "Okay? That's all I said. That you're doing your best, and that he's being an ass. That's all I said, Luke, I swear."

Luke seems to deflate, the anger leaving him in a rush, and he doubles over, propping himself up with his hands on his thighs. Dean wants to reach out for him, to put a hand on his arm, but he figures it would be unwelcome. "Why are you so pissed?" he asks, watching Luke carefully. "Why is it a bad thing for my dad to be nicer to you?"

Luke straightens, running his hand through his hair and pressing at his temples like he's suddenly got a migraine. "I can't afford for your dad to see me as weak," he mutters.

"There's nothing weak about being a kid and having a seizure," Dean says. "You've powered through a lot of shit, man, but you can't be expected to just roll with that. You're only human."

Both boys' eyes widen simultaneously as Dean's brain catches up to his tongue a second too late.

Luke's darken immediately after, and he says, "That's the one thing he'll never see me as."

"Luke—"

"You don't understand, all right?" The words are harsh but the heat is gone from Luke's voice, and he just sounds tired. Tired and helpless. "You don't understand, and you can't. Just, please, let me deal with this."

"I couldn't just stand by and let my dad scare the crap out of you every time he walked in the room," Dean says, and it sounds like an apology in his voice, and it isn't quite not one. "He's not what you think."

Luke nods, but his arms are wrapped around his chest and he looks unconvinced. "Okay," he says noncommitally. He glances into the diner, and says, "Can we go eat lunch now?"

And Dean's a heartbeat away from saying no, we're not done here, but then he sees a sheen of tears in Luke's eyes, and he can't be the one to make those tears fall, so he says, "Sure, man. Let's get some lunch."

They slip into the diner and take a seat quietly. Luke keeps his eyes down for the most part, glancing up only to smile shyly at the waitress when she comes to take their order.

The waitress is an older woman, maybe mid or late fifties, with curly salt-and-pepper hair and the broad frame of a Midwestern farmer's wife. No wedding ring, but the skin there is lighter than the rest of her hand. Divorcée, Dean thinks, satisfied with his deductive powers.

And of course, she instantly falls in love with Luke.

"Just water for me, please," Luke murmurs, when she asks what they want to drink, and she all but coos as she writes it down in her pad.

"So polite!" she exclaims—Marlene exclaims, as Dean reads her name tag. "Kids these days, they're never polite. Your mama raised you right."

Luke smiles a little, a watery, sad thing, which doesn't make Marlene falter at all, but it does mean that he gets a chocolate shake, on the house, Marlene assures them, when she shows back up with Luke's water and Dean's Coke. She's warm to Dean, but motherly to Luke, and when their plates show up with their cheeseburgers (Dean's recommendation that Luke took without question), Luke's definitely got more french fries than Dean does.

Dean's still laughing about it, and Luke is sitting huddled in the corner of the booth, red-faced, when John finally makes it in. He slides into the other seat with a quiet smile at Marlene and a request for water, and looks at the boys. Dean's laughter trails off into chuckles and Luke sits up a little straighter under John's scrutiny.

"Having fun?" John asks, and there's a forced lightness in his voice that doesn't go unappreciated by Dean.

"Luke here's a ladykiller," Dean says, gesturing to Luke with his thumb, causing Luke's face to flush all over again. "Got that waitress wrapped around his finger."

John cocks an eyebrow at Luke first, then at Dean, before saying, "Teaching the boy bad habits, Dean?" and tucking into the meal Dean had ordered for him.

Dean puts a hand over his heart and does his best to look offended. "I would never corrupt a child like that," he says, and Luke's snort is barely audible. "Besides," he continues, jabbing Luke's ribs with his elbow until the kid yelps, "he's a natural. Doesn't need my help."

"That so?" John asks, and he doesn't quite make eye contact with Luke, though it's obvious that the question's directed to him.

Luke, who was mid-sip, swallows his chocolate shake hard and manages a weak, "If Dean says so, I suppose so, sir."

Luke's eyes are averted when John looks back up, looking a bit startled by the deference of Luke's answer. He glances at Dean, who shrugs and tries really hard to not make an I told you so face. He figures he didn't quite get it when John frowns, but he also figures that it didn't do too much harm when John asks, "Are you feeling any better, Luke?"

Once Luke is done choking on his french fry, he looks up and meets John's eyes, taking a moment before responding, "Yes, sir. I'm fine now, sir."

John nods sharply, and says, "Then I'm glad Dean talked me into staying at the motel for a little while. You gave him quite a scare."

Dean watches as Luke processes that, watches the way that Luke looks completely startled out of his defenses, watches the subtle shifts in his expression. He'd promised himself that the next time his dad made Luke look scared and vulnerable it would be followed by a fist-fight, but this isn't the way he'd expected it to happen. Luke's brought his hands down to his lap, but Dean can see that they're trembling. "I didn't mean to, sir," Luke says, and it's all but a whisper. Dean opens his mouth to interject, but Luke continues: "But I'm very grateful for the way both of you took care of me."

Dean grins and grips Luke's shoulder, and the kid practically melts into the touch. "Any time, man," he says. He looks up at John, and resists the urge to say right, Dad? Putting his dad on the spot isn't going to help anything. "We're just glad you're okay."

They eat in silence for a little while, but it's a more comfortable silence than they've had perhaps since Luke joined them. John settled the bill once they were done, and after some more fussing by Marlene over Luke, they left the diner and got back into the Impala.

They've been on the road for about fifteen minutes when John's voice startles both boys out of their various contemplations. "Think you'll recognize any landmarks when we get to Lincoln, Luke?" he asks.

Luke's face screws up into a frown, and Dean rotates in his seat so that he can face the kid, make sure he's not going to freak out or anything. "Yes, sir," he says, finally. "I saw a couple of billboards, the outside of a house. I'd recognize it if I saw it."

John nods, looking satisfied. "Good. We'll have to drive around some, but we can manage that. Do you know when it'll happen? When it'll be there?"

"It was really dark in the vision," Luke replies, more confidently. "Middle of the night dark. Probably a little after midnight? Also, there were no street lights. I don't know if there aren't any on the street at all or if he...if it...if the demon blew them, but there weren't any street lights on, at least. It's not tonight, though, sir. There was less moon then there will be tonight. I'd guess two or three nights from now."

"Any clues as to who the vics will be?" John asks, sounding more like his FBI persona, but as long as he's not yelling at Luke Dean will let it stand.

Luke bites his lip, face pensive, and says, "There was a girl. I mean, like, a young woman. Older than you, Dean. Maybe a man, too? Somebody else, but in my vision he was already down. I don't know if he was dead or not. I know the woman wasn't."

"And the demon, it was after the woman?" John asks.

"It felt..." Luke hesitates. "It felt like she wasn't his focus. Like there was something else going on, something else he wanted. I don't think he wanted her. She was just...in his way."

Dean feels a shiver run through him as they ride along the interstate in silence after that, getting nearer and nearer to Lincoln and the demon.

This demon has been haunting his life since he was in pre-k, and it seems surreal that they're finally closing in on it. Like it should feel momentous, huge, but Dean just feels...empty. Hollowed out. Like after fourteen years, he just can't process it. Like after so long, he suddenly doesn't know what his life will be without this hunt. Without the Hunt.

Do they stop, after this?

Does he get to rest?

Or do they just grab a beer, make a toast to friends lost along the way, cry a little bit about Mom and Sammy, and then keep tracking omens like they always have?

Does he let the demon steal the rest of his life, too?

(And when did he start thinking of Hunting as having his life stolen?)

And what's more, when he steals a glance back at Luke in the rear-view, the kid looks as hollow as he feels. And he can't blame him. He's more than a conduit, more than a telephone wire for information about all things Yellow-Eyes, but he can't feel it, just now. John's finally decided to act like a human around him, just to pump information out of him. It can't be doing anything to convince him that he's not going to be dumped like yesterday's news when the demon's gone.

But he won't.

The demon might have fucked over a lot of Dean's life, but if it's done anything good, it's let him find Luke. Because while he'll never, ever atone for what happened to Sammy, it feels good, to know that he can make this kid's life a little easier. That he can show Luke some kindness in a world that never showed the kid any before, that had shown Dean precious little, too.

He promises himself that Luke is one thing the demon won't take away from him.

Oh god oh god oh god

What did Dean say?

How could he have said something? Didn't he know—

Well, no

Of course he doesn't know

Dean wouldn't have any reason to know what it meant to have your dissatisfaction with your situation be made known to your owner

But it doesn't make it any less frightening when Mr. Winchester suddenly starts acting like Dean does

Like Luke's worth speaking to, worth listening to

Worth comforting

"Are you feeling any better"?

What on Earth is that supposed to mean?

He's feeling well enough to move

(Even though his head is still pounding)

He's feeling well enough to be driven to Lincoln

He's feeling well enough to figure out where his vision took place, so Mr. Winchester can find the demon he's looking for

So he's feeling well enough.

Dean teasing him about the waitress in front of his father makes him want to curl up and die on the sticky tile beneath the 50's-era diner booth

But Mr. Winchester doesn't seem angry, or annoyed, just puts up with Dean's quips and responds quietly but more or less in kind

And when it becomes clear that Luke is supposed to join in

He wonders what kind of Twilight Zone world it is he's fallen into

And all he can think is

Just when I was figuring all of this out

And even that is without anger, and he can barely even manage panic

Just irritation, just a hint of desperation

Because Dean means well, and Luke can't feel anything but warmth and at the most a fond sort of aggravation towards him

(When did he decide it was his place to be fond of his owner's son?)

And he promised

Dean promised

That after this was all done, he'd protect Luke

And if it means he has to let Dean break rule number nine

("Never let a Hunter know you're hurt by his treatment of you") 

(Also known as "never show your weakness")

Then so be it.

He trusts Dean with that.

God, he trusts Dean with everything.

Chapter Text

Lincoln has some shitty motels.

Luke doesn't seem to mind as he helps John and Dean unload the car, but even Dean is wrinkling his nose at the pea-soup green walls and burgundy upholstery, to say nothing of the stale smell.

"It's nothing that the smell of cleaning the weapons won't mask," John replies when Dean complains about it, which is his dad's roundabout way of telling Dean that the guns need oiling. Luke stifles a laugh when Dean rolls his eyes dramatically, and goes to sit with him when he lugs the weapons bag over.

Dean pulls out his own sawed-off first, and looks up when Luke makes a soft sound of disapproval. He sees that the younger boy's lip is being pulled down a little in what looks like a sneer, and he frowns, confused. "Got a problem?" he asks.

As the words leave his mouth, he takes a second to be happy that he can talk to Luke like that now. They'd been quietly ribbing each other for most of the ride from Iowa City to Lincoln. Much as Luke had bitched about Dean talking to John about their situation, he certainly seemed more comfortable now that John wasn't glaring daggers at the windshield whenever the boys spoke. Luke wasn't flinching away at a harsh-sounding word from Dean anymore, understood the difference between real anger and play grumpiness. He was starting to learn to joke back, although usually he still just responded with crossed arms, a frown that threatened to turn into a grin, and an admonishing (or scandalized, depending on what Dean had just said) "Dean."

This time, he looks up innocently and says, "Nope. No problem."

"You're making faces at my gun," Dean presses. "Don't make faces at my baby."

"Then you should take better care of her," Luke retorts, pulling John's pistol out of the bag and stripping it with a shocking ease.

As the younger boy carefully puts each piece aside to be individually cleaned, Dean slowly becomes aware that he's gaping. And he becomes aware that Luke has glanced up, his eyeline hidden by his shaggy bangs, and that he's grinning at Dean's surprise. "I thought you said you weren't allowed around guns," Dean says, trying to save face, and winces as soon he's done talking. Way to go, he thinks. Remind the kid again of the shit he's been through.

But Luke's voice is unconcerned as he replies, "I wasn't allowed to shoot guns. I was allowed to clean everything."

"You could take a lesson from the boy, Dean," John says, glancing over at them as he pulls out his journal and a few reference books.

"Thanks," Dean mutters, and past the flinch that Luke couldn't suppress at the sound of John's voice, the kid looks kind of pleased, so Dean can't find it in himself to be really offended.

"You learn to be good at the skills you're allowed to cultivate," Luke says, side-stepping John's praise smoothly. Dean snorts, and Luke furrows his brow. "What?"

"Cultivate," Dean mimics. "Dumb it down for us plebes, professor."

"You know what that word means," Luke argues with a frown.

"Something about farming," Dean says agreeably. Luke rolls his eyes and grabs another piece of John's pistol to subject to his extremely thorough cleaning. "Seriously, though, where'd you learn that kind of word?"

And that brings a little smirk to Luke's face, and he slows down for a minute as if he's lost in thought. Then he says, "It was a game I played, sometimes. I wasn't supposed to read, with my last owner. But when he'd go out and leave me in the motel room, I'd read as much as I could without getting caught. I'd find a bunch of words I didn't recognize, and I'd make a game of cross-referencing the books until I figured out by context what they meant."

The smirk turns into a full grin, and Dean just stares like Luke had grown another head. When the younger boy's eyes meet his, the grin starts to fade, but Dean just says, "That sounds like the worst game ever."

Luke's eyes slide right past Dean's face and lock on John, who isn't looking at the boys, but has gone a little still. There's a clink as the well-oiled part slips from Luke's fingers and hits another part on the ground, and Luke's voice, when he speaks, is rushed, soft, and unsteady. "I've learned better since then. I wouldn't...I wouldn't deliberately disobey an order. Not anymore. My last owner taught me better. I'm sorry. It wasn't a funny story. I've learned better."

"Hey." Dean grabs Luke's face in a hand and gently tilts it so that the younger boy is looking at him. "Chill out. It was a stupid order and it's good for us that you didn't obey it. Okay? You'd be shit at research if you didn't know some five-dollar words. You don't have to apologize for acting out with an asshole Hunter."

"Dean." John's voice is quiet but firm, and both boys turn to him. When Dean's eyes find his dad, he's looking at Luke, and there's something weird and a little hard but not really mean in his face. "It's all right, Luke. But see that it doesn't happen here."

"Yes, sir," Luke breathes, then clears his throat and echoes himself, louder, and he sounds a lot calmer, weirdly enough. "Yes, sir. Of course. I would never. You've been more than fair to me. It wasn't a funny story."

"Jesus, calm your shit, Luke, it was funny," Dean snaps, sending his dad a glare and gesturing to the disassembled gun when he turns back to Luke. "Anyway, back to work. We have a bunch of guns, dude, you might want to get cracking unless you want me to beat you."

A moment of horrified silence falls, and Dean realizes that he sounds quiet and resigned when he says, "Like in a race, Luke. Like a contest. Like I'd finish more guns than you. Not like—"

"I know," Luke interrupts, quick and hasty like he doesn't want Dean to finish that thought out loud. "I know. I'm sorry."

Dean deliberately slows down so Luke finishes more guns than he does.

When Luke closes his eyes in a relief that he can't quite mask, Dean manages not to throw up, but it's a close thing.

A couple of hours later, when Dean is checking Luke's wounds, he whispers, "I'm really sorry about before."

"You can't help the fact that I'm screwed up," Luke whispers back. "It's not your fault."

"Saying stupid shit is my fault," Dean retorts.

"No, saying stupid shit is your forte," Luke replies with a little crooked half-grin, but Dean sees past it like it's made of glass. And sure enough, after a minute, it fades. "You shouldn't feel bad. I just don't think I'm ever going to get better."

"Shut up," Dean says, putting an antibiotic ointment on a healing gash on Luke's head. Luke hisses at the contact, and pulls away a little bit, only to reluctantly return to his place at the slightest pressure from Dean's hand urging him back.

And as much as that instinctive obedience gives lie to his words, Dean says, "You're gonna get better. You need time. You can't fix fourteen years of shit in a week."

Luke shrugs and falls silent, mutely submitting to Dean's check-up.

In fact, he spends most of the morning and afternoon quiet. Quietly cleaning the guns, quietly letting Dean check his injuries, quietly reading some lore, quietly browsing through the phone book in the hopes that the yellow pages might shed some light on where the billboard he saw was—or at least, where it wouldn't be. He still looks pale, drawn, and the circles under his eyes look like he got into a knock-down-drag-out fight. When Dean mentions them, Luke looks down, biting his lip.

Just as Dean's about to apologize, Luke mutters, "You ought to see the other guy."

And he looks up from under those stupid, too-long bangs at Dean, his eyes full of hope and trepidation in equal measure, and Dean almost bursts something laughing at the lame, clichéd joke.

Luke looks way happier than is warranted by Dean laughing at his joke, and there's some relief mixed in there, and that relief does temper Dean's humor a little bit. Because Luke shouldn't be relieved that Dean thinks he's funny. Satisfied, sure. Smug, even, sure. But not relieved.

And other than that one little slip, he's wordless for the rest of the day, nodding and shaking his head and making humming noises when Dean asks him something, otherwise keeping his nose buried in one of a number of books. Dean eventually gives up trying to talk to him, just as he's given up trying to talk to his dad, who is likewise either glaring at a book like it personally wronged him or on the phone with Bobby or some other Hunter, trying to figure out where the Yellow-Eyed Demon is holing up. So he grabs a book, too, and pretends to read, when really he's just trying to quiet the alarm bells that are ringing in his thoughts.

This weird teaming-up of John and Luke rubs him the wrong way. Not that he's unhappy that his dad is being better about talking to Luke and being nicer to Luke and generally acting like Luke is a person instead of an inconveniently hungry GPS, but there's just something off about it. Something he doesn't trust.

And it's not resentment. Definitely.

Because, even if he was the first person to show Luke any kindness in years, even if he was the one who took the time and had the patience to slowly convince Luke that he was safe here, that he'd protect him, that even if it came down to a decision between Luke and John he'd pick Luke, and even if it was John who acted like a dick to Luke the first few days, Dean is still glad that Luke was starting to trust other people. That he can trust John. Even if that means ignoring Dean. He's glad.

He is.

His mood darkening, Dean tosses the book to the edge of the room, ignores the way that Luke startles at the sound, and abruptly announces that he's going to get a soda. He lets the door slam behind him.

The air is cool and calming, and he makes sure to take deep breaths as he walks out to the crumbling old vending machine that's tucked a few doors down from their room. He sits on the railing that separates the walkway from the parking lot, staring at the guttering lights of the machine as regret slowly starts to fill him.

This is really stupid.

No, he is being really stupid.

He picks up a pebble from the cement of the parking lot and lobs it at the machine, disappointed by the feeble plunk sound it makes when it bounces off of the faded red plastic. Stupid. How's he going to deny Luke the added comfort of being on good terms with John? Because what, because Dean's bored now? Because Dean doesn't fit in with all the nerdy bookworming going on around him? If the decision is Dean being surrounded by dorks and research or Luke feeling like if he steps out of line John's going to beat the crap out of him, is there really any doubt about which option is better?

Fuck.

He's just decided to get up and go back in and get his ass in gear with the research party when he hears soft footsteps approaching him, and he looks up just in time to see Luke's anxious expression and the way he's twisting his hands as the kid walks up.

Double fuck.

"Dean?" Luke sounds hesitant, his voice just this side of trembling, and he bites his lip after he finishes talking. "Are—are you okay?"

Dean tries to smile, chagrined, and is pretty sure he mostly manages it. "I'm fine," he says, and it's almost true. He scoots over so that Luke can sit on the railing with him.

The kid gets the hint and perches uneasily on the rail, leaving some space between himself and Dean. At least it's uncertainty, and not fear, that Dean sees in his eyes, but either way it doesn't make him feel any better about himself. "I'm fine, dude, just tired," he says again.

"Are you mad at me?" Luke asks, and Dean has to admit that the kid is nothing if not to-the-point.

"No," Dean says, and that is true. "Not at all. There's nothing to be mad about."

"You left really fast," Luke adds softly, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the cement. "And...you threw that book."

"I know." Dean stands up and fishes a dollar out of his pocket, aware of Luke's cautious eyes on his back the whole time. "What's your favorite?"

It takes Luke a second to reply, but eventually he says, "Sprite."

Dean feeds the dollar bill into the machine, hits the button, and grabs the Sprite out of the bottom. He tosses it to Luke, who catches it and pops the tab, murmuring a quiet "Thanks".

"Sorry I snapped earlier," Dean says, still facing the vending machine with the fifty cents in change he got from Luke's Sprite. Luke starts to speak but Dean shushes him, popping the quarters into the slot. "Let me finish. I'm just tired, and things with my dad have been rough."

"That's my fault," Luke interrupts mournfully.

"Quit that," Dean says, but there's no heat behind it, just weariness. "Christ, I can't even say my bad without you jumping in to blame yourself."

"It is my fault that things have been strained between you and your dad," Luke presses.

"You didn't ask for any of this," Dean points out.

"I could've made things easier," Luke argues. "If I'd just been—"

"What?" Dean snaps, turning to face him now. Luke shrinks back a little at first, then seems to remember himself and sits up straight. "If you'd been what, Luke? Willing to live like a fucking dog? If you'd been, what, less trouble? I don't think it gets less trouble than you. So don't give me that shit, okay?"

"If I'd just acted like I know I'm supposed to act you wouldn't have felt so bad for me that you screwed things up with your own father," Luke shouts, face suddenly flushed, and Dean freezes. "If I hadn't acted like a whiny, pitiful little—"

"Whiny?" Dean cries.

"—little brat, you wouldn't have felt like you needed to protect me from your dad," Luke finishes. "Because you didn't, Dean. He's the one who knows what I am."

Before Dean knows it he's whirled around and his fist is wrapped in Luke's shirt. His face is inches away from the younger boy's, and they're both breathing heavily, himself from frustration and Luke from anxiety. He stares into Luke's eyes for a moment, calming himself, and when he feels like he can speak without yelling, he takes the chance.

"I am the one who knows what you are," he says, and to his satisfaction his voice is very quiet and very steady. "You're a kid."

"A Lilim kid," Luke interrupts, but it's barely more than a breath.

"You're a kid," Dean repeats more firmly, and Luke quiets. "A kid who needs someplace safe to be. And this is a shit place for that, Luke, I'm not gonna lie, but I'm gonna do my best, and I'm gonna make my dad do his best, and me and you, we'll make him see what you really are. A kid. All right? A kid. Full stop, end of story."

Luke stares up at him for the longest moment, and neither of them speak. They hardly breathe. But eventually, slowly, like an ice cube melting, Luke releases the tension in his shoulders and leans his forehead against Dean's chest.

Dean holds him until he stops shaking.

Late that afternoon, after three hours of driving around Lincoln yields no results in terms of familiar locations for Luke, Dean is ready to call it quits. He can see that John is getting edgy, and Luke is getting frustrated, and he's getting tired and hungry.

"Let's just stop," he says as his dad takes another damn corner. He definitely doesn't whine it. But from the glare that John fixes on the windshield as proxy for his son, and from the little scandalized gasp that he hears from Luke in the back, he can tell that his words are unwelcome. "Come on, guys, it's been hours. If Luke was gonna find something he recognized, he would have already."

"I only saw a couple of images! I need more time," Luke protests, at the same time that John says, "We haven't covered a quarter of the city yet, Dean. Have some damn patience."

"It's almost six," Dean argues. "We have two more days."

"And if we find where the place is, those two days can be spent preparing ourselves and getting a plan together," John bites out.

"Or we can try to do some research tonight and pick up with this early in the morning," Dean suggests, he thinks quite reasonably. "We drove in from Wisconsin today, Dad. We're exhausted."

"I'm fine," Luke chimes in, and Dean leans back to swat at his knees.

The kid's learning, though, because he's pulled them back before Dean can reach the whole way into the back seat.

"Which, if you've forgotten, is also what he said when he was barely conscious after a seizure," Dean remarks to his father.

"Vision," Luke corrects, his knees still pulled safely away from Dean's reach.

"Hey, shut up," Dean replies cheerfully. "He's exhausted. And it won't help if he nods off for a minute and misses the billboard or whatever—then we'll just be on a wild goose chase around the rest of the city."

"I wouldn't," Luke cries, apparently shocked by Dean's assertion that a sleep-deprived fourteen year old who's recovering from a seizure (vision, sorry) might fall asleep without meaning to.

"Again, shut up," Dean says. He looks at his dad, whose brow is furrowed in that precise way that means he's caught himself considering a viewpoint that isn't his own and doesn't like it.

After a long pause, he asks, "How tired are you, Luke?"

"I'm fine, sir," Luke insists, but John is looking at him in the rear view and Dean knows that the jig is up.

Sure enough, John's eyes narrow. "The truth, Luke. Don't make me ask again."

Luke hesitates this time. "I'm—I had plenty of sleep, sir."

"I'm aware of that," John replies in a tone that sounds even-keeled and innocuous, but Dean knows that when John sounds that calm, it's nothing but bad news. "What I'm asking is if, in your condition, you might fall asleep. Not if you intend to. Not whether or not you'd like to take a nap. If you're likely to."

Luke swallows hard, takes a moment to glare at Dean, and murmurs, "Yes, sir. I mean, it's possible, sir. My vi—" Luke stumbles, as though just saying the word costs him. "My v-visions are a lot like seizures, sir. I'm sleepy after and it can take me almost a day to recover sometimes."

John says nothing, just nods and turns the car around at the next opportunity. Luke gives out a little whimper of protest, and John says, "Dean is right. Canvassing the city is no good if there's a chance we'll miss the target and consider that place a non-starter. If you need time to recover, you need time to recover. No shame in it, Luke."

Luke slumps down in the back seat, clearly not mollified by John's words, and tucks his chin to his chest.

He stays like that for the ride back to the motel.

When they get home and Dean asks what he wants for dinner, he says he's not hungry and slips into bed. He positions himself like he always does: taking up as little space as humanly possible on the side of the bed furthest from the door. He and Dean have been sleeping in the same bed since that first night, and while it's gotten less awkward, it did take compromise. Dean started by maintaining that Luke could have more than "three goddamn centimeters of space", and Luke responded that he was perfectly comfortable but thanks for the concern, packed with as much finality as possible. Dean let it go but insisted that Luke stay on the side away from the door. Luke agreed to the terms.

Settling into that position, Luke is asleep within minutes, which is a little funny given the stubborn look that remains on his face even unconscious. Dean rolls his eyes and grabs a book off of his dad's pile, sitting on the floor and opening it while his dad sits in a chair with his.

After a few minutes of silent reading, Dean says, "You're kind of edging into dick territory again, Dad."

"Want to try that again with a little more respect for your elders?" John suggests, not looking up from his book.

Dean sighs, placing his finger in the crease of the book to hold his place. "I mean with Luke. You're talking to him...weird. Like he's your subordinate or something, but like he's an adult. Like, ordering him around."

John says nothing, but Dean knows he's listening.

"Like when he told that story," Dean continues. "And you just said don't let it happen here. I mean, Christ, Dad, he didn't try to kill the Hunter who kidnapped him, didn't even talk back to him, just tried to read a few books while he was gone. Which he should have been allowed to do. Why can't you just tell him it'll be different here?"

John's eyes have stopped moving on his page a while ago, and he seems to be considering Dean's words. "Hm," he says, finally. "How's that going for you?"

Dean turns around to face John. "What?"

"How's that going for you?" John repeats. "The convincing him that things will be different. That you're not going to turn around and deck him one for sassing you one of these days. That when you climb into bed at night it's going to be innocent every time."

"Fuck you," Dean growls, dropping his book and rising, but John shoves him back down with a hand on his shoulder. He tosses his book to the side and leans down so that their faces are all but touching.

"No, Dean," his father hisses. "You need to listen to me. He doesn't need a nanny. He doesn't have any context for that. You're trying to put a square peg in a round hole here, son, and it's never going to fit."

"So you want me to, what, treat him like he expects to be treated?" Dean snaps, but there's a terrible cold fear in his belly that that's exactly what John wants.

It dissipates slightly when John shakes his head. "I want you to treat him like he understands," John says. "Firm. In control. The boy's probably never had to make a single damn choice for himself in his life before now."

"Never been allowed to," Dean corrects darkly.

"Effectively? Same thing," John replies. "For Luke, it's the same thing. You can't force freedom on him, Dean. Good as your intentions are, you'll drive him insane."

Dean shrugs John's hand off of his shoulder and storms outside, leaving the door open behind him. He's not surprised when John follows a moment later.

He is surprised when his father doesn't say anything, just stands next to him, looking out towards the parking lot.

It's about five minutes before John breaks the silence.

"He's not Sammy, Dean."

Dean doesn't double over. But it's a near thing. Instead, he says, "I know," and it's not so choked he can't be understood.

John reaches up and puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck: a warm, reassuring pressure, and Dean ducks his head to allow his father more room. "I don't think you do," John says regretfully. "And if I realized how much you were still hurting over what happened to your brother, I'd've never brought the boy along, even if it meant we never found the demon. I'm sorry, Dean. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to you."

There are tears rolling down Dean's cheeks, because it's been almost a decade since he and his dad talked about Sammy. And there are tears rolling down Dean's cheeks because his dad's not wrong. And there are tears rolling down Dean's cheeks because his Dad apologized for hurting him.

But he's still not sorry he met the damn kid.

"Don't be sorry," he whispers. "He needed us. And we need him. And I need him. He's not Sammy, but I can take care of him."

"He's not your little brother," John says. "He can't be your brother, Dean. I'm sorry, son."

"I know," Dean chokes. "But he can be my responsibility. Right, Dad? He can be my responsibility."

John uses the hand on Dean's neck to guide him so that they're facing, and Dean realizes that his dad is crying, too, which is too strange to process, and then John presses their foreheads together. "I'm trying my best to make this right," John murmurs. "I can't lose you, too, Dean. We'll make this right."

It should make Dean feel better.

It should.

But it doesn't, because John didn't say right, son.

John holds Dean until he stops shaking.

They think he's sleeping, but he's not 

And even if he was, God knows they're talking loud enough to have woken him

So he hears the whole thing

He listens carefully, trying to buy some precious understanding of these baffling Winchester men

Until he hears it.

"He's not Sammy, Dean."

"I know."

Then he slips out from under his blankets and retreats to the bathroom.

Because he finally understands what it is Dean's wanted this whole time.

Sammy.

He's not Sammy.

He can't be Sammy, and he never will be.

While he lies huddled in the corner by the toilet

His knees up beneath his chin

Trying really, really hard not to hyperventilate

Outside, Dean is realizing that he's not Sammy.

That he's not what Dean wants.

Right now, he's realizing it.

And everything will change again.

Dean was nice to him because Dean wanted him to be Sammy.

Dean didn't try to hurt him because Dean wouldn't hurt Sammy.

Dean made sure he was full and warm because he didn't want Sammy to go hungry or catch a cold.

But now he knows the truth:

Luke is not Sammy.

Luke feels a sob rise in his throat

And he tries to suppress it

But doesn't quite succeed

All his hard-earned discipline is slipping away

Because Dean keeps telling him he doesn't have to keep himself under control

And Dean keeps telling him that he can act like a little kid

And Dean keeps telling him that he can let it all out, that he doesn't have to be scared anymore, that he can just be sad for the things he's lost

But he can't.

Sammy could.

But he's not Sammy.

And he doesn't get to do the things Sammy could do.

In this moment,

Huddled by the toilet in a shitty Lincoln motel room,

With the two men who control every facet of his life discussing him outside,

Luke realizes something.

Luke realizes that he hates Sam Winchester.

Chapter Text

Dean walks back into the motel room, his face dry and feeling a little bit less unsteady than he did before.

Until he sees Luke, that is.

The kid is sitting on the floor, against the wall near the desk where John had been researching. His face, too, is dry, but Dean knows what a kid who's been crying looks like. Luke's cheeks are flushed and his eyes are red, and his lips twitch every few seconds like he's trying really hard not to cry again. He looks up when Dean enters the room, his eyes widening for a second before he ducks behind the book in his hands.

Dean stands in the doorway. John comes up behind him but Dean blocks his entrance, guiding him outside and shutting the door as he joins him. He sees Luke's eyes over the edge of the book as he closes the door.

"What's wrong?" John asks, instantly on alert, and Dean runs his hands over his face.

"I think he heard us," Dean murmurs. "I need to go fix this, okay? Just give me an hour. I'll talk to him. I don't know what he heard, but he looks pretty freaked out, so give me an hour."

John looks predictably unhappy with this order, and he shakes his head as he says, "Dean—"

"Dad." Dean meets his father's eyes, and tries to look as mature and reasonable and serious as possible. "Please."

John doesn't break eye contact as he fishes his keys out of his pocket. "An hour," he echoes. "And Dean. Remember what we talked about."

He's not Sammy, Dean.

"Yeah," Dean whispers. John nods, and his hand lifts for a second as though to grip Dean's shoulder, to provide strength.

He lets it fall and walks off towards the Impala.

Dean takes a single breath to fortify himself, then turns and opens the door to the motel room.

Luke is right where Dean left him, but he's not even pretending to not watch Dean this time. His red-ringed eyes peer above the book at Dean as he shuts the door behind him and shoves his hands into his pockets, but Luke doesn't say anything. Just watches. Waits.

"I don't know what I did this time," Dean begins, which he immediately judges to be a stupid thing to say but oh well, he's already said it. "But you're obviously upset with me."

Luke shakes his head, but doesn't say anything. Dean takes a step closer and he curls in on himself, just a little bit. Dean sighs deeply, crossing the rest of the way across the motel room, heedless of the way Luke tries to make himself small, ignoring, to the best of his ability, the way Luke's eyes scrunch shut and his shoulders hunch when he arrives at the desk.

Dean leans with his back against the wall and slides down, keeping his distance from Luke, not looking at the younger boy. They sit like that for a second, Luke slowly unraveling, Dean sitting and just breathing.

"I'm not going to hit you."

Luke nods.

"I'm not going to yell at you."

Luke nods.

"I'm not going to do whatever the hell it is you think I'm going to do, although it would be easier to not do it if you told me what it was."

Luke nods.

Dean sighs. "I don't know why you're freaking out."

"Just a hard day," Luke murmurs.

"Sure," Dean says, and maybe it's how calm he sounds that has Luke's head snapping around to finally look at him. "It's been a hard couple of days for everybody. No denying that." He turns to Luke. "You need a nap? Are you hungry? Hell, need a night cap? I won't tell if you don't."

Luke makes a snorting sort of sound. "I don't want any alcohol, Dean. Thanks."

"What do you want?"

The question hangs heavy in the air for a moment, and Dean doesn't push for an answer. He knows it's a bigger question than it sounds like, and he's willing to let Luke take his time.

What he doesn't expect is for a small sniffling sound to be the answer to it.

He sits up straighter and turns fully to Luke, who's rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "You don't have to cry," Dean says miserably. "Jesus. Come on, dude. Don't cry."

"I'm just really tired of not knowing what's going on," Luke mumbles, wiping at his eyes viciously. "I'm really tired of not having any rules."

Dean watches him for a moment, watches him compose himself, rubbing his eyes dry and taking deep breaths so that he stops shaking. He watches as Luke tries to make himself look like stone, to take away all the vulnerability that's so visible right now in his face, his posture, everything. But he can't really stop his chin from wobbling, just a little bit.

"What did you hear?" Dean asks, and Luke freezes like a deer in the headlights.

The silence stretches on for what feels like a thousand years, and Luke murmurs, "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

"What did you hear?" Dean asks again. "What was it? The part about how Dad thinks you still think I'll hit you? Or the part about...bed? Was it how he was trying to convince me that you need to be bossed around?"

"Dean," Luke begins, but Dean isn't done.

"It's not gonna happen," Dean promises.

Luke sighs, so quietly that Dean is sure the kid doesn't think he heard. "Okay," he says, sounding resigned.

Dean groans, and buries his face in his hands. "No, not okay," he says. "Come on, Luke. We were doing good, before. Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about, Dean, I promise, I'm fine," Luke says, but it sounds rote, like he's been practicing how to say it so Dean will believe him but just not getting any better at it.

Dean stares at Luke, narrowing his eyes, trying to find something in that miserable, closed-off expression. He sees a terrified kid, heart-sick and wrung with the kind of unhappiness that makes your stomach sour, but he doesn't see anything that helps him understand why. What it was he did.

Because he always manages to do something, doesn't he?

Whether it's an innocent invitation to not sleep on the floor or a too-sudden movement or a thoughtless, casual reminder of Luke's place, he always manages to do something to dent or break the fragile trust he's trying so hard to build. So it's him. It's got to be. It always is. He just doesn't know what it was this time.

Except that it probably doesn't help when he hears himself say: "If I told you to tell me, would you?"

Luke stills, and Dean's positive he's imagining it when he sees some of the tension drain out of Luke's shoulders. "If you ordered me?" the younger boy asks softly.

"Would you?" Dean repeats, unwilling (unable) to echo Luke's words.

Luke slumps against the wall, his eyes drifting mostly closed. "I told your dad, I wouldn't disobey an order," he says. "You've been more than fair to me."

"Fair isn't really what I'm aiming for," Dean mutters, but doesn't say anything else. The boys sit there for a while, silent and tense and so unhappy that Dean wants to scream.

"Are you going to?" Luke asks, finally.

"To what?"

"Order me."

Dean lowers his eyes, letting his gaze fall on his hands, loose in his lap. God, how did things get so fucked up?

"No," Dean says, his voice hardly more than a breath.

Luke nods, and his quiet for a moment, before he asks, "Why?"

"Because I refuse to treat you in a fucked-up way just because other people said it was okay to," Dean snaps. "All right?"

Luke shrugs. "All right," he says, and Dean stands up and runs his hands through his hair, darting to the other side of the room before beginning to pace so he doesn't hit something.

"Stop saying it like that!" Dean shouts, and while he expects to see Luke flinch away from the violence in his voice, the kid just glares at him. "Just—just stop being so fucking passive! If you're pissed at me, and obviously you're pissed at me, fight me!"

"I'm not gonna fight you, Dean, you'd beat the shit out of me," Luke snipes, folding his arms protectively over his chest. "I'm not stupid."

"Then yell at me! Christ, hit me, I won't hit back! Just do something!" Dean is almost screaming by the end of the sentence, and Luke shoots up when he approaches, rears his arm back, and decks Dean across the face.

Dean stumbles back, and Luke staggers against the wall, clutching his fist, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

"Why did you make me do that?" Luke whispers.

"It's okay," Dean mumbles, prodding at his jaw experimentally. It was a solid hit. "No, that's good. It's good. I'm glad you did it."

Luke nods, as though he understands. "Gives you a good reason, later," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Later?" Dean echoes, wondering where the ice pack is.

"When you hit me back," Luke replies. He doesn't flinch when Dean jolts as though shocked and then approaches him. His eyes don't leave the older boy, though.

"I'm not gonna hit you," Dean says. "I swear."

"Not now," Luke agrees. "You're okay now. But one day you won't be okay, and I'll be right there."

"I don't just beat the shit out of people for laughs," Dean says, and he can't keep the heat out of his voice.

"No," Luke says, and he's so fucking agreeable that Dean wants to shake him. "But eventually, you'll have a bad day. You'll have a day where you can't save somebody. Where you don't find the monster. Where it gets away. Where somebody uses whatever power they have over you to make your life shit. And then you'll get back to the motel room, and you'll suddenly realize that, hey, if I hit this kid, nobody will do anything about it."

"Shut up," Dean breathes.

"And if I hit this kid, he won't do anything about it," Luke presses on.

"Shut up," Dean says.

"Because power corrupts, Dean. I read that when my last owner was away. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, and there is nobody in the world who knows I'm alive or would miss me if I'm gone, and if you want to beat the shit out of me, you can, and nobody will stop you—"

"I said to shut up," Dean says, and he's all but on top of Luke now, gripping his collar of his shirt with one hand loosely fisted in the material. He doesn't want to grab him and make him right, make himself just another asshole who pushes Luke around. He doesn't not want to grab him, either, though.

"—and you just spent the last ten minutes realizing that I'm not your little brother, no matter how much you want me to be," Luke hisses, and Dean freezes. "And you haven't hit me yet because you wouldn't hit Sammy, but I'm not Sammy, and I won't ever be, no matter how much you want it, so that means I'm nobody!"

Dean does grip Luke by the collar, then, with both hands, and he tugs the kid closer, eliciting a small gasp. Luke's eyes are full of tears and wide as dinner plates, but it's rage he's trembling with, rage and grief, because Dean knows the difference. Dean knows what fear looks like, and this isn't it. Not yet.

So Dean grabs Luke by the collar with both hands, and he pulls him in, and he says, "You don't have to be Sammy for me to not hit you. You can just be Luke. I wouldn't hit Luke, either."

That's it.

Dean's grip on Luke's shirt quickly shifts into a supportive embrace as Luke's knees give out and the kid starts sobbing. He guides Luke down to the floor and presses the kid's face against his neck with a firm hand on the back of his neck. "I wish I was Sammy," Luke sobs, and Dean has to work really hard on remembering how to breathe. "I wish I could be Sammy."

"You don't have to be him," Dean whispers.

"I wish I could be Sammy for you," Luke cries.

"Just be Luke," Dean says. "Just be Luke and don't be scared of me."

"I'm so jealous of him." Luke's voice is thick and choked, and it leaves a lump in Dean's throat. "He was so lucky."

"He died when he was four," Dean mutters. "Not so lucky."

"He was," Luke insists, and he lifts his face out of the crook of Dean's neck. "He was, Dean. You were his big brother."

"Stop," Dean pleads, his voice breaking.

"I wish you were my big brother. I wish I was Sammy," Luke whispers, and Dean feels like the floor beneath him disappears.

He pulls Luke in closer, wrapping his arms around the younger boy, resting his nose in Luke's shaggy brown hair. "I don't wish you were Sammy," he says, his voice muffled. "I'm not gonna say Sammy had nothing to do with all of this. But I don't wish you were him. I'm happy you're here anyway."

"I just don't want this to go away," Luke breathes against Dean's neck.

"Don't want what to go away?"

Luke sighs, and Dean feels both the hot breath and the warm trickle of tears. "Feeling safe," he says. "Feeling like, things are gonna be okay, maybe."

"You don't seem like you feel that way much," Dean replies, his voice wry.

"There's a difference between feeling something and believing it," Luke admits, laughing a single, choked laugh.

Dean supposes he can't argue with that.

So instead he adjusts Luke so that the kid's ear is against his heart—he always found the position comforting when he was younger, hearing the thu-thump, thu-thump that told him his dad was right there, still there, still alive and taking care of him. Luke seems to melt against Dean's chest, and Dean cradles him. "We're gonna hunt the demon two days from now," he says soothingly, "and then we'll put it behind us. The demon. The hunt. The shit you've been through. It'll all be in the past, and we'll figure out what we're doing now."

"We?" Luke repeats.

"We," Dean says firmly. "Us. Together. I'm not leaving you."

Luke burrows in closer. "Okay."

Dean lets him sit for a minute, feeling the younger boy's breathing and heart rate even out, and then he says, "Do you believe me?"

Luke leans his head against Dean's chest, and exhales slowly before saying, "I feel like you're telling the truth."

Well.

It'll have to be good enough.

Lying 

Lying lying lying

He had to be

Because that is not how this works

It's not

It's not

He doesn't get to punch his owner without repercussions

He doesn't get to scream at him

He doesn't get to contradict him

He doesn't get to not be Sammy and for it to just be okay

He doesn't get to just be Luke because Luke's not good enough Luke was never good enough Luke is a disappointment and a let-down and useless and a waste of space and a waste of money and a waste of time and a waste of Dean's kindness and

It's not fair for Dean to keep treating Luke like this and

(No, stop touching)

(No, stop comforting)

It's not fair to make him wait this long for the other shoe to drop

(No, stop promising things that will never ever ever ever ever be fulfilled)

And Dean manhandles him but it's not like it ever was with his old owners

It doesn't hurt except his heart

When Dean presses Luke's ear to his chest

And he hears the

Thu-thump, thu-thump

Of Dean's strong heart

And it sounds like comfort and reassurance and promises and home

It's not fair

God, it's so unfair

And Dean wants promises in return

But Luke is out of promises.

Luke is out of everything.

Luke can't even muster the strength to fight anymore.

He's just so tired,

And he needs to save his strength

For when Dean realizes that he was right all along.

Chapter Text

Dean glares at his bruised jaw in the visor mirror. He runs a knuckle over it experimentally, and refuses to wince.

Shit, but Luke has a good right hook. The whole area right below the hinge of his jaw is a mottled yellow and purple, aching dully every time he opens his mouth, aching more when he winces when it aches. It makes talking a chore, and Dean wonders morosely if that was what Luke intended from the get-go.

Who, speaking of, is huddled in the back seat of the car, cradling his hand, which boasts a complementary bruise and what Luke obviously thought was a broken finger but is totally not a broken finger. He's just being a baby about it, and once in a while will send Dean a dark glare as if it was his fault that Luke punched him.

They've barely spoken in the last two days. John walked in on them, sitting on the ground, red-eyed and with Luke's head still cradled against Dean's chest, and didn't say a word. Didn't say a word about their tears, or their position, or the bruises, despite the obvious story they told. Luke walked on tip-toes around him for a good twenty-four hours, sure that he was going to get beat down for laying one on the boss's kid, but he failed to understand one thing. John Winchester does not fight his kid's battles. Not in grade school, and sure as hell not now that he's legally an adult. So he doesn't say a damn word, and Dean doesn't say a damn word, and eventually Luke just can't maintain that level of tension anymore and starts to relax just by default.

But they still don't speak.

Well, with the exception of one exchange, when Dean wrapped Luke's hand up. Dean had been cinching the ace bandage tight around his palm when the kid had murmured, "This hurts a lot worse than I thought it would."

Dean chuckled, but didn't look up, keeping his eyes on the task in front of him. "Haven't gotten into a lot of fights, I guess," he replied.

"Not a lot where I got to hit back," Luke had muttered, and that was the end of that conversation.

They didn't speak through the research, through the canvassing (though Luke did talk to John during that), through their nightly routines, through cleaning and checking the weapons. They even slip into bed in silence, without a night, Dean or anything. It's an almost eerie silence that has fallen, and it makes Dean's flesh crawl.

It's worse, somehow, than the reluctant subservience. It's worse than Luke yelling at him. It's even worse than the crying. Luke won't give him anything.

Not that Luke owes him anything. Everything Dean had given him, he'd given freely. He wouldn't take anything back that didn't come the same way.

But still, as they ride silently in the Impala towards the house Luke had found this morning, Dean really wishes they'd been able to talk a little before they left.

He doesn't think that they might not have another chance, because if Dean was the type who gave in to that maudlin thinking, he'd be a sobbing mess all the time. But it would have been nice to get a minute to really brief him on the plan, to make sure he was actually okay with it instead of the platitudes he'd given John when asked, to make sure he hadn't been feeling sick, because Dean can't deal with another vision-seizure on a hunt. If it had been up to him, Luke wouldn't be here at all. But John said it was better to keep him close by, in case the demon had back-up he could send to the motel.

It was a blatant excuse to not let the valuable asset that was Luke out of his sight, but there wasn't anything Dean could say to counter it. Well. Not entirely true—there wasn't anything Dean would say in front of Luke to counter it. Luke said he wanted to go, and Dean won't argue with his dad about Luke's actions, like Luke's opinion doesn't matter. He won't betray Luke's trust like that. And John knows it, knows that he won't, and he's using it against Dean. There's resentment simmering in his gut, but he won't do anything about it. Or can't—either or both.

So instead of leaving Luke salted and warded and locked down in the motel room, the three of them packed the car in silence and took off without any words between them.

Despite his insistence on tagging along, Luke doesn't look much happier with the arrangement than he does, for the little that does to make him feel better. He's still refusing to speak to Dean, though, and Dean is petulantly determined not to say anything first.

Like fucking children, Dean thinks bitterly, but still doesn't say anything.

They'd broken into the house earlier that day, while Tamara and Rodney Erikson were at work, their six-month-old baby at daycare. Dean and Luke had gotten to work painting devil's traps on any surface that could be covered with rugs, and a few in glow-in-the-dark paint on the ceiling. John had decided to take the risk of leaving some iron weaponry concealed around the house in areas that he and Dean judged might become battlegrounds. Still, with a demon as powerful as Yellow-Eyes, they both know full well that their best bet, maybe their only bet, is an exorcism.

The idea of having to rely on that makes Dean's stomach ache, but it's not like there's any other good choice.

They're all stocked up on holy water and each one of them has a iron blade. Dean and John both have sawed-offs loaded with blessed salt rounds, but they both know that it's not going to do much more than piss the demon off.

Still, doing nothing isn't an option. So Dean runs his fingers over the blade holstered on his thigh, letting the cool metal calm his nerves. It says, like it always does, you can protect yourself.

This time, it also whispers, you can protect him.

He glances back in the rear view and catches a glance of Luke, who's tracing the bruises on his hand curiously. His knife rests against his thigh, as well, and it would seem like he's ignoring it, but the subtle way that he's shifting his weight away from it tells Dean otherwise. It's not like ignoring it would make sense. It's the first time Luke's been allowed to carry a weapon in...maybe ever. He doesn't know how long Luke's been captive, but he's only fourteen-ish. It's not like he'd have been carrying weapons much earlier than this, even if he'd been a Hunter's kid.

(And Dean's not angry that it was John who got to give the kid a crash-course in handling a blade. He's not upset that it was John who stood with him in the motel, beds pushed against either wall, sparring with dull blades and shouting orders at him to parry like this, adjust his stance like that, twist his wrist or fix his grip or god damn it boy keep your eyes on your enemy. Just like when Dean had been a kid. He's not jealous.)

(He's not.)

Dean knows that Luke isn't under any delusions about his skill with the weapon. It's small: not long enough to do any lasting damage to human organs, and God knows that a simple iron knife wouldn't be enough to take down the demon. But the fact that it's made of iron should be enough that if Luke can land even a glancing blow it'll make the demon reconsider his choices, and that in turn should give Luke enough time to scramble behind Dean or John.

Ideally, the demon never gets to get that close to Luke.

Ideally, he's stuck in the devil's trap for the good part of the fight.

But Dean's never lived in a world of ideals, and he doesn't expect that to change tonight, so he hopes that John's lessons stick with Luke as well as they did with Dean.

They pull up in front of the house—a quaint little cottage-style two-bedroom thing, all vomit-inducing white-picket-fence and bullshit. It's so stereotypical that Dean wants to roll his eyes, but that would diminish his best sightlines for a second so he refrains. John has drilled into both him and Luke how absolutely vital it is for the two of them to remain alert at all times. All times. Every second could be the second that the demon chooses to show itself. John parks the car a few houses down, in front of a house that's for sale and unoccupied. The Impala melts into the shadows and is all but unnoticeable.

John and Dean get out almost in unison, and Luke slips out of the back seat behind them, as quiet and alert as he was at the beginning of the fight with the Oschaert. There's a stillness about him that wasn't there last time, though, which reassures Dean a little bit. Maybe last time, the shaking was the vision coming on. Maybe this time they'll have better luck.

And then he pinches himself, hard, for tempting fate like that. Might as well ask the universe what else could go wrong while walking under a ladder in front of a black cat.

Dean walks silently up to his dad for a wordless weapons check, and when John holds out his hand, Luke immediately unsheaths his knife and hands it over. John hands it back, satisfied with Luke's grip on the weapon—which Dean knows is what he was really checking for, because what exactly could have gone wrong with the knife?

Their eyes meet—Dean's and John's—and it feels like something momentous should be said, but there aren't words. Maybe there never were, no matter the circumstances, no matter how precious the quiet. But John puts his hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean understands.

It's time to do this.

To end it.

John leads them into the house, creeping through a perfectly-manicured lawn into the perfectly-manicured back yard. Luke's breathing is barely audible, even when Dean is listening for it, and the three of them move in perfect sync. The door opens easily under the urging of Dean's lockpicking set, and John salts the door behind them as they walk in.

The house is eerie. On the one hand perfectly suburban and normal—on the other, the place where the final showdown with the demon that killed his mom is going to take place. That very knowledge seems to chill the air as they pick their way carefully through the house, and it even seems to be affecting Luke, based on the way the kid stays just a tiny bit closer to Dean than he normally does. His hand occasionally drifts towards Dean like he's seeking out comfort, but it never lands, never gets too close.

Like he just needs to feel the radiant heat from Dean to know he's close enough.

It's gotten past the point where Dean could say something, even if he wanted to break the silence, but it does lessen the tension coiled in his chest a little bit to know that Luke will still turn to him for comfort.

First things first. John motions for Dean and Luke to re-check the devil's traps. At this point in a normal mission they'd be salting the doors and windows, but it doesn't seem like the demon's here yet, and they don't want to keep him out.

Weird, going through a civilian's house where they know a demon is coming and not warding it.

Feels a little like a betrayal.

But Dean shakes it off as he peers under rugs and throws and up at the ceiling, making sure nothing's scuffed the designs during the day, that nothing has compromised the integrity of the traps. They look good. As long as they can get the fucker in there, he'll be stuck.

He catches Luke staring at one of the traps, a glazed, vacant look in his eyes. He's sitting on his heels with his hands balled up into fists under his chin—the position looks a lot like intense study, but his eyes look like he's not there at all. Dean makes his way over to him quietly, cautiously, not wanting to scare him but at the same time really, horribly afraid that it's the onset of another seizure. Vision. Whatever.

As soon as he approaches, though, Luke looks up at him, suddenly lucid. Dean waits, and Luke offers him a watery smile and accepts his proffered hand to rise. Maybe Dean lets his hand linger a moment on Luke's shoulder; maybe Luke leans into it a little.

Neither of them says anything, though.

They search the bottom floor of the house in utter silence while the family sleeps upstairs. It's just after midnight and even the baby is sound asleep, the whole family heedless to the really inexplicable activity on their ground floor. Dean laughs darkly in his head as he thinks about the scene they'd make if one of the adults were to come downstairs and turn on the lights just now, caught like roaches scurrying on the floor, but with sawed-off shotguns and spray-painted Satanic marks all over these nice people's living room.

The traps all checked, they move into the center of the room, where John slips his hand into his pocket and comes up with a folded piece of paper. He hands it to Luke, who unfolds it silently, and Dean peers at it over the kid's shoulder. He recognizes the familiar words of the Latin exorcism, and glances at his father. John doesn't look at him, but keeps his eyes on Luke.

Luke reads the exorcism carefully, though Dean's sure he's heard it before—but maybe never seen it, he realizes, given how apparently the other Hunters thought that reading was too good for him. A fucking waste, Dean thinks bitterly. He wonders how much more intelligent Luke would be if he'd been given the liberty to read—how much smarter even than he is now, which is pretty damn smart, in Dean's opinion.

Finally he finishes and looks up at John, nodding once. He mouths if I need to, and John nods back.

The grandfather clock ostentatiously placed in the living room directly in line with the front door chimes that it's fifteen past midnight, and John gestures to the corner closest to the back door. Luke's best memory of the vision suggests that it's between a quarter and half past midnight that the demon attacks Tamara and Rodney, so it's just about go time, if he's right.

From the shiver that Dean feels when their shoulders touch as they crowd together in the corner, he doesn't think there's a lot of doubt in Luke's mind.

It's only a few minutes later that the light comes on in the stairwell, and Tamara and Rodney come downstairs. Neither one notices the intruders, cloaked in shadow, as they walk into the kitchen.

"So glad he's finally sleeping through the night," Tamara says blearily, her hushed voice carrying from the kitchen.

"It was just a matter of time," Rodney replies. Dean quickly tunes out their inane baby chatter and the sounds of wine being poured, focusing on any other noises.

The house seems pretty new and isn't creaky or noisy in the way of old houses, so all Dean hears below the voices of the couple is the air conditioner and the ticking of the grandfather clock. Luke is trembling lightly beside him, though whether he's afraid of the fight to come or afraid of being found out by the civilians, Dean's not sure.

He puts his fingers around Luke's wrist, which seems to calm him some. Not a lot, but some. He can't see Luke's face too well in the darkness, but it doesn't look like he turns to him.

One creak from upstairs.

Silence from the kitchen.

"Did you hear something?" Tamara asks pointlessly, because obviously Rodney did hear something, he stopped talking.

All five of them wait. Dean can't speak for the couple in the kitchen, but he and John and Luke wait breathlessly.

There is no second creak.

"I guess not," Rodney says doubtfully.

The baby starts to cry, short, sharp cries of either pain or fear.

"Danny!" Tamara cries, and there's the sound of a short scuffle, and Rodney says something about going upstairs, but Dean knows that he's not going to make it.

He can see a pair of yellow eyes in the stairwell, and he knows it's too late.

He hefts his shotgun as his dad stands behind him, and Luke follows him up, staying right behind Dean.

Dean watches as Rodney starts up the stairs, only to be thrown by a gesture from the demon. Tamara, in the doorway, screams, and the demon walks up to her, gripping her by the throat and lifting her up to her tip-toes, grinning.

Dean lets off a shot, and Tamara screams again as she is released. The demon turns to them, and his sickly yellow eyes widen as it looks just past Dean.

Something flickers across his face—something frightening in its intensity, angry and shocked and something that almost looks like fear, but that's absurd. It passes quickly, so quickly that Dean can't be sure what he's seen.

"Oh," he says, his lip curling upwards in something that is neither quite a smile nor a sneer. Luke presses up against Dean, shaking like he's going to fall apart. "Well, I didn't expect to see you here, my boy."

Dean calculates the best route to get the demon into one of the traps and has gotten about five steps into his plans when he realizes what it is that the demon's said.

John's stillness behind him tells him that his father had already understood it.

Luke presses harder, trembles harder, ducking his head against Dean's ribcage.

The demon steps forward, seemingly untroubled by the sawed-off that Dean is pointing at his chest. "How nice of the Winchesters to arrange this reunion," he says, and Luke lets out a whimper.

"Do you know him, Luke?" John snaps, his own sawed-off aimed squarely at the demon's forehead.

"No, no, sir," Luke promises. "No, sir. Just my visions. I just know him from my visions."

"If you've lied to us—"

"I'm not lying!" Luke cries, breaking off in a panicked sob before continuing. "I don't know him, I swear, I don't know him!"

The demon raises a thumb to his lips and Dean and John both tense. But all he does is bite his thumb, opening a small wound, letting a little bit of blood bead.

Luke goes still, and Dean doesn't understand what's going on, but he's gone cold all over.

The demon smiles.

"Welcome home, my boy."

 He doesn't know the demon

He doesn't

He doesn't

He's plagued his visions since they started when he was little

He's been forced to witness atrocity after atrocity committed by this thing

But he doesn't know him

And yet

The blood

There is something that makes his chest ache and his own blood run hot

Oh god

There's something wrong

The demon knows something about Luke.

But if it's true

And he's connected in some way to this demon

Then once the demon is dead

(Because Dean will kill the demon Dean is going to kill the demon Dean has to kill the demon)

Luke is next.

Doesn't matter what promises were made.

The demon killed Dean's mom, and if Luke has something to do with it, he won't be spared.

And there's a tiny, childlike place inside Luke's heart that thinks that this is the worst of all possible ways for it to end.

That if it was just that they would kill him because he was Lilim, it would be one thing

But for Dean to kill him because of this

Because of the demon

Because there was something of the demon about him

He would hate him before he did it.

And Luke can't stand that.

So he prays like he doesn't think he ever has before that the demon is lying, that the demon is wrong, that he is not his boy.

He can't be.

Because he's Dean's.

Chapter Text

Luke is pressed against Dean's side like he's trying to burrow in, and while John's sawed-off is still pointed at the demon he's looking at Luke like something's changed, and Dean's just about fucking had it. Things were really good for just a second there, everybody he cares about was getting along, and there'd been a few setbacks but he was just about to fix it when this demon has to come in and screw it up. He has no intention of letting that stand.

And besides. Luke does for damn sure not belong to the demon. He doesn't belong to anybody.

(With is a different story.)

"He's nobody's boy," he snarls, and the demon's pus-yellow eyes flick up to meet his, and he doesn't shudder. Luke does, he feels it against his ribs, but he's like ninety percent sure he doesn't. "I don't know what game you think you're playing, but you're boned, and fucking with Luke's head isn't going to change that."

The demon makes an exaggerated face of surprise, looks at Luke, and begins to clap his hands slowly. "Well done," he says. "Broken past the great Dean Winchester's steely exterior. Nobody's been able to do that since his mommy's and baby brother's tragic ends."

"Shut the fuck up," Dean growls, inching to his left in an attempt to make the demon circle to the right. He takes a step, then stops, though Dean keeps going for a few steps further.

"And so quickly," the demon continues. "Though it seems his daddy dearest isn't as fond of you."

"I said shut up," Dean shouts, swinging his sawed-off up to aim it directly at the demon's face. Luke flinches away from the quick movement, and the demon raises an eyebrow.

"But maybe you're still not sure about him," the demon says. Luke goes still, ducking his head against Dean's side again. "After all, even if you remind him of dear, dead baby Sammy—"

"Shut up!" Dean roars and lets off a shot that goes wide. John shouts something at him but all he can hear is his pulse throbbing in his ears, and the echoes of the shrill cry Luke made when the shot rang out.

The demon waits for him to quiet, and says, his voice soft, "But maybe you remind him a little too much. And after all, you saw how far being Sammy got the actual Sammy. And he didn't have demon blood in him."

Dean opens his mouth to say something smart, but the demon's not done, and he hasn't quite started talking in time to drown out the next words. "He didn't have my blood in him."

Time stops.

It feels like everything comes to a screeching halt. His dad goes absolutely still behind him, Luke freezes next to him, he's pretty sure his heart stops beating. Even when there's movement, it's like it's through molasses...Luke takes his hands slowly away from Dean, leans away from him, and Dean can feel the kid's eyes burning into his face. He can see Luke's expression without looking: ashen-pale, wide-eyed, his breath caught in his throat. Waiting. Terrified and waiting.

And much as he wants to say something that will take that look away before he has to actually witness it, something along the lines of it doesn't matter because Luke sold your sulfur-scented ass out anyway, all he hears himself croak is, "You're lying."

"I might be," the demon says, sounding far too assured and smug for Dean's liking. "No way to know for sure. But why do you think the boy has so many visions of me?"

Dean hears Luke whisper his name, breathless and panicked, but he doesn't respond, doesn't even take his eyes away from the demon's. "All you're saying is it's your fault that Luke's life got fucked," he growls. "Just like mine. Two reasons to send your sorry ass straight to Hell."

"If you want to see it that way," the demon replies, still smiling. "But regardless, it does make the boy mine."

Dean circles to the left again, and the demon takes the bait, moving right, right, right—

And stopping just before the devil's trap, glancing down at his feet and making soft tsk sounds.

"A devil's trap?" he says. "How...quaint."

"How the fuck did—" Dean begins, then breaks off. But not quickly enough, as the demon looks up at him and the smile turns almost fond, almost pitying, entirely nauseating.

"The boy sees my actions in his mind all the time," he says, like he's explaining something simple to a child. "How many doors have you encountered that can only be walked through one way?"

Dean works really hard at not flinching at the implication, though he feels his father shift towards Luke. He's not pointing the gun at the kid. But there's a chill in the air. Luke's stopped breathing at his side, and manages a strangled Dean. Dean keeps his eyes and his weapon on the demon, but angles his body a little closer to Luke. He can hear the kid beginning to hyperventilate, and he doesn't want to have to drag Luke's unconscious body out of another fight, so he says, "Breathe. Even if he's telling the truth it's not your fault."

The demon tsks again. "Such a distrustful child."

"Funny how that worked out," Dean snipes. "Luke. I said breathe."

Luke sucks in a lungful of air obediently, and Dean shifts so that his arm presses against Luke's shoulder. The gasp is followed by a tiny sigh.

But the contact isn't just for comfort. Dean pushes Luke gently backwards, gently to the right, where they came from, where John is already behind the salt line they've constructed. Luke, thankfully, has the presence of mind to step over the line, and he and Dean both make it over without scuffing it.

Dean shoves Luke behind him, almost into the wall, and he hears that same soft, panicked sound that he heard what feels like ages ago at the campsite. This time he can't do anything about it except for stand in front of the kid and take aim with his gun—putting himself between Luke and the fugly, just like he'd promised he would. He can feel Luke breathing behind him, feel the faint, brief warmth of a hand that Luke almost places on his arm before he's jerked back by John, out of the way, where he can't disrupt their shots.

"Exorcizamus te," John begins, and the demon starts to laugh. John hesitates for a moment, then continues, louder: "Omnis immundis spiritus—"

Luke cries out as John is flung from behind the salt line, into the wall where his weapon flies from his hands across the room, landing at the demon's feet. John crumples, still conscious but with the wind knocked out of him, curled around his side. The demon picks up the gun, studies it for a moment, then bends the barrel, rendering it useless. "Such cute toys," he says, tossing it away. "But you'll have to do better than that."

"Stay behind me," Dean growls, edging in front of Luke, placing himself squarely between the younger boy and the demon.

"Such chivalry," the demon sighs.

"Dean—" Luke begins.

"Shut up and stay behind me, Luke, I swear to God," Dean snarls, shoving Luke back a step with a thrust of his shoulder. The kid stumbles back and falls silent.

The demon's smile grows, snaking up his face as his yellow eyes narrow. "Yes, Luke, listen to your master," he says. "Like a good little demon-child. Do you kneel at dinner? Does he give you treats when you betray your kind to him?"

"Leave him the fuck alone," Dean shouts, and before he can think about whether or not it's a good course of action, he fires another shot.

This one hits true, burying itself deep into the demon's shoulder, and the demon howls in pain and rage. Dean hears Luke scream his name as he feels himself being lifted and suspended in the air for a moment before being hurled into the middle of the room, his ribs striking the arm of a chair before he collapses in a heap in the middle of one of the devil's traps.

Ironic, he thinks blearily.

"You have no idea how much I wish that I had the authority to end you here and now," the demon hisses, circling the trap while Dean tries to get his breath back. "But no one said I couldn't have my fun with you before the prize fight." He reaches out a hand, palm towards the ceiling, and clenches his fingers together.

Agony.

Dean feels the muscles in his throat tightening but he couldn't say whether or not he's screaming. Probably, he thinks, and his thoughts sound tinny and hazy, as though they came from far away. Probably I'm screaming. Everything is white-hot pain, and he's sure that when it relents, there won't be a body for him to live in anymore.

He manages to cry, "Luke! Fucking run!" and he's ninety percent sure that it's intelligible English. But his eyes are screwed shut as if it'll help relieve the pressure building in his skull, the singing pain, growing higher and louder and vibrating through him like it's going to shatter him at any minute, until there are stars behind his eyes and the stars are exploding just like he's about to—

Then it lets up, and while everything is throbbing with the memory of it and his eyes are still watering and every part of his body is trembling, he opens his eyes and sees Luke, his tiny little knife sticking out from where he slotted it between the demon's ribs. The boy and the demon are staring at each other.

The demon's skin sizzles as he slowly pulls the iron blade out from between his ribs, and with his other hand, he grips Luke's chin. Dean tries to move towards them but can't summon the strength.

"Quite the Stockholm Syndrome," the demon rasps, and Luke tries to pull away ineffectually. "Trying to murder your own progenitor, all for the sake of your kidnappers."

"Dean didn't kidnap me," Luke spits, his hands trembling. "And I'm not yours."

"Kneel," the demon commands, and Dean almost laughs, because he's pretty sure that even in Luke's worst moments if he'd tried a stunt like that the kid would have laughed in his—

Luke drops to his knees.

The demon runs a fingernail over the thumb he'd sliced open earlier, starting the blood flowing again. He then cups Luke's face with that same hand, smearing a short trail of blood along the boy's cheek. Luke's eyelids flutter, and Dean's heart stops.

Lilim. Demon-tainted. He'd been so close to forgetting what Luke is.

The demon pushes his thumb into Luke's mouth, and Dean wants to scream, wants to vomit, wants to do anything but watch.

Luke's eyes close fully and he looks almost blissful as the demon feeds him his blood, holding his face with a mockery of tenderness.

Dean closes his eyes, too.

"That's my boy," the demon says softly, and with his free hand he reaches out to Dean.

Agony.

"Hunters," he hears the demon say, dimly, through the waves of torment that crash over him. "All they've ever given you is pain, Luke. Pain and humiliation for something you can't control. You didn't do this to yourself. They've done it to you."

Dean feels like his skin is cracking, though whether it's from heat or pressure or both he can't tell.

"You've given everything you have to try to please them, and they throw it back in your face with their cruelty and their degradation and, worst of all, their false promises," the demon is telling Luke. "You crawl for them and they step on you. You risk your body for them and they won't stoop to help mend it. How many truck beds will it take, Luke? How many blows? How much pain, how much cruelty, until they're satisfied with you?"

Dean stretches out a hand, and the demon either doesn't notice or doesn't care but either way it doesn't matter, because Luke's eyes are still closed, although there's a tear running down his cheek.

It feels like defeat.

It feels like failure.

But Dean still reaches out his hand, hoping that Luke will open his eyes, hoping that Luke will understand.

"You have always been enough for me," the demon says softly, stroking Luke's cheek with his fingers. "Since you were an infant. You have always been mine, and I have always been pleased with you. You were lost to me, Luke, but now I've found you."

A fresh wave of pain rushes through Dean and he lets out what he knows is a garbled scream, but he can't even bring himself to feel ashamed of it. He's been hurt before, injured on hunts—hell, one time he was sure he was going to lose his leg. But nothing has ever hurt like this. There's no escape, there's nowhere that isn't on fire.

And still, it almost hurts more to see Luke with the demon's thumb in his mouth, drinking its blood like he was dying of thirst, looking more at peace that Dean has maybe ever seen him, despite the tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

"Luke," he whispers.

And when the kid doesn't open his eyes, Dean let his eyes close, too.

He doesn't want to have to see this.

And while he's pretty sure Luke deserves for him to watch it, he can't.

He can't watch while he loses Luke just like he's lost everybody else.

The blood opens places in him he didn't know existed.

The blood flowers in his veins and expands, filling him until he knows that he is expanding just to make room for it all.

For the power, the life, the rightness.

It tastes terrible. It isn't anything more than it should be. It is blood, and it tastes of old pennies and something dark and heavy like tobacco, but he can ignore the taste.

This demon standing in front of him...he should hate him.

He should, because it's his fault that Luke's life has turned into what it is

He's the one who tainted Luke in the first place

Who turned him Lilim.

He's the one who ruined him, who ruined Dean, who ruined him for Dean.

But.

He feels himself filling up with strength, and he wishes for a brief, hateful moment that every Hunter who'd ever laid a hand on him was in this room right now.

He'd burn them to the ground. 

He'd make them suffer like they made him suffer, and tenfold.

He could.

He is the strong one, now, the one with the power.

And yet...

And yet. 

The only Hunters in the room with him are the only Hunters who had ever not laid a hand on him

And Dean is lying on the ground, hurt

Hurt for trying to protect him

And Luke knows what John is thinking, on the other end of the room, struggling to rise only to be forced down again by a flick of the demon's wrist:

"How am I going to kill the boy without it killing Dean?"

But he's not worried about John.

Not now.

The demon is hurting Dean

Still hurting him

Dean is curled up around himself like he's trying to make himself too small for the demon to hit

Not enough of a target

But the demon just keeps hurting him and hurting him

And Dean keeps making these noises

Little hiccuppy sobs torn from his throat or great wet screams

All unwilling, so unlike the strong front Dean has almost always kept up in front of him

(Only broken when Sammy's name is mentioned)

And he thinks:

He's killing Dean.

And the strength that's flowing through his veins seems useless now if he can't make this stop

And this new power, it's not recompense enough for ruining his life, not if the demon is going to turn around and hurt Dean

It doesn't matter how much better his life could be with this strength, it doesn't matter, if it's at the cost of Dean.

And he opens his mouth, turning his head to the side, and tilts his chin up to meet the demon's eyes

Pus-yellow and milky and disgusting and full of smug confidence that Luke is his

And suddenly the blood coating his tongue turns bitter and he fights back the urge to gag

He's not the demon's boy.

He's belonged to people his whole life.

Dean said he wasn't his owner

And Luke will be damned if he turns himself over to another master again.

So he locks eyes with the demon and he says:

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundis spiritus."

And the demon's yellow eyes widen and he begins to curse, but there's something in Luke now, something bigger than the demon, something powerful and something that can't be put back in the box once it's been opened.

Luke stands up and begins to walk towards the demon, backing him up towards the wall, towards the wall, and into the devil's trap that he had painted with Dean's help that morning.

He continues.

"Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."

The demon screams something about his destiny and something about being his savior and something about belonging to him, and it doesn't make any difference.

Luke doesn't stop.

The words are pouring out of him like they've been seared into his soul and he's not sure that even if he changed his mind, he could stop.

He's all the way up against the devil's trap when the demon pins him with his awful eyes and says:

"They'll kill you anyway."

Luke shrugs, as though to say, maybe.

"Te rogamus: audi nos."

Luke pauses, then adds:

"Motherfucker."

The demon returns screaming to Hell.

And Luke has barely hit his knees before Dean has made it over to him, crawling across the floor, and when Luke's hand finds its way to the older boy's face it's covered in tears.

Dean is murmuring "thank you, thank you" and fluttering hesitant hands over Luke, like he's not sure where to touch where it won't hurt either or both of them.

Luke is too tired to feel much of anything, but he manages to feel relief before he slips into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Dean is elated.

Scratch that, revise: Dean is absolutely miserable and every part of his body hurts, but he hasn't felt so at peace since a frigid night in the middle of Wisconsin when his dad brought home a frightened boy who avoided his eye and called him sir.

They're back at the motel and it's Dean's turn to be stuck on the bed, coddled and worried over by Luke. Who looks a little like shit himself, to be honest, with bloodshot eyes and too-pale skin. But he hasn't swayed once on his feet, and only caught a few hours of sleep next to Dean while the older boy dozed off thanks to the miracle of painkillers.

"You've definitely got a broken rib," Luke had said disapprovingly when he first checked Dean out, once they were safely away from the Eriksons' house. (They'd waited for Tamara to come to; luckily Rodney survived the attack, and the baby was fine, though Luke got kind of quiet when they went to check. Dean asked if everything was okay, and Luke assured him it was; he didn't press further. Neither Erikson adult really cared to know too much about what was going on, and they left instructions on how to properly ward the house. All in all, a satisfactory job, putting aside the significant mental and physical trauma to everyone involved.)

"Oh, that's why I can't breathe," Dean wheezed in an attempt at sarcasm, and Luke rolled his eyes as he shoved an ice pack against Dean's chest none too gently. That made Dean huff out the rest of the breath in him, and he gasped while Luke smiled wickedly and fluffed his pillows in an overly solicitous manner.

John had been silent for the few hours since their return to the motel, and he's not speaking now, while Dean lays and Luke sits on their bed eating chicken noodle soup and watching Looney Tunes. Luke's never seen them before, which Dean considers a war crime, so when he realized that there was a marathon, he insisted that Luke put down the research books and sit down with him to watch. Luke obeyed.

Dean tunes out the TV for a moment and gauges his pain level, contemplating asking Luke for more painkillers. In most places he's at about a 6, spiking to a 7.5 or 8 on his broken rib and the base of his skull. Pretty much everything hurts, from the weight of his bowl of soup on the ostensibly uninjured side of his chest to the scratch of the cheap blankets on his skin, and what doesn't hurt is just annoying and hard to ignore.

He can't think of the last time he was in this much pain.

But it eases a little bit when Luke's foot brushes tentatively against his arm, like he's just making sure Dean's still there. He moves his arm a little closer to Luke, and the younger boy glances askance at him, not totally willing to admit what he was doing, but still obviously grateful for the gesture.

Dean grins, takes a clumsy spoonful of his soup, and looks up at the TV again.

Wile E. Coyote slams into the side of a mountain, and Dean winces a little. He's pretty sure that he knows what that feels like, now. To be flattened and have to pop back up, shake yourself out, and keep moving, impossible as it may seem.

When Luke finished the exorcism, Dean felt like he had to re-learn how to breathe, but he had to do it quickly. He'd managed to crawl to Luke's side and wanted to hug him, wanted to hold him, to tell him how well he'd done and that Dean would take it from there, but the only words he could find were thank you, thank you, and the only motion his hands would make was to tremble a few inches above Luke's body. It felt like Luke was crackling with energy, and that he didn't have the strength to force his hands down against that field.

He'd been crying, he realized that, and when Luke laid a hand against his cheek he would've jolted as a shock passed through him if he'd only had the energy. It wasn't that he was embarrassed—though he was. It wasn't that it hurt him—though it did. But there was some power singing through Luke's body, and every instinct in him told him to be afraid of it.

But he couldn't. It was Luke.

It was Luke, and he'd just sent a demon who'd been in the middle of promising him freedom and a shot at revenge straight back to Hell, and he'd been really badass about it, too.

Just remembering the look on the kid's face when he said "Audi nos, motherfucker" makes Dean grin, and he looks up at the kid in question.

Luke is watching the Wile E. Coyote cartoon with a kind of inordinate amount of attention, his eyes fixed on the screen, but Dean can see how tired he is. His skin is pale and drawn and he has bags under his eyes big enough to fit their research library into. He keeps making these subtle expressions like he's trying to figure out what's going on in the episode but can't quite work up the energy, giving him a general air of confusion. Finally, he fees the weight of Dean's eyes on him, and looks down.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asks immediately, shifting slightly in the bed. "Do you need more medicine?"

"What I need is for you to take a nap," Dean says, and Luke frowns, obviously disappointed by that answer. "Seriously, dude, you're about to drop."

"I'm—"

"If you say fine I swear to God I will scream," Dean promises, and Luke rolls his eyes but slides down under the covers. He turns to glare at Dean, but it lacks heat.

"I really feel okay," he says, and Dean shrugs. "What about you?"

"Hurts like all fuck," Dean replies honestly, and Luke's eyebrows draw together in concern. "But it's a hell of a lot better than I would've been feeling if you hadn't been so fast on your feet."

Luke flushes at the praise, and looks away quickly. "I just did what I had to do," he murmurs.

"Yeah, and what you had to do was save my life, and my dad's life," Dean says. "So yeah, I owe you one, man."

Luke doesn't look back, and he ducks his head a little, muttering, "I'm just glad you're okay."

"I'm glad you're okay, too," Dean replies, nudging the younger boy with his shoulder before scooting their pre-approved distance away.

There's a moment of silence before Luke says, "I'm glad we're okay." Another moment. "We are, right?"

"Better than okay," Dean agrees. "Dude, we're so okay that you can bitch about my gun maintenance skills nonstop for a week and I'd just nod and smile."

"That's a lie," Luke says, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice.

"Probably," Dean admits. "I thought I said to take a nap."

"You're bossy for a guy who owes me his life," Luke snickers, the amusement trailing off hesitantly at the end, until Dean grumbles "yeah, yeah" and melodramatically tosses himself onto his side, tugging at the covers until he has more than his fair share. Luke grabs a fistful of blanket and says "Gimme the covers, Dean!"

"I need some painkillers," Dean whines, and Luke sighs deeply before reaching over onto the lamp stand and grabbing their pilfered bottle of prescription drugs. He knocks two onto his hand and holds them out for Dean, who thanks him by saying, "No water?"

"You're a big boy. Dry swallow them," Luke says, hunkering down under the covers that he yanks from Dean while the older boy is distracted with his medication.

And if when they're settled Luke is a little closer to Dean than he normally is, Dean doesn't mention it.

It's just a drive up the interstate to the Roadhouse. Barely even something to hunker down for. 

But Dean's in the back seat with Luke instead of the front seat, because while this trip is short, Luke's dreading it.

Dean had tried to convince his dad to let them stay at the motel, but John had said no, that it would be good for them to get out, and that Ellen wanted to see him anyway. The first excuse sounded fishy but the second was one that Dean could hardly argue with. Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Jo have been, besides John and Bobby, the closest Dean has to a family since Sammy's been gone. He can't deny Ellen much of anything. She's the only adult who doesn't look at him with pity.

So he's sitting in the back seat, watching Luke try really hard not to hyperventilate, and murmuring soft reassurances.

"I know you've been to some shit Hunter dives before, but the Roadhouse is different," he promises. "You're with me this time, for one thing."

"I know," Luke says tightly.

"And anyway, Ellen wouldn't let anything happen to you," Dean continues. "She's little, but she's nobody to fuck with. She's the biggest mama bear you'll ever meet, and if anybody so much as looks at you funny she'll shove a boot up their ass so fast and so far they won't shit for a week."

Dean was hoping that would earn at least a tweak of Luke's lips, but nope. Nothing but that pale anxiety.

Dean sits back, defeated after half an hour of trying to wheedle some relaxation out of Luke. He can't say he blames the kid, though. After years of Hunter bars meaning nothing but public humiliation and pain, he can't say he'd especially look forward to going to a new one, either.

And Dean hasn't forgotten (can't forget) Luke's words when talking about the last asshole Hunter to pretend like he had some kind of claim over a little kid's life:

The guy who made me call him master and who'd put me in the back of his pickup, chained to the bed, who'd drag me to Hunter dives and make me sit at his feet while he made fun of me with his friends, like I was a dog.

The image of Luke sitting at some dickhead's feet, wrists rubbed raw by the chains he'd been put in, said dickhead nudging him with his foot or shoving him to try to get a rise out of him, making fun of the fact that he'd kidnapped and abused a child, surrounded by friends who didn't think that was the most fucked up thing they'd ever heard of, was enough to curl Dean's fingers into fists.

He'd always known Hunters could be assholes. Enough of the kind of horror he and his dad were faced with every day made certain parts of you shut down. But fourteen years of it, starting when he was four years old, hadn't been sufficient to break him enough to not see that what had happened to Luke was as horrific as his own life. And if Dean wasn't jaded enough to be blind to the kid's suffering, none of the others had any excuse, either.

Dean is a difficult man to shock. But he finds himself constantly shocked by each new revelation about Luke's life.

"Are you okay?" Luke asks softly, startling Dean out of his reverie, and as always, worrying about everyone else before himself.

So Dean asks back, "Are you?"

Luke meets his eyes steadily and shakes his head.

"Then me, neither," Dean replies, and Luke nods, like that's an answer he can accept.

The road is starting to look familiar, and Dean knows they're close. He knows why they're going to the Roadhouse. John's not and has never been the only Hunter going after Yellow Eyes, and he's got to report to Ellen and the network about their run-in. Maybe that kid genius that Ellen keeps around can plug it into some kind of algorithm or whatever and they can try to track him down again, so Luke doesn't have to come down with a brain fever or something before they get another lead. And most times, he would've been really glad to see the Roadhouse. It's the closest to home he comes. He really likes Ellen, and he really tolerates Jo. Even Ash is okay. The other Hunters are hit or miss, but Ellen keeps everybody in line with a balanced combination of razor-sharp dry wit and the shotgun she's rarely more than five paces from. Also, she who controls the liquor controls the world, so Dean's never seen an argument take more than one or two shouts from Ellen to resolve.

The Roadhouse is a good place.

The Roadhouse is a safe place.

Luke will see.

Gravel crunches under the tires of the Impala as they pull into the lot, and Dean can almost hear every muscle in Luke's body pull taut.

John steps out of the car without a word, and Dean follows quietly, nodding to his dad that he'll wait for Luke. John pauses a moment, clearly displeased, but eventually turns and goes into the bar.

Dean leans against the car and pointedly does not look at Luke, who is by now actually hyperventilating. "Deep breaths," he says calmly. He can hear Luke doing his best, so he doesn't freak out or look back. "Calm down. I promise I've got your back. Ellen will give us a bite when we go in, and the food's good. And if anybody tries to mess with you I'll kick their ass."

"I don't wanna go in," Luke shouts through the closed door.

"I know," Dean says. "But I'm not leaving you alone in the car, and I'm going in eventually, so that leaves you with one option."

"Are you ordering me?" Luke shouts, which is a really low blow, and that's when Dean turns around, narrowing his eyes at the kid in a combination of hurt and irritation.

"You want a hamburger, or no?" he snaps.

"You're the one who likes burgers, Dean, not me," Luke argues, but it's weak and Dean knows it's a lie. Dean opens the door and Luke scoots back across the seat, so Dean sits on the edge, his feet still out of the door.

"What are you scared of?" Dean asks, more gently. He's undeterred by the vicious glare he gets from Luke, and presses, "Nothing's gonna happen. I won't leave you for a second. Besides, I got a reputation. They know you're here with me, and nobody's gonna try anything. So why are you freaking out?"

Luke doesn't say anything for a long moment, but Dean can see him slowly unwinding, the worst of his panic passing. Finally he sighs, long and slow, and says, "When I go in there, I'm just Lilim again."

Dean can't say anything to that.

"When it's just me and you, I can pretend I'm not, for like, minutes at a time," Luke continues, coughing out a bitter laugh. "But I walk in there with you, and everybody's gonna know what I am. I'm gonna be Dean Winchester's Lilim. Your property. And better yours than anybody else's, but, Dean, you don't get it."

"It doesn't have to matter, what anybody thinks," Dean says lamely, knowing that these are useless words before they even pass his lips.

"It will," Luke says with absolute surety. "It will, I know it will, and I don't want you to see me like that, Dean, but I'm going to turn back into what I've always been as soon as I step through those doors. Because you said a week isn't enough to fix fourteen years of shit, and you're right. There are things I know, down to my bones, and nothing you say or do is going to convince me otherwise. And one of those things is that I'm Lilim, and when I'm around Hunters, I act like it or I pay for it."

Dean hesitates, letting Luke's words sink in, and then he asks, his voice quiet: "Are you saying you're afraid I'm going to look at you different, and that's why you won't go in?"

"I'm saying that I'm already tired and achy, and that kneeling all night isn't going to help," Luke snarks, but it's not a no, and Dean understands that he's right.

"I'm not gonna let you kneel," Dean says firmly. "You're gonna walk in, stand with me, and sit in the booths. You're gonna fucking own the Roadhouse like you should've owned those other dives. And if somebody's got something to say about it, fuck 'em. You're with me." He slides out of the car and holds his hand out for Luke to take. "Come in with me?"

Luke doesn't say anything for a bit, then heaves a deep sigh and grabs Dean's hand, letting him pull him out. "If something goes wrong in there, I reserve the right to never, ever let you forget about it," he grumbles.

"Like you would have anyway," Dean replies dismissively, but he gives Luke's shoulder a squeeze once he's upright. Luke doesn't lean into it or say anything, but he doesn't pull away, either.

Dean will take what he can get.

His hand is still on Luke's shoulder as they walk into the Roadhouse together. It's darker inside, the windows filtering in the remains of the early evening light though a few years' worth of not dusting. It's early enough that there aren't a lot of people in the bar yet, to Dean's relief. He can feel the moment where Luke realizes it's relatively quiet: the kid's shoulders relax, just a hair, and he takes a deep breath.

There are a couple of guys at the bar, and a handful more in the booths, so it doesn't take long for Dean to scan the situation and find his dad. He's leaning on the bar in the far left corner, already with a beer in his hand, talking to Ellen. Dean sighs at the sight of the beer. His dad all over. He sucks it up, though, and gestures toward his dad for Luke's benefit.

Ellen's already watching them as they approach, obviously sizing Luke up, her keen eyes undoubtedly picking up every subtle cue neither of the boys realize they're giving. It makes Dean nervous, but he hopes that it helps her figure out what's really going on here, John's undoubtedly twisted version of the tale nonwithstanding. Ellen's not a fool.

She looks exactly like he remembers: denim-clad and a little weathered, blonde hair pulled back into a practical ponytail, a shotgun on the bar beside her, resting under her elbow. Not the Norman Rockwell vision of mother-figure, but that ideal wouldn't last a week in the life of a Hunter. And who needs cookies and milk when you can get Ellen's burgers and a hot tip on wendigo outside of Philly?

Her expression is already softening by the time they get close enough to hear her say, "Long time no see, Dean. You look like crap."

"Charming as always, Ellen," Dean says, laughing. "Ellen, this is Luke. Luke, this is Ellen Harvelle, fine proprietress of this establishment and maker of the best damn burger you'll ever eat."

"Noticed yet that he's ten pounds of bullshit in a five pound bag?" Ellen asks Luke dryly. The kid doesn't budge, just watches her, wide-eyed. She smiles, fondness in her expression, and reaches her hand across the bar to Luke. "Any friend of Dean is a friend of mine, and welcome in my bar, Luke. It's a pleasure."

Luke stares at her hand for a second, and Dean experiences a moment of panic where he thinks that Luke isn't going to shake it. But he does, finally, taking her hand into his and shaking solemnly. "It's nice to meet you, Ms. Harvelle," he says.

"It's Ellen, kiddo," Ellen says, and a bit of the terror in Luke's eyes shifts, turns into gratitude. Dean wonders if Ellen knows what that means to a kid who's spent his whole life sure that all Hunters despised and looked down on him—to be given permission to call her by her first name.

But sneaking a glance at her face and seeing the sad smile she's wearing, he kind of thinks she knows exactly what she's doing. There's a smile on Luke's face, too, as he repeats, "Ellen."

She smacks the countertop with both hands in a boisterous gesture, and says, "So burgers and Cokes all around?"

"Sprite for the squirt, and I'll take whatever you've got on tap," Dean says, he thinks, pretty smoothly.

Not smoothly enough is what Ellen's face says as she cocks an eyebrow and returns with the Sprite for Luke, and a Coke for Dean.

Oh, well. Worth a shot. "Try again either when you're twenty-one or when somebody who doesn't know how long ago you were in diapers from personal experience is working the bar," Ellen crows before she slips into the back to get their food.

Dean sits next to his dad, and Luke slips onto a stool on his other side, sipping happily at his drink. "What'd Ellen say about the demon?" Dean asks his dad quietly.

"Nothing yet," John replies. "Just gave me a pitying look and asked if we were okay."

"At least we are," Dean says lightly. His dad gives him a look, and he clarifies: "Okay. We're okay."

John doesn't say anything, but takes a long sip of his beer.

Luke has gotten over the initial elation of his soda, and has gone back to glancing around the room uneasily. And to Dean's displeasure, there are one or two Hunters looking back at him. He and his dad are no strangers to the Roadhouse, and everybody knows that the littlest Winchester is gone and presumed dead. (Is dead. No need to sugarcoat it.) So the skinny teenager sitting next to Dean can't be the famous Sammy. Speculation's sure to start, and, given the way a couple of the booth guys are leaning over and talking to each other so that Dean can't hear them, probably has already begun.

Luke's hands are starting to tremble in their grip around the base of his cup, and Dean grabs the kid's wrist—strong enough to ground him, just shy of painful. Luke looks up quickly, his eyes wide but the fear fading already.

"Relax," Dean breathes, and Luke nods, inhaling and exhaling a few times with forced regularity. "I gotcha."

"They're talking about me," Luke whispers.

"Fuck 'em."

"That's probably exactly what they're talking about," Luke replies darkly, and winces when Dean's grip on his wrist tightens just a little. "Ow, Dean."

"Sorry." Dean unwinds his fingers from around Luke's arm, but keeps his palm resting on top of Luke's hand, reassuring. "I'll kill them if they try to touch you. I will."

Luke looks down, but Dean says, "Hey," and he looks back up. "I'm not kidding. Somebody tries to hurt you, I will kill them. Slowly. With a weapon of your choice."

Luke says nothing for a moment, shaking his head slowly. "God, you're crazy," he mutters after a minute, but it's fond, and a little relieved.

"Never claimed any different," Dean shoots back with a wink, and that earns him a tiny smile.

Ellen's back, then, with their burgers, and for all Luke's prior grandstanding about not being the one who likes burgers, his eyes go wide and his mouth falls open a little bit at just the smell of them. "Bon appetit, boys," she says, putting their plates in front of them.

"Thank you, ma'am," Luke says automatically, and Ellen beams, then reaches over the counter to swat Dean on the head.

"Ow!" he cries, rubbing the offended temple. "What was that for?"

"Why can't you let this boy's manners rub off on you, a little?" she demands, then turns back to Luke, smiling warmly. "You are just precious. He's not teaching you bad habits, is he?"

"No, ma'am," Luke says, grinning. "It would take more time than he's had me to make me be rude to a lady."

Dean notices that Ellen stills a little at the words had me, and she shoots Dean a scrutinizing glance. "Besides," Luke continues, "I know it would take years to figure out how he manages to be such a jerk and still have everybody like him. It's an art, and I'm not even an apprentice yet."

"Hey!" Dean cries, and when Luke laughs, Ellen relaxes. "Don't be fooled, Ellen. He seems innocent but he's wicked with the backhanded compliments. Obviously."

"Dean's been really good to me," Luke says, more softly, more seriously. "And he has nothing but good things to say about you, Ms. Ellen."

"As he ought to," Ellen says gruffly, which Dean knows is the way she deals with being touched. "You boys enjoy your dinners. John, you can come eat with me. We've got plenty to talk about."

John looks a little pained as he gets up from the bar, but he obeys. Dean had no doubt in his mind that he would.

It doesn't take either of them long to finish their meals, although Luke keeps interrupting them to mention again how this is the best burger he's ever eaten. Having eaten more than Dean has in weeks—which means, he realizes dully, more than Luke has maybe ever—both boys feel the need to stretch their legs, so they hop down from the stools and Dean leads Luke to Ellen's single pinball machine.

Luke's seen them before, but never played one, so Dean gives him step-by-step instructions on how to be awesome at pinball. Luke watches with an expression that's halfway between amusement and awe as the score on the machine spirals up and up, finally settling more solidly on awe as his attention turns rapt.

Dean's in the middle of demolishing the high score when he feels Luke go very still behind him, and he turns around.

He kind of recognizes the guy standing in front of him, eyeing Luke in a way that makes him a really attractive candidate for a fist to the face. He's another Hunter's kid, about Dean's age, name of Larry or Harry or something. John had paired up with his dad on a few hunts a couple of years ago, and Dean and what's-his-name were stuck working together by default. From his dim memory of those cases, Larry (or whatever) is a crap shot and has a bad attitude. Dean's only met a couple of Hunter's kids, but Larry's the only one who's managed to pull off entitlement in their patched-together, marginalized life.

Dean has vague memories of hating him.

Dean's starting to have more short-term memories of hating him, too.

"Winchester," Larry or Harry or whatever says, like they're old friends. "Long time no see."

"Sure," Dean says coldly. He takes a step that puts his right shoulder just in front of Luke's left, which he thinks is pretty much as clear a fuck off as he can get without telling the guy to fuck off.

"Didn't peg you or your dad for the type to buy a Lilim," Larry continues, like Dean isn't bristling in what amounts to a dominance display. "Thought your old man was pretty thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."

"Funny how you don't know shit about my family," Dean growls, and Larry laughs like Dean just told a joke.

"Everybody knows your family, Winchester. And whatever reason you and your dad had for sinking money everybody knows you don't have into this kid...must've been big." Larry studies Luke, whose head is ducked and spine curved slightly in a posture of surrender, even as he tries to hide behind Dean without making it look like he is. "He's a skinny thing."

"We're working on that," Dean says defensively, then regrets it. He doesn't owe this douche any explanations, or any more words at all.

"What's he got? Telekinesis? Precognition? Pyrokinesis?" Larry asks, circling a little to get more angles on Luke. Dean puffs up further but it doesn't seem to be making any difference.

"He's got none of your fucking business," Dean snarls. "We done here?"

And then Larry puts his hand on Luke's arm.

And Dean can see the instant that Luke transforms into the terrified kid he was back at the campsite, totally submitting to whatever's about to happen, no fight in him, no nothing. In fact, he looks exactly like he did that first day—not trying to pull his arm out of Larry's grip, but every other part of his body is leaning away, putting as much space as he can between them, getting as close to Dean as he can without seeming to object to the other Hunter's hold.

Dean's pretty sure what he has is a flashback, as Larry morphs for just a split second into John, and the Roadhouse shifts into the campground.

He blinks hard.

And Larry says, "Kinda pretty. If you and your dad are hunkering down here for a bit, I'm sure you wouldn't mind sharing?"

Luke shudders violently.

And Dean...

Dean relaxes.

Dean smiles.

Dean puts his arm around Luke's bowed shoulders and says, "You know, I've been told I'm a generous guy."

Luke flinches and holds it, freezing with as much tension as he can muster in his body.

"So I'm gonna give you some free advice," Dean continues, still looking Larry right in the eyes, still grinning easily, watching the other Hunter's kid match his grin. He leans in, and Larry leans to meet him, and he says, "You can take your hand off of him right now, or you can leave without it."

Larry jumps back, releasing Luke like he's been burned.

Luke gasps for the breath he's been denying himself and crumples against Dean, who holds him up. "Now get the fuck out of my sight, yesterday, before I do what I've wanted to do since I saw your ugly face and put my fist right through your jaw."

"You're a fucking psycho," Larry shouts, and other people are starting to stare but Dean couldn't give any less of a shit right now what anybody else thinks about him.

"And you're a fucking child molester, so I'll take psycho any day, pal," Dean shouts back, and he sees that Ellen is on her way with her shotgun and he hopes to God Larry gives her an excuse to use it.

"Never pegged a Winchester for a demon-lover," Larry says as Ellen gets right up to them, and she's almost managed to say "Is there a problem" before Dean steps away from Luke and punches Larry so hard in the face that he falls to the floor, hands scrabbling at his bloody nose.

Then Ellen's holding him by the wrist, and Luke's got him by the other, begging him not to make a scene, and he's shouting, "I'm gonna kill him! I will fucking kill him if he's not gone in ten seconds!" 

Ellen shouts for Gary (oh, Gary, whatever, he was close) to get out, and two guys help him to his feet and hustle him out the door, but by the ugly looks they shoot Dean they're on the asshole's side. Ellen helps Luke usher Dean into the back room, where John demands to know what happened, and Ellen pulls him out before it's another fight and Dean has never loved Ellen Harvelle so much in his life.

Dean crumples to the floor, hyperventilating, and Luke's right there next to him, pressing up against him and slipping his arms around him.

He starts to say, "Thank you, thank you for—"

Dean's voice is raspy, thick, but decisive as he says, "Luke, I'm sorry, but I swear to God if you thank me for not giving him permission to rape you I don't care what promises I made, I will hit you."

Luke doesn't respond to that verbally, but he buries his face in Dean's shirt and holds him tighter. Eventually, Dean rests his arm around the kid's back, and lets his cheek fall to Luke's tousled hair.

"You're okay?" he asks softly. Luke nods. Dean leans away, and Luke tilts his head up, and Dean sees that his face is covered in tears. "Hey. You really okay?"

"I'm okay," Luke promises. "I really am."

And Dean doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to know, but he's talking before he can stop himself and he says, "Look, Luke, have you...I mean, before, like with the other...because tonight, and when I suggested we share a bed, you...I mean, did anybody—"

"Not me," Luke whispers, and Dean falls silent. "No. Nobody has."

Dean feels like he can breathe again, but only shallowly. "But."

Luke hesitates. "Her name was Ava. Is. Is Ava."

"A friend," Dean says. Luke nods. "She's Lilim, too?"

Luke nods again. "My last owner, he owned both of us. And he..." Luke breaks off, shuddering.

Dean holds him tighter.

"Thank you," Luke whispers.

Dean smacks the back of his head.

"Ow!"

"I'm a man of my word," Dean says, bringing Luke's head to his chest and leaning his forehead against the back of Luke's head. "I keep my promises."

Luke curls into Dean's embrace and listens to his heart beat. 

It sounds like safety.

It sounds like home.

And despite the aftershocks of terror that are still shuddering through him,

For the first time in years,

Luke feels absolutely safe and content.

Because Dean is a man of his word.

Because Dean keeps his promises.

Chapter Text

They spend the night in the Roadhouse that first night. They meaning Dean and Luke, because John goes back to the motel—Ellen tells them he's left a few hours after the "incident", as she calls it. She's got a room in the back, though, and a couple of cots, and she gives them each a glass of milk like they're sad little kids and closes the door.

Despite Dean's (admittedly irrational) worries that Luke will never want him to put a hand on him again, they only use one cot, and Luke buries his face in Dean's shirt like he's afraid if he doesn't hang on, he'll get lost.

They wake up in the morning and Ellen makes pancakes and talks to them about anything but what happened. She asks Luke what kind of books he likes, how old he is, where he's been in his travels, if Dean's being too mean to him, what he wants for lunch. She skirts any talk of things Dean's sure Luke thinks he can't have—she doesn't talk much about the future, doesn't ask what he wants to do when he grows up. But the steady flow of questions he can answer seems to calm Luke.

Jo shows up just before lunch, because it's a Saturday and she got to sleep in since she doesn't have school. Dean braces himself for a shitstorm, but one stern look from Ellen and Jo's a perfect lamb, gentle but not cloying or condescending, treating Luke like a peer, not like a big brother to annoy the shit out of like she does Dean.

Luke opens up to her easily, and the fact that he treats her like a big kid does wonders for her attitude. He's got a few years on her, but Dean figures he's not used to hanging out with people younger than himself—doesn't have much of a context for it. So he talks to her like she's no younger than Dean, and she eats it up.

They stay for lunch, and Ellen doesn't open the bar until they leave, which Dean is grateful for beyond words. They eat their sandwiches in companionable silence, even Jo seeming to understand their need for quiet, muching on her peanut-butter-and-jelly and only asking one or two questions, which Luke answers dutifully.

It's a little after noon when they finally get ready to go, and Ellen hands Dean the keys to the Impala as they get to the door.

"John took a cab back," she says simply, and Dean doesn't even have to wonder whether or not that was Ellen's doing. He just draws her into a tight hug and murmurs a quiet thank you in her ear. She doesn't respond, but hugs him back.

When she releases him she turns to Luke, who looks hesitant for a second before Ellen opens her arms a little, curling her fingers toward her as though to say you gonna hug me or what?

Luke runs to her and hugs her, and she wraps her arms around him and whispers something into his ear. It's too soft for Dean to hear, but whatever it is she says makes him grip her a little bit more tightly, and when he pulls away reluctantly, his eyes are bright with the sheen of tears.

So Dean steps forward and puts his arm around the kid's shoulder, and Ellen nods approvingly. "Any time you boys are in the neighborhood," she says, "stop by. And tell that bum daddy of yours that you need to be in the neighborhood more often, Dean Winchester."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, offering her a fake salute that he drops quickly when Jo runs up to hug both him and Luke at the same time. "Oof, kid, lay off the twinkies," he grunts as her momentum staggers them both.

Luke throws him a scandalized glare while Jo cackles. "Dean, you can't say that kind of thing to a girl!"

"She's not a girl," Dean scoffs, cuffing Jo on the head and grunting when she punches him in the stomach. "She's just a Jo."

"You're so stupid," Jo says scathingly, and punches him again before grinning widely at Luke. "You're way less stupid. Don't let Dean's stupid rub off on you."

"I'll try my best," Luke promises, smiling back and accepting another hug from her. Dean puts a hand on his arm and Luke lets himself be led out of the Roadhouse while waving to Ellen and Jo.

"You were right," he says, a little dreamily. Dean cocks his head, confused. "I like them."

Dean bites his tongue to keep a pained expression off of his face, because what he'd said wasn't you'll like Ellen and Jo. What he'd told Luke was the Roadhouse will be different, and it wasn't. He flexes his right hand, feeling a pleasant ache where his fist had connected with that douchebag's nose. He isn't sorry that he decked him. He's fucking proud.

But he's sorry that it had happened at all. Under his watch. Where Luke is supposed to be safe.

When he looks down at the kid, Luke's already watching him, a little, sad smile on his face. "You did everything you could," he says, and Dean is surprised by how firm his tone is.

"I promised you'd be safe," Dean argues softly.

"I am," Luke says. "I'm safe. He didn't touch me. You didn't let him."

"He got too damn close," Dean mutters, unlocking the door and swinging himself into the driver's seat. Luke hesitates by the back door, then, seeming to steel himself, gets into the passenger's seat.

"Not too close," Luke replies. "I mean, yeah. It would have been great if he hadn't been there. I like the Roadhouse and I like Ms. Ellen and Jo. But he didn't hurt me, and you..."

Luke trails off, and Dean starts the car and peels out of the parking lot.

Just as Dean thinks it might be a safe time to ask and I what?, Luke changes the subject. "What do you think your dad is going to want to do now?" he asks.

Dean shrugs, trying to hide his disappointment. "I don't know. Probably lie low for a bit, take on a few simple cases. Find a couple of salt-and-burns or something. Recoup."

"I'm sorry we couldn't kill the demon," Luke says.

And thank God, Dean believes him.

Because there wasn't really, not really, a lot of time where he'd considered, back at the Eriksons', that Luke wasn't a white hat. That he'd somehow been playing Dean and his dad, that he was really on the demon's side. Obviously that was a stupid thought.

But there was a second or two of panic.

A second or two of this would be the worst way to lose him.

A second or two of one more person I trusted.

But the sorrow, the guilt, the down-low anger in Luke's voice tells him that his brief, quickly-suppressed fears were unfounded, which is...a big relief.

Bigger than he expected.

And he doesn't let any of that show on his face, just says, "I know. It's not your fault. The plan was bad. We'll figure something out for next time."

Luke nods. "And I'll keep an eye out," he says, tapping himself on the temple, and Dean doesn't wince but it's a close thing.

"You just relax," Dean says, and he's like ninety-nine percent sure that Luke rolls his eyes. "Seriously. You relax, take it easy for a bit. That's what Dad and I are going to do."

"Hunting ghosts is taking it easy?" Luke asks, his tone doubtful.

"Salt-and-burns are nothing on what we usually do," Dean replies, "and you know it." After the Oschaert and the Yellow-Eyed Demon, he at least ought to know it.

Luke huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, guess I do."

They drive in silence back to the motel, and Luke nods off a little. Dean lets him sleep, watching him out of the corner of his eye as the tension drains from him along with his consciousness.

Luke doesn't act like a fourteen-year-old. He doesn't talk like a fourteen-year-old. He barely looks like a fourteen-year-old...he's got the slightly juvenile look of the undernourished, and his eyes look like he's eighty. But when he's asleep, he's a kid, and he's even started to snore a little bit.

Dean likes the snoring. Dean lets him sleep.

When they get back to the motel, they're quiet going in, not sure what kind of mood they'll find John in. Dean creeps into the door first, opening it cautiously but not silently because God knows he doesn't want to sneak up on his dad.

John's sitting on his bed, going through his journal, and he looks up when the boys enter. "Ellen take care of you?" he asks.

"Yes, sir," Dean replies as Luke slides in behind him, sticking very close until they can assess John.

"Good," John says, and that's all he says. He goes back to his journal as though the boys weren't there.

Dean and Luke share a long look, and Dean shrugs and walks over to the other side of the room. He grabs a book, tossing another one to Luke.

Dean's got a book on gun maintenance, but Luke has a copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe that Dean lifted from a used book store a couple of towns over. It was next door to the gas station. No big.

Luke holds it like it's made of gold, opens it every time with gentle, reverent fingers, and Dean's pretty sure he's on his second read but he still reads it with wide eyes.

They settle in together to read, comfortable and on edge all at once. Dean wonders if they'd ever be anything else—if even without the specter of John's strange behavior hanging over them, they could ever be fully at ease.

They don't leave town. They don't have a job, but they don't leave town, either. Dean spends the time getting better, and Luke spends the time making sure Dean gets better. John spends the time somewhere else. Drinking, Dean guesses, and when John comes home late at night and stumbling, stinking of whiskey, he can't find it in himself to feel much of anything about it.

Because this time, when John comes home stinking and stumbling, Dean wasn't alone for hours on end. Luke's been beside him the whole time, force-feeding him chicken soup and reading out loud in a hesitant voice from his book, enduring Dean's endless questions about the story and relentless teasing about what a nerd Luke is. Luke's been beside him, checking his injuries and prodding gently and inexpertly at his ribs, shoving ice packs on him in what seems like a strangely sweet parody of Dean's careful facilitation of Luke's own recovery.

So when John stumbles home at night, Luke's usually already asleep, breathing deep and even, having worn himself out watching after Dean.

And when John stumbles home at night, where Dean would have gotten out of bed to make sure he didn't hurt himself at one time...

Dean pretends to be asleep, too.

It's about six days after the Incident at the Roadhouse and John is out. Luke's made canned ravioli and there's a Die Hard marathon on one of the cable stations, so they've been vegging out pretty much all evening. A commercial break starts, and Luke glances over at Dean's bowl.

"You done?" he asks, though it's clear that Dean is, in fact, done.

"Yep," Dean says, and sits up with a grunt. But Luke's got the bowl out of his hands before he can swing his legs off of the bed, and by the time he's complaining about it, Luke's halfway to the kitchenette. "Hey! I could've got that."

"I know," Luke says airily.

"I'm not a friggin' invalid," Dean grumbles as Luke returns to the bed and clambers back on. He feels the mattress dip below the kid's weight, and he can swear that Luke's gained better than five pounds since teaming up with them. "I can wash my own damn bowl."

"So could I, that first day," Luke replies, and his voice is matter-of-fact, but his words hit Dean like a punch to the gut.

"So the tables have turned?" he asks, trying to stay casual, even as he hopes that Luke can't hear the thickness in his throat.

"Yeah," Luke laughs, and the sound of it helps to ease the tightness in Dean's chest. "Basically me washing your bowl means that you're the mutant slave kid that I'm saving from a life of abuse."

"Hey," Dean interjects, startled, but breaks off when he sees the way that Luke flushes once he's heard himself talk.

"That was weird. Sorry. That was weird," Luke mutters, rubbing the back of his neck so that his arm is shielding his face from Dean. Dean puts a hand on that arm and gently pulls it down—not even that, more like suggests that Luke could put it down if he wants. Luke does, though he still avoids Dean's eyes.

"Hey," Dean says again, and Luke glances up and back down in half a second. "Listen. You don't...I didn't do anything any decent person wouldn't have. Okay? I'm sorry you've only met such shitty people that nobody thought to treat you like a human being before, but don't make me something I'm not."

"I'm not," Luke protests.

"I don't need you to see me...better than I am," Dean presses. "Like some kind of hero. I'm not."

"That's bullshit," says Luke, and Dean goes quiet. "That's bullshit, Dean. You are a hero. And not just what you did for me, but what you do for everybody you meet. I didn't think there was such a thing as a hero. But if anybody proves me wrong, it's you."

"Jo was too late," Dean jokes. "You must've already let my stupid rub off on you."

"Dean, you saved me," Luke insists.

"Come off it."

"Dean, can you be serious for a second? Please?" There's enough urgency in Luke's voice that Dean turns to him, and sees that the younger boy's eyes are a little glossy. "Don't...don't dismiss it. Okay? It's important. To me."

"I know," Dean says apologetically.

"Because you did," Luke continues. "Save me. Dean, I don't know how long I would've lasted, the way things were. I don't know how much longer I could've been strong. How much longer I could've kept going."

Dean felt his breath catch. "You don't—I mean, you didn't—"

"I didn't try," Luke says, cutting him off. "But I thought about it."

"Not since you've been here," Dean says, and it's a statement because it can't be a question, because he can't bear to think that Luke was suffering like that while he was there and he didn't notice.

"No," Luke says fervently. "No. I'd told myself last summer that if in a year things hadn't changed, and if he hadn't killed me or gotten me killed by then, I'd...look at my options." A hush falls over the room, and then Luke rushes to say, "But then your dad bought me, and then you were there, and sure, nothing's made any sense since then, but do you know how long it's been since I went this long without somebody hurting me? Do you know how long it's been since somebody took care of me? Dean, I don't know what I would've done."

And he's choking back a sob on those last words, and before either of them knows what's going on Dean has his arms wrapped around Luke's thin frame and they're holding each other and Luke's crying and Dean's totally not crying because he's a man and it's just dust in his eyes and both boys feel like if they let the other go, they'll both drown.

It's the happiest, the safest either of them have felt in their lives.

By the time John comes home, they're both fast asleep, for real.

 John doesn't come home drunk.

 He's roused from a deep sleep by a firm hand on his shoulder.

He looks automatically over at Dean, but Dean's still sleeping, snoring a little bit which means that he won't be easily woken. Dean never sleeps this hard. He supposes they wore themselves out with their little display of melodrama earlier.

So he looks up and he's not surprised to see Mr. Winchester looming over him. He's a little surprised that the Hunter isn't drunk, but he's relieved by the fact. Drunk Hunters are never good news for him.

"Get up," Mr. Winchester whispers, and the order is definitely that—an order—but it's not harsh. It's almost gentle, and for some reason that unnerves Luke even more.

He obeys.

Mr. Winchester's got something in his hand that he's holding out to Luke, and it takes Luke one, two moments before he realizes that it's a small duffel bag.

His heart sinks.

"I'll be better," he whispers. "Please, Mr. Winchester. I'll find the demon for you. I'll be better."

"Take the bag, Luke," Mr. Winchester says softly. "It's done. Can't change it now. Don't wake Dean."

Luke takes the bag into his hands and looks down, fighting back tears. "I can't say good-bye?" he asks, and to his shame (rule number nine) he feels a single tear make its way down his cheek.

There's a moment of hesitation from Mr. Winchester, but Luke doesn't dare to hope. He is a little startled when he hears a sort of sad roughness in the Hunter's voice as he says, "I'm sorry. He wouldn't...Dean wouldn't...won't understand. He's got a soft heart. He'll try..."

He would try to stop this.

And it can't be stopped.

Luke glances over his shoulder at Dean's peaceful form, memorizing him this way. Somehow, thinking about that, that Dean would stop this if he were awake, soothes the panic in his chest.

He can make this easier for Dean.

He can go without a fight.

He can give Dean one less thing to be angry at his father about.

If he just goes...

Then Dean can eventually pretend like he was never there.

He looks down at the duffel. "Mr. Winchester, is—is my book in here?"

"It is," Mr. Winchester replies, and Luke exhales.

"May I go to the bathroom, first?" he asks, and Mr. Winchester nods. Luke takes the duffel with him.

He pulls a sharpie out of the bag and an empty toilet paper roll out of the trash, and writes.

Once he's finished, he puts it where he knows Dean will find it, flushes the toilet for show, and walks back outside with the duffel.

"I'm ready," he says.

Mr. Winchester nods and leads him outside with this awful gentleness, this terrible reluctance, like it hurts him a little bit, too.

Luke's almost managed to calm his racing heart when he sees a figure under the yellowed light of the street lamp.

A figure in a hunting jacket and a trucker's cap.

And he grasps at Mr. Winchester's sleeve and whimpers, "Please."

"Luke, go quietly," Mr. Winchester says firmly. "You'll be okay. He's promised me he'll treat you well. You can help him like you've helped us."

And Luke wants to laugh

And Luke wants to cry

And most of all Luke wants to run

And not stop running until he can't speak the language of whatever place he's gotten to

Because under the street lamp

Under that sick crackling light

Is his former owner.

The one Dean referred to as the "sick fuck".

The one he ran away from before he was caught and sold to Mr. Winchester.

And under that yellow light there's a sheen in the Hunter's eyes that promises retribution

And all Luke can think of is to scream Dean's name

But even that is lost as the panic overtakes him when Mr. Winchester hands him over.

Dean can't help him anymore.

Mentally, Luke calculates that he still has three months from the year he gave himself.

He sets his countdown.

Chapter Text

When Dean wakes up, he knows something is wrong.

The light's too bright, bed's too cold, the room's too quiet. He rolls over and there's no Luke there, either huddling close to him for warmth and comfort or clutching the edge of the bed like he used to. His dad is sleeping silently on the other bed, hunched under the covers. The clock read-out says ten fifteen and Jesus, he hasn't slept this late in years.

Dean stretches uncomfortably and slips out of bed, padding slowly to the door and frowning when he finds it locked and chained from the inside. So Luke's not outside. Not sleeping, not outside, and the room's only so big.

Dean turns to the bathroom door. Ajar with the lights off inside. So a no go on the bathroom, either. Where the fuck is he?

He walks into the bathroom and turns the light on after shutting the door behind him. Pulls back the shower curtain: no Luke. Not that he was really expecting to find Luke crouching in the bathtub, but he's not anywhere else.

Neither is his toothbrush.

There's a chill settling in the pit of Dean's stomach as he realizes that all of Luke's stuff is gone from the bathroom. He rifles through the cabinet, looking for the kid's things, hoping that maybe he just moved them for some weird OCD post-traumatic stress reason that Dean can't and doesn't have to fathom as long as the stuff is somewhere and—

Dean's hand brushes something cardboard and out-of-place.

He grabs it and pulls it down, and his chest tightens when he sees that it's a toilet paper roll covered in Luke's handwriting.

He sits heavily on the lip of the bathtub and begins to read.

Some promises can't be kept. It's not your fault so don't blame yourself. I'll be okay.

Try not to be sad. I'll m

(Here a couple of letters are obliterated by Sharpie marks.)

never forget you.

Dean sits for a couple of minutes, staring at Luke's messy, hurried scrawl, picturing him standing in this very room, writing this good-bye message on a god damn toilet paper roll while the man who's sleeping peacefully outside is waiting to, what, sell him off? He can't get the image of what Luke's face must have looked like out of his head. He can see it like the kid's standing in front of him. All trembling chin and big, wet eyes and the way his brow furrows when he's trying not to cry, gripping the Sharpie with shaking hands, thinking of the correct words to say to try to make this easier on Dean.

Because I'll be okay is such a fucking lie that it couldn't be for any purpose but to make Dean feel better.

He stands up and leaves the bathroom, slams the door behind him to wake John up, and leans against the wall, Luke's message in his hand, his arms folded over his chest. John bolts up at the sound, reaching under his pillow for his gun while his wide eyes fix on his son.

"Dean," he gasps, his hand easing away from the weapon. "Christ, son, you scared the shit out of me."

"Where is he," Dean says flatly, and John's expression shutters.

"Dean—"

"Where the fuck is he, Dad?" Dean demands, tightening his grip on the paper roll, feeling it bend beneath his fingers.

John sits up and gets out of bed, and Dean sees that he's in his day clothes, like Dean is. But unlike Dean, who'd fallen asleep after comforting a sobbing Luke, John was dressed because he'd snuck out of bed in the middle of the night, caught Luke off-guard, and shipped him off while Dean slept. He feels his face flush with anger when his dad approaches. "Dean, he's going to be fine. He's—"

"You're damn right he's going to be fucking fine," Dean shouts, then presses a fist against his mouth to try to keep his cool. "He's going to be fine," Dean repeats, "as soon as I find him. As soon as you fucking tell me where he is."

"I don't know, Dean," John says, and it's firm but gentle and soothing and it makes Dean see absolutely red and he starts to throw a punch at his dad, but he's upset so it's clumsy and John catches his fist and holds him. "Dean. I didn't ask so I can't tell you. But the man he's with now, he promised me he'd take good care of him. That he'd treat him well."

"Oh, well, if he promised," Dean spits, wrenching away from John and backing away so that there's some space between them. "If he promised a man he'll never see again that he'll do right by a kid nobody knows exists and who he'll never be held accountable for, then I'm sure that Luke has nothing to worry about."

John stands in the middle of the room, looking a little lost, a little helpless, and the idea that maybe he thought Dean would react differently to this just makes him angrier. Did he expect Dean to be okay with it? To just say oh, well, nothing to be done about it and move on?

"He saved my goddamn life," Dean growls, unable to meet his father's eyes anymore. "And you're just going to sell him off like out-of-season clothes."

"He saved your life after endangering it in the first place," John argues. "You heard the demon, Dean. It could see through the boy just like the boy could see it."

Dean laughs in amazement. "You're going to just believe the demon? The demon that killed Mom, that ruined our lives, you're just going to trust that it's telling the truth?"

"I sent Luke away to keep you safe," John snaps, closing in on Dean again, getting right up in his face. Dean's never been more grateful for his last growth spurt, for the fact that they're eye-to-eye now. "I couldn't see you throw your life away for him, like you tried to do over and over."

"Let's be blunt," Dean sneers, taking one step closer to John. "You didn't send him away. You fucking sold him."

"To keep you safe," John insists. "And I can see I made the right call. You were getting too attached."

"Don't you dare," Dean whispers.

"I told you at the beginning, he's Lilim, Dean. Under any other circumstances he's something we'd hunt. You lost sight of that." John tries to put a hand on Dean's shoulder, but Dean pulls away and walks to the other side of the room. "You wouldn't put your life at risk to protect your gun, Dean. You stopped seeing him as a means to an end. I won't lose you for the sake of finding the demon."

Dean stills, and John mistakes that as some kind of realization. He walks over and puts a hand on his son's shoulder. "I can't lose you," he says again, and Dean turns around.

"You know what the funniest thing about all this is?" Dean asks. "It's that after everything—everything Luke did for us, all the times he protected me or put himself in danger to help us—after all of that and now, after what you did to him...the funniest thing is that you think you haven't already lost me."

John stiffens, pulling his hand away like he's been stung, and stares at Dean.

Dean goes to the lamp stand and grabs the keys to the Impala and gets his pistol from under his pillow. He walks to the supply duffels and grabs his sawed-off, ammo, and a fistful of cash before swinging his own duffel over his shoulder. He slips the crushed toilet paper roll into the duffel. John begins to say something, and Dean turns around with the sawed-off not raised, but ready to be raised. John looks, understandably, shocked. "I need a name, Dad," Dean says.

"Don't do this," John murmurs.

"A name," Dean insists, shifting his grip on the sawed-off.

He won't shoot his father. He can't. But there's something in John's wide eyes that suggests that maybe John doesn't know exactly how freaked Dean is right now, and that maybe he's not so sure that Dean won't lose it completely and shoot him.

So John squares his shoulders and says, "Walt."

"Last name."

"He didn't give one."

Dean nods sharply and shoves past his father, heading towards the door. Behind him, John says, "Dean, please. Think about this."

Dean stops, his hand on the door handle, and takes a moment before he opens it. "I am," he says, "and now that I've thought about it, I'm going to save the kid who saved my life. I'll see you when I've found him."

"You don't know where they went. You won't find them."

Dean laughs again at that, turning to his father. "Since I was four years old, you've been training me to be a Hunter," he says. "And I listened. To every word you said. And I practiced, and I trained, and I researched, and I worked. And you know what I am now, Dad?"

He swings his sawed-off so that the barrel rests against his shoulder, and he says, "One of the best damn trackers in this hemisphere. And that son of a bitch doesn't even know he ought to be hiding."

He walks out the door and throws over his shoulder as he does, "You can spend the time, since you're gonna be without a ride, coming up with one mother of an apology speech."

And closes the door on whatever John was going to say in response to that.

He throws his stuff into the back and swings himself into the driver's seat, listening to the purr of the engine as he starts her up. He sinks into the old leather and takes a deep, bracing breath before he guns it and starts off onto the road with more flair than strictly necessary.

Only once he's on the road does he let himself think: where the hell do I start?

This Walt, whoever the fuck he is, could have gone anywhere. Could have been on the trail of anything. Bringing Luke along isn't likely to have changed his plans. He could have been headed anywhere, but somebody has to know. Most Hunters aren't like John—they're a private bunch, but most of them like to brag. Walt would've told somebody where he was headed. Hell, even John usually tells Bobby.

John tells Bobby. Dean just has to figure out who Walt would tell.

Dean pauses, his hands tightening around the steering wheel.

No, he doesn't have to figure that out. All he has to figure out is where Walt found John in the first place.

He swings the car around and heads back to the Roadhouse.

Jo is sitting on the bar polishing glasses, and she jumps about half a foot when Dean slams through the doors. 

"Dean!" she shrieks, putting a hand over her heart dramatically. "You scared me to death!"

"Your mom in?" Dean asks absently, scanning the bar as he makes his way to the back.

"She's in the office," Jo replies. "Where's Luke?" She cranes her neck to look behind Dean, brow furrowing when she doesn't find who she's looking for.

"That's why I need to see your mom," Dean says, and Jo hops down from the counter, suddenly concerned.

"Is he okay? Is he hurt? Is he in the car?" Jo demands as she follows Dean into the back, sparing a glance towards the door like she could see through it into the Impala.

"No, I don't know, and no," Dean says curtly, and, he realizes belatedly, a little callously, as Jo's eyes widen and she grows very serious. He shouldn't put all this shit on a little kid.

On the other hand, he's doing it so that he can take some of the way more heinous shit off of another little kid, he thinks as Jo ushers him into the back office. Ellen looks up, startled, and then immediately worried by the solemn look on Jo's face and what Dean assumes is an ashen expression of panic on his. There's no greeting, no small talk, just her standing up from her desk and asking, "What happened?"

"It's Luke," Dean replies. "Dad sold him."

Ellen's lips tighten and she curls her fingers into fists. "That stupid son of a bitch," she spits. "I told him if he hurt that boy there'd be hell to pay."

"I think Dad met up with the Hunter he sold him to here," Dean barrels on, uninterested in Ellen's anger. He has enough of his own. "Name of Walt. I need to know if anybody here knows where he was headed so I can catch up to him."

Ellen frowns, her eyes growing distant as she thinks, but ultimately she shakes her head. "I don't remember anybody named Walt," she says slowly. Her eyes narrow, and she looks up at Dean. "But I think I know who can help you."

She brushes past him and he and Jo follow her out of the office down the hallway, and to a closed door where a hand-painted wooden sign announces that Dr. Badass is IN.

Dean snorts, and Ellen shoots him a glare. He quiets. She raps on the door with her knuckles and calls, "Ash!"

"Just a minute!" Dean hears Ash shout from behind the door, and a clattering of furniture and some muffled grunts and curses suggest that perhaps Dr. Badass was in a less-than-complete state of dress. Some more clattering sounds as Ash stumbles to the door and pulls it open. "Dean-o! Where's the boy wonder I keep hearing about? Ellen and Jo haven't shut up about him since you brought him in last week."

"That's what I'm here about," Dean says, and Ellen interrupts with "We need the surveillance footage from the last week."

Ash pales. "Surveillance? I don't have any—I don't know what you mean, surveillance, I mean, that's, obviously I didn't put up any cameras without—"

"Cut the crap and pull up the footage, Ash," Ellen barks, and Ash flinches and hurries back to his workstation.

His fingers fly across the keyboard with a headache-inducing clack clack clack, and he meekly asks, "How long have you—"

"Since you put them up in November," Ellen snaps, and Ash quiets. He's got his eyes locked on the screen, but Dean can see the irritation and amusement warring on Ellen's face. "Do I look like an idiot to you, boy?"

"No, ma'am," Ash mutters, narrowing his eyes.

"Then you can give me the credit to assume that I'll know when some punk kid puts up a bunch of damn surveillance cameras around my bar," Ellen finishes, leaning over Ash's skinny shoulders to peer at the footage. "Okay. More than likely, John Winchester came in some time this week and met with a man named Walt. We need to find this Walt character and see who he talked to, and get an image of his car, if we can."

Ash is typing faster than Dean thought was possible while still making words (or strings of numbers?) that made sense. All of his joviality is gone, and his eyes track the rapidly-moving screen like he's part of the computer. "I can isolate an image of John and search based on that. It'll be faster than going through a week of footage."

"You can do that?" Dean asks, startled.

Ash looks up at him for a split second and flashes him a humorless grin. "Gotta find some way to keep track of all the weirdos who come in here. Never know who's bad news. I'm hoping eventually to get the facial recognition software good enough that it'll alert me if somebody who's caused trouble in the past comes in." He peers up swiftly at Ellen, then back to his screens before asking, "You still gonna kick my ass?"

"Oh, absolutely," Ellen replies with a grin. "But you're doing good, Ash."

The compliment is lost on Ash as he types and scans and drags images and discards them. Dean's never seen a program like this, and it occurs to him that maybe no one else has, either. Nobody but Ash and whoever he allows to witness it.

One hour in, Ellen lets Dean have a beer.

Two hours in, Ash lets out a war-cry of triumph.

"Found the bastard!" he shouts, and Dean scrambles to his feet to take a look. "This, my friends, is the infamous Walt."

Guy's young. Older than Dean, sure, but probably by less than ten years. He's swathed in layers of camo and holding a trucker cap in his hand, talking to John by the bar two days previous. Dean hates him with a passion that's jarring in its intensity, given that all he has is a picture.

"You got him going out to his car?" Dean asks, voice low. Ash looks up at him, seemingly a bit taken aback by his tone, but nods and switches to a video view.

The noise is ambient, so he can't hear Walt's voice, but he watches as Walt and John shake hands and Walt leaves the Roadhouse. A few keys click and Ash mouses over to another window, and it's immediately after on the parking lot camera. Walt comes out of the Roadhouse and walks up to a black truck.

Dean's stomach clenches.

"Can you zoom in any on that truck bed?" he rasps. Ash doesn't even look up this time, just does as he's asked.

Oh, hell. Of all the bastard Hunters John could have sold Luke to, he managed to sell him back to his piece-of-shit former owner.

"Christ, are those shackles?" Ellen asks, horrified, and Jo lets out a little gasp, but Dean's already grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled the license plate number on it. He's making to go when Ash's voice stops him.

"Give me ten minutes and I'll have his full name, Social, credit card numbers, and aliases." The little hacker's voice is cold, but raw at the same time. "Give me twenty and you'll have the last place any of his cards were used."

Dean hesitates at the door, then turns around and claps Ash on the shoulder. "You're a good fucking man, Ash."

"Just get that kid out of there," Ash mutters, fingers clicking away. "And if you get to hit the bastard, hit him once for me."

"Believe me. I will hit him," Dean promises darkly.

Thirty minutes later, Dean is on the trail of one Walter Hamilton, aka George Kilchrist, aka Trevor Rhodes. Trevor's the last one whose card was used, and it was used about twelve hours out of Lincoln. Little Texas town right outside of Lubbock.

Trevor Rhodes is going to be one very sorry motherfucker in about twelve hours. 

Ava is alive. 

It's the first blessing he counts.

She bites back a sob when she sees him come through the door, but doesn't let it go because Master is right there and he could hear her

He tries to smile reassuringly at her, but is pretty sure he misses the mark when her eyes stay wide and horrified

His knees hit the carpet hard when he's pushed to the ground with a rough hand on his shoulder, but he remembers enough to not make any noise and keep his head down

It's harder now, though.

It's like he can't believe this is his real life, that this has always been his real life, now that he's lived with Dean

Those few weeks seem like real life

This seems like a protracted nightmare

But he knows, intellectually, that he won't wake up from it

So he better get used to it.

He dimly hears his master saying something above him, something about regretting running away, but he lets it wash over him.

He'll never regret it.

Even as his master drags him to the bathroom and cuffs him to the piping below the sink, even as the metal bites at his skin hard enough to break it, even as he begins to recollect how much pain he'll be in shortly when his master promises darkly to be back for him soon, he can't fathom regretting it.

Not when he can still hear Dean say

I don't wish you were Sammy. I'm happy you're here anyway.

His arms begin to ache really quickly, pulled at an unnatural angle, but he can't fight a smile anyway.

Not when at one point,

not too long ago,

Dean was happy Luke was with him.

A month ago, he'd never have imagined it was possible to feel wanted like that, cared for like that, important like that.

Now he thinks he can go a long time

(at least three months)

Just on the memory that once, he did feel that way.

Relax. I gotcha.

I'll kill them if they try to touch you.

Nothin's gonna happen while I'm here. I promise. I'll keep you safe.

He leans his head against the cool underside of the sink, and lets Dean's voice lull him into a daze, if not unconsciousness, and almost misses the sensation of a single tear running down his cheek.

In his good-bye message to Dean, he'd scratched out where he'd tried to write "I'll miss you", in favor of "I'll never forget you".

Both were true.

And chained up under a sink in a dirty New Mexico motel room, he really, really misses Dean Winchester.

Chapter Text

Dean drives.

He stops at gas stations and pulls over on the shoulder of the interstate. He grabs food for him where he grabs fuel for the Impala and eats on the road. He takes a single thirty-minute nap in the emergency lane at about midnight, but it's uncomfortable and he feels panicky at even the idea of stopping, even for a moment.

He'd left Ellen's at about three, once he'd plotted out his best course of action and, with Ash's help, done a little bit of research on the area near Lubbock where Walt Hamilton's credit card had last been used. They'd narrowed it down to three likely candidates for motels—all in a reasonable area from his last purchase, all no-tell motel enough for a Hunter's preferences. All the kind of places that an asshole like Hamilton might hole up in to catch his breath.

So any of those motels could be where he'd tucked himself away. With Luke. Possibly also his friend Ava, if she'd made it this long. Dean's hands tighten around the steering wheel at the idea. Two kids, two innocent little kids, being held captive by that fucker.

It's what woke him up from his short sleep—a vague, blurry nightmare about what he might find when he gets to Hamilton's motel room. It was obviously born of a toxic soup of his legitimate fears of what might be happening to Luke and some horror movies he'd caught the middle third of while surfing the subscription channels on sleepless nights. But whatever the origin it woke him right up, and he'd barely cleared the sleep from his eyes before he stood on the gas pedal to get himself closer to his destination.

It's the dead of night when he pulls through Lubbock, and his eyes are blood-shot and heavy, but he canvasses each of the motel parking lots, looking for black trucks.

It's when he hits the first parking lot that he realizes he's in Texas and is going to need to narrow that down a little bit.

So each black truck gets a thorough inspection of its bed—not just for shackles, but for indentations where shackles might have been fixed and removed. He climbs up on the tires of each truck and runs his hands over the bed to make sure.

None of them fit the bill.

He takes the show on the road.

In the second parking lot, there are, shockingly enough, no black trucks at all.

In the third parking lot, there are four black trucks, and none of them have ever had shackles attached to the bed.

In the fourth parking lot, one attached to a motel he and Ash hadn't even considered, he almost breaks his toe kicking the tire of a black truck without shackles.

The smooth bed inside seems to mock him. No Luke here, it says. He's off getting beaten in some other shitty motel room while you're dicking around here.

As he sinks to the ground, sliding down the frame of the truck and the tire, he buries his face in his hands and tries not to let his imagination run wild.

It's hard when all he can hear in his head is Luke crying, screaming, begging for Dean to find him and keep him safe like he'd promised. Because he'd promised, and then he'd told Luke that he kept his promises. That he was a man of his word.

But he knows that it's just imagined, his brain whispers, all those screams and crying, because Luke wouldn't do that. Luke would accept it quietly, because Luke is back where he came from now. Fourteen years of this treatment, then a couple of weeks with Dean of false promises and false hope and a reprieve that will only make the return worse.

Luke's face flashes before his closed eyelids, unwanted and painful, the day after the Oschaert hunt. He can see the dead resignation on the kid's face as he slips to his knees from under the covers, expecting to be punished for the exact thing that made him vulnerable to Hunters in the first place...expecting to be hurt because he'd had a vision. The tiny flinches when Dean made any move, the emotion disturbingly close to relief when Dean had seemed, for a minute, like he was going to comply. The confusion when Dean had just led him back up into bed, to rest more.

The only thing that could mean is that this bastard, this Walt, had drilled it into Luke to take his beatings like he'd earned them.

And Dean had trained Luke out of all of his survival mechanisms. Just call me Dean, man.

Dean chokes back a sob. It had been so damned good-intentioned. But no wonder Luke had been so upset at the time, each time he'd tried to pry him out of his shell. He wasn't helping the kid. He was just breaking down his defenses, one by one.

You see that that's fucked up, right?

Stop being so fucking passive. Christ, hit me!

He had slowly and methodically destroyed everything that kept him safe from his life. And then he'd let him get thrown back into it.

You want to know why you should believe me? Because you're as old as Sammy would be now, and if I let you down like I let him down, I'm going to go crazy.

Dean can't hold it back anymore, and sitting with his back pressed against the tire of a big black truck, he begins to sob into his hands.

And then his jacket starts singing.

He jumps a foot in the air and scrambles to his feet, digging in his pockets while his heart thuds at a mile a minute. Finally he pulls out the thick rectangular object, and remembers that Ash had given him a god damned cell phone.

Jesus. These things would be the death of him.

He remembers how to answer it just in time and hits the button, growling "What?" into the phone before he realizes he's holding it upside-down.

"Dean?" Ash's voice is tinny and distant.

"I'm here, what do you want? None of the motels panned out. He's not in Lubbock." Dean hates that his voice gets strangled at the end of that, and he puts a hand over the phone as he clears his throat.

"No, I know, that's why I'm calling. I was talking to Ellen, and I think we're going at this the wrong way. When you and your dad are on a hunt, what do you use to pay for motels?"

"Cash," Dean snaps. "That's why we didn't find a motel paid for with his card. That's why I've been searching fucking truck beds all damn night. You got a point?"

"Trevor Rhodes' card pinged at a gas station outside of Lubbock," Ash says, sounding more hurried, like he's trying to get his words in before Dean hangs up. "He didn't stop in Lubbock. We won't find him this way. He's not you or your dad, but he's been hunting for a long time now. Ellen found a couple of Hunters who know him. He's been in the game for about ten years. He's not an idiot."

Dean grinds his teeth and manages to keep himself from kicking the tire again, electing instead to head back for the Impala, because what Ash was saying sounded like he had driving ahead of him. "Okay. Talk to me. We can't count on tracking the card pings, what can we do?"

Dean hears Ash take a deep, bracing breath, and braces himself in turn for the torrent. "We can track the pings. It's just that it'll take more time. He won't be stopping in the same towns where he uses his cards. He's not trying to throw you—he doesn't know you're following him. But he wants to keep off the radar, so he's going to be stealthy. What we're going to have to do is figure out a pattern—where he's headed, what omens he's following, what his hunts are. But it's going to take longer, Dean, I'm sorry, there's no way around it. Unless Walt gets stupid or you get lucky, it's going to take more time."

Dean sets his jaw and sticks the keys in the ignition. "What are we talking? Days? Weeks?" Not weeks. Luke can't wait weeks. Dean can't last weeks.

"Depends on how fast he moves," Ash replies, and Dean can hear the apology in his voice. "If he hunkers down somewhere you'll get lucky. But I have a feeling that if you're right, and this guy is Luke's old owner, he's going to be more focused on Luke than on any hunts for a little while, which means movement. He's not going to want to settle anywhere with a couple of kidnapped kids for any length of time. I'm going to keep working on figuring a pattern from his movements. You keep tracking the old-fashioned way. As soon as I get another ping I'll let you know, give you a direction."

Dean rolls down the window. "Okay. Thanks, Ash."

There's a pause on the other end, and Ash asks, hesitant, "Have you slept?"

"Only been fourteen hours since I left, Ash," Dean retorts irritably. "I can make it longer."

"This could—it's just that it could be a long haul," Ash continues.

"We're not talking about this," Dean snaps.

"Dean—" Ash begins, and then there's a short burst of white noise sound before another voice comes on the phone.

"Dean Winchester, if you don't get some sleep, you're gonna crash that nice car of your daddy's and that ain't gonna help Luke a bit."

Well. Dean has to smile at hearing Ellen, even if she's yelling at him. "Yes, ma'am," he says.

"I mean it. I know you're worried—hell, boy, we're all worried. Ash hasn't moved from his computer since you left, and Jo was up til two helping me call every Hunter who's been in the bar at all this past week, and a bunch who weren't, trying to figure out heads or tails on this Walt Hamilton character. I told her to go to bed and she damn near cried herself to sleep. Ain't nobody here's not busting their ass. But you won't do Luke any good by killing yourself."

"I've gone longer without sleep," Dean argues, knowing that if Ellen were here in front of him, he wouldn't have had the nerve to contradict her like this. "Ellen, he could be dying. I can't waste time."

"You think Hamilton's not going to sleep? You think he knows you're after him? You can take a couple of hours, Dean. You've gotta be on the ball when you find him." Dean is quiet, and he hears Ellen's voice turn steely as she says, "You've got to be healthy and rested enough to give him seven kinds of hell for what he's done."

"Eight, minimum," Dean agrees, and he pulls the Impala over onto the side of the interstate. "I pulled over, Ellen. I'm gonna catch a few z's and pick it up once it's full light. You'll call me if you hear anything?"

"The very second," Ellen promises. "Sleep, Dean."

He hangs up, and does.

It's not very restful. 

The weirdest thing is that the motel room is immaculate. He walks in and looks around at the white walls, cream furniture, white carpet. What the hell kind of motel decorates in white? In all white?

A muffled sound to his left alerts him and he swings around, gun trained on the source of the noise. His pistol seems to find it before his eyes do. But once he sees it, he lowers the weapon.

Luke is wearing only a pair of white pants, a white cloth in his mouth to gag him, and the rope that binds him. It's white, too, of course. He's kneeling at the foot of a bed, hands behind him. He looks up at Dean with a mixture of panic and fear and hope, and Dean wants to run to him, to grab him and untie him and apologize until he has no voice left, but he can't move.

"Who're you looking at?" The voice comes from his right and he swings again, pistol finding its target unerringly, and it's Walt Hamilton. Even he is dressed in white, although what he's wearing exactly eludes Dean. It still looks halfway like his hunting gear, but pristine white. "Nobody's coming for you."

Dean feels his breath catch in his throat before he shouts, "I'm right here, you son of a bitch. I'm right behind you!"

Luke keeps looking at Dean, pleading with his eyes, and Dean can't move. Even as Walt approaches him, he still looks at Dean. "Shame I'll have to reteach you all those lessons," Walt clucks in a vile parody of sympathy. "Took a long time, you remember?"

Luke nods. His eyes are still on Dean.

"Gotta start over from scratch," Walt says.

"Luke, I'm right here, man," Dean begs. "Just hang on, I'll get my feet moving, I promise, just hang on."

Luke just stares at him, eyes wide. Walt pulls something out of a small duffel bag. Dean shifts his gaze over to the object for a second, and it's the copy of "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" that he'd stolen for Luke, and somehow, in the way of dreams, it's also a knife. It shifts, stutters back and forth between those two states of being.

Walt reaches out and grips Luke by the chin, forcing him to turn around so that the boy and the Hunter are facing each other. "What he gave you looked like kindness," Walt says, holding up the book-knife. "It will destroy you."

Luke's eyes are on Walt, now. He nods his understanding. Walt takes the gag out of his mouth. "Do you want to say anything, before we begin?"

Luke nods, and turns his eyes back to Dean, who is trying so hard so very hard so god damned hard to move but he can't figure out how to make his feet shift. "We weren't supposed to be friends," Luke says softly. "I told you. But you made me be your friend, and now look at me."

"He made you weak," Walt coos, resting the blade of the book-knife against Luke's chest.

"You made me weak," Luke agrees. "You said I must be smart to have survived, but then you took everything that let me survive away. I'm going to die, Dean, because you told me it was safe to be weak."

"No," Dean growls, struggling against what he now feels to be invisible bonds of his own. "No! Dammit! Let him go, you bastard! Luke! Just hang on!"

Luke blinks at him, slowly, then turns back to Walt, who nods like they've reached an agreement. Luke bares his neck, and Walt nicks his throat with the book-knife.

A single drop of crimson blood falls on the white carpet, and the room is awash in red. Dean feels himself screaming, feels himself struggling, but can't make a sound or move.

When Dean wakes up, he doesn't stop driving for twelve hours, two states, and four calls from Ash. 

He doesn't sleep for nearly three days.

And each time he hits a motel where Luke had been just a few hours ago, he's surprised when the carpets and walls aren't crimson.

 Ava says—very quietly, and only when their Master is out—that it's called Stockholm Syndrome.

This idea that Dean is his friend, that Dean will miss him.

This grief that he feels over losing his life with Dean.

"It's just that you felt he was kinder," she says, and her voice is cold, bitter, more so than he remembers.

He supposes that the months she spent alone with their Master, after he'd run, could not have been easy on her.

"You expected torture. All you got was captivity."

But that wasn't it, he would argue...it was more than that, it was friendship, comfort, care, protection.

And yet, she would say, he still ended up sold back to their owner.

Dean is not John, he would protest.

Hunters are all alike, she would reply, and that would be the end of it.

Luke knows what he knows.

They're alone, now, their Master having gone out to work a case, and he is quietly lying on his stomach, because his back is still raw and bleeding from his re-education.

Ten a day for trying to escape, to continue until his Master felt it was sufficient.

More for other infractions. Fifteen to pay back for the money spent for his return. Ten for the inconvenience of finding him. Ten for humiliating him with his bad behavior in front of John Winchester. Ten for crying on the way back.

Ava takes quiet care of him, as she's been instructed to do.

It's not that he thinks she wouldn't have, anyway, but she is under orders, and it makes it different from Dean's gentle, worried rehabilitation. It's different from the way Dean would sit at his bedside, waiting for him to wake, there with medicine and food and comfort and warm words and braces and splints even when it was against orders.

Ava would take care of him even if she hadn't been told to, but he doubts she would take care of him if she'd been told not to.

Dean took care of him at the risk of his relationship with his father.

Dean took care of him because he wanted to, and because keeping Luke safe mattered more to him than anything else.

Ava is putting antibiotic ointment on his injuries when she pauses, and he looks up at her.

"You're crying," she says, confusion in her voice.

He realizes that she's right.

"Just thinking," he says.

"You shouldn't," Ava replies. "Not if I know what you're thinking about."

"He wasn't just better," Luke whispers, defeated. "He was good to me."

"I'm sorry," Ava says, and Luke feels a little spike of resentment at the fact that she so obviously thinks he's wrong. "But whatever you had, you're here now."

"For now," Luke agrees, then hisses in pain as she runs her fingers over the freshest wound.

"He's not coming for you," Ava says flatly.

No. Luke doesn't think that Dean is coming.

But that's not what he was talking about.

But for just a moment, after Ava says that, he lets his mind wander and wonders what it would be like to believe that Dean was coming.

To just have to wait it out until Dean catches up with them.

He lets himself visualize Dean in the Impala, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel, letting out streams of vulgarities and roughing up Hunters in bars to find any trace of them.

He thinks of Dean, worried, panicking but doing what Dean does with panic, which is turn it into violence.

He thinks of Dean busting through the door to their motel room, announcing that he's there for Luke, and bringing him home.

Luke flinches, but it has nothing to do with Ava's ministrations.

When did Dean become home?

When he begins to cry again, Ava doesn't say anything this time.

Chapter Text

Dean spends a lot of time over the next couple of weeks flying the Impala down the interstate like a bat out of Hell and roughing up Hunters in bars.

Leads have been few and far between, even with all the sources that he's been using, so he's decided to just go with what he wants to do anyway and start beating the crap out of people until they drop precious pieces of information, because even the cleverest, most secretive Hunter can't trek cross-country with two kids in tow and not have anybody notice. People notice, and they remember, and if they do, that means that Dean can get information out of them.

These interactions typically go like this.

The vic will have been chosen, his attention will have been acquired, and he will have been separated from the rest of the herd. The guy will grunt as Dean shoves his forearm against his chest and presses him up to the wall. "I said," Dean will repeat slowly, "do you know Walt Hamilton?"

"Fuck you," the guy spits. "Who the fuck are you?"

Dean will grin, but it's really more just a baring of his teeth as he shoves the guy harder against the wall. "No, you don't get to change the subject, asshole. Do you know Walt Hamilton?"

The question will be emphasized with a shifting of Dean's forearm from squarely across the guy's pecs to beneath his chin, and as he starts to choke, he will break. "Yeah!" he'll gasp, and Dean will grimace as a bit of spittle flies off of his lips as he tries to catch a breath. Dean will wipe his cheek on the shoulder of his shirt as the guy chokes, "I know him!"

Dean will let off the pressure and, with his arm still across the guy's chest and one fist entangled in his shirt, ask the questions he came to ask: when did you last see him, where was he going, what's he hunting, was he in his truck, was anybody else with him?

Every Hunter he grabs ends up giving him something, because he picks his victims carefully. Walt would have come by a few days before, mentioned something about a succubus up in Santa Fe. In Santa Fe he'd mentioned a shifter in Boulder. But then Ash would come up with a ping on Trevor Rhodes' credit card in Boise City, Oklahoma, so Dean would veer off and head more in that direction.

It's dizzying, the pinballing around on the trail of leads from a dozen different sources—Ellen's contacts back at the Roadhouse, Ash's credit card trail, the Hunters he finds at the kind of shady dives Luke had spoken of with such fear.

Before he lets any of the Hunters go back to their drinks, he makes the same promise:

"If Walt finds out I'm looking for him, I'm coming back for you."

And they all nod frantically. Some say I got it, I got it, but most of the time, they just nod, and Dean shoves them away to follow whatever lead they've given him.

He says this every time because of the answer he gets most often to his last question:

"Did Walt have anybody with him?"

Yes, they'd say. A Lilim kid. A boy. A girl. A boy and a girl, teenagers. If an unflattering name is used then Dean presses a little harder with his arm until the Hunter sputters, and corrects himself.

("Some half-demon brat."

Dean leans in, his elbow dangerously close to the guy's Adam's apple.

"A kid, Jesus, a kid! A boy!"

Dean leans away.)

Luke and Ava are both still alive, both with Walt. Which means that if Walt gets wind of his search, they're both in danger, but especially Luke. Luke would be the one to get blamed for it.

So Walt isn't going to find out. Thus the warning, and thus the gun surreptitiously pointed at each Hunter's family jewels while the warning is being given. It gets his point across, nice and quick.

Dean's all about quick, these days.

Two weeks after he'd taken the car and left his dad, he's on the road to a little town in southern Colorado. He's gotten used to the cell phone by now, and he doesn't even startle when his phone goes off, letting him know that Ash is calling. He reaches over to turn down the blaring AC/DC, clears his throat, and answers the phone—right side up this time around.

"Talk to me," he says, which is the way he answers phones now. He likes to think that it gives him a certain air of no-nonsense, don't-bullshit-me machismo, but at the same time, nonchalance. Not that he's been thinking about it that much.

(Not that he has much else to take his mind off of the nightmares he's been having, though.)

"Lawrence." Ash's voice is thick with urgency, and the sound of keys clicking is clearly audible behind his voice.

"No, Dean," Dean replies, about half a second before it hits him. "Lawrence, Kansas?"

"Yes," Ash snaps, and Dean's never heard him sound pissed off before, but he sure does now. "One of Ellen's contacts in Lawrence saw him at a bar there. Overheard him say they'll be there a few days—something about tracking a demon."

Dean stops breathing for a moment. "The one that killed my mom?" he asks, his voice a little weaker than he'd prefer, but that's because he already knows the answer to his question.

Coincidences don't happen in his life, and what are the odds that Walt would get a kid who has visions of the Yellow-Eyed Demon and then just happen to bring him to Lawrence, where that same demon killed Dean's mom fourteen years ago? It's the demon. Walt's hunting the demon, and he's bringing Luke right to him.

Dean's just got to get there first.

There's a pause on Ash's end, and then he says, "I don't know. But there have been several omens in the Lawrence area, so whatever Walt's tracking, it's big. I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same demon. But Ellen's guy saw Walt there last night, so he should still be in Lawrence. How far out are you?"

"Just outside of Lamar, Colorado," Dean replies, doing some quick calculations in his head. "Think I can be in Lawrence in a little over six hours. Less if I book it. So less."

"Don't crash the car," Ash says distractedly, the sound of keys clicking intensifying.

Dean drives in silence for a moment, but doesn't hang up, and right as he hears an intake of break that means that Ash is about to sign off, he asks, "Did Ellen's contact see Luke?"

The breath is released, and Ash takes another and lets it out as a sigh. "Yeah. He did."

Dean sits up straighter in his seat. "And?"

"He said he looks bad, Dean. Real thin. Pale. Wouldn't look at anybody. Ellen's guy didn't try to talk to him, of course, didn't want Walt to get suspicious, but he said that he just knelt there all night, didn't eat anything, didn't say anything."

Right. Of course. It's not like he could have expected good news—not after two weeks, not once he'd realized that Walt was Luke's former owner. But hearing it is different from having a sinking feeling about it, and Dean nods tightly, as if Ash can see him. "Okay," he rasps.

"I know that's not what you wanted to hear," Ash says, sounding way more mature than any barely-out-of-his teens guy with a mullet and a sign on his door that says Dr. Badass ought to, "but I need you to listen to me. You've got to keep a cool head. You have got to be smart about this. You dive in with some half-assed plan and you'll get Luke killed, because from what I've heard about this bastard, he won't hesitate to kill him. You can't let yourself get out of control, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," Dean bites out. "But once Luke and the girl are safe, I'm gonna make him wish he'd never heard of Lilim. Nothin' you can say to stop me."

"I wouldn't try," Ash replies, and his voice is softer, which Dean thinks briefly is really twisted given that the topic of their conversation is how bad he's going to fuck up Walt Hamilton's life in just a few hours. "You do what you've got to do. Just do it smart."

"I'll do my best. Call me if there's any more news." Ash grunts an affirmative, and Dean hangs up, setting the phone down on the seat next to him.

Lawrence, Kansas.

There's something a little lyrical about it, a little Greek drama, something cyclical. He gets to go save a kid in the same place he was given responsibility for another kid in the first place—one he failed. It's not an ending-where-it-began thing, because God knows there's nothing final about finding Luke and getting him away from Walt, but maybe it's a beginning-where-it-began.

Because this time he knows better. And because he knows better, this time will be the real beginning of Luke's life away from all this crap. This time, Dean will do whatever it takes to keep him safe, to keep him free, to keep him away from all the asshole Hunters who would hurt him.

Even if that means staying away from his dad. Forever, if that's what it takes.

That's a definite think-about-it-later sort of thought, though, as he shrieks down the interstate, keeping a keen eye out for cops. He's going an easy twenty over the speed limit, and he intends on doing so for pretty much the whole way from Colorado to Lawrence. When you're doing ninety-five down the highway, thinking about your daddy issues is not the way to keep from being arrested, and getting arrested is not an option right now. He can't afford the time.

So he pretty much shuts his brain off, minus the aforementioned eye for cops, and the occasional fantasy about which of the weapons in the trunk he's going to use to beat the shit out of Walt Hamilton.

He's in Lawrence before he knows it. 

It's about eight o'clock at night when he pulls into a motel parking lot with exactly three black trucks. One stop at the nearest Hunter bar, a few minutes of interrogation, and one call to a very friendly motel receptionist with no regard at all for customer privacy who told him that yes, his cousin Trevor did just check in, should she ring his room? was all it took to get him on the right track.

He searches the first truck. No shackles, and Dean never thought that seeing a truck bed that hadn't had teenagers chained to it at some point in the past would make his stomach sink, but here he is.

The second one has four large indentations where, clearly, something had been screwed heavily into the bed.

Fucking bingo.

He sits on the bumper for a second, taking a few deep breaths, readying himself. He's got his pistol, his knife, and his sawed-off all ready for any possibility and for as little reloading as possible. He'll canvass the motel, figure out where Walt is staying with the kids, bust in with his sawed-off cocked and ready and demand Luke. He won't leave without Ava, either, but it's Luke whose name he'll say, because it's Luke who needs to hear Dean say it.

Then he'll put the kids in the Impala with strict instructions not to move until he gets back.

Then he'll...

He can't say he's sure what he'll do after that.

He likes to think he'll walk back into the motel room, beat the shit out of Walt, and leave him bleeding with a stern warning that human trafficking is bad.

He's not sure he has that kind of restraint, though.

He's about to start his first walk around the motel when the truck's passenger side door opens with a soft click, and his plans change abruptly.

He ducks down, crouches behind the bed, and peers slowly, cautiously around the corner, his sawed-off raised. All he can see are sneakers, though, so he creeps around a little but further.

It's a kid, but it's not Luke. The kid is halfway into the truck, kneeling on the seat and pulling something out of the console. The sneakers are small, the legs slim, and Dean realizes that it must be Luke's friend, Ava.

Sure enough, when the kid slips out of the truck and quietly shuts the door, it's a girl whose face he can now make out. She looks like Ash's second-hand description of Luke: thin, pale, ragged, with dark hair in a messy ponytail that only emphasizes her pallor. Dean lets the sawed-off fall to his side, and when she turns to walk back to the motel, he rushes behind her and grabs her with a hand over her mouth and the other arm—complete with the sawed-off he's still holding—wrapped around her ribcage.

He knows what he's doing is unfair and frightening, but he can't afford for her to scream and alert Walt that something's wrong. The point remains, though, that she's a little kid, and he's a sizeable man who looks like he's capable of violence—which, of course, he is. So he expects her to struggle, expects her to try to get away, to bite his hand or scream as best she can.

He doesn't expect her to collapse into his hold, totally pliant. He almost staggers under the unexpected dead weight, but instead just relaxes his grip a little, shifts it so he's supporting her better. He leans in close to her ear and whispers, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to move my hand. When I do, you can't scream, okay? Can you keep quiet for me?"

She nods, but it's not the frantic head-bobbing of a person in terror for her life. It's just agreement. So he moves his hand, and she is quiet, and she whispers, "I'm not here on my own. I promise. I'm here with a Hunter. He's responsible for me. I'm contained. Please don't hurt me."

Her words sour Dean's stomach, but he's gentle as he releases her and guides her around so that she's facing him, his hands on her shoulders, sawed-off on the ground. "I won't hurt you. Are you Ava?" he asks, and her eyes go wide, but still she makes no attempt to run.

"Yes, sir," she breathes.

"You're here with Walt Hamilton?" Dean asks.

"Yes, sir."

Dean swallows hard. "And Luke?" She nods silently. "Okay. I'm here to help you, Ava. You and Luke. I need your help. I need you to bring me to your room."

"Are you a friend of my master?" Ava asks, and Dean scowls.

His voice is rough when he replies, and Ava flinches away minutely. "No. No, I can't say that I am. But I need you to take me to him, Ava. Can you do that?"

She begins to tremble under his hands, her eyes growing even wider, and she murmurs, "No, no, I can't. Nobody's supposed to know. I can tell my mas—I can tell him you're looking for him. I can't bring you to the room. Please, I can't bring you."

"Walt's not gonna be a problem," Dean promises, though he feels like his veins are filled with ice and the ominous implications of her words. "I'm here to take you and Luke away. To get you away from him. You don't have to be scared of him anymore. I'll take care of you, I promise, I'll get you somewhere safe."

Ava stills, her gaze turning suspicious. "Who are you?" she asks.

"My name is Dean," he replies. "I'm Luke's friend. I told him I'd keep him safe, and I'm here to do that. I need you to help me."

"Dean Winchester?" Ava gasps, and Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. Dammit, he'd almost forgotten about how freaked out Luke got when he found out what Dean's last name was. "Luke said...but I didn't..." Ava shakes her head to clear it, and then, with a glare, demands, "What do you want with Luke?"

"To protect him," Dean insists. "Like I told you. To get him out of there. Walt's hurting him, isn't he?"

Ava's silence is answer enough, but the slight tensing of her whole body confirms it.

"You've got to help me save him," Dean says. "Please, Ava. Luke needs you."

"What do you really want with Luke?" Ava presses, and Dean's jaw tightens with frustration, and apparently so do his hands around her shoulders because she winces slightly.

"I really want to get him out of that hell-hole and somewhere where I can get him some decent medical treatment," Dean snaps. "Now are you going to help me, or am I—"

A muffled cry from three doors to the right of them breaks off Dean's train of thought, and one glance at Ava's pale, drawn face tells him what he needs to know. He releases her, picks up his sawed-off, and looks down at her.

"You coming?" he asks, before striding off towards the motel room.

A moment later, the sounds of her sneakers on the gravel announce that she's following him, which is good, because he didn't want to let it slip, but he's pretty sure she has the key so he won't have to kick the door down—badass as that would be, he doesn't need to waste the energy.

Hang on, Luke. Just another minute.

 As his Master cuffs him to the curtain rod, he wonders how he'll do it.

In an ideal world he'd go for pills, but that's not an option in a Hunter's motel room.

"A week and no visions," his Master is saying behind him. "Let's see if we can coax one out of you, huh?"

Luke shivers, which hurts his arms and makes all of his still-healing wounds sting.

"The usual ten for your little Houdini act. Ten more for being a fucking useless piece of shit. Anything else I'm not thinking of?"

This is always a trick question.

Luke wracks his brain to think of anything he's done wrong in the last twenty-four hours, but he's been mostly recuperating.

Lying on the bed, stomach-down, while Ava tries to keep the wounds from scarring too badly.

Lying on the bed, trying not to let his thoughts wander back to what Dean must be doing right now.

Lying on the bed, trying not to fantasize about Dean rescuing him.

That last one is almost impossible.

Ever since Ava put the idea in his head, he can't stop thinking about it

About how wonderful it would be to see Dean come through that door in three, two, one...

"No? Five for lack of self-reflection. I can't imagine you've been perfect all day."

Luke doesn't sigh, because it's ten for disrespectfulness and he's already up to twenty-five.

But he's glad that his Master didn't press him harder than that to think of something he ought to be punished for.

When the whip hits his back, it sings out with fire.

Luke doesn't scream.

He doesn't have to count, because he's gagged, and he's grateful for that.

But he counts in his head.

He's up to fifteen out of twenty-five when he can't contain it any longer, and he cries out past the cloth in his mouth.

"Shut up or it's five more," his Master hisses.

Luke's silent after that, but he can feel the tears running down his cheeks.

His thoughts become a muddied mix of

maybe that pistol I saw him take out to clean

and

Dean please I know I said I'd be okay but I'm not okay and I need you to come find me

and

maybe this whip I wonder if I could tie it to the fan

and

Dean Dean Dean please save me you promised you'd keep me safe please come make this better I promise I'll be so good I'll make your dad like me just please 

and

Dean

and

Dean

and

please .

Chapter Text

"Open the door." 

"I can't."

Dean glares at the barely-teenaged girl in front of him, and she flinches. Dean doesn't stop glaring. Because while it's terrible that she's so scared, while he hates the fact that she's scared of him with every fiber in his body, she has the god damned key to the Little Motel Room of Horrors and he doesn't want to sprain an ankle kicking the door in.

Ava has her arms folded over her chest, and her eyes only flick up to Dean once in a while. She spends the rest of the time making a determined effort not to look at him, but it's obviously been ingrained too deeply in her to always gauge the emotional state of whatever Hunter she's nearest to, so she can't keep from checking his face. Each time, it's clearly not what she wants to see.

But her refusal is not what he wants to hear, so he figures they're even.

A muffled sob comes through the door and Dean grabs Ava by the arm. She goes absolutely still and stares at him through wide, glistening eyes.

"Open. The door."

"I can't, he'll kill me."

"He's going to kill Luke if you don't," Dean hisses, just before he realizes that it's a dumb thing to say, that what he said makes it sound like it's her fault if that sick son of a bitch does something to Luke that the kid can't come back from, which it isn't.

But that last thought—something happening to Luke that he can't come back from—sends a pulse of adrenaline through his blood and he jerks Ava in close, maybe a bit more roughly than he meant to...certainly a bit more roughly than was warranted. She begins to tremble under his hand and screws her eyes shut.

"I'm going to ask you one more time, Ava," he says softly, and Ava leans subtly away from him. "Take your key and open the door."

"Please don't hurt me," she whispers. "Please. I can't. Don't make me. He's going to kill me if I help you."

Dean stares at her, blood boiling, head spinning, and in the fog and chaos of it he hears his father's voice.

I want you to treat him like he understands. Firm. In control.

His stomach turns over as he raises his gun, and Ava gasps, her face draining of whatever color was left.

"Ava," he says, but her eyes don't leave the sawed-off. "I want you to listen to me. I get that you're scared of him. But what I'm telling you right now is that I've got a gun, and you don't have a choice. He can't expect you to fight me. Open the door for me, Ava."

Her gaze stays low, but the trembling in her chin becomes tighter, somehow defiant. "Luke told me you were different," she whispers as she fishes in the pocket of her jacket for the key. "I knew he was wrong."

It hurts, just like it's supposed to. But he doesn't lower the gun, and she digs the key out of her pocket. He'll have time to prove that he's not like Walt, but later, when they're safe. Later, when he has Luke in the Impala, sleeping off whatever's happening to him inside this room.

Later, when Walt is out of the picture.

Her shaking hands fumble with the key and she almost drops it, and it's just about too much for Dean's frayed nerves, but he lets her do it. She unlocks the door slowly, reluctantly, and once he hears the click he nudges her out of the way and opens the door himself.

He figures that it's only the adrenaline that keeps him from vomiting on the floor as soon as the door is open.

Adrenaline, and the undiluted crashing waves of relief that flood over him at the knowledge, the proof that Luke is alive.

Alive, and close enough to touch. Alive, and close enough to help, to save, to take away from this shit hole and make sure that he's never hurt again, that he never feels unsafe again, that he's never tied to a motherfucking curtain rod and whipped until his back is raw and bleeding and who the fuck does Walt Hamilton think he is?

His next thought is that he is very, if strangely, grateful to Walt Hamilton.

Because it takes one unlucky motherfucker to set Dean up for a one-liner like this.

He stands in the doorway, and Walt still has the fucking whip in his hand but he's gaping at Dean like he's seen a ghost, and Luke is trying (despite his wounds and the pain he must be in) to twist around to see what's happened, and Dean's standing there with a sawed-off in his hands.

And he grins.

He knows he must look like some kind of deranged serial killer, but he grins.

And he says, "Bringin' a whip to a gunfight, Walt? Even Indy didn't like those odds."

Luke sags in his bonds and begins to sob, great, ragged sounds torn from his stomach, and Dean can almost make out his name in some of them.

But he'll get his chance for a reunion later. Right now he aims the sawed-off squarely at Walt's chest, and he says, "Drop the fucking whip, Walt. Now."

Walt obeys, still stunned, and manages to stammer, "Who the—who the fuck are you?"

Dean ignores the question and look to Ava, who is staring at Walt in terror. "Get Luke down," he says, his voice gentler now that he's inside and Luke is safe. She stares at Dean, then at Walt, then back at Dean. Then she seems to realize who's the one with the upper hand, and she slips inside and begins to uncuff Luke.

"You get the hell away from him, girl," Walt growls, and Dean walks up to him, pressing the barrel of the sawed-off against his stomach. Ava waits until it's clear that Walt isn't going to move before she continues, and Dean winces when the cuffs are finally released and Luke falls to the ground. Ava breaks the worst of it, but he still hears the hitched, breathless noises that Luke can't help, delirious with the pain and probably having a hard time believing what's happening.

It's been two weeks, but Dean is sure it feels like far, far longer for Luke.

Walt looks shocked, and stares up at Dean. "What do you want?" he demands. "Who are you?"

Dean grins—the same bared-teeth rictus he gave to every shithead Hunter on the way to Lawrence who decided to ask too many questions. "I want a lot of things, Walt. Or should I say Trevor? Or George?" Walt sputters, but quiets when Dean shoves the gun harder against his belly. "I want a nice, quiet cabin where I can go fishing. I want an unlimited supply of fresh-baked apple pie. I want my mom and my brother back. And most of all, I want people to stop fucking with the people I care about."

He rears back with the gun and hits Walt in the head with the butt of it, sending him sprawling to the ground. Dean stands over him, one foot on either side of his hips, and points the gun at his belly button. "I'm Dean Winchester. And Luke tells me you haven't been especially nice to him."

Walt gapes for another minute, then laughs, a single bark of incredulity. "Are you serious?" he cries, and tries to sit up until Dean presses him back down with the barrel. "Jesus Christ. Your dad sold the kid back to me, fair and square. Get your fucking gun out of my face, Winchester."

Dean makes a show of considering it, humming his indecision, then screws up his face and says, "Nah. I think I'll keep it where it is."

"You gonna start a fight with another Hunter over some damn Lilim kid?" Walt asks, sounding incredulous. "I've heard you've been a weird kid since your brother was killed, but—"

Walt breaks off abruptly when Dean shifts the barrel from his stomach to his nose. "You say one more word about my brother, and I'm going to shoot you right now," he breathes. Walt's almost cross-eyed staring at the gun, but says nothing. "This is how it's going to work. I'm going to let you up, and Ava and Luke are coming with me. You're not going to follow us. You're not going to put a hit out on any of us. If you cross us on the street, years from now, you're gonna look away. You're not gonna breathe a word of this to anybody, or I swear to God I will find you again. It didn't take me long this time, and it won't take me long next time. So you're going to take what I give you—which is your life—and say thank you, Mr. Winchester. We clear?"

"You don't know what you're doing, kid," Walt says carefully, not moving, eyes shifting between Dean and the gun, just like Ava's had not much earlier. "Your daddy didn't clue you in? The boy's the ticket to the demon that killed your mama."

"I know what the demon did to Luke," Dean snaps. "I just don't care."

"You ought to," Walt replies. "There's a spell. A binding. It's got to be exact—on a Black Moon night at the last stroke of midnight. That's three nights from now when conditions are going to be perfect. We might not get this chance again for years, do you understand? Three nights from now, we can summon the demon and bind it. Forever."

"And all you need is..." Dean growls.

"The boy's blood," Walt says.

Dean waits.

"All of it," Walt finishes.

"Right," Dean says, his voice sharp. "Luke, you hanging in there?"

Dean doesn't take his eyes off of Walt, so he has to listen carefully to hear the sniffling sounds and shuffling behind him that precedes Luke's soft "I'm okay, Dean."

"Can you stand?" Dean asks.

"I think so."

Dean nods, then bends down and grabs Walt by the collar, dragging him up and shoving him face-first against the wall. "Good. Ava, help him into the bathroom."

There's a sharp intake of breath, and with his elbow digging into Walt's spine, Dean risks a glance behind him. Luke has his arm around Ava's shoulders, and she's supporting him, but his mouth is slightly open, and when he meets Dean's eyes, it's not the way Dean had imagined. There's something that looks like horror in his expression. "Dean," he whispers.

But he's not going to talk Dean out of this. "Get him into the bathroom, Ava," he says, a little more firmly this time. Ava starts to lead Luke away, but he resists her, and she has to catch him before he falls.

"Don't, Dean," Luke says. "You don't have to."

"I don't have to do much of anything," Dean says, and his voice sounds cold to his own ears. "But this? I want to do this. Bathroom. Now."

"Luke," Ava whispers, panicked.

"He can't tell me what to do," Luke retorts, and she stares at him in what appears to be combined terror and awe. "He won't."

Dean presses his lips together until they tingle, and slams his elbow down into the back of Walt's ribs. The man grunts in pain and his knees buckle, but Dean keeps him upright against the wall. "I am asking you," Dean says slowly, and, he thinks, with infinite patience, "to get into the bathroom. You don't want to see this, Luke."

"I don't want you to do this," Luke murmurs, and Dean's stomach drops.

So does Walt, as Dean releases the pressure on his back and steps away with a stern "You move and I will fucking shoot you". Walt stays on the ground as Dean walks up to Luke, stopping in front of him.

Luke looks so...small. Vulnerable. Even more so than before, and he'd never looked like a tough kid. But now, with his livid skin and stringy hair and the drops of blood rolling off of his back and onto the floor, he just looks like a victim. Dean knew it would be bad—Ash had said as much, his nightmares had tried to prepare him for it, and it wasn't like he hadn't been replaying Luke's stories in his head on an infinite loop for the past two weeks. But seeing him like this, seeing the result of just two weeks of his old life...it's almost more than Dean can bear. And still, his eyes meet Dean's without fear, with determination and relief and pain but not fear.

Dean runs his hand through Luke's hair and leaves it resting at the back of Luke's neck, crouching a little so that they're at eye level. Luke leans into the touch, more than Dean expects, enough to pull Dean forward a little bit. "He deserves to die for what he did to you," Dean says softly.

"You don't deserve to become a murderer because of what he did to me," Luke whispers back. "Don't let him make you do it."

"I want to," Dean argues, and when he heard Walt shifting on the floor behind him, he pulls out his silenced pistol and shoots the older Hunter in the knee. Walt screams, and Dean grabs a bloodied towel off of the ground by the bed and shoves it into Walt's mouth. Kneeling next to him, he hisses, "I said I'd shoot you. Don't test me again."

"Dean." Dean looks up, and Luke's free hand is outstretched, like he's begging Dean to take it. "Please, let's just go. Please just take us away. He's not worth it."

"He was going to kill you," Dean protests.

"He didn't," Luke replies, and he kneels, slowly, carefully, and makes his way over to Dean. Once he's there he slips against his side, and Dean puts his arm around him and Luke melts into the embrace. "Just like the guy at the Roadhouse, Dean. I'm okay. Let's just go."

Dean draws Luke in closer, aware of the way that Walt and Ava are both staring at them, but just too damned relieved to feel Luke's thudding heart against his chest again to care. He rests his chin on top of Luke's head, and he whispers, "If I let him go, you'll still be in danger."

"He's not the only one who's planning the ritual," Luke murmurs. "He can tell you who the others are, if you leave him alive."

"You little shit—" Walt growls, and Luke tenses, and Dean shoves the pistol against Walt's throat, so he breaks off again with a gurgle.

"That little shit is trying to convince me not to fill you with so many holes the police have to take your dental records," Dean says, calmly, reasonably. "Right now, he's got some work to do on that. So I wouldn't interrupt him, 'cause he's the only reason you're not dead yet."

"The others will come for me, whether he's alive or not," Luke continues. "If they can find me, they will."

"He'll do this again," Dean insists. "To some other kid. He doesn't deserve to live."

Luke slumps against him, and Dean holds him tighter, tucking the kid's head under his chin and cradling him with his free arm. "He hurt you, and nobody gets away with that anymore."

There's a hot wetness on Dean's shirt that corresponds with a minute shaking beneath his arm, and he wants to crumble under it, but he just pulls Luke in even closer.

"Dean," Luke sighs, his voice trembling. "I just want to go home."

And Dean finds that he can't deny Luke even that.

He stands up and helps Luke to his feet. Ava hurries over without any prompting and slips her shoulders beneath Luke's arm, propping him up when Dean releases him. He turns to Walt.

"Stand up, you piece of shit," he barks, and Walt obeys, though it's slow and clumsy. Dean hopes he has a concussion. Walt stumbles back against the wall to steady himself, and Dean steps right up into his face.

"The only—the only reason you are breathing right now is because Luke wants you to," Dean murmurs, and Walt has the audacity to shudder. "If it were up to me, you'd be halfway to bled out already. So you think about that. And give me the names of the other Hunters you've talked to about the ritual."

Walt laughs, a coughing, choked sound, and he drops his head. "You really think this little demon kid's life is worth letting the Yellow-Eyed Demon roam free on Earth? Is his life worth the lives of the people the demon will kill?"

Dean grabs his pistol and shoves it under Walt's chin. "The only question you need to answer right now is whether or not your life is worth not telling me the names of the other Hunters. Because that's a little more immediate for you."

Walt tries to glare down at Dean, but the fact that his head is tilted up and back away from the gun makes it less effective. "Freddy Morrigan. Victor Hines. Clive Taylor. Steve Weston."

"That it?" Dean asks, and Walt begins to answer, but Dean wasn't talking to him.

"I've only ever heard him talk to four other Hunters, and those names sound right," Luke replies quietly.

Dean nods, satisfied. "All right, then." He holsters the gun and takes a step away from Walt, who stumbles forward once, then catches himself.

"You're makin' a big mistake here, boy," Walt rasps, rubbing the sore spot beneath his chin.

"Don't think so," Dean replies, and turns around like he's going to leave. Ava shifts Luke's weight further onto herself, and they're ready to go when Dean whirls back around and sucker punches Walt straight in the jaw.

The Hunter collapses to the ground, boneless, and Dean spits on him. "Ash says hey," he mutters, and grabs the cuffs that Ava had taken off of Luke, securing Walt to the radiator. Once he's done, he leads the kids out of the motel.

Luke's a little bleary at this point, and it takes Dean's help for Ava to get him into the front seat of the Impala. He's mostly asleep by the time they get him settled, and he nuzzles against Dean's leg while Ava situates herself in the back.

"Thanks for coming for me," Luke murmurs hazily.

Dean has to swallow hard past the lump in his throat before he can reply. "Not a chance I'd leave you," he replies. "I'm gonna get you some place safe, okay?"

Luke nods, and a few minutes after the car's started and they've gotten onto the road, he's asleep.

Dean glances in the rearview, and Ava is still wide awake, huddled in the furthest corner from him and staring out the window. "You okay?" he asks.

She nods wordlessly.

"I did some stuff back there I'm not proud of," Dean continues. "I hope you understand. I couldn't let him stay like that. I promised to keep him safe."

"It's fine, sir," she whispers. "Whatever you say."

It's not fine, but Dean lets it go anyway.

They don't have to drive very long to get where they're going, and when they get there, Dean is relieved to see the porch light still on. He pulls into the driveway and parks the car, taking the key out of the ignition.

Luke is fast asleep, and doesn't stir when Dean pulls him out and carries him up to the door, Ava following behind him mutely and meekly. She knocks on the door when he asks her to, then steps back, wary.

The door opens, and the house is warm and glows a homey orange and smells like beef stew.

Missouri Moseley stands in front of them, two blankets in her hands and a fond smile on her face.

"Cocoa's on, should be done in a minute," she says, and Dean almost weeps with relief at the sight of her. "Now come in before you freeze. You come here, sweet heart, wrap up now."

She ushers them in and drapes one blanket over Ava's shoulders, guiding Dean to the sofa where he lays Luke, and she puts the second blanket over him. Ava sits on a recliner a few feet away, and Dean stands next to the couch, momentarily lost.

Until he feels the warmth and pressure of what he finally recognizes as a hug, and then he starts to cry.

Twenty-two. 

Twenty-three.

Twenty—

"Bringin' a whip to a gunfight, Walt? Even Indy didn't like those odds."

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

When he starts crying, he doesn't know why, just yet.

It's relief, maybe

Or rage at the unfairness of whatever trick this must be

Because he's been praying for Dean to find him for two weeks now

And this is not the first time he's gotten his hopes up.

But then Walt's gone, knocked away, and Ava is taking him down from the curtain rod on the orders of a voice that sounds so, so much like Dean.

And when he can finally turn around and see Dean—really Dean, it's really Dean, he's really here and is really going to save Luke—he can't stop crying, because he's going home.

Luke has no question that Dean will take care of Walt and then take Luke home.

He can't have that sullied with murder, though.

He can't be the one to turn Dean into that—he can't have Dean become a murderer on his account.

And much as he has wished so darkly and so desperately over the past two weeks that something terrible would happen to Walt, it can't be at Dean's hand.

Knowing that he would is enough.

And knowing that he will stop when Luke asks him to means even more.

The Impala is warm and cozy, and he's barely able to keep his eyes open, but it doesn't matter because his head is pillowed on Dean's leg, and Ava's safe in the back seat, and they're going home.

Well, that's not quite true.

As he drifts off to sleep, he realizes that he's already home.

He's resting in Dean's car, his head on Dean's leg, he can hear Dean breathing above him and every so often feel Dean's hand come to rest on his chest like he's reassuring himself that Luke is really there, really alive, and that is everything home could ever need to be.

Chapter Text

Missouri closes the door to her bedroom softly behind her, and Dean releases the breath he's been holding. "He'll sleep for a good while," she says, and Dean nods. "He's been through the wringer, that one. You weren't a minute too soon."

"I was a lot of minutes later than I should've been," Dean replies, morose. "How many minutes are in two weeks?"

Missouri shakes her head and grabs Dean's arm, dragging him into the dining room where there's a bowl of what did indeed turn out to be beef stew waiting for him. He lets Missouri maneuver him into the chair, put a spoon in his hand, and waits until she sits down across from him to start eating.

She doesn't say anything, just sits there, patient. She gets him his hot cocoa and still says nothing. But there's nothing uncomfortable about it—she's not waiting for him to finish. She's just sitting there while he eats, to make sure he has what he needs.

Dean has never felt so intensely grateful to anyone in his life, except maybe Ellen when she pulled John away from them back at the Roadhouse.

Finally, what seems like hours later, he's finished, and she comes around again and guides him into the living room. Ava's in the guest bedroom, probably not sleeping but that's okay. Missouri told Dean that under no circumstances was he to interrupt Ava, no matter how much he wanted to apologize or explain or make things right.

"The only thing that'll make things right for that little girl is about a week of sleep and a lifetime of therapy," Missouri had said firmly, when Dean tried to protest. "She doesn't need to see your funny face in there—yours or any other man's, for that matter. You got her out of there. When she starts working through what she's survived, she'll understand that, eventually. Until then, you leave her alone, Dean Winchester."

Missouri settles him on the couch and sits next to him, taking his hand between her own and breathing deeply. He feels himself unconsciously joining her, and for some reason that makes his chest swell, and he feels humiliatingly close to tears again.

"You let it out if you need to, Dean," Missouri says, and where he expects her voice to be soothing, it's firm. "Don't you hold it in any longer. You've been strong for that boy for a long time now, but it doesn't make you less of a man to feel grief over what's happened to both of you."

"I threatened to shoot my dad," Dean cries, his shoulders bowing and eyes stinging. "I stole his car, left him stranded in Nebraska. I hurt people. Lots of people. I would've killed the guy who took the kids, I wanted to kill him, but—"

"He told you not to," Missouri finishes for him, and he nods. "That's all right, too. That man's life was his to take or leave. You did the right thing. I would've wanted to see him dead, myself, but it wasn't your back he put those marks on."

"My dad's never going to forgive me," Dean whispers, feeling the weight of it sink onto his shoulders. "If I even ever see him again. He's all I had."

"That's never been true," Missouri says as she brushes Dean's hair away from his face. "If there'd ever been a problem with your daddy, you know Ellen or Bobby or Pastor Jim or I would have been there to help you. And now, how can you say your daddy's all you have when that boy's sleeping in that room, safe, because of you?"

Dean peers around Missouri and into the hallway down which Luke is sleeping. He can't say that he doesn't see Missouri's point, but still, it seems like too little, too late. He should have woken up the night that John sold Luke. He should've gotten there faster, tracked Walt better, found them sooner. He should have slept less. He should've done a thousand things differently.

Still, looking down the hallway, there is a little part of him that relaxes because whatever he did wrong, whatever he could have done better, Luke is safe now. And Dean will never let him out of his sight again.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Dean asks, and Missouri's hands return to his, clasping them tight in a reassuring, grounding pressure. "He just...he lost a lot of blood. Do we need to take him to the hospital? Will he heal okay?"

"He's going to be fine," Missouri promises. "He had a rough time of it. And I can't say there won't be scars, on his back and in his heart. But he's a tough boy, Dean. A lot like you."

"He's not like me," Dean laughs without humor. "He's better."

And then Missouri's hands are on his face, and she's forcing him to look at her, and he doesn't want to but he can't help it. He's just too tired to fight. "I don't want to hear you put yourself down, Dean Winchester," she says, her voice dark and serious and a little angry. "Not after what you've done here. You can't take a damn day to feel like a hero? You've got to already get back on that horse of oh-I'm-so-bad-and-useless? It's gonna kill you, boy. So not here. You can spout that crap all you want back home, but here, you are gonna speak of yourself with the same respect you'd speak of me with. You understand?"

And damn it, he's crying again. "Yes, ma'am."

Missouri pats him on the cheek, says, "Good," and straightens up, allowing Dean a second to recover. "Now, on to the tough stuff. What's the problem with my little friend sleepin' away back there? Somebody's after him, I know, and something's got you all knotted up inside about it. So tell me."

"Bunch of Hunters, including Walt, the asshole who took him, are planning a ritual sacrifice to bind the demon that killed my mom," Dean recites dully. "They say that in three days, there's some kind of moon—"

"Black Moon," Missouri interrupts. "Second new moon of a month. Very powerful for magicks. Go on."

"Anyway, there's a Black Moon in three days, and they have a spell that'll bind the demon," Dean says. "But they need his blood. All of it. And he thinks—and I agree—that even though I got him away from Walt, the other Hunters, and hell, Walt too since he didn't let me kill him, are gonna come after him to get his blood."

"Because he has the blood of the demon in him," Missouri muses. "Well. That's sure not gonna happen. You can hunker down here long as you need, and woe betide the Hunter who tries to cross my door meaning violence to those children."

"Thanks, Missouri," Dean says quietly.

"You look like a body that needs more hot cocoa," Missouri says, putting her hand on his knee and using the leverage to stand. "I'll be right back."

"Thanks," Dean says again to her back as she disappears into the kitchen.

He feels a million years old, he realizes as he sinks into the couch. The adrenaline has drained from his body, and the last two weeks are catching up with him. He can't have gotten more than four hours of sleep a night, way less some nights. Nineteen is young, but on top of the unrelenting stress that he's been under, it's taking a toll.

But it's worth it, he reminds himself. Because Luke is alive.

Because Luke still trusts him, even though he let him get taken, even though he took two weeks to find him.

Luke still trusts him enough to sleep on his lap, to be vulnerable in front of him, to talk back to him and demand that Dean leave Walt alive. He'd been so afraid that he would have lost all the ground he'd so laboriously won over the weeks that Luke had been with him, that he would have to dig in deeper than ever to try to draw Luke out of the fortress he'd undoubtedly built around himself.

The way he'd dived right back into it like they hadn't been apart was more than Dean could have hoped for. But at the same time, he wonders if it doesn't just mean that Luke built a different kind of fortress this time—a fortress made of Dean-shaped bricks.

He guesses he'll only figure that out once the kid wakes up, and he's not speeding that process along by any means and for any reason.

Missouri comes back in with two mugs of cocoa, handing one to Dean and settling on the couch next to him. "And what about you?" she asks, and Dean stills. "You've put a lot on yourself, Dean. How are you holding up?"

"Good. I'm doing fine. I'm not the one who got tortured for two weeks and probably thought he'd been abandoned by the only person who's shown him any kindness in years. I just had to drive a lot and beat up a bunch of Hunters. I'm good as gold."

Is what Dean means to say.

Instead, his fingers close around the heat of the mug, and he whispers, "Not too good."

"I know, boy," Missouri says softly, putting her arm around his shoulders.

"I just want everybody to be okay," Dean says, his throat constricting around his words. "I just want Dad to understand. I want Walt to be gone. I want—"

"Shh," Missouri breathes, taking the mug out of his hands and putting it on the coffee table in front of them before folding him in her arms. "It's all right, Dean. I'm so sorry, child. You didn't deserve this. But it's going to be better from here on out. You made sure of that."

"He's gonna be okay," Dean mutters against Missouri's shoulder.

"So will you," Missouri says, stroking Dean's hair in a way that would be thoroughly embarrassing if he wasn't so far beyond the point of caring about something like that. "You'll be okay, too. Take a nap, Dean. I'll wake you when he wakes up."

And in a place where he knows that he and the people he cares about are safe, Dean can't do anything but obey, and falls asleep in moments.

 When he wakes up, he's warm and the sun is up. He feels a quick stab of panic but suppresses it, knowing almost immediately where he is.

"Morning, Dean!" Missouri's voice carries from the kitchen, and also carried from the kitchen is the scent of what Dean would recognize anywhere as eggs and bacon. He springs from the couch and hurries to meet Missouri.

She's alone at the stove, smiling as Dean enters. "Nobody else is up yet. Both of those children slept through the night and are still out. You need some breakfast?"

Dean's growling stomach is answer enough for that, and Missouri laughs as she scoops scrambled eggs and layers bacon onto the plate before she hands it to him. "Eat up, boy, you're all skin and bones."

That's an order Dean's happy to comply with, and he leans on the counter and eats while Missouri continues to cook. "Thanks for taking us in," he says.

"Any time" is Missouri's quick reply before she hands Dean a glass of orange juice. "Drink it. You'll need it if you don't want to get sick. You can't tell me you've been taking care of yourself the past few weeks."

Dean doesn't even try to lie, but meekly takes the glass of juice and drinks it. "Have you checked on either of them yet?" he asks.

Missouri nods. "Both sleeping like babies. Not that they're not babies." Dean watches as her posture softens, and her eyes grow distant. "I'm gonna let them sleep as long as they want to."

"Definitely," Dean agrees, downing the rest of his orange juice in one fell swoop with only a minor look of distaste. He's rewarded with a glass of milk, and grins up at Missouri.

"Don't get used to all this spoiling," she warns, her severe tone undermined by her smile. "Those kids wake up and I'm gonna have to baby them for a while."

"Understood," Dean replies with a salute. "I'll be on hand if there's assistance needed on the babying front."

Missouri's smile turns fond, and she pinches Dean's cheek. "I bet you will. For all that tough front, you're just a puppy."

"Hey," Dean protests, but both of them stop at a soft sound from Missouri's bedroom. "I think he's up," Dean says.

"Mm," Missouri murmurs in agreement. "Well, just in time for breakfast. Got the same sense you do about that." She serves a plate and puts it on the table, then lays a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Well. You ready to go get your brother?"

Dean freezes, then wrenches his shoulder away from Missouri. She looks shocked, but he doesn't stop until he's stumbled out of the chair and backed up several feet.

"That's not funny," he spits. "I know he's not my brother, okay? You don't have to make fun of me."

"Dean," Missouri says, but Dean turns around and runs his hands through his hair, trying to press away the headache he feels starting.

Not her, too.

"I'm not crazy," Dean mutters when he feels Missouri close to his shoulder. "I know Sammy's dead. I know that. And okay, maybe Luke reminds me of Sammy—"

"Luke?" Missouri echoes, but Dean ignores her.

"—and maybe that's why I wanted to take care of him to begin with, but it's not just that anymore. I know he's not Sammy. I can care about him anyway. I'm not that damaged."

Gentle pressure from Missouri's hand turns him around, and she puts her hands around his face, staring into his eyes. "All this time," she murmurs, and Dean wants to pull away but just...can't. "Dean Winchester, there's just no room for anything but good in you, is there?"

Dean doesn't say anything, but allows himself to be led into the bedroom. When Missouri opens the door, Luke is sitting in bed looking tousled and a little confused, but smiles when he sees them in the doorway.

"I apparently have someone for both of you to meet," Missouri says, and Luke's smile slips at her solemn tone. She sits on the edge of the bed and beckons Dean over, motioning for him sit as well. She takes their hands, and Luke's eyes flick to Dean's, wary.

"Dean," she says, quietly, like you might speak to a small child or easily spooked animal, "say good morning to your brother, Sam."

Dean doesn't know how he knows she's not wrong, but he knows.

Luke looks as—

No.

Sammy looks as shocked as he does.

And for the third time in less than a day, Dean Winchester begins to cry.

Luke wakes up warm and content. 

He's not even scared, even before he's aware enough to know where he is, because he is in a big, comfortable bed, and that is never the case when he has cause to be afraid.

He's in a bed like he used to sleep in with Dean, but upon brief inspection there's no Dean there.

He wonders if Dean slept at all.

He sits up and stretches, glancing at the clock, which tells him that it's just past seven in the morning, so there's no rush.

But outside it smells like breakfast cooking, so he'll get up soon.

When he wants to.

When he wants to.

He can choose that now, because of Dean.

He's rubbing his eyes and running his hands through hair that must be standing up like crazy when the door opens, and he sees Dean and a lady he doesn't recognize who must be Dean's friend.

He's about to tell Dean good morning when he sees the look on Dean's face.

Dean looks scared.

That makes Luke scared, too, because even yesterday, even last night when he faced off against Walt, Dean never looked scared.

Luke has seen Dean look scared before, but only when Luke is in trouble, and that makes him wonder if he's not in trouble now, as safe and secure as he was feeling just a minute ago.

"I apparently have someone for both of you to meet," the lady says, and Luke loses his smile entirely.

He looks to Dean for some kind of cue, and Dean meets his eyes, but doesn't give him anything.

Dean looks lost, and that is not how things are supposed to be.

Luke's eyes track the lady and Dean carefully as they come to sit on the bed, and the lady positions herself between Dean and Luke and Luke's not a fan of that at all, but Dean doesn't move to correct it so he doesn't know if he's supposed to.

She takes his hand in hers, and her palm is warm and soft and dry, and under any other circumstances he'd feel comforted by it but not now.

Now, he's just afraid.

The lady speaks again.

"Dean, say good morning to your brother, Sam."

Sam's here?

Luke looks around briefly before it hits him like a bolt of lightning.

Sam.

The look in Dean's eyes, when he meets them, tells him that Dean is thinking the same thing.

Sam Winchester.

It's him.

His name is not Luke.

He is Sam Winchester.

He is Dean's dead brother.

And when Dean bursts into tears, he can't do anything but sit numbly on the bed and try to find the place in his heart where his own name used to live.

Chapter Text

(It'll be a day and a half before Dean realizes that he hasn't said the word Sammy once.

He won't say Luke anymore. He still calls him dude, man, kid, and he'll throw in a bro or little bro once in a while, but it feels forced.

The name that he's only said a handful of times in the past ten years sits heavy on the back of his tongue, choking him.

He's stuck in this limbo where he knows, he feels in his bones that Missouri is right, that this frail, tormented boy he's been living with is his little brother, but he can't believe it anyway.

He can't believe it enough to just say hey, Sammy.)

He manages to stop crying pretty quickly after Missouri drops the bomb, pulling himself together at the sight of Luke

(Sammy)

staring blankly off into the distance like he's been hit with a brick from behind. He sees his brother's lips press together once and hold like that, forming his own name. Then they move again: Sam Winchester, he mouths this time. 

Then something breaks in his eyes, and Dean sees the moment where he realizes he can't find a way to slip into the name.

"I know this is a lot to take in," Missouri says gently, and Dean huffs out a laugh. She smiles ruefully at him. "If I'd known you didn't realize...I'd've figured a way to break it to you easier."

"No easy way to say it," Dean replies, wanting to make Missouri feel better, because it's not her fault and it's better to know. Much as it hurts, much as it makes his head spin and makes him want to crawl under the covers, it's better to know.

She puts her hand on his shoulder and looks for a moment like she's going to say something, then changes her mind. "Should I give you two a minute?" she asks, and Dean nods wordlessly. She squeezes his shoulder, turns and does the same to Luke—to Sammy, before leaving, closing the door behind her.

They sit in silence for a while, about a foot of distance between them, and Luke (Dean gives in to calling him Luke in his head, at least for a little while) doesn't look up, even once. He's still just staring out across the room, his breathing slow and controlled. Controlled enough that Dean knows he's about to lose it if he lets go for even a second, so he doesn't say anything. He knows that if it were him in that position, he wouldn't appreciate somebody tipping him over.

Even if that somebody was his brother.

Oh, God, his brother is alive.

Luke lets out a shuddery breath, and Dean still doesn't say anything, but lets his gaze drift to the kid's bare back. He and Missouri had cleaned and dressed the wounds last night, but he's been asleep so long that it's probably past time to change them. He can see the brownish burgundy of old blood seeping through the white gauze. He can see the tension every time Luke takes a deep breath, the pain that comes with his skin stretching across his ribs.

His brother is alive, but just barely.

He almost let his brother die. Again.

The reality of it hits him like a punch to the gut. Sammy wasn't dead. He hadn't gotten Sammy killed that night ten years ago, despite a decade of torturing himself over it. And the universe or fate or God or whatever the fuck it was that ran his fucked-up life had given Sammy back to him, and he'd almost managed to ruin that second chance. He'd almost managed to get Sammy killed for real.

And he wonders, with a sick twist of his stomach, if he'd've done anything differently, anything in those weeks of searching, if he'd known that it was his brother he was looking for.

No. He'd tried his best.

(Had he?)

(Yes. He has to believe he had.)

He doesn't know what's showing on his face, but whatever it is, it falls away when he hears his brother say, "Dean?"

"Hey," he says dumbly, an automatic reaction. He manages to actually react a second later, and looks up. Luke is watching him with trepidation. "You okay?"

"I was about to ask you that," Luke replies softly. "It's...this is a lot."

"Tell me about it," Dean sighs.

"More for you than for me," Luke continues, and Dean frowns. "I mean, Sam Winchester is somebody to you. Your brother. Somebody you have memories of. I don't remember..." He breaks off, a little sob catching in his throat. Dean's own throat tightens in sympathy, and he scoots over, putting his arm around Luke's shoulders. "Dean, why don't I remember being Sam?" he asks, choked.

"I don't know," Dean whispers, pulling him into an embrace, tucking the kid's head under his chin. "We're gonna figure it out."

"I should remember being your brother," Luke whimpers, then coughs to clear his throat. "You said Sam was four when the demons took him. Took—I was four when—" He pauses, collecting himself. "Four. I should remember being four. I should remember you and your dad—and our—our dad."

Dean goes still at those words.

Their dad.

Their dad.

He isn't sure what horrifies him more: the idea of his little brother, his baby brother, having to deal with not only what happened to him but the fact that it was his own father who gave him up to it, or the knowledge that it will absolutely destroy his father when he finds out what he's done.

Dean knows, better than anyone else in the world, how much and how deeply John grieved Sammy's death. He knows that the ache never went away, especially since they never had a body to bury, never had closure. He knows by the bottle count how losing Sammy had almost ended John, how being unable to protect his remaining family had weighed on him. He knows that it had hollowed his father.

The fact that he'd done this to his son, his baby boy, his Sammy...

All of this is going through his head as he says, "I know. I know. We're gonna find out who did this to you, okay? Maybe we can fix it. Maybe you can get your memories back. Right now, what's important is that you're here, I'm here, Ava's here. We're all okay. You're gonna be okay."

Luke presses closer, so Dean can feel the silent sobs that wrack him. He shifts his grip so his arms are wrapped around Luke (gently, carefully, being hyperaware of his injuries) and their foreheads are touching, and then he moves one hand to Luke's face and he mutters, "You're my little brother, and you're gonna be okay."

Luke's sobs redouble, and his fingers clutch at the back of Dean's shirt. They stay like this for a few minutes, until Missouri's voice comes through the closed door. "Cryin' that much ain't good on an empty stomach," she calls, and the last of Luke's sobs becomes a laugh halfway through. "Either of you boys decide you want to take a breakfast break, I've got the food warming on the stove."

"Thanks, Missouri," Dean calls back, sitting upright and scrutinizing Luke's face carefully. "Well? What do you think? Breakfast sound good?"

Luke shrugs, but his growling stomach gives him away. "I haven't eaten in a while," he admits, and Dean's heart sinks, but Luke continues: "I could probably put away some eggs."

That's all Dean needs. "Then let's get some food in you," he says, standing and helping Luke to his feet. "Missouri's breakfasts are to die for."

"That's Missouri? Is this her house?" Luke asks, looking around, and Dean suddenly remembers that Luke was unconscious from the minute they walked through the door until shortly before it was revealed that his entire life was a fabrication.

"Yeah," Dean answers, "Missouri Moseley. She's an old friend of the family's. Her place is the first thing I thought of when I tried to figure out where was a safe place to bring you and Ava."

"How'd she know who I was?" Luke asks, his voice quieter now.

"She's a psychic," Dean replies. "She can just...see things. She didn't even know that I didn't know who you are until she said something about it and I freaked out."

"You freaked out?" Luke echoes, searching Dean's eyes with his own. Dean winces.

"I mean, I thought she was, you know, making fun of me," he says. "She asked if I was ready to go get my brother. I thought she thought I was crazy, like I couldn't tell you apart from Sammy." He hesitates. "Not that that's crazy, anymore."

Luke smiles at him, a watery, forced thing. "It's weird for me, too," he says softly, as he leads them out of the bedroom.

Ava is already sitting at the table when they arrive in the kitchen, and her plate of bacon and eggs is half empty as she looks up at the newcomers. She looks relieved to see Luke, but that relief slides off of her face and is replaced by a conflicted fear when her eyes land on Dean. She hesitates for a minute, a muscle in her jaw twitching as though to symbolize her tense uncertainty, and she stands from her chair.

Luke breaks away from Dean and hurries to Ava's side, even as Missouri puts down her glass of water and starts for the girl. Luke gets there first, grasping Ava's arm as she begins to dip towards the floor, and oh shit, was she trying to kneel? "It's okay," Luke soothes. "You can sit. Just eat. It's okay. He won't be mad, I promise."

Dean's stomach clenches as he watches Ava shoot him a glance like she's checking Luke's words against the reality of the Hunter standing just yards from her. He keeps his face neutral, not knowing what it is she needs to see. He looks down at the ground, and hears the chair scoot back as she climbs back into it.

He sits as far away from her as possible, and Luke sits next to him. He keeps his eyes averted, because he knows that Ava's watching him out of the corner of her eye, and he can't blame her. He did point a fucking gun at her last night. He's not usually real companionable with people who point guns at him.

But it does make him feel a little better when Missouri hands Ava a glass of orange juice, and he can just barely make her words out, but he hears her murmur, "Dean Winchester's not your enemy, child. You can breathe easy in this company. There's nobody here who aims to hurt you."

Dean risks a glance up and catches Ava nodding tightly at Missouri's words before shifting her focus back down to her plate and eating quietly but voraciously.

He recognizes that from Luke's first few days with him and his dad.

And their dad.

Fuck.

He startles when Missouri places a glass in front of him. It's orange juice again, but it smells a little different, and he looks up. She's got a grim smile on her face. "I don't usually condone contributing to the delinquency of a minor," she says, "but I don't like drinking alone. It's just champagne, anyway...I'm sure you've gotten worse from your daddy."

Luke stiffens next to him for just a heartbeat after she says that, and her face falls. "Oh, Sammy. I'm so sorry. My sight is all muddled around the three of you, and I forgot myself."

"I'm fine," Luke says unconvincingly, smiling brightly with only a hint of a wobble in it. "These eggs are really good, Ms. Moseley."

"You don't have to pretend to be fine around me," Missouri says firmly, "and lyin' about it won't fool me anyway. I said I'm sorry, and I am, because I know I hurt you just now."

"It's okay," Luke says, his voice barely above a whisper, and Dean takes a long drink of his mimosa. Missouri nods, and sits down across the table from Ava.

They eat in a terrible, uncomfortable silence, Ava radiating fear and sullen anger, Luke stewing morosely in his thoughts, Missouri watching them all quietly and Dean finding the light, sparkly champagne in the mimosa insufficient to drown his confused misery.

Finally, for lack of better conversation, he says, "Do you know anything about this Black Moon ritual, Missouri? Anything that'll help us prepare?"

Missouri raises her eyebrows and looks at Luke, then back at Dean. "You boys really in a state to talk about this right now?" she asks, skeptical.

"We've got to—" Dean begins, but Missouri shushes him with a quick gesture and looks at Luke.

"Are you ready to talk about this?" she asks, and the frustration that had begun to boil up in Dean's blood fades. He looks over at his brother, who looks pale, but nods.

"Not talking about it isn't going to make it not happen," he says, his voice quiet but decisive. "I don't want to talk about it. But I want to get ritual-sacrificed even less, so, I guess we ought to talk."

Missouri nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and stands to put her plate away in the sink. When she returns to the table, she takes a deep, steadying breath.

"From what I could find, which ain't much, boys, to warn you, the Black Moon ritual is a binding. You know how demons take hosts—through possession, involuntarily, and the demon can smoke out any time it wants to. What I gather is that this ritual weakens the host so much that the body becomes, in effect, the demon's, leaving enough room for a—so to speak, a lock."

Dean's eyes widen. "You're saying they want to lock Yellow Eyes up inside him—with him still in there?" Missouri didn't say anything, but met his gaze evenly. "But they said they needed his blood...all of his blood."

"They need to bleed the host," Missouri replies, carefully not using Luke specifically. "To keep him weak. But it serves two purposes with Sammy, since his blood carries the demon's blood in it. They'd use it to summon him, too, make sure he has to come. They'd drain enough that the host would die without the demon, but he wouldn't...the demon would keep him alive. Keep the body alive, and keep the soul trapped inside."

Luke shivers violently, and Dean grips his hand tight. Luke looks up at him, and his eyes are wide with fear and he's shaking. "They're not gonna get you," he promises under his breath. "I swear, little brother, you are not getting out of my sight again. And I am for damn sure not gonna let that yellow-eyed son of a bitch get his claws on you."

"And it has to be me?" Luke asks, ignoring Dean. "They can trap the demon if they use me?"

Missouri watches him shrewdly, purses her lips, then says, "That's the idea. That since you've got a link to the demon, they can trap him better in you. Then they can kill him for good—if your body dies with the demon locked inside of it, he dies, too."

Luke nods, like that makes sense, and says, "Well, isn't that a good idea?"

Dean bolts out of his chair and starts shouting. "What the fuck? Are you serious? That's the most bullshit thing that's ever come out of your—"

"Dean Winchester, you better sit your ass down and stop yelling at that boy in my house!" Missouri commands, and Dean all but falls back into his chair. She glares at him until she's sure he'll stay quiet, and then she turns to Luke. "Now, Sam. Your brother shouldn't have yelled at you like that, but he's not wrong. It's not a good idea. Even if we were willing to sacrifice one of us to end this demon—which we aren't—this kind of magick is too powerful to be performed by a bunch of backwoods, ignorant Hunters. They'd be as likely to just hand the demon the keys to your body and let him walk free as they would be to complete the spell correctly. So no. No first because you're worth more than that, no second because these damn fool Hunters would screw it up more like than not anyway."

"Could you perform it right?" Luke asks, and it's only Missouri's eyes pinning him to his seat that keeps Dean from leaping up again to throttle the notion out of Luke's head.

"No," Missouri says, a note of finality in her voice. "And nobody I know, either. Black Moon magick is old magick, and the kind of people who know it...well, they don't have truck with amateurs like me. That's the end of it, Sam. I'd recommend you don't ask again or your brother's likely to pop a blood vessel."

Luke glances over at Dean, who tries to control himself, but he knows his face is bright red with the exertion of that very control. Out of the corner of his eye Dean watches his brother bite his lip, then turn his eyes down to the table. He doesn't try again with his suicidal bullshit, which is good, but Dean still can't manage to calm his racing heart. 

Missouri doesn't have much more to add, just some specifics about timing and location (stroke of midnight, in a clearing surrounded by trees with no tree closer than thirteen feet), so Dean kind of tunes out. He feels like he's about to combust—his skin feels too tight, achy and stretched, and his pulse pounding in his ears sounds like the ocean crashing against the shore.

He glances at Ava, because she's listening to Missouri and not paying attention to him. Or she's not until she feels his eyes on her, which is almost immediately, and her gaze darts up to meet his.

She curls in on herself, just a little, shoulders bowing and curving inward to protect herself, head ducking while keeping his eyes. She's waiting, he realizes. Waiting to see what he's going to do.

And it's just too much. With his little brother on one side trying to throw his life away to catch the same damn demon that's already ruined their lives, and this little girl on the other side watching him like she expects him to beat her or worse any second, he just can't handle it. 

So he stands up from his chair, abruptly enough to overturn it, and stumbles against the table. He mutters an apology and excuses himself, walking out of the house and slamming the door behind him.

Then he runs.

Missouri's house is tucked into a little suburban cul-de-sac, but the area behind it is undeveloped: just fields and empty space. Dean runs and runs until his legs burn and he falls down, knees-first, in the middle of the empty field, and he doesn't even have the strength to cry.

Hunting is simple. You find the monster that's hurting people. You figure out how to gank the monster. Then you gank the monster and you're the hero.

This...

This is hard. Making every right decision doesn't bring him any closer to being trusted, any closer to being the hero.

He sits and looks up at the cloudless Kansas sky, and has no words for prayer, even if he believed an answer might come.

His jacket buzzes, and he digs into it and pulls out his cell phone.

It's not Ash's number. It's not the Roadhouse, either. He's never had the occasion to call his dad, but he knows that it's him, just by process of elimination.

He tucks the phone back into his pocket, lies down, and stares up into the empty sky.

 Luke—

Sam.

Sam Winchester. Samuel. Sammy. Samuel.

Sam Winchester.

None of them sound right, none of them feel right.

But Sam realizes that Dean doesn't try out his new name, doesn't even say it once, to see.

Lots of complicated evasions, like Dean will take any route to avoid saying his brother's name, avoid pinning it to the chest of the kid who ought to be called Luke.

"Little brother"—who calls someone that?

And he understands, because he can't fit the name to himself, either.

But he wishes Dean would try it, just once, because he remembers hearing him say it before.

He remembers the reverence with which Dean would say "Sammy", the love, the devotion, the grief.

It's not that he doesn't get it, that after a decade of grieving it's hard to suddenly realize that the person you'd grieved is still alive.

But he is alive.

And while he may not feel like Sam Winchester, he is, and Dean is his brother and that's everything he'd ever wanted—to be home and safe and loved, to be part of Dean's family, his chosen few, his protected circle.

To be important to Dean.

And it's a bitter irony that Dean seems so distant now, now that Luke is Sam, after Luke had wept over his inability to be Sam, had feared being turned away for not being Sam.

He's Sam.

Dean's brother.

And Dean is so far away.

And then Dean up and actually leaves—for whatever reason, and a thousand possibilities swarm through Luke's mind, he leaves the table and runs outside.

He wants to follow, but can't, his legs feel too shaky and his heart is heavy enough to pin him down in his chair.

Ms. Moseley says something reassuring, and he nods, but he doesn't hear her.

He's Sam Winchester, and his brother Dean just went outside to avoid being near him, and his father John sold him to a stranger in the night for a few hundred dollars, and there is nobody else on the planet who he has to go to.

Ava comes up next to him and takes his hand between hers, and he doesn't take it back, though he doesn't want her comfort.

“Dean's not going to touch you,” he says to her, voice dull.

“I'm not worried about me right now,” she replies.

Then he does take his hand back, and he snaps, “Well, you sure as hell don't need to be worried about me.”

And in that moment he sounds exactly like Dean, and he hears it.

In that moment, he almost feels like he could actually be Sam Winchester.

And even though it's everything he's ever wanted, to be Sam, it doesn't help, because he's still alone.

Chapter Text

The phone buzzes and buzzes and buzzes, and Dean keeps looking up at the sky.

He has nothing to say to his father, not right now. He can't fathom what words could possibly explain the situation to him, especially over the phone. Not when he can barely even come up with the words to explain it to himself, and he's been here the whole time. Luke is Sammy still doesn't make much sense in his head, even though it's so similar to the first thing he thought when he saw the kid to begin with—he's the same age as Sammy. But he'd spent those weeks so certain that Luke was just some kid, some strange kid that he had the chance to protect. He wasn't crazy. He knew his brother was dead, and that dead brothers don't just show up at your campsite looking at you like you're Charles Manson, don't just eat your food and curl up next to you in their blankets and try to comfort you when you cry and carve a new place in your soul for themselves while the other place they'd always held still ached.

So no, he doesn't know what he'd tell John. And anyway he's pretty sure he couldn't make it more than about two sentences in without starting to shout, and probably cry, and that's not how he wants the conversation to go down.

Because John fucked up. He did. In a more monumental way than Dean has the vocabulary for. He fucked up, even if Luke hadn't been Sam—there's no scenario that makes what he did okay. And Dean has questions of the screaming-fight variety to ask, like how the fuck do you not recognize your own son and what can convince a grown man that it's okay to sell a kid of any kind into human trafficking and lastly and perhaps most importantly did you know that Walt was going to kill him.

It's not a phone conversation.

But on top of all that, Dean knows his dad, and there are two facets of that knowledge: first, that he knows how much the revelation of what John did is going to hurt him.

Second, that a vile, cruel part of him wants to see the look on his father's face when he tells him that everything he'd done over the last weeks, he'd done to his own child.

So he lets the phone ring, and stares up at the sky, and ignores the tears that squeeze out of the corners of his eyes.

That's why his eyes are closed when he hears footsteps approach his head and a quiet, tight voice say, "Ma—um, Dean?"

He opens his eyes because it's not his brother. Ava's standing over him, still in the clothes he'd brought her to Missouri's in, ratty and dirty, her jeans high-water and stretched thin over her skinny legs and her maroon sweatshirt frayed at the hems and torn over her right shoulder. He wonders if Walt had given her any other clothes, or if that was all she owned. His stomach clenches at the thought. Her fingers are writhing over her stomach as she clutches and unclutches her hands, pulls at her fingers and cracks her knuckles. It's so he can't see that they're shaking, he knows. He sits up but doesn't stand—doesn't want a height advantage on her. She's scared enough and he knows that he scares the shit out of her. He can't blame her, but he doesn't want to make it worse. "Hey, Ava," he says carefully. "Everything okay?"

He knows that the answer is a negative before she shakes her head. She wouldn't have sought him out otherwise. She's barely made eye contact with him so far, much less tried to speak to him of her own accord, so he figures that something's got to be wrong if she's come to find him. But he also figures that it can't be too urgent, or she would have been running. So he waits for her to collect herself, keeping his posture loose, his expression open and unguarded.

As she bites her lip and steadies her breathing, he thinks about what Luke's told him about her. About what she's been through, what she's suffered, and for the hundredth time since he left the motel room he regrets not killing Walt. Because she's a thousand times worse off than Luke was when Dean met him, and it's entirely Walt's doing. Luke was scared, vulnerable, but he still had a spark in him, still had fight in him. It didn't take much to cow him at first, but he still pushed, seeing how far he could take his attitude before Dean snapped. And he slowly but eventually trusted it when he found that Dean wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't punish him for speaking his mind or being mouthy. Looking at Ava, Dean's not sure that would ever have happened with her.

And then she surprises him by sitting down in front of him—a healthy distance away, but still closer than she'd voluntarily put herself before.

"Luke is having trouble," she says, her eyes averted, plucking a blade of grass and playing with it. Dean leans forward a little, too quickly, and she flinches but holds her ground. "I don't understand everything that's happened, but he's your brother, right?"

"Yeah," Dean breathes with a soft huff of laughter. "Yeah. He's my brother." He can hear the wonder in his voice as he says it. Speaking of his brother in the present tense. Something he never thought he'd do again.

"He's really upset," says Ava, "and if you care about him as much as he thinks you do, you should go talk to him."

Dean lowers his head and grips his temples, cursing under his breath. He had been so overwhelmed back in the kitchen that he hadn't even considered what Luke would think of his hasty exit—that he'd think it was his fault, or some indication of Dean's feelings about him. He was so stupid, and he was about to say as much, but Ava was still talking.

"He talked about you all the time, when he came back," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the blade of grass. "Dean this and Dean that. He'd always talk about how nice you were and how much he missed you, how you were so different and so good to him. Sometimes he'd have dreams about you, just...say your name in his sleep. He'd always sound so relieved. Then he'd wake up, disappointed, like he thought you'd found him but then he was still just in our motel room."

Dean's heart twists unpleasantly, and he grabs at the cuffs of his jacket, hands wandering aimlessly for something to distract him.

"I told him he was making it up," Ava continues, and Dean looks up then, a little bit incredulous and a little bit hurt and a tiny bit angry. He controls his expression, though, because Ava's being shockingly open with him, and he can tell that she's a little frightened of what she's saying and how he might react to it. He doesn't want to prove her right—doesn't want to take advantage of her vulnerability or coerce her into anything she doesn't want to say or do. So he keeps quiet and keeps his features neutral. "I told him, no way some Hunter would act like that. I told him it was Stockholm Syndrome and that just 'cause you didn't beat him like our master did, he thought you liked him."

"I do like him," Dean says, his voice breaking. Ava doesn't meet his eyes. "Fuck, I do. Before I knew he was my brother. It didn't matter. I just wanted—I just want him to be safe. And happy. And..." He trails off, then says, "...and with me."

"That's what he'd say," Ava replies. "That you cared about him."

"Did he know I was looking for him?" Dean asks, barely audible, not sure whether he wants to know or not.

Ava shakes her head, and Dean swallows hard, nods, and looks down. "I don't know," she answers, and he looks back up. "I didn't think you were, and I tried to keep him from getting his hopes up, you know? But he said some things that made me think maybe he did. Or that he hoped you were."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dean whispers.

"Because..." Ava breaks off and bites her lip, drops the grass and settles her hands on her lap, stilling them. She visibly collects herself before continuing. "Because I hope he's right. I hope you care about him. He deserves it."

"He deserves way better," Dean interrupts, but a glance from Ava quiets him.

"And right now something's wrong, and I don't know how to fix it, so you need to—" She pales, then corrects herself: "Maybe you can go inside, show him he was right to trust you. He needs you." She smiles a little, just a tugging at the corner of her lips, but it quickly fades into something that looks like sadness. But after a moment, Dean thinks, maybe not sadness. Maybe longing. "I don't get it. I don't get either of you. But he needs you, and he's hurting right now."

Dean stands up slowly, broadcasting every movement before he makes it, and offers her a hand to help her stand. He's not offended when she doesn't take it, but stands up on her own. "Listen, I feel like I ought to—" he begins, but she's shaking her head almost before he started talking so he shuts up.

"It's hard," she says, slowly, ponderously, as they start to walk back to Missouri's together. Her arms are crossed over her chest, but her back is a little straighter than it's been so far. "That, I get. I get that there's no good choices. If you care about him, you do what you have to do for him. It wasn't about me."

"Doesn't make it right, what I did," Dean murmurs.

"No," Ava agrees softly. "But you were...less wrong. And sometimes you have to settle for that."

Dean turns that over in his head while they walk. Finally he says, "You're an okay kid."

Ava ducks her head and turns a little, but Dean doesn't completely miss her smile.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, broken only by the buzzing of Dean's phone. He pulls it out of his pocket—that same unfamiliar number. His dad. Ava looks at him quizzically, but he just shakes his head and puts the phone back up.

Not now.

Neither of them says a word until they're nearly at Missouri's door. Then Ava murmurs, "I think he's in the bedroom. The one where he slept last night. I'm sure Ms. Moseley will know."

She goes for the door knob, and he starts to catch her arm but remembers himself in time to turn it into just a brush of his fingers against her elbow. She freezes for an instant, then forces herself to relax and turns to him. "I'm gonna take care of him," he promises.

She does met his eyes, then, firm if still a little wary, and her response is, "I hope so." Then she opens the door and walks through, and Dean follows her in.

As soon as they're over the threshold, Missouri looks ready to rip into him, but Ava says "I already told him" before she can start, and the psychic contents herself with crossing her arms and glaring at Dean.

"I know you're hurting, too, boy," she says quietly, her expression already gentling, "but you need to be careful with your brother. He's lost, Dean. He needs you, and what you need, whether you know it or not, is him."

"Is he in the bedroom?" Dean asks instead of responding, and Missouri nods, and as he walks off down the hallway he can see her putting her arm around Ava's shoulders. He's suddenly, painfully glad that Ava has Missouri, because he's not what she needs.

There is somebody who needs him, though. He knocks on the door to Missouri's room, just a light rapping, and waits.

"Not right now, please, Ms. Moseley, I'm okay." Luke's voice is dull, sounds a little congested, like he's been crying.

"It's me, man. Can I come in?" Dean calls, and there's a faint squeaking of bed springs and the soft padding of bare feet on hardwood floor before the door opens and a slightly flushed-looking Luke stands in front of him, eyes wide.

"Hi," Luke breathes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean says firmly. "What about you? I kind of lost it back there, skipped out on you, and that wasn't fair."

"It's okay," Luke lies, shifting uncomfortably, then wandering back to the bed. Dean closes the door and follows him. Luke watches him out of the corner of his eye the whole time, which makes Dean a little sad—like Luke's anticipating something bad, some kind of bad reaction from him.

They sit on the bed for a minute, silent, neither one wanting to start talking, but both knowing that it's going to happen sooner or later. Luke twists his hands a little in his lap before deciding to pick at the comforter instead, and Dean just watches him.

Two weeks. Luke had spent two weeks getting beaten and abused, and he'd talked about Dean through it all. It was the memory of Dean that kept him going. Just like it was the hope that Luke was still okay that spurred Dean on through sleepless nights and leads that fell through and bar brawls with other Hunters bigger than him. But the image of this little kid—his little brother, his Sammy—lying dazed on a bed or on the floor after being tortured, telling Ava about how nice Dean was, was just about more than Dean could bear.

Dean wasn't nice. Dean was okay. Dean had been okay to Luke, and it was still the best the kid had ever gotten.

So it's Dean who breaks the silence first, turning to Luke and saying, "I want to make this right."

"Dean," Luke protests, "you've already—"

"No." Dean scrubs his face with his hands and steadies himself. "I kept my promise to keep you safe. Eventually. But I want to make this right. Look, this is...this is really hard. For me. But not the way you're thinking, probably."

Luke raises an eyebrow, but it's a strangely uneasy gesture. "What do you think I'm thinking?" he asks.

"I think you're thinking like you always did," Dean returns, and Luke's eyes widen a little at his tone. "That I'm disappointed. That for whatever reason, I have a problem with...with what Missouri told us. Just—let me?" It's a genuine plea, and where a second ago Luke was opening his mouth to argue, he closes it and settles back onto the bed, unhappy but quiet. Dean sighs, relieved, and continues.

"It's not that I'm...unhappy...about who you are. It's not that I'm, like, mad about it or that I don't think you're enough like the brother I remember. I remember you as a baby. Of course you're gonna be different. It's just that...obviously, I was going to compare you to my brother. You were the same age. It's the first thing I thought, man, that you were the same age he would have been. And I fought...real hard to separate you. So I didn't put all that shit on you. And I thought, if I could protect you, if I could keep you safe, I could forgive myself for letting my little brother down all those years ago."

"You were a kid, too," Luke says softly. "It wasn't your fault."

And it's literally a dream come true—having his brother here, alive, present, forgiving him. But Dean just bites the inside of his cheek and says, "Okay. But whatever shit I'm going through, it doesn't give me the right to ignore you. I don't know what you're going through, but I want to help. I don't—I won't run again. I'm right here. I'm gonna be right here."

Luke nods, then scoots closer to Dean, settling into their comfortable, familiar pose: Dean's arm around his shoulders, chin atop his head. "I don't know how to be Sam," he says.

"You're doing fine," Dean replies. "You're doing great, little brother."

He imagines that he feels Luke grow a little tense in his arms when he says that, but he dismisses it because he has something else he wants to say. "Ava came to talk to me."

Luke startles a little, knocking his head on Dean's chin as he pulls away to stare at him. "Really?" he asks, incredulous.

Dean laughs at his brother's expression. "Yeah. I was as surprised as you. But she...she told me some stuff. About those weeks when I was looking for you."

The incredulity fades, replaced by a very studied stillness. "What did she say?" Luke asks, pulling a little further away, flushing at his ears. He looks small, cowed, like there was something he'd said at the motel that he was ashamed of, or that he doesn't want Dean to know.

That thought sours Dean's stomach a little, but he just says, "She told me you talked about me. That you told her I was different. That you..."

"That I missed you?" Luke interjects, and Dean doesn't say anything. "Of course I did, Dean. What did you expect? That I'd forget about you in two weeks?"

"Did you know I was going to come for you?" Dean blurts, not meaning to say that at all, not meaning to put the kid on the spot like that. So he backtracks a little. "I mean, not know, but...did you think I would?"

There's a moment of silence. But in it, the sad, empty, and slightly frightened look in Luke's eyes tells Dean what he needs to know.

"You didn't," he murmurs.

"I hoped you would." It sounded like an apology. "I dreamed that you did. Pretty much every night. But...I'm sorry, I...I didn't..." Luke swallows hard, and his fists are clenched. "I didn't have any idea. How much you meant it. It's one thing to be nice to a Lilim kid who's traveling with you—even to take care of that kid the way you took care of me. It's another to track him for weeks and have a confrontation with the Hunter who owns him. That's something else, and I didn't know it existed, okay? So please don't be mad. Please."

Dean puts his hands on Luke's shoulders, grounding him as his brother starts to hyperventilate, locking eyes with him.

Luke's eyes are practically the same green as his.

How did he never notice that before?

How did he miss the fact that this was his little brother?

"Calm down," he orders, and Luke obeys reflexively, controlling his breaths and keeping Dean's eyes. "I'm not mad, okay? I couldn't be. If you didn't think I was coming for you, you didn't. It's not on you to, like, create that kind of trust. It was on me."

"Dean," Luke interrupts, but Dean shifts his hands from his shoulders to his arms and pulls him a little closer.

"I promise you, I will always find you," he says. "I will always protect you. You're my responsibility. Taking care of you is my job and I swear, I will be better at it from now on, all right?"

Luke nods and looks like he's going to say something when Dean's phone goes off.

He pulls it out of his pocket, muttering obscenities, and looks down at the number. The same number. Luke looks down at it, too. "Who's that?" he asks.

"I think it's Dad," Dean says. Luke looks up, startled.

"Are you gonna answer it?"

Dean turns the phone over in his hands, hesitating. "Do you think I should?"

"He's not gonna stop calling," Luke points out. "And you're not gonna be able to avoid him forever. Or even for long. You might as well."

Dean bites his lip, but nods and presses the answer button. "H'lo?" he mutters.

"Hell, boy, it's about damn time you answered this piece of shit phone! I've been calling all god damned day!"

Dean heaves a sigh of relief at the sound of Bobby Singer's voice. "Jesus, Bobby. I thought you were someone else."

"Yeah, well, I ain't, and I understand you've got yourself into a hell of a lot of trouble," Bobby retorts, his voice gruffer over the phone than Dean remembers it. But his tone abruptly changes, becomes gentler and even a little choked up, as he adds, "You and that little brother of yours, huh?"

Dean finds himself fighting thickness in his throat when he says, "Yes, sir. Me and m'brother." He glances over at Luke, who's watching him with his brow furrowed. Dean puts his hand over the phone and mouths Bobby Singer. Luke nods, but his expression doesn't change.

"Missouri called Ellen and me, told us somethin's going on that you might need some back-up on. You need me to come in, son? You know I'll help you, but I ain't gonna stick my nose in where it's not wanted."

"No, please," Dean interrupts hurriedly. "I want you to come. We need help, and Missouri's taking care of us right now but it's lookin' like a fight, Bobby. We need all the hands we can get."

A pause on the other line, and then, "Well, then, I'll be on my way soon as I get my things together. You heard from Ellen yet?"

"No," Dean admits. "I haven't called her. A little caught up in things. I'm glad Missouri called her."

Another pause. "You talked to your daddy?"

This time it's harsher when Dean answers, "No."

"I don't blame you, son. From what Missouri said, it's a hell of a thing that's happened. But you could use him right now. You boys got some angry Hunters on your tails, and you can use all the help that's offered. Maybe it'll be a chance for your old man to start makin' up for it."

"I don't know, Bobby," Dean sighs. "What he did—it wasn't to me." 

"Like hell it wasn't," Bobby retorts. "But you and Sammy, you work it out. Don't worry about anything else—we'll rally the troops for you. I'll be down by tomorrow morning at the latest. And boy?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You don't answer my calls again and I'm whuppin' your ass when I get there."

Dean smiles. "Yes, sir."

They exchange their good-byes and Dean hangs up, grinning at Luke. "That's Bobby," he says, and Luke nods again. "He's coming down. He's gonna help us with this Black Moon thing."

"And we can trust him?" Luke asks.

"Yes," Dean says. "No doubt."

"Okay," Luke replies, like that's the end of it.

So Dean lets it be, for once, and draws Luke back into his arms until their breathing matches.

Bobby and Ellen and Jo are on their way. His family's coming back together, to protect him, to protect his brother.

He doesn't understand why, then, his brother is so tense in his arms.

Ava didn't have the right to tell Dean what she had. 

God, how humiliating.

He had no way of knowing what Ava had even said, but the idea of Dean knowing how he'd cried out in his sleep, hoping for salvation, for rescue, all of his half-conscious murmurings about how 'nice' and 'good' and sometimes 'awesome' Dean was, the way he wept for the loss of his life with Dean...

Pathetic.

Dean's not like that—Dean is tough and strong and proud, brought down only by grief over his little brother's death.

(His little brother's transformation into Luke.)

He wouldn't have cried like that if it had been him taken.

Dean would've taken it like a man; he wouldn't have whined about what he'd lost, ranted and gushed to his fellow captive about how wonderful things had been.

Dean would've fought.

Luke didn't do any of those things.

And yet Dean still managed to make it somehow his own fault, like he'd done something to Luke, something other than rescuing him and taking him to a safe place and letting him play like he's Dean's brother.

But then he makes Luke admit that he'd lost faith—that he didn't believe Dean was going to rescue him.

It's not fair.

How could he have imagined something like that?

He sees how much it hurts Dean that he didn't believe it, that he hadn't expected it, but how was he supposed to dream something like that up—that a Hunter, even Dean, would care enough about him to look for him for weeks?

It still seems like something he's going to wake up from any minute now.

Even when Dean's hands are firm and warm on his arms, even when Dean's arm is around his shoulders, even when Dean's eyes are meeting his.

Their eyes are the same color, or almost.

It gives Luke a tiny amount of comfort, to think about that.

That whether or not he remembers it, on at least a genetic, a biological level, he is Dean's brother.

He is Dean's blood, his family.

Dean promised he wouldn't lose him again, and Luke believes him.

He just wishes he could believe he was something worth holding on to.

Chapter Text

Something's wrong with Luke.

With Sammy. 

Fuck. Dean's sitting in Missouri's living room with his brother and Ava, each of them with a glass of apple cider in their hands, one in his own. It's barely past noon and they've only just eaten lunch, but company is coming so Missouri's cooking dinner now that they've finished eating, and she had rebuffed attempts by each of them sequentially to help, telling them that they needed to rest. Dean is reluctant to do so, because resting just means giving his brain time to come up with all kinds of things to worry about. Dean hates resting, but Missouri had regaled him with tales of the kind of horror that is the result of extreme sleep deprivation, so he'd stopped complaining about it.

Still, it gives him too much time to watch his brother.

The kid is curled up next to the arm of the couch, looking, to the casual observer, pretty comfortable. He and Ava are talking, waxing poetic about how amazing lunch was, and Dean's got nothing to add to that. He's not the one who's been starved and tortured for weeks, or in Ava's case, months or years. He's not sure how long Ava was with Walt, and he's sure as hell not asking.

He and Luke had just kind of basked in each others' presence the day before, after their talk, but it had been quiet and not terribly enlightening. Dean had sensed that something was up, given Luke's quiet demeanor—to an uncharacteristic extent, even for him. He'd been strictly polite to Missouri at lunch and dinner, answering questions in a soft voice, and he'd even been borderline bitchy to Ava.

In fact, as Dean tunes into the conversation, he's still being borderline bitchy to Ava.

"Yeah," he's saying, his tone curt, "the rolls were great." Ava doesn't look offended, although if he watches closely there's a little furrow between her brows, like she's noticed that Luke is acting weird but doesn't want to bring it up.

And for that matter, it isn't just Luke's attitude that's weird, either. He's propped up against the arm of the couch, and his body language screams casual and easy, but now that Dean's watching, he's leaning forward. And his left arm keeps twitching away from the fabric of the couch, and once in a while he'll raise the glass quickly to his temple after he takes a sip, letting the warmth sink into his skin.

But there's no indication on his face that he's in pain. Nothing. And Dean wonders how much he's been hurting for the past twenty-four hours without saying anything, and adds one more tally mark to the list of things he's fucked up on so far.

"Hey." He's interrupting them but doesn't care, and they both turn to him immediately, silent. "Um. Sorry, Ava, but I've got to steal him for a sec."

"Okay," Ava replies, uneasy. Her eyes flick to Luke, who's looking only at Dean.

Dean jerks his head towards the hall, and says, "Somewhere private?", an obvious invitation for Luke to join him in Missouri's room. He doesn't offer his hand to help Luke up. He wants to watch him stand, needs to see how bad it is now that he's paying attention.

Luke looks as wary as Ava, which Dean doesn't care for, but carefully puts his glass down on the coffee table and unfolds himself—his limbs all the more spindly and long for the weight he's lost. His eyes leave Dean's when he starts to stand.

And damn it, Dean was right. He moves like an old man, slow and cautious, trying his best not to jostle any of his injuries so that he won't make a face or a sound of pain. Dean knows right away that he's not being careful so that he doesn't hurt himself—he's being careful so that Dean doesn't have to see him hurting.

He stands, his shoulders pulled back in a way that's obviously designed to keep the skin on his back from being too stretched, and when he meets Dean's gaze he deflates, knowing that he's been caught. "Ms. Moseley gave me painkillers when I woke up," he says softly. "I'm fine, Dean, I'm just sore."

And maybe he is. Maybe he's so used to this that it's nothing he can't walk off. After all, he'd been functioning for the last two weeks, and Dean knows by the marks on his back that what Walt had done that night was not an introductory lesson to it for Luke. He stands like he's used to hiding it, but Dean's not a fan of the fake-it-til-you-make-it school of taking care of injuries. He doesn't want Luke to pretend to be okay until he heals to the point where he really is okay. And most of all, he doesn't want Luke to pretend to him.

He's so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't notice until he's there that he's approached Luke, turning him around with gentle hands and carefully, so carefully pulling the neck of his oversized t-shirt away from his back so that he can see the tops of the bandages. Missouri'd changed them this morning, for sure. But white tendrils of old scars are visible, and Dean makes to place his thumb against the topmost one, but Luke flinches away.

"You didn't tell me you were hurting," Dean mutters, letting go of his brother's shirt. He doesn't know how he sounds, because he feels hollow.

That feeling is filled in a wash of shame when Luke murmurs back, "You didn't ask."

"You should be in bed," Dean returns, if only to quash the feelings of guilt that are bubbling up in the back of his throat.

"Ms. Moseley said I could be up. Lying down isn't exactly going to help," Luke retorts, and it's bitter and acidic and it takes Dean a little bit aback.

"I thought you guys were gonna go somewhere private," Ava interjects, her voice small, and when Dean glances over she is the ultimate embodiment of uncomfortable: legs pulled up to her chest, head ducked and eyes raised to just above the barrier that her legs make so she can see the boys, fingers clasped around her shins.

Dean softens and is about to apologize and bring Luke into the back when Luke snaps, "Oh, now you don't want to be in my business? You're willing to talk about me with Dean behind my back but you don't want to hear us argue?"

"We weren't arguing," Dean says, startled by Luke's tone, and looks back at Ava in time to see her flush bright pink.

"I don't want to go anywhere," Luke announces, and sits back down on the couch hard enough to make himself wince.

"Be careful," Dean says, his voice a little heated, a little frustrated, because damn it, isn't he doing his best? What the hell does Luke want from him?

"Don't tell me what to do!" Luke shouts, and now it's Dean who flinches, in surprise at not only Luke's words but the volume at which he's said them.

"Jesus, I'm just trying to take care of you!" Dean snaps back, and Ava actually flees the room, but Dean can't be bothered to give a shit. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You're being an asshole to Ava and now you're yelling at me. What, you can't bend over far enough to get that stick out of your ass?"

"You don't know anything!" Luke cries, glaring so fiercely that Dean is surprised he doesn't spontaneously combust. "Whatever Ava told you, you don't know what happened to me, and you don't know what I'm feeling right now!"

"Because you won't tell me!" Dean shouts, and he wants to throw something but everything in the house is Missouri's and he's not mad enough to think it's a good idea to break her stuff. So he contents himself with running his hands through his hair and grabbing it at the ends, almost hard enough to pull strands out, and then he sits down heavily on the opposite side of the couch from Luke, who's still glaring at him. "You won't tell me when you're hurting, you won't tell me why you're mad, you won't tell me what's wrong with you, you won't tell me shit, and I'm not a god damned mind reader."

"There's nothing wrong with me," Luke hisses, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to his side in a move that Dean immediately recognizes as placing a barrier between them. "There's nothing to talk about."

"That's bullshit," Dean retorts, and he's about to say more before he's interrupted.

"Huh. Even if Missouri hadn't told me you two idjits are brothers, I'd've figured it just from hearing you bicker."

Luke jumps, then lets out a little whimper as the pain flares across his back. Dean startles, too, and shoots an annoyed look at Bobby Singer, standing in the doorway with two duffel bags slung over his shoulders, before he crawls over the couch to Luke.

"You okay?" Dean asks, and all of the anger is gone, and his hands are hovering over Luke but not touching, like he'd done so many times before. Luke, in turn, is still glaring at him, but most of the heat is absent from his expression. He nods curtly, then turns wary eyes back to Bobby. He follows his brother's line of sight, and sees that Bobby has dumped his duffels on the ground and come to stand closer to the couch, arms folded over his chest and eyes fond and with a little bit of a sheen to them as he watches Luke.

"Guess you've got some introductions to make, Dean," Bobby says, and Dean stands slowly, offering a hand to Luke. Luke takes it and stands slightly behind Dean.

"This is Bobby," he says, and Luke doesn't respond. "Bobby Singer. Practically our second dad. We had some good times at his house."

Luke swallows audibly but stays silent. His eyes are on Dean, now, anticipatory and uneasy.

"Bobby, this is my brother," he says, and when he feels Luke sag a little bit behind him, it hits him like a ton of bricks.

Of fucking course.

His throat tightens, and he puts a hand on the small of Luke's back, lower than the injuries, and he corrects himself: "Bobby, this is Sammy."

He feels Luke tense up under his hand. Sammy. Then he feels...Sammy lean his head against his arm, and hears him murmur, "Hi, Mr. Singer."

"Just Bobby," Bobby says quietly. "Hell, boy, I never thought I'd hear your voice again. It's damn good to see you, Sammy." His voice breaks a little on the name, and he unfolds his arms, almost holds them out but catches himself in time. "It's good to see you, son."

"You two done with your screaming match?" Missouri asks from the kitchen, and Dean and Sammy both mumble a "yes, ma'am". "Good. Bobby, come in and grab yourself some lunch. We just had sandwiches but there's some left over. One other person for you to meet, too."

"Comin'," Bobby calls, and walks into the kitchen, leaving Dean and Sammy alone in the living room.

Sammy relaxes minutely, and Dean turns around to face him. "I didn't think," he says apologetically, and Sammy starts to protest but he shakes his head. "No, hang on. I wasn't...I wasn't thinking straight. I don't..." He trails off and guides his brother down to the couch, where he sits, too. "I didn't think about what it would make you feel like. Not using your name."

"It's not a big deal," Sammy mutters and begins to avert his eyes, but Dean shakes his head again and Sammy looks back up.

"It is," Dean says. "Don't lie to me. It's just..." He sighs and leans back against the couch. Sammy shifts to keep his eyes on him. Dean smiles wanly. "I care about you. Okay? Since you showed up at the campsite. But I'd...I cared about Luke and it was different from the way I'd cared about Sammy. It was different places, you know? I just...gotta put them together, now. And I'm gonna fuck up. You just gotta stay with me, okay?"

"Do you wish I wasn't your brother?" Sammy asks, his voice barely loud enough to be heard.

That straightens Dean's back real quick, and he grabs Sammy's wrist and focuses on his eyes with an intensity that has Sammy obviously fighting against leaning back. "Not even for a second," he grinds out. "Don't you ever think that. You are my brother and I love you, Sammy, and I'm so fucking proud of you for hanging in there, and I promise there is nothing that could make me happier than knowing you're my brother, and that you're safe."

"I thought you weren't calling me Sam because maybe you were ashamed of me," Sammy murmurs, eyes downcast, but offering his wrist willingly for Dean to hold and rub his thumb over, a grounding gesture that the younger brother clearly appreciates. "I mean, nobody wants their little brother to be Lilim. A Hunter least of all."

"You thought I'd prefer you be dead than Lilim?" Dean asks, tamping down on his hurt and incredulity and keeping his eyes on his brother's wrist.

"I thought you might prefer I'd just be Luke and let you live your life the way you'd been living it," Sammy responds.

Dean is quiet for a moment, focused on Sammy's wrist, until he's collected himself sufficiently. Then he says, "Remember how you said you don't know how to be Sammy?"

His brother nods.

"I don't remember how to be Sammy's brother," Dean admits. "So we're just gonna have to learn together. Can you do that? Can you stay with me? 'Cause I think I'm an annoying brother. I think I keep bugging you about how you're feeling and if you're hurting and if you're hungry."

Sammy cracks a smile at that, leans his head against Dean's arm, and murmurs, "I think I can handle that."

The rest of the day is a blur. Every important person in Dean's life shows up, with the exception of his father. It's not a lot of people—it's Bobby, Ellen and Jo, Ash, and Pastor Jim, along with Missouri, Sammy, and Ava, but the small house is crammed full of noise and energy, and Dean lets himself get swept away in the notion that everybody here is here to help him and his brother. Sammy's introduced Ava and Jo, and the two of them have hidden themselves somewhere to do whatever it is girls do when boys aren't looking, only showing their faces when it was time for dinner and scurrying off again right after. Now the adults are all in the living room, drinking beer and talking about everything that isn't the Black Moon. Dean and Sammy are with them, not drinking beers but rather (to Dean's mild humiliation) hot cocoa, and listening.

"I got that facial recognition software goin' pretty well," Ash says, and Dean nods like he's really interested but he's mostly wondering why Ash gets a beer and he doesn't, because he's pretty sure he's older than Ash. "Thanks for giving me the kick in the ass I needed to get working on it."

"Sure, man," Dean replies absently. "I should be thanking you."

"Me, too," Sammy adds, and Ash flashes him a grin.

"By the way, did you deck that guy for me?" Ash asks Dean.

"You're fucking right I did," Dean says with a dry smile.

"Language," Ellen and Missouri snap in unison, while Bobby grins around the lip of his beer bottle.

"Think I might've broken his nose," Dean continues instead of replying.

"I hope so," Ash replies, fervent.

Dean smiles again, then glances over at Sammy, whose eyelids are starting to droop a little. Dean doesn't do anything to help rouse him, just watches while the smile remains on his face as his little brother fights to stay conscious, even while his head is dipping and he has to keep startling himself awake. It's cute. It's something a big brother would tease his little brother about. Dean guesses he'd be doing just that if his little brother hadn't just been through the kind of shit he'd been through.

He's about to have mercy on Sammy and hustle him off to bed, blaming it on his injuries and their long two weeks, when a knock comes at the door.

Everybody stills, because basically everyone they know is in the living room. Dean can see Ash's mouth move as he counts the people in the room and checks them against the database of people who might be showing up, coming up empty.

Empty except for one, but there's no way he should know where they are.

Dean stands and Sammy grabs at his wrist, eyes wide, shaking his head just a little. "I'll get it," Dean says, and his words are directed to Missouri but his eyes stay on his brother. Sammy lets go of his hand, obviously unhappy, and Bobby stands to go to the door with Dean.

Both of them pull out their pistols, nearly in unison, and Dean meets Bobby's eyes before he puts his hand on the door knob.

He waits for Bobby's nod before he opens the door.

It's only shock that keeps Dean from pulling the trigger as Walt fucking Hamilton sways in the doorway.

"You son of a bitch," Dean growls, but Bobby's hand on his arm stops him from either shooting or launching himself outside to wrestle the older Hunter to the ground.

It stops him long enough to realize that Walt is covered in blood and bruises, and has a sizeable gut wound that's saturated his shirt and is dripping blood onto his pants. The blood is dark, old, and Dean notices then how pale Walt is. He's in bad shape. "Please don't shoot me" are the first words out of the mouth of the man who tortured Dean's brother, and Dean laughs and raises his gun, shrugging Bobby's hand off of his arm.

"Give me a single fucking reason why I shouldn't," he says, aiming square for Walt's heart. "You have five seconds."

"Because he has information that could keep Luke alive."

Dean nearly drops the gun at the second voice from outside the door, and sucks in a breath when his father steps into the pool of light cast from the living room onto the porch. He has a gun to Walt's back and looks like he hasn't slept in days.

Good, a part of Dean's brain whispers.

"Can you ask Missouri if we can come in?" John asks Bobby, who relays the message to Missouri. The psychic walks over, arms folded, and glares at John and Walt with almost equal disdain.

"He bleeds on my furniture, you're scrubbing it out, John," she announces finally.

And Dean can't do anything but stand by the door, hands shaking around his pistol, as his father ushers Walt back into their lives.

Fuck.

He said it.

 God, he finally said it.

 Sam didn't know who Bobby was, but he knew that Bobby had known him as a baby, and that he was someone that Dean would introduce him to by name if he was willing at all to say it.

And he hadn't at first, but he'd finally read the signs, and then he said it.

"This is Sammy."

It's not that it made him feel more like Sammy, or that it convinced him in any way that he was Sammy, more than anything else had.

It's just that he got to hear it, the way Dean said it, the way Dean always says the word "Sammy", and he knew that Dean was talking about him.

He was called Sammy, and he knows that Sammy is the most important thing in Dean's life.

The happy haze carried over most of the day, draining away all the tension and anger and fear and worthlessness that had kept him snapping at Ava and Dean all morning.

His back still hurt, still burned like he was leaning against a lit stove, but he was able to ignore it because Dean didn't leave him alone at all, stayed near him and kept calling him Sammy. It made Sam feel warm inside, warm and content and safe.

He could pretend to be Sammy until it felt right; he could fake it til he made it.

Warm on the inside turns into warm on the outside, too, as he sits huddled next to Dean in Ms. Moseley's living room, sipping on his hot cocoa and listening to the pleasant drone of the adults' conversation.

He still doesn't remember any of them as grown-ups he'd known as a child, hasn't come up with a single memory of being Sam, but he trusts Dean.

He trusts that this is his family, that these are the adults who care about him, and God knows they've proved it—Dean has told him what every one of them had done to help him find Sammy and Ava, to help keep them safe.

He trusts it enough that he's about to fall asleep next to Dean when the knock comes at the door.

"Please don't shoot me," says the voice that still rings through his nightmares, the voice that he still hears every time he doubts himself, every time he feels worthless or undeserving of Dean's kindness.

And he doesn't hear anything else, because he succumbs to something he vaguely recognizes as a panic attack immediately after that, and all he can hear is the thunderous sound of his own pulse in his ears.

Chapter Text

It takes about five minutes for Dean to work Sammy down from his panic attack. He sits in front of him, everybody else keeping a wide berth from their spot at the far end of the living room, and just tries to get his brother's breathing back under control. He keeps his hands on Sammy the whole time, his arms or his face or the back of his neck, just light touch to remind him that he's not alone, even when his eyes are closed. Sammy's coming down out of it already, though his heart is still racing and his breathing ragged.

"In," he prompts, and Sam sucks in a breath. "Out. In. Out. Good, Sammy. Just like that. In. Out."

There's some color returning to Sammy's cheeks, and they're up to four counts per inhale and exhale, so Dean's able to breathe a little bit better, himself. He rubs his hands up and down Sammy's arms. "You're fine. You're okay. He's outnumbered here, way outnumbered, and he's hurt. Nobody's gonna let him touch you."

"Your dad's here, too," Sammy whispers between metered breaths, and Dean nods slowly, his stomach clenching at the reminder, and also at the idea—not that it surprises him—that Sammy is almost as worried about John's presence as he is about Walt's.

"Yeah. Nobody's gonna let him touch you, either." Sammy nods too, his movements erratic, and Dean puts a hand on the back of his neck. "Shh. It's okay. You're doing great. Keep breathing, baby brother. You got it. Try six for me?"

Sammy inhales slowly, counting to six with his fingers, then exhales at the same rate. Dean smiles broadly. "So good, Sammy," he says, and his brother smiles back unsteadily.

Missouri walks up behind him, loudly so Sammy knows she's coming, and hands Dean a cool rag. He takes it gratefully, smiling at her, and places it on the back of Sammy's neck. Sammy closes his eyes as relief loosens the tension in his muscles and drains some of the flush from his face.

"Gimme one sec," Dean whispers to Sam, who nods, eyes still closed. He stands and walks a ways away with Missouri. Once they're out of Sam's hearing, he murmurs, "Dad say why he's here?"

"Looking for you," Missouri replies, equally quietly.

"Only for me?" Dean asks, anger seeping into his voice, and Missouri fixes him with an even stare.

"He said he was looking for you," she repeats.

Dean accepts it. Even if Missouri knows more, she's obviously not going to say anything. So instead he asks, "He do that to Walt?"

Missouri presses her lips together and shakes her head. "He says no. Says he found him that way. I don't know if he's telling the truth or not, but he says somebody else damn near killed that monster and he almost ran him over on the freeway. He's fadin' fast, Dean. You want to ask him any questions, you might want to do it sooner rather than later. He ain't gonna make the night."

Dean steals a glance back at Sammy, who's got a hand over the rag on his neck, holding his wrist against the damp coolness. Somehow, still, the idea of Walt dying like that, slow and horrible after being gutted by some random creature, isn't as satisfying as he thought it would be.

"I can't leave him," he whispers.

"If you want to talk to Walt, Ellen or I can take care of the boy for a minute," Missouri says. "And I think you ought to talk to him. He says he's got news about the demon and about your brother, and he looks spooked, Dean. Not just the look of a dying man, either. Take or leave what he says, but talk to him."

The look on Missouri's face is unyielding, though gentle, and Dean caves. He nods and walks back over to Sammy, crouching by him and putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm gonna go for a second," he says softly, and his brother's eyes lift to meet his. "Missouri's gonna take care of you. Okay? I'll be back real soon."

"Are you leaving?" Sammy whispers, his eyes wide and frightened at the prospect. Dean adds some pressure to the weight of his hand, and Sammy calms down.

"Just the room, not the house," Dean assures him. Sammy hesitates but eventually nods his assent, and Dean leaves him with Missouri, who settles next to him easily and begins to murmur soft queries, reassurances, and praise.

Dean feels like he's magnetized to the floor where he can still see his brother. His feet won't agree to move with him. Here is comfort: here is his brother, and the woman who took them in. In the other room is everything he's been trying to forget about for the last twenty-four hours, and everything that's haunted the dreams that have him swallowing down screams when he wakes up. But if Walt has answers, if he has a way to keep Sammy safe, then he can't just not talk to him, no matter how much every part of him wants to avoid seeing his face again.

So he pries his feet from the floor and trudges his way into Missouri's study.

Walt is tied to a chair in the middle of the room, but it's a half-hearted effort because Missouri is obviously right: the Hunter isn't going to make it through the night. There's no color in his face and his eyes are focusing and unfocusing like he's trying to stay conscious. Despite the absolute lack of sympathy he has for the man, Dean still winces at the sight of the wound in his stomach. Suddenly he's kind of glad that John at least claims he didn't do it—much as he thinks Walt is the lowest scum of humanity on the planet, and much as he thinks his dad has a lot to make up for, he'd just as well not see the results of his father tearing into another human being like this. The wound is vicious and deep, more like he'd gotten a chunk ripped out of his stomach than that he'd been stabbed or shot. There's no saving him.

This is Walt Hamilton's last night on earth.

Everybody looks up when Dean steps into the room. Walt is surrounded by armed Hunters, though their weapons are lowered, dangling casually from their hands. No one is threatened by the dying man. He looks at Dean, too, and his face is wrung with agony.

"Dean," he coughs, and Dean flinches at the sound of his name from Walt's lips. He controls himself and crouches in front of Walt, catching his eyes from slightly under his sight line.

"I understand you've got something you want to say," he murmurs. "I suggest you get to talking."

"The boy," Walt chokes. "He's—with you? Still with you?" Dean stiffens with anger, and Walt shakes his head as quickly as he can manage, which still comes out pretty sluggish. "No. I didn't—I just meant, the demon hasn't found him."

"Neither have your asshole friends," Dean spits. "Now. Information. Or I'll speed the process that pretty gut wound's got going."

Walt coughs, a wet, gurgling sound that sends a shiver down Dean's spine. Much as he's seen of death, you never get used to it, and particularly when it's a human. He's a Hunter, but he's not made of stone. Death unnerves him, no matter who's doing the dying.

"I was wrong," Walt whispers, and that's not what Dean expected to hear. "God, I was so wrong. The ritual."

"Figured out that torturing and killing an innocent kid ain't exactly the straight and narrow?" Dean sneers, but a soft clearing of his father's throat has him looking to the side.

"I'd let him talk if I were you, son," John suggests mildly, and Dean is surprised to find that his father is unable to meet his eyes for long.

He stares at his father for a minute, but John doesn't have anything else to say, and finally he looks back to Walt. "Okay. You got something to say? Say it."

"Clive," Walt murmurs, like it pains him. "Clive Taylor. He's...there was something wrong with him. For a while. Been acting kind of weird."

"Weird how?" Dean asks, a twisting starting in the pit of his stomach.

"Secretive. He had all this...info about this ritual. To get rid of the Winchesters' demon, he said. All it'd take is a Lilim kid. And go figure, John Winchester just bought one." Walt takes a break to gasp in breath, then continues painfully. "All we had to do was find the kid, hollow him out, stick the demon in and bam, no more demon. It sounded so easy. Ahhh."

Dean doesn't even realize he's touching Walt until the man groans under the pressure Dean's putting on his knees, including the one Dean had blown out the night he'd found Sammy and Ava. He takes his hands away quickly, and puts them on his own legs, squeezing to calm himself down. Sounded so easy. Murdering a defenseless kid sounded so fucking easy to these people. Murdering Dean's brother sounded so easy.

He almost says that out loud before he realizes.

John had called Sammy Luke in the doorway.

John doesn't know who Sammy is.

He can't deal with that. Not right now. So he looks back at Walt and he says, "What next?"

"Then you came," Walt rasps, laughing bitterly. "And fucked it all to hell. Took both of 'em. Once I managed to get out of the cuffs I called the others, let 'em know what had happened. They all met with me to figure out what to do next."

Dean would be sworn that Walt's face couldn't get any paler, but as he takes a pause to catch his breath again, more color drains from his cheeks. His voice trembles a little as he continues. "And Clive, he...he went ballistic. Started throwin' shit, yelling about how this ruined everything, about how could we let him get away. I said we'd find another Lilim kid, and he said no, it had to be Luke."

The name sounds odd on Walt's lips. Dean wonders if he'd ever called his brother by that name, or if names were strictly for humans.

"The others left," Walt says, "but we'd met at my motel room, so it was just me and Clive. And I was—not doing great, after you were done with me, anyway, so I was feeling pretty lousy, but Clive just kept pacing."

"We don't need you to paint us a fucking landscape," John snaps, suddenly enough that Dean jumps a little. "Get to the point."

"He started talking to me," Walt says, and there's something about his voice that is vulnerable and almost childlike in its uncomprehending fear. "He said...he said that I had failed something greater than him. That the plans I was interfering with were larger than I could imagine. That I had no idea what I'd done."

"What plans?" Dean growls, low and dark to hide the fear gnawing at him, stealing the breath from his lungs.

"The ritual isn't going to work," Walt gasps, and Dean can practically hear Missouri say I told you so from the other room. "It was never supposed to. Clive—I told Clive that we'd find another way to kill the demon, and he grabbed me. Pushed me up against the wall like I was a fucking rag doll, said I didn't know what I was talking about and that a meat sack like me should learn its place." Walt shudders, then flinches at the pain, and whispers, "Then his eyes...changed."

There's silence in the room for a long moment, save only for a soft intake of breath from Ellen.

"Oh, fuck," Dean breathes. "The ritual's a set-up."

"The demon wants the boy," Walt murmurs in agreement. "For what, I don't know. But he's angry that the boy's with you now. Said something about how once he's felt kindness it'll be harder to make him say yes."

"Say yes to what?" Ellen demands, running a finger over the barrel of her pistol. Dean knows her well enough to know that it's just mindless gesture, not a threat, but Walt doesn't.

"I don't know," he pleads. "I don't. He didn't say, and I didn't get to ask a lot of questions. Mostly just gathered what I could from him muttering to himself."

"How'd you get away?" Bobby asks.

Walt glances down at the wound that's killing him, then back up at Bobby. "Lucky me, he didn't stick around long enough to make sure I was dead," he replies bitterly. "Not like he didn't know the job was finished."

"How did you find us?" Dean asks, because that's the question that he really cares about at this point. That and how his father found them.

"I didn't," Walt admits. "He found me," jerking his head towards John, "and brought me here. Recognized me, of course. Figured I'd know where you were. I told him I didn't but that I had news so he wouldn't kill me. Didn't know how much on the same page the two of you were."

Not very, Dean thinks wryly, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't look over at his father, either.

"I know this doesn't change anything," Walt's saying when Dean zones back in. "Hell, I don't expect you to understand what I did and if we're being frank, I don't care if you do. But that ritual's gonna bring hell raining down on this place if you don't stop it. I don't know what the demon wants with that boy, but it's gotta be something important, something real bad, for him to be as angry as he is to've lost him."

Dean nods slowly, tamping down the anger building inside of him, but it's when Walt adds, "Don't let the demon get the boy," he snaps.

"Don't you fucking dare," he growls, standing so that Walt has to lift his head painfully to meet his eyes. "Don't you fucking dare tell me how to take care of him. Not after what you did. Of course I won't let the demon get him. I didn't let you have him, did I?"

"That demon's gonna be a harder fight than I was, boy," Walt rasps. "You'd better prepare yourself for some shit. You and that boy."

"I think you prepared him well enough for any kind of shit life could throw at him," Dean sneers. "Is there anything else, or was that all you have?"

Walt's eyes are dark and hateful as he glares up at Dean, and he spits, "That's all I got."

"Fine," Dean says. He looks around the room. "Do whatever you want with him. I'm gonna go take care of my brother."

He's out of the room before he hears his father's voice, softly: "What did he say?", and it's only then that he realizes what he's done, and it's all he can do to keep breathing.

Oh, shit.

He doesn't stop, though, walks right back out to the living room and drops to his knees next to Sammy, startling both his brother and Missouri. He wraps his arms around Sammy's shoulders and pulls him in tight, ignoring Sammy's soft, confused murmurs of "Dean? You okay?"

"Dad just found out," Dean says, his voice flat. Sammy freezes in his arms and Missouri's breath catches. "I don't—I can't, Missouri. I can't talk to him about it. I can't tell him."

"I'll tell him," Missouri promises, wiping away a tear that Dean hadn't realized had fallen with her thumb. "You stay here. You boys don't worry about anything but yourselves right now, you understand? I'll take care of your daddy."

Dean can't say anything but just nods, holding Sammy tighter as Missouri stands and leaves. He hears her run into John at the threshold, and hears their quiet voices fade as she guides him away from the living room.

He doesn't know when Sammy started shaking, but he suddenly feels it as his brother asks, "What's he gonna do, Dean?"

"I don't know," Dean answers, honest. "But it doesn't matter. I don't care what he does or what he thinks. I'm gonna take care of you, Sammy, like I was supposed to the whole time, and fuck him if he thinks I'm not, because I lost you twice and I'm not losing you again, because you are my responsibility and I am gonna make sure nothing happens to you, and that demon can go fuck itself, too, and if Walt wasn't about to die I'd say he could go fuck himself—"

"He's dying?"

Sammy's small, hushed voice cuts into Dean's rant, and he stops short. His brother's face is unreadable. "Yeah," Dean replies. "Yeah. He's dying." He hesitates. "You want to go tell him something before he does?"

Sammy's eyes are on the ground for a while, but then he looks up, smiles, and leans his head on Dean's shoulder. "No," he says. "The only thing I have to say to him is thank you, anyway."

First instinct has Dean's hand flying up to Sammy's forehead to check for fever, which makes his brother laugh a little. "Thank you?" Dean demands. "Are you crazy?"

"If I hadn't run away from him, I never would've found you," Sammy explains, and Dean quiets, relaxing a little. "I don't think I would've run away if he hadn't been so awful to me. But in the end it meant that I found you. So I'd call it, overall, good."

Dean huffs out a laugh, then musses Sammy's hair. Sammy lets out a small yelp of indignant protest, which makes Dean laugh even more. "So the answer to are you crazy was yes," he says.

"I've heard crazy runs in families," Sammy retorts grumpily, and Dean ruffles his hair again. "Ow! Dean!"

"Get used to it," Dean says as he pulls Sammy into another bone-crushing hug. "I'm not goin' anywhere and this is what big brothers do."

"You're so annoying. You're messing up my hair," Sammy complains. "Were you always this annoying?"

"More, you were just too little to care," Dean replies. "But now I got ten years of bugging you to make up for."

"I thought little brothers were supposed to be the irritating ones," Sammy whines. "You're taking my job!"

"Consider it training, until you remember how it's done." Dean releases Sammy and smooths his hair down. "There. All better."

"Yeah," Sammy mumbles, grinning. "It is."

A soft sound, the clearing of a throat, draws both of their attention to the door. John's in the doorway, pale and trembling, flanked by Bobby and Missouri. Dean is grateful for the escort—he doesn't think John would try anything, but he's just glad he doesn't have to worry about it. Sammy inches closer to him and Dean puts an arm around his shoulders.

John's having a hard time collecting himself. His hands won't stay still, clenching and unclenching and dipping into his pockets and back out. His chin is trembling a little, and Dean is suddenly horrified at the idea that his dad might cry. He doesn't try to come any closer.

"Sa—" He breaks off and composes himself. "Sammy," he says brokenly. "I know words are cheap, and I'm sorry isn't gonna cut it. Not nearly. I don't expect you to forgive me. Hell, I don't know if I can, either. And I'm not going to ask you to, and I won't ask you to talk to me until you're ready, if you ever are. But, for what it's worth..." He swallows hard and presses the back of his hand against his mouth. Bobby grips his arm to support him, and he holds on to Bobby's forearm in turn. He takes in a deep, fortifying breath, and he says, "For what it's worth, son, I'm so glad you're okay. Little as I had to do with that, I'm glad you're safe."

Sammy is perfectly still for a long time, staring at John—staring at his father. Eventually he nods, and when Dean turns to look at him his face is covered in tears, and he ducks his head in to Dean's chest and starts to sob silently.

John nods in the doorway, like it's what he expected, and he says, "Dean. I'm sorry, son. If you want to talk later, I'll be here. If not, I understand." And with that Bobby helps him out of the room. Dean's pretty sure, from looking at him, that he wouldn't be able to walk on his own.

Dean lets Sammy cry for a while, but finally he brushes the sweaty hair back from his brother's forehead and he says, "You okay, Sammy?"

"He doesn't hate me," Sammy mumbles into the front of Dean's shirt. "He said he was sorry."

"And you can do what you want with that," Dean replies, because he's not sure how he's taking their father's apology to him, so there's no way Sammy can process what John said yet. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. I promise."

"I believe you," Sammy whispers, and leans his cheek against Dean's chest.

Preparing for the ritual can wait until tomorrow, Dean decides. Right now his brother is safe and his father is sorry, and everyone he loves is under one roof.

Right now he's going to let that be enough. 

It's not that Sam doesn't know something's wrong.

He knows that Dean went to talk to Walt, and that they were talking about the ritual he was supposed to be sacrificed in.

He saw the pallor of Dean's face when he came back, and he knew it wasn't only about their father finding out who Sam is.

But his father is sorry.

Dean doesn't seem placated by their father's apologies, but he doesn't understand: until he met Dean, Sam has never had a Hunter apologize to him for anything, ever.

Nobody was ever sorry that they'd hurt him, or sorry that he got hurt doing what they told him to do.

Nobody was ever sorry that there wasn't enough food for him to have some.

Nobody was ever sorry that he didn't have a family or a last name or memories from his early childhood.

Nobody was ever sorry for anything.

Until Dean, who seemed to be sorry for everything, whether or not he'd had any part in doing it.

And now their father, who apologized without expectation, without asking anything in return.

It doesn't change what happened.

It doesn't change the pulsing fear Sam still feels in his gut when he sees John Winchester, the sense of betrayal, the low spark of anger.

It doesn't make those two weeks of torture go away.

But it matters.

And now he's curled on the floor with Dean, his brother's fingers dragging through his hair, his heartbeat so strong and steady under Sam's ear that it almost drowns out Dean's soft words, and even with Walt in the other room Sam's never felt safer or happier.

Dean's going to take care of him, he promised, and maybe someday Sam will have a father, too.

And right now, he has a brother.

Everything else can wait.

Chapter Text

Sammy goes to sleep at about midnight, but Dean's too restless to even try, so once his brother is out enough that he won't wake if the bed shifts, Dean gets up to walk.

It's closing in on one in the morning, so the house is quiet for the sake of the kids. Dean can see the silhouette of two people on the porch outside—probably Ellen and Pastor Jim, from the looks of it. He knows one person will be on watch duty with Walt. Everybody else is probably asleep, or at least lying in their beds, sofas, and sleeping bags, trying to sleep.

He's making his way to the porch to go talk to Ellen and the pastor when a soft, startled sound behind him makes him turn. Ava's awake, if a little disoriented-looking, in oversized pajamas with what are obviously Missouri's slippers dwarfing her feet.

"Hey," he whispers, relaxing the tension in his shoulders, spreading his fingers a little to show that his hands are empty, letting her dictate how much eye contact they have. "You okay?"

"Can't sleep," she murmurs back. "Ms. Moseley told me that...um, that my master is here." Her discomfort is blatant, and she looks at Dean like she's a little scared he's going to yell at her for saying the word master, but isn't convinced that he wouldn't have yelled at her for not saying it, either.

"Walt's here," he agrees. "But he's not your master, Ava. Not anymore. That's over and you're free now, okay?"

Ava looks skeptical, but nods. "Is he still alive? Ms. Moseley said he was going to die."

There are a lot of things going on in Ava's voice as she says that, and Dean thinks it would take days to catalogue all of them. She looks anxious, mostly. Frightened, too. A little lost, a little disbelieving, a little hopeful, a little sad, and Dean wonders what it must be like to have a relationship that fucked-up with another person. He kind of thought he weas the king of fucked-up relationships...Little Brother presumed dead for ten years, comes back as slave Dad bought, Dad sells Little Brother to his old tormentor and it turns out that Little Brother was tainted by the demon that killed Mom. But he's got nothing on whatever Ava must be feeling about Walt.

How is she supposed to reconcile the fact that the guy was her kidnapper, torturer, and abuser with the fact that he was also her primary caretaker and guardian? That he beat and molested her but also was the only one who fed her and kept a roof over her head?

How is she supposed to mesh good riddance with what's going to happen to me now?

It occurs to Dean that three months ago, he never would've understood the conflict. Now, he says, his voice gentle, "I don't know. Do you want me to find out? Or do you want to go and see for yourself?"

Ava considers that for a moment, hugging herself tightly, rubbing her arms thoughtfully. It strikes Dean as a little sad that she has to do for herself the comforting gesture he'd done for Sammy just that evening. "He's not gonna be able to hurt me, right?" she asks, and her voice, while stronger than Dean would have thought it would be, is a little small.

"He's restrained, and somebody's in the room with him at all times," Dean assures her. "I'll go with you, if you want me to. If not, I'll leave you alone."

"Please don't leave me alone," she murmurs, and her hand reaches out for him for just a second before she pulls it back. "But I...I want to see. I have to see that he's..."

Dean has mercy on her and smiles, letting her trail off as she follows him down the hallway into the study.

He isn't expecting to hear the voice coming out of the study that he hears, and he stops a few steps before the entrance, Ava coming to a halt behind him.

"You promised me you'd treat him well." John's voice is ragged, thick and choked, and Dean knows he's been crying. "You gave me your word."

"Don't...give me that...shit," Walt slurs, and Ava's hand ghosts against the back of Dean's shirt. He puts his own hand palm-up behind him, to take if she wants to.

She does, and he gently squeezes her fingers.

"You...know what they are," Walt continues, his breathing labored. "Sorry it...happened to your son, Winchester. But he ain't...your son anymore."

"He is," John growls, and Dean almost sags against the wall in relief. "He is my son, but I gave him to you—"

"Sold him to me," Walt interrupts, and while Dean is in the middle of trying to give his father the benefit of the doubt, he can grudgingly admit that Walt's right: John shouldn't be allowed to forget what really happened.

"—on the understanding that you would treat him right."

"He's a Lilim, John, I got to treat him however I wanted," Walt snaps, then coughs wretchedly and gasps in breath.

"He's a boy," John insists, and Walt laughs.

"A boy. That what you...what y'thought when you gave him to me? You th...thought he was goin' to a foster home?" Walt's laugh is a broken, wet, disgusting thing, and Dean feels Ava shiver behind him. "You gonna have me believe...you were fittin' him for school clothes yourself? Did you treat him...like a ward?"

"I never laid a hand on him," John bites out. "Not once."

"Don't have to...hit someone to...break them," Walt rasps, managing to somehow turn it into a sneer despite the fact that he could barely get the breath he needed to say it.

"Do you want to go in?" Dean whispers, and Ava steps forward into his line of sight, nodding.

Good. Because Dean can't listen to this conversation anymore.

He walks Ava up to the doorway and raps on the door frame with his knuckles. Walt and John both look up, Walt moaning a bit at the sudden movement, and John stands up. "Dean," he says, surprised.

"Ava needs a minute," Dean replies shortly, and John's face falls a bit. "Can you give us a sec?"

John nods, slips past them, and says, "I'll be right here in case anything happens. You armed?"

Dean reaches to the back of his waistband and taps the grip of his pistol with two fingers. John nods again and goes to stand at the end of the hallway, a couple of yards down from them.

Walt is watching them with trepidation, keeping his eyes on Dean in particular as they near him. "Whatever you need to do," Dean whispers to Ava. She nods, entirely focused on Walt, and pulls up a chair to sit in front of him.

The significance of her taking a piece of furniture to sit on before she says what she has to say to her old master does not escape Dean's notice.

Walt's eyes shift to her, and he rolls them a little. "My girl," he says, then coughs again. Ava flinches way from it minutely. "Here to spit on me, too?"

Ava shivers, her eyes seeking Dean in a sudden panic. He steps up right behind her and puts a hand, very lightly and easily shrugged-off, on her shoulder. He glares at Walt over her head. "You can shut the fuck up and let her talk," he growls. "You talk if she asks you a question. Otherwise, you're quiet."

Walt's about to say something smart back when Dean uses the hand that's not on Ava's shoulder to pull out his pistol and leave it dangling casually by his thigh. Walt shuts up.

It takes Ava a minute to collect herself. From his hand on her shoulder Dean can feel her trembling and shuddering as she tries to calm herself down, tries to bolster her courage to speak to this man like she'd probably been wanting to for ages but never had the freedom to. Finally, she whispers, "What you did to me was wrong."

Walt snorts, and Dean brings the gun up, just a little. "Was me shootin' you so fun last time you want to go for round two?" he demands, and Walt glares at him but quiets again.

"What you did to me was wrong," Ava repeats, sounding a little stronger this time. "And what you did to Luke...to Sam, was wrong. I want you to know that I know, now. That you should have treated me better. That you shouldn't have hurt me." She hesitates, licking her lips anxiously and shooting a quick glance at Dean. He nods at her, and her eyes don't leave his face as she whispers, "I didn't deserve it."

Dean's smiling at her, proud for reasons he can't really find words for, and her lips twitch upwards briefly before she looks back at Walt. He's watching her, his expression flicking between anger and weariness, and he mutters, "Deserve? You—"

Dean's hand twitches around the gun, and Walt notices the small movement. "It's not point/counterpoint, Hamilton," Dean says quietly. "Ava? Got anything else to say?"

Ava thinks for a moment, taking her time, her expression exaggeratedly pensive. She shrugs, then shakes her head. "No. I'm done."

Dean figures that's probably not true, in the big picture, but he extends a hand to help her to her feet, which she takes like a princess and stands gracefully. Dean makes sure the pistol is subtly pointed at Walt the whole way as he's escorting Ava out of the room, in case he feels the need to make one last remark.

He doesn't.

Once they're out of the room, Ava sags a little, spent from the effort of rejecting years of brainwashing. Dean catches her, and she grips his arms, bracing herself and standing with his help. He tries to separate from her, but she slips her arms around his waist and hugs him.

He freezes for a second, not sure if he can hug her back, but when she doesn't move he carefully puts his arms loosely around her shoulders. She leans against him, a lot like Sammy does, and he can feel her hot breath against his chest as she whispers, "Thank you."

"Yeah," he says. "You okay, kiddo?"

She nods, wrapping her arms tighter around him for just a moment before releasing him. He holds her at arm's length and studies her face carefully, watching as she sniffs and rubs her nose on the back of her hand. She tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles a watery smile at him. The dampness on her face matches the dampness that he's just now noticing on his shirt, and she wipes her tears away with her fingers in a swift, practiced motion. "I'm better now," she says thickly. "Thanks for being with me."

"No problem," he replies. "Look, it's late, and you're beat. You need to catch a few hours of sleep at least—it's gonna be a long few days. You think you can make it back to bed on your own?"

She nods, and he grins, watching her as she walks back down the hall to her room. Just before she's out of earshot he hears another voice—Jo's—whisper, "Ava! Are you okay?"

And when he hears Ava's voice reply, "I'm okay," he thinks she might be telling the truth.

He almost throws an elbow back when he feels a hand on his shoulder, but resists just in time to not break his father's nose. John jumps back a step anyway when Dean whirls around, looking as startled as Dean feels. "Jesus," Dean gasps, "don't sneak up on me."

"I didn't mean to," John says, more apologetically than Dean has perhaps ever heard him before. "Do you—do you have a minute, Dean?"

Dean knows that his father is asking two questions here. The first is literally do you have the time right now to talk, to which the answer is obviously yes. He's obviously not sleeping and there's nothing else he could be doing at this time of night. The second question is are you willing to talk to me, which is the more complicated question. Because on the list of things Dean wants to do right now, talking to his dad is not high on it. But on the other hand, what Sammy said when he thought his father was calling on the phone was true—he can't put this off, not forever. Not even for long.

"I got a minute," Dean replies, leaning heavily against the wall of the hallway.

John leans next to him, close to the door to the study where Walt is sitting, wheezing out what are some of his last breaths. "I don't know where to start," he admits, laughing softly and without humor. "I fucked up, son. More than I thought it was possible to fuck up. I let you down, and to say I let your brother down doesn't scratch the surface of what I did to him. I don't know how to make up for it."

"Catching Norman Bates over there is a good start," Dean says, but he can't force any lightness into his voice. "Least now we can prepare ourselves for whatever this ritual bullshit is. Speaking..."

He trails off, because even though he has to know, he can't bring himself to form the words of the question he has to ask.

He can't ask his father if he'd knowingly given Sammy up to be murdered, because it will kill him if the answer is yes. If the answer is yes his world will collapse.

John's eyes are searching him, he can feel it, and he wants to close himself off to it, to throw up his hands and arms and shield himself from it, because he knows his dad can read the question in the lines of his posture.

"I didn't know." John's words are simple, spare, but the volumes of grief behind them could fill a library, and Dean's legs almost give out from relief. "You have to believe me, Dean. I didn't know what Walt was planning. Even without knowing who Sammy was, you have to believe that I wouldn't have let that boy be killed."

"You took him away from me," Dean whispers. "You sold him to a stranger. Dad, we both trusted you, and you took him away."

"I thought I was going to lose you." John can't meet his eyes, and it's an experience Dean has never had before, until his father showed up at Missouri's. "Dean, I thought you were going to...to throw your life away for him, and I thought I'd already lost one son, and I couldn't bear to lose another. You were all I had left. You were my whole life."

"Even if he hadn't been Sammy, he would have been somebody's son, somebody's brother," Dean insists, deflecting his father's words. "He was a defenseless kid and I thought I was doing what we're supposed to do—help people who can't help themselves. I thought that's what we did, Dad."

"Not at the expense of family," John argues, then sighs, running his hands over his face as he, too, sags against the wall. "I'm not trying to justify what I did, Dean. God, I could never. But I want you to understand that I didn't do it to hurt Sammy, even before I knew he was Sammy. I didn't want him to be hurt."

"Why'd you come here?" Dean asks. "How'd you find us?"

John does look at him, then, one eyebrow quirking up. "You're a damn fine tracker, son," he says, "but who taught you what you know? I followed your trail of bloody noses and black eyes from one Hunter bar to the next. And then I realized none of the Hunters we knew were answering their phones, and when I found out that Hamilton was in Lawrence, I knew where you'd be. All of you."

There's an unmistakable pang of hurt in John's voice, but Dean can't reallly bring himself to care. If John's feelings are hurt because Dean went to the others before him, well, too fucking bad.

"And I came here because I knew I'd lose you forever if I didn't," he continues, "and because I trust you, Dean. I did what I thought I had to do, but if you had a bad feeling about it, well, I wanted to back you up in whatever fight you found yourself in. And if losing Luke was gonna take you away from me..." He breaks off, then murmurs, "Nothing's worth that to me."

"You swear to God you didn't know about the ritual," Dean demands.

"I swear on your mother's grave, Dean, I did not know he was going to try to kill Sammy," John promises fervently.

Dean nods, staring intently at the ground, and whispers, "I'm glad you're here, Dad."

John's hand brushes Dean's shoulder, but he decides against touching his son too much and just says, "Thank you, Dean. I'm gonna work hard to make it up to both of you."

"S'not me you have that much to make up to," he says.

"I know," John sighs. "But your brother has you to watch out for him until he's willing to let me help."

Take care of Sammy. The edict that has ruled his life since age four.

He's willing to take up the mantle again.

He leaves John to his watch in the study, and he slips back into Missouri's bedroom, sliding in against the edge of the bed because by now Sammy's all sprawled out, gangly limbs everywhere, taking up all of the space that Dean had occupied before.

It's okay. Sammy can take it.

Sammy can take whatever he needs, as long as he stays.

Sam wonders at how oblivious Dean is, sometimes. 

He's a razor-sharp Hunter, an expert tracker, a viciously protective rescuer, but he never seems to realize when Sam gets out of bed.

He sits in the hallway, just around the corner, and listens to his brother help Ava find some closure.

Pride isn't something he's felt a lot of in his life...nobody ever really told him he was doing a good job, or that he was smart or good at anything, and he's never related to any other person in a way that would make him feel proud of them before.

He almost doesn't recognize the feeling when it rises in him, the way his chest feels warm—he just knows that it's positive, that it feels like happiness.

But he's proud of his brother.

He's proud to be Dean's brother.

Because for all that rough exterior, all of the crazed Rambo-esque serial killer persona he can put on at the drop of a hat, his brother is a good person.

No, his brother is the best person he's ever known.

While that's not terribly high praise right now, he's pretty sure that Dean would never lose that title, no matter who he might meet later on in his life.

Dean can't possibly understand what Ava's going through, or what Sam is going through, because he's never been through something similar, but nonetheless he takes the time to help Ava through this in the way she needs to work through it.

He doesn't try to make her do what he thinks she ought to; he just asks and listens.

Sam listens, too.

Listens to Dean with Ava, and listens to Dean with their father.

He listens to the way that Dean is willing to keep his father, his only family for so long, at arm's length until 'Sammy' decides otherwise.

Which is why, once Dean is asleep, Sam slips out of bed and goes to the study.

Walt's unconscious, which is good, because Sam doesn't have Ava's need to talk to his tormentor.

He'll just be glad when the bastard dies.

But he walks into the doorway and stands awkwardly for the two seconds it takes John to realize someone's there.

His father freezes, carefully puts away the book he was reading, and sits quiet and still, waiting for Sam to make the first move.

Sam swallows.

"I want to try," he says softly.

John doesn't move, but his eyes widen a little.

"I want to try to be a family again," he continues, "but it's going to be hard."

There's a sheen of tears in John's eyes now as he murmurs, "I know it is, son."

Son.

"Dean loves you," Sam says, "so I want to try."

John's chin trembles, and his hands clench around his legs like it's the only thing that can stop him from standing, and he's being so careful not to make any sudden movements that might frighten Sam.

"I want to try, too, Sammy," he whispers, "and I want whatever you want...I'll take whatever you can find it in you to give me."

Sam's father lets out a small, choked sob, and he says, "My baby boy."

Sam can't stand it so he runs back to the bedroom, and evidently Dean's not as oblivious as Sam thinks he is because he's awake and sitting on the bed.

When Sam starts sobbing into his shirt, he doesn't ask any questions.

And Sam thinks that maybe he's going to have to get used to sneaky older brothers who understand way more than they ought to.

Chapter Text

Sammy can say all he wants that he doesn't remember how to be an annoying younger brother, but Dean knows better.

He'd always thought Luke had it in him to be obnoxious with the best of them, just hidden under layers of beaten-in obedience, flashes of it showing through once in a while. But now it's Sammy, and now he's safe and home, and now Dean's gonna be able to keep his promises to protect him, and Sammy's making up for years of little brotherhood missed.

For example, the piece of bacon he just stole off of Dean's plate.

They're eating another of Missouri's awesome breakfasts, and Dean's fully aware that he's getting really spoiled to it in just the few days they've been there. All of their plates are piled high with eggs, hash browns, and bacon, and yet it seems like Sammy, despite not having finished his own bacon, needs some more. He's sneaky, too—his skinny little long-fingered hand darting to Dean's plate while Dean was talking to Jo, slipping back soundlessly. The bacon's already in his mouth by the time Dean notices.

"Sammy!" he cries, regretting his tone and his volume for a split second before Sammy bites off the bacon in his mouth, swallows, and laughs. "Damn it, Sammy, you got yours!"

"That was a good piece," Sammy explains, like it was totally reasonable and he doesn't understand what Dean's problem is, obviously he was going to take it.

"Which is why I wanted to eat it," Dean says, slowly and clearly.

"Think of it as a donation to giving me the experiences I missed out on as a kid," Sammy replies breezily, and Dean waits for his heart to plummet.

When it doesn't, he's confused for a second.

Every time Sammy's brought up what happened to him before, Dean has always felt an overwhelming sense of either pity, grief, or guilt. One of the three, always, sometimes more. But this time, nothing. Just amusement, fondness, and a vague actual irritation at having his bacon stolen because it did look like the best piece on the plate. This time, Sammy's eyes are crinkled a little at the edges, and he's taking a big bite of the bacon right in Dean's face, and there's no tension in his shoulders and Ava's giggling a little on the other side of the table next to Jo. This time, Sammy looks happy, like he can start to talk about the past as just that—the past. Like he can believe that it's over, that it's actually done with, and that it's something he can make jokes about.

And then Sammy's hand slips back to his plate to take what is clearly the second-best piece of bacon Dean has, and Dean growls low in the back of his throat. Sammy looks up, startled but apparently incredibly amused by the sound, and he bursts out laughing.

"Yeah, I'll give you a donation to experiences you missed," Dean promises, and grabs Sammy around the neck and drags him down off of the chair.

It's not the kind of play-fighting he'd always imagined doing with his brother—he's holding back, being careful because he knows Sammy's still injured. He's manhandling his brother carefully, making sure he doesn't hit the table with one of the welts on his back and he's keeping Sammy mostly on his side. The sum total is that it's a much more delicate operation than any kind of wrestling he'd done before, but Sammy is still shrieking with laughter, and even though he'd dropped the second-best piece of bacon on the floor in the scuffle, Dean thinks that it's an acceptable sacrifice.

Jo's been hooting and hollering and whistling with her fingers stuck in her mouth the whole time, and Ava's been giggling. Missouri's yelling something about how if they break her nice place settings she's gonna have them doing dishes for a month, and it's only when all of them go silent that Dean realizes something's up.

He sits up, Sammy still in a headlock, trying to bring his face around to see what's going on. Both of them are flushed and red and stifling laughter, and it's a stark contrast to the serious look on Ellen's face.

That heart-plummeting that Dean had been expecting earlier? Yep, there it is.

And he didn't think that these words would ever be reassuring to him, but when she says, "He's dead," Dean can breathe again.

He releases Sammy, who sits up slowly, pulling himself up along Dean's arm. When he no longer needs it to get up, Dean slips that arm around Sammy's back in a light touch. "When?" Sammy asks softly.

"Just a minute ago," Ellen replies. "Jim was with him."

"He get last rites?" Dean asks bitterly, and Sam looks up, startled at Dean's tone, maybe. Ellen just smiles tightly.

"Refused 'em," she answers, "though you know Jim had to offer. We're gonna get rid of the body soon, wanted you kids to know before we got the pyre lit."

Dean knows he's being irrational, but he can't help it, when he says, "You're giving that son of a bitch a Hunter's funeral? After what he did?"

"It's not a Hunter's funeral," Sammy interrupts, and everybody in the room turns to him. He flushes a little, and it wrenches Dean's heart a little that he's still so unused to anything but negative attention. "And I want to help."

Dean's cry of "Not a chance!" drowns out Ellen's softer "What?" and Ava's small gasp.

So it's Dean that Sammy glares at, his brows drawn into a stubborn frown. "I thought I got to make my own choices now," he says, which is a low fuckin' blow and he knows it. "I want to help."

"I'd've thought you'd never want to see that bastard's face again," Dean says through clenched teeth. "Let the adults take care of this one, Sammy, come on. You don't need to do this."

"What do you do to get rid of a ghost, Dean?" Sammy asks, and the seeming non-sequitur throws Dean for a second. Long enough for Sammy to stand and get back to his chair, where he sits, arms crossed, waiting for Dean's answer.

Dean stays on the floor, narrows his eyes, and says, "You salt and burn the body or object it's tied to."

"Why salt?" Sammy asks, for all the world like he's a professor and Dean is taking a class with him, except that the class would be Dean's Entire Fucking Life 101, so Dean's a little irritated.

"It's a purifier," he snaps. "Now what does this—"

"It's not a Hunter's funeral," Sammy interrupts. "It's a salt-and-burn. I need to do this, Dean. I need to get his voice out of my head."

Dean can't find any words to combat that.

"But what I don't need," Sammy continues, and there's just a twinge of hesitation, of anxiety in his voice as he says it, "is your permission."

And Dean gives in.

"For anything, apparently," he grumbles as he stands and plops himself down in the seat next to Sammy, "even eating my damn food. Well, my appetite's done anyway. We doin' this now, Ellen?"

Ellen's eyes are on Sammy and it takes her a minute to shake herself out of it, but she does and she says, "Yeah, Bobby and your dad are out building the pyre. Jim's readying the body. You boys can come outside whenever you're ready. You, too, Ava. Jo, you stay inside for this."

"Mom!" Jo's voice is filled with horror and indignation, and she clamps onto Ava's arm. "I want to stay with Ava!"

"This ain't your business, girl, and Ava's bigger than you," Ellen says firmly. "You're too little to see this."

"I'll stay inside with you, Jo," Ava says, her voice barely audible. Ellen looks surprised, then frowns.

"You don't have to baby her," she chides. "Jo can learn to live with disappointment for an hour or so. You do what you have to do, Ava."

"I ended it last night," Ava replies, more steadily. "I don't need to see the fire. I'll stay with Jo."

Ellen doesn't look totally convinced, but she says, "All right. You change your mind, don't be afraid to ditch her narrow behind wherever you are and come meet us." Ava smiles and nods her assent. Ellen's already turned to go when Jo shouts my behind ain't narrow!and doesn't turn back around to acknowledge her daughter.

Ava and Jo are saying something, and Missouri's going outside to meet Ellen and the men, but Dean doesn't notice anything but the complex play of emotions on his brother's face. For all his tough words a minute ago Dean can tell that Sammy's pretty shaken up about this whole thing, and he thinks back to the way Ava acted last night, how complicated it was for her. He doesn't touch Sammy, but he asks, "You doing okay?"

"I hated him," Sammy whispers, staring down at the table. "I hated him and he's dead. I should feel good about that."

"It's not a crime to not want to party 'cause a man's dead, no matter how shitty of a man he was," Dean says, he thinks pretty sagely. Sammy nods, thoughtful.

"I don't know how to feel about it," he murmurs. He looks up at Dean. "Is that okay?"

"He fucked you over, Sammy," Dean replies, scooting so he can look his brother in the eye. "You're not pretending he didn't. But lots of people have fucked you over. He was just the last one to do it, and he was the one who fucked you over bad enough that you found us. I'm no shrink, but I get how that's confusing. Hell, part of me wanted to shake the bastard's hand, because without him I don't know if I'd've ever seen you again."

Sammy doesn't say anything, just studies Dean's face, searching for something. Dean doesn't know what, and doesn't try too hard to figure it out, because Sammy's got the time now to look for what he needs. Walt's dead, Sammy's with Dean, and everybody Dean knows is gathered at Missouri's house to make sure nothing tries to separate them again.

Whatever it is it looks like Sammy found it, because he smiles, and while it's a little wobbly around the edges it's big and bright and he takes and releases a big breath. "Wanna go set a dead body on fire?" he asks, and laughs at Dean's disgusted face, his laughter full and rich with relief.

"We're the weirdest family ever," Dean grumbles as he stands, letting Sammy pull him to his feet. He feels his little brother's hand tighten a little around his wrist as he says it, and the smile on Sammy's face grows a little bit bigger. "Seriously, what kind of bonding time is this?"

Sammy just laughs again and doesn't respond as he leads Dean outside. But his posture grows tighter and tighter as they head behind Missouri's house into the back yard, which has a high fence around it. Good fences make good neighbors arises in Dean's mind, and he figures that Missouri would be a difficult neighbor for a normal person without her big fence.

Luckily she also has a fire pit, which will be a good excuse for the smoke, and it looks like somebody coated the wrapped corpse liberally in sage. The adults are ranged around the body, Bobby and John putting the final touches on the pyre and Pastor Jim and Ellen setting aside cans of salt and gasoline. Missouri sees them coming first, and she motions for them to join her.

"We're just about ready," she says gently, raising her arm for Sammy to slip under. He does, and she squeezes him around the shoulders. "We figured you'd want to light him up."

Sammy doesn't say anything, just nods. Dean stands behind him, waiting, not wanting to interfere with this moment. John catches his eyes from across the yard, his hair dripping sweat into his eyes from the effort of building the pyre, and Dean feels a sudden swell of emotion.

It’s fucked up, feeling like they’re finally starting to gel as a family like this, over the corpse of a man who became their mutual enemy, about to burn his body without so much as a letter to his family, if he had any. Dean figures if that’s necessary Ellen will take care of it, let whoever needs to know what happened to him know. But his dad is standing at the other side of the pyre, having labored over it in part to get rid of this toxic presence and in part to give Sammy something to mark his new freedom with, and Sammy is standing right here, steeling himself to salt and burn not only Walt Hamilton’s body but also his own past.

It’s not normal.

But maybe it’s okay.

“You got anything you want to say before we do this, Sammy?” Bobby asks solemnly, walking over to the younger boy and handing him a scuffed-up Bic lighter like it was some kind of sacrament. Sammy takes it with equal gravity, looking at it rather than Bobby, maybe looking at his reflection in the chrome top.

He shakes his head, and Bobby steps aside.

It’s a struggle for Dean to let Sammy walk up to the pyre by himself. He wants to stand next to him, to be right by him, and every instinct is raging against reason by screaming at him not to let Sammy get so close to Walt by himself, don’t you know what happened last time?, but of course Walt is dead. Still, Dean can’t help the way he feels, and he feels sick, even just the few yards away he is from his brother as he does this.

He stops a few feet away from the wrapped body, and glances uneasily at Pastor Jim. “Is there anything else you need to do?” he asks. Pastor Jim shakes his head and says nothing.

Dean can see Sammy’s shoulders rise and fall as he takes a bracing breath. Then the lighter flicks on, Sammy tosses it onto the pyre, and it goes up like the fourth of July.

Sammy doesn’t move, just stays in front of the pyre, and Dean doesn’t move either until Missouri pushes him forward gently. He takes the hint and walks up to his brother, feeling the heat of the fire on his cheekbones first, and puts his arm around Sammy’s shoulders.

They’re quiet. The adults are all still standing in the back yard, but they’ve kind of meandered away, giving the boys some space and privacy. Even John has gone over to Missouri and is speaking to her in a voice too soft for Dean to hear, even if he’d been really trying to listen.

But he’s not, because Sammy’s here, his shoulders slowly unwinding beneath Dean’s arm, his left hand clenched into a fist but his right hand still open like he forgot about it once the lighter was out of it. The fire is reflected in his eyes, but his expression is almost eerily neutral. He’s very still, doesn’t lean in to Dean, doesn’t pull back.

They stay like that for a while, so long that it startles Dean when Sammy says, “What did he have to say?”

Dean doesn’t insult Sammy by pretending he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, although it’s tempting. “He said that it’s Yellow-Eyes who set up the ritual. That it’s got nothing to do with killing him...that it’s a trap. One of his Hunter buddies, Clive, he was possessed.”

“So the ritual would never have worked,” Sammy murmurs, and he leans his head against Dean’s chest.

“No. It was all to get you back where the demon could get his hands on you. And it ain’t gonna happen, little brother, I can promise you that.”

“Does anybody else know that Clive was possessed?” Sammy asks. Dean shakes his head. “So they’re still gonna try to find me.”

“Walt wouldn’t have known where we were if it weren’t for Dad,” Dean assures him. “The others sure as hell won’t be able to find us. We just gotta wait it out. The Black Moon’s tonight—after that, it’ll be too late for them to do anything to you. I’m gonna keep you safe.” He rests his chin on top of his brother’s head. “We all will.”

Sammy nods against Dean’s shirt, and they watch the fire in silence until it becomes too warm for both of them.

It’s a bitter victory, Dean thinks as the fire consumes the body. A victory that involves the loss of a human life, someone who was ostensibly if not effectively an ally and at least a useful tool, but it’s a victory nonetheless. One step closer to fixing things for Sammy.

“Jo!"

Ellen’s voice is piercing, cutting right through his reflections, and when he turns he sees why. Jo is stumbling into the back yard, her blonde hair bloodied over her forehead, clutching her arm to her and weeping silently. Ellen runs to her and grabs her, sitting her down on the floor and checking her over in a panic. Pastor Jim joins her and everybody else keeps their distance, Dean and Sammy coming only close enough to hear what Jo is trying to say.

“We just went into the front yard for a second,” Jo is weeping, staring up at her mother like she’s begging for forgiveness. “Just for a second, ‘cause we were bored. I thought it was gonna smell bad but Ava said Miss Missouri put some sage on the pyre so it was gonna smell okay and I didn’t even wanna go outside, Mom, but she wanted to and I was bored too—”

“Where’s Ava, baby?” Ellen asks, stroking Jo’s hair away from the gash on her forehead. “Sweetheart, where is she?”

Jo bursts into tears anew. “He took her,” she sobs. “He took her. A man. He got gray hair and glasses and he had a gun.”

“Nothing should’ve gotten through the warding,” Missouri murmurs in alarm. “Even the yard should've been within the perimeter.”

“Did he sound like this?” Sammy asks, and Dean frowns in confusion at the affected Boston accent that his brother puts on. But Jo’s eyes widen and she nods. Sammy turns to Dean and says, his voice flat, “Victor Hines.”

“One of the Hunters Walt was working with on the ritual,” Dean says for everyone else’s benefit. Sammy nods. “The demon must’ve found him and the other guy. Convinced them to do the ritual without Walt.”

“Walt said the demon told them they couldn’t do it without Sammy,” Ellen says, still cradling Jo to her chest.

“They’re not gonna do the ritual with Ava,” Sammy replies, sounding dulled. “She’s bait. They want me to come for her.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Dean growls, but there’s something in the look that Sammy gives him that quiets him.

“It is,” he says, and Dean's heart sinks. “Because I’m gonna kill the demon. For good this time.”

Walt’s body is burning behind him.

It’s cathartic, but not as much as he’d anticipated it would be; it’s too confusing, too much to conceive of, that the greatest villain of his childhood is turning to ashes just feet away.

It’s the closing of a door. The ending of a chapter.

And for the first time, he feels like Samuel Winchester instead of Luke.

He feels like a Hunter, the son of a Hunter, instead of a Lilim slave.

He can stand tall next to Dean, even though he can’t match Dean’s broad shoulders and heavy muscles from years of being active in the life, but he can stand up next to his brother and think, I am a Winchester.

And then Jo runs into the yard, and Ava is missing, and Walt’s body is burning and with it Sam’s past is burning, too, and this is it.

When he says he’s going to kill the demon, he means he’s going to kill all of the demons that have haunted him throughout the years.

The one with the yellow eyes is the root of all of it, though—the one who started it all, who ruined him as a baby, who took him from Dean and their father when he could have had a full life with them, who probably took his memories.

Who killed Dean's mother.

Who killed his mother.

Who was going to hurt his only friend, his only comfort in all those years of torment if he didn’t stop it.

Luke wouldn’t have been able to conceive of raising a hand against something like the Yellow-Eyed Demon.

Luke would never have contradicted a Hunter like Sam had done when Dean said he wouldn't be going after Ava.

Maybe Luke could have been the bait, like Ava’s being forced to be again, to help his master take down the demon.

But to make a stand, to be the aggressor...Luke wouldn't, couldn’t have thought of it.

But Sam Winchester can.

And maybe to be Sam Winchester, he has to.

Whether his brother likes it or not.

Chapter Text

“This is the worst motherfucking idea in the history of stupid ideas, and I want it on the record that I’ve said that.”

“It’s on the record that you’ve said it a hundred goddamn times, boy,” Bobby growls as he checks the ammunition bag one more time. Sammy, the little shit, is grinning in the corner as he helps Ellen sharpen the silver knives, looking like the cat that swallowed the damn canary, and Dean feels like his head is going to explode. 

He was so sure that he’d get backup when he told Sammy he couldn’t go after the demon. Obviously he would get backup; it's a terrible idea. They'd proven that last time when the demon almost killed Dean because they'd gone in half-cocked, and they aren't any better prepared this time. But evidently everybody else in the house felt that it was more important for his brother to assert himself and to make his own choices than to be kept safe where the demon who so clearly wanted him, and badly, couldn’t reach him.

Sammy is safe at Missouri’s. Missouri’s is warded and spelled and protected. At Missouri’s, Sammy wakes up in the morning and gets breakfast—bacon, eggs, pancakes, orange juice, milk, things that kids are supposed to eat. He goes through his day reading books or talking to his friends or just spending time with Dean watching TV or playing board games. He’s not bad at Connect 4 and he’s good at Monopoly because he’s a nerd, despite his lack of formal education. He's almost finished with the Narnia books now, and he's trying to make Dean read them, with limited success. He's safe. He's where Dean can keep him that way.

On the road he’ll be vulnerable. Exposed. There are places he can go and things he can do where Dean can’t protect him, where Dean could get hurt and not be able to get to him in time, where something could block Dean from him, where he could be taken and Dean would lose him again and that scares him worse than anything else in his life ever has.

He doesn’t realize he’s trembling until the pistol he’s cleaning clatters to the floor out of his unsteady hands. Everyone in the room quiets, and he flushes. “‘Scuse me,” he mutters, escaping from the study on legs that seem barely able to hold his weight.

He stumbles into the hallway, gasping for breath that he can’t manage to catch, hands trembling so badly that it’s bleeding into his arms and everywhere else and he has to lean against the wall with all his weight so that he doesn't just collapse onto the floor from the shaking. He’s sweating, and he feels like it’s suddenly sweltering in the house. It’s too much. Everything was just so good and now this and it’s not fair and he can’t lose Sammy, not again, not so soon especially but not ever again and it’s not fair that the adults who are supposed to be helping him are going to go along with this bullshit plan for the sake of Sammy’s self esteem or what the fuck ever hippie psychoanalyst bullshit they think they’re doing. It doesn’t matter because if Sammy gets killed it’ll be his fault because it’s his job, it's always been his job to keep Sammy safe.

He sinks down to the ground and tries to remember how he talked Sammy down from his panic attack, and just can’t figure it out, and he wonders vaguely if he’ll feel better after he passes out.

Suddenly there’s a shadow over him and a pressure on his knees that he’s drawn up to his chest. “Breathe.” Sammy’s voice is firm and brooks no argument, which is a tone he’s never heard from his brother before, and it startles him into obedience. “One, two. Out, two. In, two. Out, two. Good job, Dean. Like that.”

Dean obeys, but it’s wrong, because he’s supposed to be doing this for Sammy, not the other way around. His little brother shouldn’t have to take care of him. He shouldn't get to, shouldn't have to see Dean in a place where Dean isn't in control. But he only glares a little bit as Sammy guides him through the breathing until it’s six counts in and out, and then he sighs and slumps a little.

“You okay?” Sammy asks, sitting in front of him. Dean glares harder at that. “Dumb question. You gonna be okay?”

“I don’t like this, Sammy,” Dean snarls. “This doesn’t just stink of a trap, it’s got a fuckin’ neon sign that says this is a trap! right over it.”

“We know it’s a trap,” Sammy says, like it’s so obvious and clear. “We won’t fall in it if we know it’s there.”

“Bullshit,” Dean spits. “Nothing we have could kill that demon. It took all your mojo to even just exorcize him last time. You get me? There’s no preparing for it. We’re screwed. Our best bet is to get in there, grab Ava, and leave, while you are on code black lockdown here. Or better, if we could get you there, Bobby’s.”

“I need to do this,” Sammy argues quietly.

“Like hell you do,” Dean laughs, and it even tastes bitter in his mouth. “You’re free, Sammy. You’re done. You need to rest, and get better. Shit, man, you’re still hurt.”

“Dean?” John’s footsteps had been inaudible under the sound of Dean and Sammy arguing, so Dean jumps a little at his father’s voice. John comes into view and Dean instantly turns the glare he had directed at Sammy on to his father. “Are you all right, son?”

“Fuck off,” Dean snarls, and John looks shocked. Dean ignores his brother’s hiss of his name, and he continues. “This is your fault. I got nothing to say to you right now.”

“Dean,” Sammy says firmly, and Dean turns his glare back for just a second before fixing it again on John.

“If you hadn’t given Sammy back to that asshole, this wouldn’t be happening at all,” Dean says, his voice low and threatening, his eyes fixed on his father who looks pale and shaken. “He wouldn’t be doing this. And you know what’s worse? You’re not even fighting it. Do you even care that we have him back?”

“Dean!” Sammy shouts, and John murmurs the same, and Dean just glares at both of them because he knows he’s not being fair but he’s too fucking mad to care about that.

Until Sammy grabs his chin and forces their eyes to meet, that is. Dean is too shocked by his little brother’s sudden aggression to do anything but stare at him, stunned, mouth slightly agape. “Cut it out,” Sammy orders, and Dean’s eyes widen. “This isn’t his fault. You keep saying I’m free, I’m out, okay, so how about letting me make some choices?”

“You’re fucking fourteen years old,” Dean spits. “Free or not, you don’t get to make this kind of decision at fourteen! Damn it, Sammy, you could die!”

“You’re a Hunter,” Sammy argues. “You made decisions at fourteen that could’ve killed you all the time, I bet. I get that you’re mad. And scared. And mostly mad. But what I need is help right now, not you being all bitchy about it.”

“I’m not being bitchy!”

“You are. And I need you to stop. I need you, Dean.” Sammy looks so solemn, his eyes wide and serious, like all he wants in the world is for Dean to do this one thing for him, and Dean can feel himself caving in even though he knows exactly what Sammy is doing and he hates it.

Dean covers his face with his hands, and when he feels himself tugged forward into an embrace, he lets it happen. When Sammy’s shaggy hair brushes his face, he doesn’t shiver or flinch, just listens as his brother says softly, “There’s a lot of stuff that’s your d—that’s...Dad’s fault. This isn’t one of them. You can be mad at me if you want to be. It’s okay.”

“I’m really mad at you,” Dean breathes, and wonders at the weight it lifts off of his chest to admit it, to let himself say it out loud. “Fuck, Sammy, I’m so mad.”

“But can you help me anyway?” Sammy asks, still hugging him. Dean nods against his shoulder, and he releases him, standing. He’s smiling a little bit—reserved, contained. “I gotta go talk to Ms. Moseley. You gonna come back to the study?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles, forcing the lightness into his voice. Sammy’s smile turns grateful. He looks over at John and something that Dean can’t decipher crosses his face, and then he slips back into the study.

Leaving Dean with John.

Suddenly the weight of his own words hits Dean like a blow to the gut, and he feels his stomach twist as he looks up at his father. “Dad—”

“Don’t,” John says quietly. “Don’t pretend you didn’t mean it. It’s okay.”

“It was a shit thing to say,” Dean replies weakly, realizing that it’s not the same as saying no, I didn’t mean it.

“I can handle it,” John says. “It’s not like I don’t deserve worse.”

Dean suppresses the urge to groan. “Dad...”

“Dean.” John’s voice is firm, but at the same time Dean can hear a little bit of weakness in the foundation of his tone, a little unsteadiness. “I’m a grown man. And I know what I did, and what I forced you to do, and what I put Sam through. I’m not fooling myself into pretending I deserve any kindness.”

Dean sighs deeply and stands, realizing suddenly that this conversation has a zero percent chance of being productive. His dad’s too far gone into martyr mode, and nothing but Dean yelling at him or Dean offering his unconditional forgiveness is going to change anything. And Dean can’t do either. So he just stands and says, “You can start making up for it by helping me keep him safe during this stupid-ass suicidal plan of his. Okay? You take care of him if I can't. Above me. Got it?"

"Dean—" John begins, but Dean shakes his head and he quiets.

"Above me," Dean repeats. "We lost him once, Dad. Twice, almost. You didn't back me up when I said this plan was a bad idea, so now we're in it. And it's our job to keep him safe. So keep him safe."

John looks like he wants to argue. He's got a little bit of that familiar hard edge in the set of his jaw, in the flint of his eyes, but it's not enough to offset the guilt and the hurt that Dean can see in his every movement. So instead of arguing, he just nods. "Okay, son," he says.

Dean's about to say something back when Bobby's shout throws all thought from his mind. "Dean!"

Dean scrambles to his feet and hauls ass into the study, where Ellen's just finished tossing the chairs out of the way to make sure Sammy doesn't have anything to run into as he writhes on the ground. Bobby's kneeling by Sammy's head, not touching him, but his big hands are on either side of him to protect him. Dean crashes to his knees next to his brother and Bobby backs off, staying close enough to help if he needs to.

"Hey, Sammy, woah," Dean soothes, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "Hey, right here, come on, Sammy, come back. I'm right here. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. Come on back, Sammy, come on."

He keeps murmuring reassurances while resting his hand lightly on Sammy's arm, trying to give him as much to anchor himself to as possible. Sammy continues to thrash for a while, but his movements get gradually less reckless and less violent, until finally he's curled into the fetal position, facing Dean, shivering as he comes back to reality.

"Hey," Dean breathes when Sammy's eyes open like it's hard labor and meet his. "You all right?"

"Did I kick anybody?" Sammy mumbles, struggling to sit. Dean braces a hand under his back and helps him up, settling them both against Missouri's armchair while Sammy breathes heavily.

"Everybody's fine, son," Bobby assures him. "We need to call a doctor?"

Dean opens his mouth to answer for Sammy, but his brother speaks first. "I'm okay. It was a vision. Somebody please get me a pencil and paper."

Pastor Jim hurriedly does so, handing them to Sammy, who takes them with unsteady hands. He writes down a street name and two numbers with an underscore between them, then hands it to Bobby. "This is where the demon has Ava," he says softly. "He...wanted me to know." He takes a deep breath and adds, "He knows you're all coming, too. He thinks he's ready. We're not gonna get the jump on him."

"I didn't figure him for an idiot," Dean retorts, nudging Sammy's shoulder with his. "He's gotta know you're not traveling solo anymore. He probably doesn't know just how much shit he's gotten himself in, though. because you lined up with some pretty badass sons of bitches."

"Dean," Ellen scolds lightly.

"Daughters of bitches," Dean amends, and Ellen laughs, though she tries to cut it out as soon as she can, forcing her expression to sour. "It's okay, Sammy. We're ready for whatever he can throw at us."

Sammy nods at the lie, and Dean can feel him shudder once under the arm he's wrapped around his brother's shoulders. Then Sammy says, "Are we? Ready?"

"Missouri's voting to wait until it's almost midnight, to give the demon as little time to manoever as possible," Ellen says, glancing at their hostess, who nods.

"Ava's not gonna cut it," Missouri confirms. "The demon wants Sam, and he's said as much. I don't doubt that he'll kill the girl if we aren't there by midnight, but if we get there much in advance, it gives him too much opportunity to put us off our feet."

"He could be torturing her," Sammy argues.

"Did you see him torturing her?" Missouri asks, and Dean knows from her tone that it's a question she already knows the answer to. Sammy flushes and manages to somehow make it look sullen.

"No," he admits. "But he had her tied up!"

"If he was hurting her, don't you think he'd want you to see?" Missouri presses, and Sammy doesn't answer. It's answer enough. "It's just good sense, Sam. Give him as little advantage as possible, because Lord knows he doesn't need the help. We are gonna have a hard enough time winning this thing. Give me that address."

Bobby hands it to her, and Sammy's eyes follow the exchange petulantly, almost angrily. It's an odd look to see on his brother's face, and Dean feels equal parts uneasy and proud.

On the one hand, there's something about Sammy that makes him think that his brother has large potential stores of anger and darkness, both hidden and encouraged by his past. That in the wrong situation, Sammy could blow up something terrible. That he's going to have to guide him carefully, cautiously, into understanding right from wrong when he's never been taught to develop a moral compass—or even allowed to witness anyone who had a well-developed one in action.

On the other hand, it shows how far he's come, that he feels like he can express that anger in front of people. That he knows that it's okay to be angry, to let people see it, that it won't put him in danger and that he won't be hurt for feeling this. That's easily half of what Dean wants for Sammy—to be able to be a kid, to be a person who's allowed to feel things and not cover it up. To be mad when he's mad and snarky when he's snarky and never feel like he has to hide.

The flip side of that last part is when it happens, Dean will be able to tell Sammy to shut up and stop being stupid without worrying that it'll make him feel worthless. Because he's not worthless. He's fourteen and an idiot, but he's the most important person in the world, and one of these days he's gonna get that through his thick head.

"It's not far from here," Missouri says, her gaze still on the slip of paper. "Twenty minutes at the most. So we'll leave at a quarter past eleven, or a little after that."

"That doesn't give us enough time," Sammy protests.

"It gives us plenty of time," Missouri replies. "Enough time to get in and get Ava, and not so much time that we have to worry too much about keeping that demon's hands off of you. We'll be there before midnight so he won't hurt Ava, and we'll have little enough time that we can outrun him til the time's up on the ritual."

"I won't let him hurt Ava." Sammy's not looking at anybody now, but his words are ground through gritted teeth.

"Sam Winchester, not one of us here wants to see that girl hurt." Missouri folds her arms over her chest and glares down at Sammy, who meets her eyes with a glare of his own. "Nobody's going to let harm come to her, least of all me. She fell asleep under my roof, trusted me to keep her safe. After what's happened to the two of you, that trust is not something I take lightly. We will get her home, Sam. But we're not doing it at the cost of your safety. It doesn't have to be a choice between you."

"We're gonna keep both of you safe," Dean promises softly, his words muffled against Sammy's hair.

Sammy is drawn tight like a violin string for a long moment, but then he lets out a shaky sigh and relaxes, an inch at a time. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

Missouri doesn't say anything in response, just smiles, sad and a little grateful. Then she stands, shakes out her skirt, and says, "It'll have to be sandwiches for dinner. Then we'll double-check the equipment, get some rest, pray, and get ready for tonight. Bobby, Pastor, come help me in the kitchen. Ellen, go see to that girl of yours. John, Ashley, check the wardings around the house. Dean, calm that fool brother of yours down. And Sam, calm that fool brother of yours down." With that, she strides out of the study, with only Ash's pained mutterings about how his name is not Ashley following her.

Within moments, though, everyone is filing out to obey her orders, leaving only Dean and Sammy in the study, still sitting by the armchair.

"If something happens to Ava, it'll be my fault," Sammy says, and Dean is surprised by how quickly he broke the silence—so surprised that it takes him a minute to realize what his brother said.

"No, it won't," Dean retorts, and Sammy huffs and looks away. "Hey. You said it wasn't my fault when you got taken as a baby, right?"

"It wasn't," Sammy says, sounding like he's trying to argue while still agreeing with Dean.

"If that wasn't my fault, this isn't your fault. You didn't call up the demon and say hey, come kidnap my friend, it'd be a great way to spend the weekend."

"You were nine," Sammy insists, pained at Dean's ignorance. "I'm—"

"A big old fourteen," Dean finishes. "Wow. Five years older. I don't see why you're not headin' up your own household already."

"Don't be stupid, Dean."

Dean almost grins at the face Sammy's making. It's that same, bitchy expression he'd seen once or twice before, like god how can you be so dumb, only this time paired with how are we related, which is a nice twist. "Take your own advice, short stuff. Go easier on yourself. You've done everything you can to help her, even stuff that I think is dumber than you can believe. She can't—nobody could expect more. And we're gonna get her."

He expects some kind of sassy retort, but instead all he gets is a whispered "You promise?"

He gathers his brother into his arms. "I promise, buddy."

"I'm scared, Dean," Sammy murmurs, a confession.

"Me too," Dean replies. "It's okay."

"You're gonna be there with me?"

"The whole time," Dean promises. "No matter what."

Sammy lets out a shaky exhale, and says, "That's all I need."

 It's like there are two distinct parts of him.

There's Luke, and there's Sam.

 Sam is sitting in the study at Missouri Moseley's house, arguing with a room full of Hunters about the logistics of a rescue plan.

 Luke is sitting in the back of Sam's head, screaming at him to stop pushing his luck before he gets whipped.

 Sam wonders, sometimes, if it's weird that he's managed to transition so quickly into acting like a free person—like a human, a Hunter...if that means that he's going to be okay, eventually, or if he's just putting off the inevitable crash that he's heading for.

 Luke suggests that it's the latter.

 Because Luke was six when he was sold the first time, and Luke's memories start at four, and he's never been free, not for a day.

 Sam knows he has been, that he was born free and lived with his family for four years until he was kidnapped, but he can't remember it, so what does that matter?

 Neither Sam nor Luke has ever been free in any way that counts.

 So when Sam raises his voice to Dean or John or Ms. Moseley, Luke cowers in his mind, waiting for the punishment that he knows is coming.

 Lilim don't get to talk like that to any Hunters, much less Winchesters, or to their friends.

 But what about when the Lilim is a Winchester?

 Luke can't fathom that idea, and Sam hardly can, either.

 Because he can talk himself up about being a Winchester, being Dean's brother, being John's son, being free, being a Hunter, but in his mind he knows he was Lilim three days ago and he's never going to not be Lilim somewhere in his mind.

 But when everybody leaves the study, and it's just him and the comforting pressure of his brother's arms, it matters less.

 Because Dean cared about him when he was Luke, and Dean cares about him now that he's Sammy.

 Dean tore apart the countryside looking for the Lilim boy his dad bought, and is going to knowingly confront the demon that killed his mother because his brother wants him to be there.

 If Dean can figure out how he's supposed to feel about his father's Lilim slave turning into his brother, Sam guesses that maybe one day he'll be able to figure it out, too.

Chapter Text

Silver bullets.

Holy water.

Salt.

Rope soaked in consecrated water.

Silver daggers.

Dean's duffel is full and his head feels fuller, sitting in the back of Ellen's Jeep as they make their agonizingly slow way to the house where the demon's holding Ava. He and Sammy are huddled in the back seat, Ash is in the front seat by Ellen, and when Dean turns around he can see his dad and Bobby and Pastor Jim riding in the Impala behind them. Missouri stayed back at the house with Jo, after warding and spelling them against everything she could think of.

"I'll be praying for you," she'd promised Dean as she crossed his forehead and Sammy's with holy water. "Nonstop. Me and little Jo, we'll be here, praying."

"Thanks," Dean had whispered, shivering slightly under the cold touch of the Missouri's fingers and for no other reason than that, he was sure. "For everything, Missouri."

She held him for a moment, her hands cupped around his face, and pressed a kiss in the center of the cross she'd drawn. "Save your thanks for later," she said, "after you get back and eat me out of house and home again."

The cross still feels cold on his forehead, and his fingers touches it idly as he tries to feel out for the prayers that Missouri and Jo are sending his way. But he's never been much of one for prayer...in fact, he hadn't prayed at all since he'd lost Sammy, not until his brother was KO'd by his first vision back with the Oschaert. So no, he doesn't feel the prayers. He isn't surprised.

He hears Sammy whispering to his right, and he looks over, tuning in to his brother's words. They're almost too soft for him to hear, but they're familiar enough that he manages to make it out eventually.

"...et omnis legio diabolica ad-ad..." Sammy breaks off, frowning, then looks up at Dean as though suddenly aware of being watched. "Ad..." He bites his lip.

"Adjuramus te," Dean finishes.

"Adjuramus te. Cessa deciphere humanas creaturas," Sammy continues with a wan little half-smile, and murmurs the rest of the exorcism, just loud enough for Dean to hear and correct a few minute points of grammar.

The low rumble of the Jeep, so different from the deep purr of the Impala, isn't reassuring to Dean, but jarring. Sammy's quiet words are better, calming his nerves with the knowledge that his brother is there, at least for now. But too soon the exorcism ritual has been recited and Sammy is silent again, only his controlled breathing breaking the silence.

Until Ellen does, that is. "You boys ready?" she asks, soft but still a startling contrast with the previous quietness.

"Ready as we're gonna be," Dean answers by reflex, but then he looks over at Sammy and his brother looks like he was going to say something, but was dissuaded from it by Dean's quick response. "What do you think, Sammy?"

Sammy hesitates, his palms running up and down his jean-clad legs, the sound a rhythmic rasp that has an almost soothing quality to it. "I'm not sure," he admits, his voice barely above a breath.

Nobody says anything for a minute, absorbing that information. Sammy takes it as an invitation to keep talking. "I don't want any of you to get hurt because of me. I think maybe we should rethink the plan."

"Little late for that, son," Ellen says, her voice stern and a little worried. "I know you ain't been on the planning side of this game for long, but you don't just up and change a plan right before you storm the gates. Everybody knows their part. We stick to what we've got."

"I'm the only one the demon wants," Sam insists, sitting up straighter, a frown furrowing his brow. "There's no reason why the rest of you should put yourselves in danger just because—"

"That's why you should've stayed back at Missouri's," Dean snaps. He knows where this conversation is going, now, and he doesn't like it. He's willing to interrupt his brother before he lets him start talking like this again. "You are the one the demon wants, which is exactly why we shouldn't be letting him anywhere—"

"He wouldn't let Ava go if I didn't—"

"He's not gonna let Ava go, easy as that, even if you're—”

"I don't know if you recall, Dean, but I'm the only one who was able to get a hit in last—"

"I swear to God I will pull this car over and make you both rue the day you were born if you don't stop all that hollerin' this instant!" Ellen bellows, and both boys sit up straight real quick, totally silent, wide-eyed and staring at the rear-view mirror into which Ellen is glaring daggers. "There. Christ."

She gives everyone a minute to compose themselves, and then continues, her voice reasonable and even-toned like she hadn't just been shouting like a bullhorn. "Now let's take a look at this, boys. Sammy's already in the car, and we don't have time to swing back to Missouri's—not if we're gonna get to the house in time, which we are. So he's goin' nowhere. We've got a plan mapped out and if anybody veers off that plan—anybody, Sam Winchester—we're all of us in a pile of shit we can't see over. So we're not bringing Sammy back, and we're not changing the plan. So your ideas so far? Zero for two. Now let's try again. You boys ready?"

Both boys murmur "Yes, ma'am", and Ash says "I ain't," and Ellen whacks him on the arm and keeps driving.

The tiny cavalcade trundles up to the house where the demon's holed up, and as soon as they get onto the right street, Dean shivers. It's a little 70's-looking A-frame house on a totally average street in the middle of Lawrence, and he really hates it when demons fucking pervert everything good and normal about the world.

From what was already going to be a fucked-up childhood for his brother to this god damn house, its owners probably lying in pools of their own blood in their bedroom, it's like the demon's out to prove that there's nothing he can't ruin. Nothing sacred, nothing untouchable, nothing safe. In the movies, it always seemed like the bad guys found burned-out barns or creepy old mansions to stage their villainous plans. This demon decided on suburbia, instead, just to make a statement: there's nowhere to hide, and there's nowhere I can't get to you.

Dean squares his shoulders and gets out of the Jeep slightly ahead of his brother. Sammy slips in just behind his shoulder like it's natural, holds his knife, and stops when Dean stops. Ellen and Ash move quietly past them to approach Bobby, John, and Pastor Jim, leaving the brothers alone.

"He's not gonna get you," Dean whispers, unable to face his brother. He feels Sammy's forehead press against his shoulder. "Let me take care of you. I'll make sure he doesn't get you."

"Get Ava out, first," Sammy whispers back. Dean shakes his head.

"Pastor Jim and Ellen are gonna get her out. That's their job. Me and Bobby and Ash and Dad are gonna get you out, since you won't stay home like you ought to." Dean reaches behind him, and is gratified to feel his brother take his hand. "Me? I'm all yours, little brother. Personal security detail."

"I don't want him to hurt you," Sammy mutters.

"Don't worry about me," Dean insists, finally turning around and meeting Sammy's eyes levelly. "Seriously, Sammy. I'm not the one the demon wants. He's got some fucked-up plan for you, and that's what's got me nervous. But that? That's easy. Because you just gotta remember one word. You ready?"

Sammy hesitates, then nods. "Ready."

"The word is no," Dean says. Sammy looks taken aback, then a little disappointed, and starts to protest before Dean rolls right over him. "You say no. To whatever he says. No matter what he offers you. Got it? Because demons, Sammy, they lie. He'll offer the moon and the stars and give you shit and jack shit. So he says, hey, Sammy, wanna be the president? And you say..."

Dean trails off, waiting for Sammy to fill it in, and after a huff of a sigh and rolled eyes Sammy says, "I say no."

"Demon says, hey Sammy, wanna be the world's most famous rock star? You say..."

A small smile. "No."

"Demon says, hey Sammy, want me to cure cancer? You say..."

"No."

Dean swallows hard, then steadies his gaze on his brother and says, "Demon says, hey Sammy, want me to bring your mom back?"

Sammy's breath catches.

There's silence.

"You say..."

Sammy studies Dean's face like he's not sure it's not a trick, not sure he's not supposed to say yes this time, but finally he breathes, "I say no."

"You're god damn right you do," Dean says. He claps his brother on the shoulder. "You ready to go save a damsel and put this sorry son of a bitch out of our misery?"

Sammy hefts his knife and bares his teeth in what's clearly supposed to be a wicked smile, but comes out mostly as a grimace of anxiety and fear. "Ready," he lies.

"Me too," Dean lies right back. They turn to see the other party breaking up, and Ellen tilts her head at him. Go?

Dean nods, and walks up to the door with Sammy.

He raises his fist and knocks.

One. Two. Three.

He lowers his fist and waits.

Four. Five Six.

The door creaks open, and he's facing a very pale Ava, who gasps when she sees them. She doesn't look like she's hurt, but the terror in her eyes is unmistakeable.

"Luke," she breathes, startled out of using the name she'd only known Dean's brother by for a few days. "Dean."

Dean's stomach knots itself unpleasantly, because this is way too good to be true, but nonetheless he has to make a go for it, so he reaches out and grabs her wrist, his heartrate spiking as he scans the room behind her. "Let's go," he hisses.

And he's unsurprised when she braces herself against the doorframe, repelling his attempts to pull her out. "Please," she whispers, gesturing to her collarbone. Dean doesn't let go of her arm but he relaxes his hold and peers more closely at her skin.

The delicate skin of her chest is riddled with small scarifications, some still bleeding, all shallow but deep enough to sting. Her eyes, when he looks back up to them, are shining with tears, and she mouths that she's sorry.

"Shit," Sammy curses softly. Dean turns to him, uncomprehending, and he explains, "It's a hex. She can't leave the house until it's negated. I don't know how."

"He says he wants to trade," Ava confesses. "Me for you. Get out of here, Luke, please. You tried, you did, you tried, but you can't save me, and—"

Sammy covers his face with his hands, his fingers gripping into the shaggy bangs that have fallen into his eyes, and Ava breaks off, unnerved. "Don't tell me what to do," he mutters.

"Fuck, Sammy, calm down," Dean says, alarmed.

"Everybody tells me what to do all the time," Sammy continues, his voice a disturbing growl, and Dean's starting to get freaked, and he can feel the adults behind them start to prickle with nerves. "Don't tell me what to do! And don't tell me I can't save you!"

"Luke—" Ava begins, her voice pleading, and Dean snaps "Sammy," and the boy in question ignores both of them and barges into the house.

"Fucking shit!" Dean shouts, nudging Ava aside and barrelling in after his brother. Footsteps tell him that the rest of the Hunters are behind him, but before any of them can make it in he hears the door slam and locks engage.

He turns around, wide-eyed, to see Ava, crumpled to her knees by the door. "He said only the two of you," she whispers without turning. "I'm sorry. The hex. He can—he can hurt me. From far away."

"None of this is your fault," Dean mutters, but he doesn't have time to reassure her because he can hear Sammy's voice in the other room, bellowing, resonant in a way that it shouldn't be.

"Azazel!" his brother calls, and Dean doesn't know where that name came from. His vision, maybe. But there's something about it, something buzzing in the underlayers of Sammy's voice, all those z's creating a cacophany of sickness and a hissing reminiscent of vermin.

He throws himself into the living room, where Sammy is standing in front of the Yellow-Eyed Demon—Azazel?—with his hands clenched and his chin high. He's crackling with fury, and the demon seems way too fucking pleased by it.

Then the demon's eyes turn to him, and without warning he's pulled across the room, torn through the space, and his neck is held by an immovable grip. He gags, chokes, scrabbles his blunt nails against the demon's arm, but nothing works.

He looks up and sees Sammy's face. He doesn't look scared, or upset, just angry. Terribly angry.

He finds himself flinching from the rage he sees in his brother's eyes.

"Put him down," Sammy orders.

"Nah-ah-ah," the demon sing-songs, shifting so that it looks like Dean is shaking his head. "What's the magic word?"

"I'm here, you've got me where you want me, what am I supposed to do about it?" Sammy asks, his bluff too brash, too inexperienced to understand the subtleties of hostage negotiation. "Let Dean go. He's got nothing to do with this and he can't hurt you, anyway."

"He can't hurt me, no," the demon agrees. "My little Sammy. But he can hurt you. And if I hurt him, that hurts you, and with the added benefit of not touching a hair on your oh-so-important little head."

Dean tries to gasp out for Sammy to get out, to leave him, to leave Ava, but then the Demon tightens its hold and all he can manage is a choked moan of pain.

"And you won't hurt him, either," Azazel continues thoughtfully, his free hand stroking Dean's hair. Dean tries to pull away from it but knows he won't be able to even before he starts. "Which is convenient, really. You weren't supposed to be muddled with all this petty human emotion, but no use crying over spilled milk. It's all foretold one way or the other. And besides."

He looks down at Dean, pulling his head up so that their eyes meet—the demon's sicky yellow and oh so satisfied, Dean's wide and panicked. The demon smirks. "Besides. He's sort of a pretty one."

Dean collapses to the floor as black smoke begins to pour out from the demon's mouth, and for a split second he thinks What the hell and Thank God simultaneously.

The next second, the smoke forces its way into his mouth, and all he can think is no.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. 

Sam can't do anything but shake as the demon snakes its way into Dean's body, shoving Dean aside, burrowing into him like a parasite, and all Sammy can think is that this is his fault.

He was supposed to exorcise the demon. Blood or no blood, he should be able to do that. But Dean was too fast and got there too quickly and was too damned tenacious, and he got in the way, and just like Sam was afraid of he got himself hurt.

It takes forever, the possession. Like the demon is pouring itself into Dean slowly, just to make it hurt more, for Dean and Sam both. And Sam can't move.

And Sam can't fathom what he's supposed to do.

Because Sam had a plan, but the plan will not, will not work if the demon is in Dean.

He can't do it to Dean.

He can't hurt him.

Not after everything Dean has done for him, all the sacrifices he's made, all the kindnesses he's given to Sam when he didn't have to, when it only brought him more pain.

The demon is right. He can't hurt Dean.

And when the demon opens Dean's eyes, and they are pus-yellow and he's stretching Dean's lips into a smile that has nothing of the kindness or warmth of Dean in it, Sam despairs.

Because he knows that whatever the demon asks him in Dean's voice, he'll say yes to.

Chapter Text

There's something terribly, but subtly, wrong with the way Azazel moves Dean's features.

As the body that his brother is trapped in approaches him slowly, Sam doesn't move. Doesn't step back or flinch, just pins Azazel with a steely glare, feeling rage spark through his veins. His fists clench and unclench involuntarily, and he can feel a muscle in his jaw twitch, but he doesn't move because he won't give the demon the satisfaction of showing fear.

Even though he feels fear.

Past the fear and the rage there's a tiny sense of...not admiration, exactly, but a grudging admittance that the demon made precisely the right move. Because he's scared, now, and it's not just because the most powerful demon he's ever faced off against is walking slowly towards him, having already subdued Sam's protector, his first and pretty much only line of defense. It's that he's walking towards Sam in Dean's body, and there's a part of Sam's brain—really, Luke's brain, that is crowing I knew it, I knew he'd hurt me.

There's a part of him that he has yet to convince of his safety, a part of him that always whispers that Dean is a Hunter and he is the hunted, that there is an order that they are refuting but that will always come back to claim its own. And now, Azazel can make Dean's body do what Luke was always afraid Dean would. Azazel can make Dean hurt him, in any of the ways Luke had been afraid of and in ways Dean wasn't physically capable of when he was alone in his body, when he was under his own power. And it makes Sam feel like his veins are filled with ice water.

He tries to push the fear away, focus on the anger, the rage, like he knows Dean would in his position.

And it's not hard, all things considered, because the nerve of this demon. Because how dare this demon try to undo all of Dean's work.

How dare he try to make Sam frightened of his brother?

(Worse, how dare he succeed in dredging up all of those fears that Sam thought he'd put to rest?)

"Sammy," Azazel says through Dean's lips, spreading his hands harmlessly, manipulating Sam's brother's vocal chords and the muscles in his arms and legs and face, making a horrible parody of Dean's carefree smile. He tenses up so tight that his shoulders jerk. "Hey, c'mon, Sammy, don't be like that."

"Don't call me that," Sam growls though gritted teeth. "Get out of him."

Azazel makes a show of glancing down at his arms, his torso (clad in Dean's tee shirt, which Sam has some dim impression is a band shirt), even twisting his head around to look at his back. Then he tilts Dean's head like he's considering it, but says, "Nah. I mean, would you? He's young, strong, healthy—maybe a little too much junk food, but that's easily remedied now that he doesn't need food anymore."

"Exorcizamus te—" Sam begins, but then feels his vocal cords tighten, and still. He gasps, scrabbling at his throat like there's something physical obstructing his voice. He forces his hands to still, curls them into fists, and presses them to his sides. Azazel laughs, and again, the sound is a few degrees off from Dean's rich, homey laugh. Just enough to send a shiver down Sam's spine at the wrongness.

"Nah ah ah," Azazel mocks, shaking Dean's finger. "Not yet, Sammy boy. We haven't even gotten a chance to get to know each other."

He snaps Dean's fingers and a chair shoots from the other side of the room, knocking Sam off his feet with a grunt. He lands with his stomach across the seat, and rights himself quickly. He tries to stand but feels himself pressed into the seat, sitting upright now, and he feels the heat of his glare falter a bit as a sick sense of fear begins to creep past the adrenaline running through his blood.

"We need to talk," Azazel says solemnly, but Dean's eyes still hold that horrible teasing spark. "You and me. A little tête-a-tête."

"I have nothing to say to you," Sam snaps. Azazel sighs, snaps Dean's fingers, and Sam feels himself pressed harder against the tall back of the chair. The pressure is starting to hurt, and Sam writhes a bit, uncomfortably.

"That's not the answer I'm looking for," the demon says, waving disinterestedly in Sam's direction. The pressure tightens again, like a band around Sam's chest, and he grunts. "Now. Talk?"

"Fine," Sam forces out, and the pressure dissipates a little. "Fucking talk."

Azazel laughs again and Sam shivers again. "Woah," he chuckles. "Language, kiddo! What's this big lug been teaching you?"

"Is that what we're talking about?" Sam demands, his voice thick with the effort of speaking past the pain.

For some reason that snaps Azazel out of his good humor, and his face falls into neutrality. "No," he says, snapping again for a chair and sitting in it. Sam glowers at the way he imitates Dean's typical slouchy position, one arm slung over the back of his chair, legs spread carelessly. His anger doesn't fade at all as the pain leaves his ribs and the pressure lessens even more. "We're talking about you, and your future."

There's nothing about that that Sam likes the sound of. His eyes cut to the side for a minute, towards the door, and Azazel tsks in disappointment. "They can't come in, Sammy. It's just me and you, I'm afraid."

"Are you gonna let Ava go?" Sam asks. "You have me. I want you to let Ava and Dean go."

"Negotiations come later," Azazel replies, his voice brooking no argument. "You don't even know what I have to offer. Aren't you curious?"

No. Sam's really, really not, because he made a promise to his brother that no matter what the offer was, he'd say no, and hearing what's about to be offered will only make that harder. But that was before Azazel had Dean hostage, so the plan's already gone to hell, and Sam screws his face up and spits, "Talk."

"What's your opinion on Hell?" Azazel asks, like he's discussing the weather.

Sam stills, studies Dean's face. Over the past months he's come to recognize all of the tics and tells of his brother's expressions, learning them and filing them away for when they might prove important to his health and safety, for when he'd need to anticipate Dean's next move or skirt angering him. Or at least, that was the motivation at first. Slowly it became about knowing what Dean was thinking and feeling because he cared, because he didn't want to make Dean sad, because he knew that Dean wouldn't get angry with him basically no matter what he did. So he's learned the way that Dean's jaw jumps when he's upset, the way his lips purse when he's angry, the way his eyes narrow when he's trying to figure something out. The smallest twitch of the muscles of his face registers like a print-out of his emotions for Sam, now.

But with Azazel at the helm, it's like that open book is suddenly written in Cyrillic. Dean's face is cold, calculating, the smile disingenuous and mocking when it appears. It means that any clues he had available to him in the fine play of expression are lost, and he's at sea.

"Too hot," Sam responds, finally. "I've heard the views are bad and that the landlord is shit."

Azazel laughs at that, full-throated and deep but icy and fabricated. "Looks like big brother salvaged that sense of humor of yours," he remarks, and while he's still riding the last waves of laughter his eyes are narrowed and focused. "But really. You've only gotten the Hunter propaganda?"

"About Hell?" Sam echoes, incredulous, but Azazel just nods. "Yeah. I guess I've just gotten the Hunter propaganda. Why, is it wrong?"

Azazel leans forward in his seat, propping Dean's elbows on his thighs, steepling his fingers and looking intently at Sam. He's never looked less like Dean. "I want you to keep an open mind about the place," he says quietly. "Keep in mind that the men who told you otherwise also beat you and humiliated you and expected you to live happily as their slave."

"Not Dean," Sam argues by reflex. Azazel shifts Dean's expression to a softer one, almost fond, and he inclines his head, conceding the point.

"But Dean grew up as much under the thumb of Hunters as you did," Azazel counters. "Are you familiar with Milton, Sam?"

"I've read Paradise Lost," Sam replies, cautious. "What does—"

"Then you'll know the quote," Azazel interrupts, and Sam doesn't try to continue because there's a dark shine to the demon's yellow eyes, a sharpness, a hunger that makes Sam want to melt into the chair behind him. "Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven, am I right?"

Sam still doesn't move, except to swallow hard down his suddenly dry throat. "I don't understand."

"You do," Azazel says simply. Sam waits for him to keep talking, but he just sits back in the chair and is silent.

"I don't know what you want from me," Sam admits, his voice soft under the weight of the confession, which feels like a defeat. It's as much as admitting that he wants to know what's wanted of him.

Which, he thinks with sardonic humor, is all he's wanted for months, and the one thing he's never received. He's wanted to know what his dad wanted from him, what Dean wanted from him, what Walt wanted from him, and none of them would ever tell him; none of them would ever just say it.

But Azazel stands up and walks over to him, and Sam leans away but doesn't get up from his chair, and Azazel kneels by him and takes his hands between Dean's. "I want you to come with me," he says. "I want you to come to the life that's been prepared for you. I want you to take the throne that you were always meant for. I want you to come rule your kingdom, like you were born to do."

Sam can't find air to breathe.

Finally he manages, "You're wrong."

"I'm not," Azazel returns. "You are meant to rule, Sam, not to serve. Come with me and you'll discover your birthright. If you want to, you can come back and teach all of these pathetic humans their place."

"It's not me," Sam whispers desperately. "I'm not...that. I'm not important. I'm just...I'm Dean's brother. I'm not supposed to rule anything."

Azazel contorts Dean's face into something that looks like grief, and it's way too close to his brother's actual expression, and Sam holds back a sob of panic. "You were born to be a king, Sam Winchester," he says fervently. "Come with me and I'll prove it to you."

"What about Dean?" Sam asks, and it's halfway to another sob, and he's so ashamed of his weakness and he wonders if Dean can hear him, if he's ashamed, too, if he's mad.

God, he hopes that Dean's not mad at him.

The question brings a small smile to Azazel's (Dean's) face, and the demon says, "He's yours, Sam. Whatever you want. If you come with me, and you don't want anyone to touch him, no one will. If you want him with you, I'll see that he's brought to you. The world will be yours, Sam. If you want Dean, he's yours."

If you want him, he's yours.

For a moment Sam is twelve again, standing in the middle of the Oregon woods with a heavy hand on the back of his neck and a gruff voice saying those words above him, while he stares down at the shoes of Walt Hamilton, the man who's about to buy him. Those words mean that everything he's known for the past year is about to end and that he's being passed as property from one Hunter to another. If you want him, he's yours.

Only this time, he's not the one on the block. This time, it's his brother, his stupid, kind, strong, free brother, whose life is being bartered.

If he wants Dean, Dean is his.

His to protect, for once. To keep safe, to keep close. This time, he would have the power to save Dean, instead of the other way around.

When he studies the face in front of him, he ignores the undertones of Azazel. He just looks at the features that he's grown so familiar with, stares into the eyes that were so watchful over him while he healed from wounds physical and emotional, and he tries to find his brother somewhere in there.

Dean. Tell me what to do.

And it's got to be his imagination when he thinks he sees a flicker of something deep in the green he's staring into, a flash of Dean, but it doesn't tell him anything.

It's not like he doesn't know what Dean would say, though. No matter what the demon offers, he says no. But it isn't fair, because he hadn't prepared Sam for this—hadn't prepared him for having to choose between his brother's safety and his brother's decree. To choose between what his brother wanted, and having his brother safe to tell him what to do again.

So he says, "You'll let me keep him safe."

Azazel nods. "I swear it."

"And you'll let Ava go," Sam insists.

"I will."

"And you'll let all the Hunters outside go," Sam presses, and here Azazel falters. "I want you to swear to that, too. All of them. Ellen, Ash, Pastor Jim, Bobby, my dad. All of them, free to go."

"I'd've thought you'd have a few choice words for your old man," Azazel says slowly, cautiously, and Sam is somewhat gratified by the fact that he seems to have thrown the demon, at least a little bit.

"All of them," Sam demands. "Say it."

"They're free to go if you come with me," Azazel promises, and Sam releases a silent exhale.

He knows it's a stretch, but he still has to ask. "Can I talk to Dean?"

When Azazel shakes his head, it looks almost regretful, although Sam knows he's just projecting what he knows of Dean onto the expression. "No can do, Sammy. No Dean until you fulfill your end of the bargain."

"What do I have to do?" Sam asks, his voice small.

Azazel smiles, and rolls up Dean's sleeve to his elbow. "Just a sip, Sammy. To make clear the path."

Sam makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, and his eyes don't leave the scarred skin of Dean's forearm. "You want—you want me to drink Dean's blood?"

"My blood, Sammy," Azazel corrects him. "Sure, going through Dean's veins, but for all intents and purposes, now it's mine. If it makes it easier."

It doesn't, but Sam reaches out anyway, taking Dean's arm reverently in his hands and sliding off of the chair to kneel in front of Azazel. Azazel lets Dean's arm go loose in Sam's hands, and doesn't speak as Sam takes a deep breath.

"Do you want—me to...bite him?" Sam asks.

Azazel shakes his head and pulls out Dean's pocket knife, flipping it open and holding it for Sam to see. Sam glares at him, angry that he's being asked permission for the demon to hurt Dean, but ultimately nods.

Azazel slices a gash in Dean's arm, and then offers it up for Sam to take.

One more scar on Dean's body.

One more injury he takes for Sam's sake.

The last one, if Sam has anything to say about it.

He lowers his lips to Dean's arm, murmurs an apology against the skin, and begins to drink.

Dean is trapped inside of his own head.

 It feels physical. It feels like he's being pressed to a space behind his left ear, held there by Azazel's iron grip.

And it doesn't help that he can hear and see everything that's going on, like a passenger in his mind, watching the demon manipulate his brother through his own mouth.

And he tries to scream, tries to shout at Sammy not to fall for it, to keep to the plan which is to tell the demon no regardless of what he puts on the table, but he can't. He can't, and that's the worst part.

"Dean-o."

Second-worst part.

"Come on now, kid, there's no use tuckering yourself out. I've got the wheel here. You might as well get comfortable for the ride."

Dean doesn't have a body he can control right now, but he does his best to glare at the demon. "Fuck you, you've got the wheel! This is my fucking body!"

"And right now, I'm claiming eminent domain," Azazel replies coolly, and not a little gleefully. "Don't worry, I'll give it back, good as I found it. Sammy's not gonna want you busted up."

"Leave him alone," Dean demands, but Azazel's not talking to him anymore, now focused on his brother.

His poor, stupid, noble little brother who's going to try to save him in a way so self-sacrificing that it puts Dean's stupid rescue attempts to shame.

Sure enough, he goes through the fucking Winchester list of demands: don't hurt the people I love, don't hurt the people I love, don't hurt the people I love. Nothing else. No provisions for himself, no "don't kill me once you've got me where you want me", just don't hurt Dean or Bobby or John or the others.

If nothing else had proven that they were family, this does it.

And he sees the struggle in Sam's eyes, the guilt, the helpless anger, and he wishes he could tell him that it's okay. That he gets it, that there aren't any good choices. That he doesn't blame him. That he wishes he'd say no, that he'd say that Azazel could have Dean and he could have Ava and get out while he still could, but that he understands why Sam won't do that.

That he wouldn't have been able to, if their roles were reversed.

And then he feels himself spread back through his body, just a little bit, just enough to feel it as Azazel slices into his arm and Sam latches onto the gash.

Just enough for his stomach to turn as he feels his little brother sucking his blood.

Just enough to feel the coldness in his stomach when he sees the hunger in his brother's eyes, and feels the sense of Azazel's victory echoing through him.

And he really hopes that his little brother knows what he's doing.

Chapter Text

It's different, somehow.

Drinking the blood, this time.

It still tastes terrible...pennies and meat...but there's not a sense of rot this time. What there is is a definite sense of Dean.

He feels it as the blood pools over his tongue. An energy, a vivaciousness, a life in it that reminds him of sunny, grassy childhood memories that he doesn't have and that Dean doesn't have, either, sparkling like irrepressible spirit, heavy like burdens that shouldn't be carried, sharp and bitter but sweet like the kind of kindness that cruelty can't kill no matter how hard it tries.

He coughs once, past a sob building in his throat, but he drinks.

Azazel is mercifully silent, watching closely and wordlessly as Sam drinks, his eyes never leaving Sam's face. It's distracting, the intensity of it, it sends uncomfortable shivers down Sam's spine and it makes his skin crawl, but it's not enough to stop him.

Not when he can feel his body beginning to sing with power.

It starts as a tingling in his fingers, almost like the pins-and-needles of a recovering limb that had been asleep. It's not quite pleasant, but not quite painful, either, and it's the promise of things to come.

It spreads up his arms like a thin electrical current, following his veins, and he knows that it's nothing physical. He knows enough about anatomy to know that if this was some chemical that Azazel was pumping into Dean's bloodstream, it wouldn't have had any opportunity to get into Sam's bloodstream yet. This is something else.

Last time, it felt like an electrical storm was caught in his chest: wild and untamed, foreign and awesome. This time, it feels like he is the electrical storm.

This time, it feels right. Like home.

This sensation should make him light-headed. He's being filled with vast stores of power he doesn't have the foggiest idea how to control. He can feel it crawling up his arms and into his core, pooling and collecting behind his ribs, and he can feel himself swelling with it more and more in time to the beating of his heart. But if anything, his perception is clearer than it normally is. He sees everything in bright, sharp, vivid color. He hears sounds from through walls and across distance.

He can hear John and Bobby trying to break the door down, and feels a stab of pity. Azazel fortified every entrance. They won't be able to break the windows, or knock the door down. Not unless Azazel wants them inside.

He can hear Ava huddled by the door, her breathing heavy and irregular, interspersed with the occasional small weeping sound. He can hear her slide farther and farther away, an inch at a time, as she watches him drink.

Maybe strangest of all, he can hear Azazel not breathing in front of him, perfectly still and silent, and it makes him falter for a moment because Dean should be breathing.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, Azazel inhales a breath deep into Dean's lungs, and Sam continues.

"This will protect you in transit," Azazel says softly. Sam lifts his eyes up to meet Dean's, narrows them. The glare is a token and insignificant act of rebellion when his lips are still pressed against Dean's arm, but it makes him feel a little better. "Hell will want to reject you, or cast you into the pit with the other damned. The blood will protect you. Make you strong enough to determine your own path."

Stop talking.

Azazel continues, regardless of the darkening of Sam's glare that accompanies his thought. "Once we arrive, you will have to stay close to me," he muses. "Hell can be difficult to navigate, especially at first, and there are many factions, some of which aren't as fond of the idea of a mortal boy with the kind of power you have. I can keep you away from them, and handle them if they decide to become a problem."

Stop talking.

"When we arrive, I will present you to the Lords, and you will receive your place, and begin your training," Azazel says, and the fact that Sam's glare isn't burning holes into his eye sockets seems amazing. "Dean will be safe alongside you, and you'll come to understand, in time, why this was necessary. The power you'll hold, Sam..." Azazel breaks off with a half-laugh of wonder, shaking his head, eyes wide. "You have no idea. But soon you'll—"

Stop talking.

Azazel stops talking.

His eyes are wider yet, lips pressed together, and he looks down, as though to find the source of his silence. Then he looks back up at Sam, and Sam recognizes that expression on Dean's face.

He hasn't seen it many times, but it's primal enough that it doesn't matter who's at the reins, it will look the same.

Fear.

Sam lifts his head, and keeps Azazel's gaze. The demon leans back slightly, trepidation written across his features, but Sam shakes his head. "Don't move," he says. Azazel freezes.

The thrill of it washes through Sam's body. The power. He narrows his eyes in thought, and says, "Stand up and then don't move again."

The demon obeys, and Sam stands, too. He sticks his hands in his pockets—the pockets of Dean's hand-me-down jeans, rolled up at the cuffs and belted tight because they're still way too big for him—and he smiles a little bit. He begins to walk around Azazel, and the demon's eyes follow him until he's out of range. "Okay," Sam says quietly, and Azazel flinches. "Okay. Here's what's going to happen. Before we discuss anything else about me going to Hell with you, I have a few questions."

He senses Ava poking her head around the corner, watching him, but doesn't look at her or react. Azazel stammers, "No, this—you can't—you've already—"

"I thought I said to stop talking," Sam orders, and Azazel quiets immediately. Ava lets out a barely-audible gasp, and when Sam turns to her, she freezes, too.

Her eyes are wide and she's shaking. Her heart is racing, he can hear it, and she barely blinks. She doesn't want to let him out of her sight. He knows this. She's frightened of him.

He should feel bad about that. Guilty. Sick.

But he doesn't and he can't make himself, so he turns back to Azazel. "My memories," he says. "I'm missing the first four years of my life. Growing up with Dean and my dad. That was you?"

Azazel glares at him for a second before nodding.

"Give them back," Sam commands.

"I can't," Azazel says. "We didn't take them, we erased them. Couldn't have some pesky psychic uncover them later. Undo all of our work."

"They're gone forever," Sam murmurs, then shakes his head. "Okay. Next question. Dean says that I was taken by demons when I was four. Was he right? You took me, or your goons?"

Azazel shakes his head. "A human who was working for us," he says. "That's why we were able to get to you, even past the salt lines. Your brother and your daddy...so focused on the big bad bump-in-the-nighters that they forget how shitty your own species can be."

Sam stops in front of Azazel, pauses, and then says, "If you talk like that about my brother or my dad again, I'll exorcise you now. Forget the questions, you're going back to Hell."

"You want to know the answers to your questions too badly," Azazel argues. "You won't."

Sam meets his eyes squarely for a long moment. The pus-yellow clouds and undulates over the base of green, and it's getting easier to remember that it's not Dean he's talking to, that Dean's being held prisoner. Held captive, because of Sam.

The thought causes a surge of anger through Sam, and he tightens his right hand into a fist.

Azazel gasps and throws a hand over his throat, another flailing in the air for some purchase. Sam releases the hand, startled, and Azazel sucks in a deep breath, staring in uncomprehending terror at Sam.

Well.

Sam raises his hand, which Azazel follows with his eyes, and he asks, "Why me?"

"Big plans for you, kiddo," Azazel replies, his voice quiet, his eyes never leaving Sam's hand. "They'll have my head if I spill. But it was better if you saw the worst humanity had to offer, so you'd understand, when the time came."

"So you took your golden boy and sold me to a bunch of Hunters, let me get beaten and humiliated and almost killed dozens of times—"

"Why do you think you always scraped out of it?" Azazel interrupts, and Sam stills. "We were watching you, Sammy. Always. We wanted you dark and jaded, not dead."

And it does, in a sudden way, make sense. It sounds right. Because Sam hadn't understood, not really, how he'd always managed to survive. Hell, that last Rawhead that Walt had sent him out as bait for should've killed him. After he'd sprained his ankle he'd been moving way too slow to outrun it, and he wasn't paying nearly enough attention to outmanoeuvre it. He shouldn't be alive.

But thanks to Azazel, or his demons, he is. He owes his life, in part, to the same demons who ruined it. Who took him away from Dean. Who made sure he had no memories of an even halfway normal life, of being loved and wanted, of knowing what it was to be part of a family.

It bothers him.

But not as much as he feels it ought to.

"So why'd you let my dad buy me?" he asks.

Azazel doesn't answer for a second, and Sam flexes his fingers in warning. The demon swallows and says, "It was an oversight. The demon whose duty it was to watch you then was...insufficiently vigilent. And once you were with the Winchesters, it proved difficult to extract you."

"You sent Walt," Sam says.

"We...positioned him in a place where your father would find him," Azazel amends.

"You ruined my life."

Azazel looks at him, then, really looks at him, narrows Dean's eyes and asks, "Were we wrong?"

Sam doesn't say anything.

"Were we wrong? About most of the people you met? Did any one of the Hunters, humanity's protectors, treat you with kindness? Even the ones who didn't own you, did any of them intervene on your behalf? Before Dean, did you know that humans were capable of kindness?"

Sam still doesn't say anything because Luke is in the back of his head, screaming his agreement.

"If you can take Dean with you," Azazel says, his voice low and urgent, "if you could keep him safe, if he could sit at your feet where you can ensure his well-being, what else in the world is worth saving?"

Sam hesitates, then hears breathing behind him. "Ava," he answers.

"Bring her," Azazel replies. "What else."

"Ellen and Jo. Bobby. Missouri. They saved me. Pastor Jim and my dad, they came to help me."

"Sam, if you come with me, you can do with all of them as you see fit," Azazel promises, though he still doesn't move towards Sam. "You can decide."

Sam sits back in the chair that Azazel had forced him into, and rubs his face with his hands. "You've never been big on me deciding things before," he mutters.

"You had to be prepared. For your destiny."

Sam doesn't look up, but stares down at Dean's scuffed boots. "Is it destiny, or my decision? It's one or the other. You can't promise me both."

Azazel hesitates, and Sam springs out of the chair and grabs his arm. It's still bleeding, sluggishly, and though Dean's sleeve is already rolled up to his elbow Sam jerks it up higher and drags Azazel forward with a harsh pull on the arm. He glares up at him and latches back onto the wound, sucking in deep swallows of blood.

"That's enough, Sam," Azazel says, quietly at first, but then louder: "Enough, Sam!"

Sam comes up for air, and turns his eyes to Azazel. He can feel the hairs on his arms standing on end. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundis spiritus," he intones, and Azazel stiffens, bites back a cry.

"I'll take him with me," Azazel threatens, Dean's features twisted with fury. "I will drag him down to Hell with me."

Sam stops, and Azazel begins to lift the corners of Dean's mouth into a smile, before Sam raises his hand and clenches it into a fist. Azazel begins to choke, falls to his knees, and his yellow eyes are blown wide with panic.

"Don't," Sam says slowly, "ever threaten my brother."

He clenches his fist.

And before he can finish it—before he can figure out what it is he's doing to the demon—Azazel pours out of Dean's mouth, faster and thicker than Sam's seen it before, pours back into his host and disappears.

Sam crashes to his knees in front of his brother, who has crumpled to the ground without the demon controlling him, and pulls Dean's head onto his legs. "Come on, come on," he murmurs, feeling for Dean's pulse and exhaling violently in relief when he finds it. "Wake up, Dean, come on, please."

Dean doesn't, and the panic Sam feels welling up in his chest seems to fill the room. He hears the door finally crash open, hears the Hunters outside pour in, hears Ava say something in a shaky voice and hears them all come to a halt just outside the threshold of the room he's in.

He doesn't care.

Dean doesn't wake up.

 Dean feels it every time Sammy hurts Azazel.

It's not pain, not for him, not precisely. It's just a sense of pressure, of panic, of surprise and fear that he gets from Azazel.

It's dismay and horror from himself.

He still can't talk to Sammy, can't beg him to stop, can't tell him that this path he's going down is the wrong one. And even if he could talk, what would he say? What could he tell his brother that would counter what Azazel is saying?

Because Sammy was hurt. Sammy was tortured and made to feel like he deserved it. Sammy was made to feel like he was less than human, unworthy of love or safety or dignity. By humans. Not by monsters; by humans.

So if Sammy wants revenge, Dean can't get behind it, but he can understand it.

Sammy's cold when he's mad. Dean watches all the warmth drain from his eyes as he paces around Azazel, making demands and threats, interrogating the demon that he has total control over. He could exorcise him now, Dean knows. Maybe even kill him. But he doesn't, because he has use for him.

It takes Dean a little while to realize what that feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach is.

It's fear.

He's afraid of Sammy.

It's the last thing he thinks before the grip of whatever Sammy's doing to Azazel takes hold of him after the demon smokes out.

And it's the first thing he thinks when he comes back to.

Chapter Text

Dean knows what he's going to see before he opens his eyes.

He'd watched Sammy the whole time, after all. Felt him drink the blood, saw the last few strong pulls he took that gave him the edge to get Azazel out of him. Saw the recklessness with which he'd drunk the last of it, felt his desperation.

It doesn't prepare him for looking up to see his little brother's face covered in his blood.

He opens his eyes slowly, cautiously, and stays still, because he's not sure which Sammy is holding him. His brother is looking past him, out toward the threshold to the room, where Dean has a foggy awareness his dad and the others are standing, watching, unsure of what to do.

He doesn't think he shifts, but nonetheless Sammy looks down at him, worry and relief replacing some of the tension gripping his features. "Dean," he breathes. "Hey. You okay?"

Dean swallows hard, his mouth feeling very dry. His head feels like it was stuffed with cotton, and a thousand thoughts are trying to fly through it but getting snagged, unable to make it through. He just stares up at Sammy's blood-stained face, his lips slightly parted like he wants to speak but can't find the words.

He thinks, my little brother tortured that demon.

He thinks, my little brother drank my blood.

He thinks, my little brother saved me.

And he thinks, losing him was never my fault.

Sammy's expression has turned wary, uncertain, waiting out Dean's silence in growing anxiety. His eyes flick up every now and then to the Hunters waiting at the end of the room, and Dean can feel his brother's fingers twitch beneath his neck, along his ribs, where Sammy's been holding him, waiting for him to wake up.

Sammy swallows hard, too, and after a long period of watching the Hunters he looks back down at Dean, and takes his hand from beneath Dean's head to move a strand of hair out of his eyes. Dean blinks but still doesn't say anything. The gesture is tender, caring, and it jars uncomfortably in Dean's head with the memories of his brother's coldness in dealing with Azazel.

It's not that Dean blames him for being angry with the demon—hell no. But Dean burns hot. And Dean goes for the kill when it's an option. Dean shoots first, asks questions later, and so does his dad. Even when interrogation is necessary, they cut straight to the point. Sammy looked like he could've just sat there, hurting Azazel, for hours if he had to. Like he wouldn't mind it. Not even like he wanted to hurt him—just like he didn't care whether or not he did, as long as he got what he wanted.

Dean doesn't understand it. And seeing it in his brother, his own baby brother, sets him on edge.

Sammy's lips have tilted down into a frown, and he repeats: "Dean? You okay?"

Dean inhales with every intention to speak but the words still won't come.

He hears the scuff of a boot against the hardwood floor, and Sammy looks up abruptly. Dean can't find the energy to do the same, but he hears his dad's voice. "Answer the question, Dean. Are you all right?"

There's a funny note in John's voice. It's bright and hard and a little unsteady, and paired with a sudden tension in every part of Sammy that Dean can feel, it convinces Dean to turn and look.

All of the Hunters are armed, of course, and all of them have their weapons ready. Nobody's pointing them explicitly at Sammy, but Dean can tell, from knowing them and knowing their postures and how they fight, that they're ready to. Because they were locked out of the house during the entire fight and when they get in Dean is lying on the floor, bleeding from a chewed-up gash on his arm, and Sammy's sitting above him with his mouth covered in blood.

Doesn't look great.

Sammy doesn't move. Sits there with Dean in his arms, staring at the five adults, armed to the teeth, who are watching him like they aren't sure he's not the enemy. Like he might be a monster in disguise, like they might have to save Dean from him.

Like he's Lilim.

And Dean looks back up at his brother, who's waiting. But not like Luke would have, not sitting frozen in dread, acquiescing to whatever is about to happen next. Sammy is waiting because he's not gonna leave Dean, because more important than his own safety is making sure his brother is all right.

So Dean blinks a few times, then begins to cough violently. Sammy lifts him and gets him sitting, heedless to the way all of the Hunters tense, and smacks him a few times, inexpertly, on the back. Dean gasps in a breath and Sammy pauses, ducking to look him in the eye.

Once he's caught his breath, Dean grins weakly and says, "Heya, Sammy. Thanks for the assist."

The tension in the room immediately dissipates, and the Hunters come pouring in, giving the boys their space but getting close enough to see for themselves that Dean is okay. His words seem to have convinced them that Sammy isn't a threat, covered in blood though he may be, and Sammy's grateful smile says that he feels that shift, too. "Any time, big brother," he says quietly.

Once they're better situated, Ellen asks the question that Dean's been dreading. "The demon?"

He doesn't think he can answer, but luckily Sammy's there to field it. He puts a hand on Dean's wrist when he tries to say something, and answers, "He's not dead. But he's gone for now. And I think he'll think twice before trying again."

John's eyes turn quickly to Sammy, then to Dean, and he asks, "You wanna explain what that means?"

Sammy hesitates and Dean says, "Sammy kicked his ass. Didn't get a KO but hey. Gave it a good shot and got everybody out in one piece. I'm tired. Let's get out of here."

John looks like he's going to say something, but Ellen puts a hand on his arm. He turns to her and the look she gives him is full of significance, and he acquiesces, shutting his mouth. Dean's so grateful that he doesn't notice Sammy begin to stand until he's tugging on Dean's arm. Dean rises with him, stiff and achy, but Sammy ducks his shoulders beneath Dean's arm and supports him. He walks Dean out to Ellen's car, slowly, taking each step carefully to make sure he doesn't aggravate Dean's injuries.

With each step towards the car, Dean watches as Sam Winchester, Azazel's Chosen bleeds away, leaving behind Sammy Winchester, Dean's Little Brother.

It's the way his fingers tighten and loosen rhythmically around Dean's shirt. The way he keeps looking up into Dean's eyes, searching them—he's looking for yellow, from the way he lets out a barely-noticeable breath of relief when all he sees is green. The way, even though he's the one supporting Dean, he'll lean his head against Dean's shoulder, gently. It's the way his posture softens with every step until he's wrapped around Dean as much as he can be while still propping him up.

They climb into the car carefully, Dean letting Sammy settle him into the far left seat while he sits in the middle and Ava sits herself, a bit reluctantly, on Sammy's other side. She hasn't said a word, not a single word since the Hunters came in, and Dean can't say he blames her. He saw what she saw, and Sammy's not her brother. Besides, it's not like she's ever had reason to assume she was safe before. Now, though, she will be. Dean knows Missouri will take care of her, keep her safe, give her what she needs.

Nobody says anything on the ride home, and it's hard to tell who's leaning on who in the back seat. The brothers are a tangle of limbs, and it's not long before Sammy is snoring quietly while Dean stays resting on his shoulder, listening to his brother's breath. His fingers brush his brother's wrist every now and then, checking his pulse, making sure he's okay. Reassuring himself that for whatever the demon had to say about him, whatever taint he put in Sammy, the same blood runs through their veins. He can feel it pumping steadily, healthily, beneath his brother's skin.

Streetlights illuminate Sammy's sleeping face as they drive, and when Dean runs his fingers through his brother's hair, he makes a decision.

Nothing will take Sammy from him again.

So when they get back to Missouri's, once hugs have been exchanged and Missouri and Jo have been reassured that everyone is okay, Dean doesn't go to sleep.

He makes plans.

When Sam wakes up, he's warm and comfortable, and the light coming through the windows is strong and bright. He opens his eyes slowly, grudgingly, and then shuts them again, rubbing them with his fists. 

He doesn't want to face anyone today.

He knows that in the end, he didn't do anything wrong, but he also knows what he looked like, kneeling over Dean's unconscious body, his mouth covered in blood that obviously came from the ugly wound on Dean's arm. He knows what he is, what none of them can ever forget he is. And he knows that in that moment, he looked more inhuman than any of them had ever seen him look before.

They wouldn't hurt him—Dean wouldn't let them. But all the same he's not looking forward to getting out of his room and seeing all of those expressions of distrust, wariness, even fear or hatred.

He'd been home, finally home, so recently. And now the rug has been pulled out from under him.

It's why he flinches when the door opens, only to relax when he sees Missouri with a plate of waffles and a glass of milk in her hands. She walks in and shuts the door behind her, and he breathes a little easier. Missouri is safe. Missouri didn't see.

"Heard you and your brother made quite the Halloween panorama yesterday," she says casually, shattering Sam's illusions. His eyes grow wide and he pulls the sheets a little higher over him, causing Missouri to make an irritated tsk sound and put the plate down on the lamp table next to him, settling on the bed by his legs.

"I didn't mean to hurt Dean," he says softly, lowering his eyes and plucking at the comforter. He jerks at the sensation of a hand beneath his chin, and he looks up at Missouri.

"Your brother is just fine," Missouri replies. "He's taken hits worse than that and kept on swinging. You did what you had to do, and you got everybody out alive."

"I didn't kill the demon," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. "It got away. I let it get away."

"Baby boy, exorcizing a demon is all we know how to do," Missouri says firmly. "Your fool daddy has some idea in his head that he knows how to get rid of it for good but he doesn't. That's bigger magick than I know. You did what you could."

"I think I could've killed it," Sam murmurs. "I think I almost did."

Missouri gets quiet after that, rubbing his arm soothingly, and finally says, "Then maybe next time, Sammy. But you didn't do anything wrong. You're safe, Ava's safe, Dean's safe, everybody's safe. That's a success. Sometimes that's all you can ask for." He tries to look away and she tips his face back towards her, and adds, "That's what I was praying for."

He nods, wordless.

Missouri waits for a minute, then, sufficiently convinced that Sam's done talking, she stands up and gestures to the waffles and glass of milk she'd brought in. "Eat up. Dean's already up and at 'em out front, and I'm sure he'll want to see you once you're ready."

That pulls words out of Sam. "Is he mad at me?"

Missouri pauses, staring at him briefly before responding, "Baby boy, you could blow up the planet and that boy wouldn't be mad at you. You don't have anything to worry about."

With that she places a kiss on his forehead, which he accepts gratefully, and leaves him alone in the bedroom to eat his breakfast.

He eats it slowly, thoughtfully, and that's only partially due to the fact that it gives him an excuse to draw out the time before he goes out to face the others. It tastes good, it does, but he can barely tell. His stomach is churning in an unpleasant but extremely familiar way, because his mind is swirling around one single, repeating thought:

What happens now?

He hates it. The feeling, the knowledge that somebody outside of his room is deciding his fate, planning what he's going to do, where he's going to go, without consulting him or gaining his consent. It makes it better to know that it's Dean, but it doesn't completely eradicate that feeling of dread.

Because Dean won't let anybody hurt him. Dean will keep him safe, and take care of him as best he can. But the best he can still involves hunting, because that's Dean's life, and that's how he was taken care of by the person who promised to protect him.

And if that's what his life is going to be, if Dean keeps hunting, then that means it'll just keep happening...going from town to town, never knowing what's next, never knowing when he'll run into one of his old owners or just some random asshole Hunter like the one at the Roadhouse who thinks it's his responsibility to put Sam in his place. Because while Dean might forget, he was paraded around in Hunter dives too much for him to go unrecognized. It'll take him years to change physically enough, and that's only if the malnutrition doesn't stunt his growth.

He puts aside the waffle, half-eaten, because he can't shovel down any more—what he's eaten already is sitting like lead at the bottom of his stomach.

A lot of promises were made, but he believes what he'd written to Dean the night John sold him. Some promises can't be kept, much as their makers wish they could be.

He slides out from under the covers and stretches his aching body, wincing at the small pains. He straightens out his wrinkled clothes as much as he can—he'd fallen dead asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow—and takes a deep, bracing breath. He can't put it off forever, much as he'd like to.

When he steps out of the bedroom, though, he's surprised to find that there's practically nobody there. Missouri's in the kitchen, eating her own breakfast, and Dean is in the living room, sitting cross-legged in front of the coffee table with books spread in front of him.

That by itself is weird. Sam knows how smart his brother is, but Dean acts like he's allergic to the written word, so to see him voluntarily surrounded by so many books is a red flag. In all Sam's memory of his brother, the only time he's around this much text is when he's researching a hunt. He sighs, resigned. It seems weird that Dean would take a hunt already, but maybe losing the demon has him on edge. Maybe Dean's experiencing that deep-set need that all Hunters have to kill something, to take back a little power after a failed hunt.

Sam stops at the edge of the room, and Dean looks up. He's got a pen that he's chewing in the corner of his mouth, and he grins around it, patting the carpet next to him. "Pull up some floor," he says, scooting over so Sam has more room. Sam does as he's told and sits down next to his brother, studying the books that Dean has laid out.

Maps. Atlases. A few legal texts, some books about teenagers and the legal system. Not exactly grimoires and Hunter's journals, so Sam frowns and looks up at Dean quizically. "What's going on?" he asks.

Dean's smile slips at the wary tone of his brother's voice, takes the pen out of his mouth and turns so that he's facing Sam full-on. Sam copies his movement. "It's been a rough couple of months," he begins, and Sam snorts. Dean laughs in response, but it's sad, grudging. "Yeah, okay, understatement. It's been a rough pretty much forever. But...I don't know about you, man, but I'm tired. I think it's time we take a break."

Sam doesn't breathe.

Dean waits, his brow beginning to furrow in worry, and then he continues. "Me and you, I mean. Take some time off. Not forever, I don't think it could be forever, but...to just lay low for a while—"

"Me and you?" Sam echoes, and he fights against the hope that slips into his voice because Dean will be hurt by it. But he can't stop it entirely.

Dean pauses, looks down at his hands. "Me and you. Just me and you. Ash can forge some papers for us, make it look like I'm your legal guardian. I'm nineteen, nobody's gonna say anything if I'm on my own. Wouldn't even have to fake emancipation." He looks back up at Sam. "We could find a town, far from wherever Walt and the others took you. Find some place you haven't been. I can get a job working with a mechanic or something, and you could go to school. We can say you were homeschooled, they'll make you take some tests and stuff but you're crazy smart, you'll be able to—"

Sam makes an embarrassing hiccupy noise in the back of his throat and Dean breaks off. He can feel the tears stinging the backs of his eyes, and he rubs them furiously. "You okay?" Dean asks, soft and cautious.

Sam nods, still rubbing his eyes. "I don't want you to have to do that," he whispers, and swallows hard when he feels Dean's hand on his knee. "I don't want you to have to give up everything. Dad, Dean, and Ellen and Jo and the rest—"

"Dad'll be fine on his own for a while," Dean replies. "Ellen and Jo, we can see 'em when we can, which is how it's always been. You're what I'm worried about, Sammy. You. Nobody else."

That's it.

Sam begins to sob, and Dean scrambles to his knees so he can engulf him in a bone-crushing hug. Sam cries into Dean's shoulder, and he feels his brother's hands on his back and in his hair, soothing him, and he hears Dean's voice in his ear. "It's okay, Sammy. I know. It's big. But you need it, I think, and if you want it, it's yours. We'll make it work. We have a lot of lost time to make up for anyway."

Sam can't form words, just continues to weep, until Dean finally asks, uncertainly, "Do you want it?"

"Yes," Sam cries. "God, yes. It's...it's...everything, Dean, I just want to be safe with you."

Dean tightens his grip on Sam, and mutters fiercely, "Then that's what you'll get, little brother. Safe, with me."

Sam takes in a deep, shaky breath, and Dean releases him just enough that they can look each other in the eye. "I don't know how long it'll take me to get better," he breathes. "I can still hear him...Luke...in my head, all the time."

"What's he saying now?" Dean asks, which is far better than the response Sam thought he'd get, which was more along the lines of great, I've saddled myself with a crazy person.

"He's saying it's a trick," Sam admits. "He's saying rule number one, don't trust Hunters. He's saying that Dad sold me and that he'll find us."

Dean rubs his thumb over Sam's shoulder, thinking. "Can I talk to him?" he asks, and Sam frowns. "Luke. Can I talk to Luke?"

Sam frowns harder. "It's not like that," he says. "Not like he's another person, or like, a split personality."

"Can I talk to him?" Dean asks again, and Sam shudders, but nods.

They both kneel, settling back onto their heels, and Dean says, "Hey, Luke."

Sam feels stupid, but says, "Hello, Dean."

"Sammy tells me you're worried about trusting me," Dean says, and as stupid as Sam felt two seconds ago, he can feel a panic that he knows comes from the Luke part of him rise when he hears that Dean's found him out.

"No, no, I just—" he stammers, but Dean shushes him. His pulse is racing. This is crazy. Is he crazy?

"Sammy's my brother," Dean says softly, taking Sam's hand and pressing his thumb against the pulse point in his wrist. "You're my brother. There's no difference. I cared about you, and I care about Sammy, and I care about both of you together. I know it took me a while, and I'm sorry. But I want to take you somewhere safe. Want to give you what you need. A roof over your head, food you can count on, school. What you deserve."

"Walt said I didn't deserve anything," Sam feels Luke say from his lips.

"Walt was a stupid asshole who's now a dead stupid asshole," Dean replies calmly. "I'm saying you deserve the best. You with me on that?"

Sam nods slowly.

"You're my brother, and I love you. You're my responsibility, and I'm gonna take care of you, no matter what it takes, you got that?" Dean asks, and Sam nods more steadily. "Good. I don't care how long it takes for me to convince either part of you, I'm gonna do it. You're gonna see what kind of brother Dean Winchester is—annoying, smothering, but I'm gonna do this right. You'll be safe, Sammy. Luke. Whoever you gotta be. You'll be safe, with me."

And with that Dean pulls Sam into another hug, and Sam's mind is quieter than it's been in a long time. Luke, for the moment, seems satisfied.

As the house begins to wake up around them, everybody steers clear of the brothers in the living room, which is good. It's right.

Because sitting there, huddled on the floor next to the coffee table, Sam Winchester's world is complete.

Chapter Text

It's Thursday night in Morgantown, West Virginia. A school night. A work night. And Dean's just coming to check in on his little brother before he goes to bed.

Sammy's most likely been fast asleep since he hit the pillow at a quarter to ten, his hair (getting shaggy, probably ought to get it cut soon) splayed across his pillow like a halo, his face rosy and serene. His school bag is packed at the foot of his bed, the top of a typed report about feudal Japan sticking out above the open flap. It's in a fancy binder and everything because Sammy's got a crush on his history teacher. The rest of the room is kind of a wreck, with uniform shirts and jeans spread out all over the floor and a bowl and spoon perched on top of the dresser, but his clothes for tomorrow are folded next to his neatly-organized booksack.

Dean hovers for a minute, relishing the normalcy of it, before he quietly leaves the room and shuts the door.

They've been in Morgantown for six months. They picked it because Sammy's forced travels never took him this far east, so he's less likely to run into Hunters who knew Walt, and he's got no bad associations with the place itself. Sammy had campaigned for Friendly, West Virginia, and Dean had countered with Nitro, but they ended up picking Morgantown because it was big enough that they wouldn't look at strangers too weird, but small enough that Sammy could navigate it without having a panic attack. The perfect size.

Sammy started high school, having passed all of the entrance exams with flying colors—and Dean having passed his own tests, which is to say that all of the school board employees bought his "our parents were survivalists and homeschooled us far away from civilization and also now they're dead" bit hook, line, and sinker. He got a job at an auto shop a couple of blocks from their apartment, and he's making enough to support them. They're not living in the lap of luxury, but they've got food on the table every night, a roof over their heads, reliable air conditioning and, most important to Dean, reliable water pressure. Every shower is a gift that he can't stop thanking the powers that be for.

The apartment's small, and it's not in the absolute best area of town, but it's placed so Sammy still gets to go to a good school. It's got one bedroom, which Sammy ends up in, and Dean sleeps on a futon in the living room. Sammy fought that one, tooth and nail, but in the end Dean had more experience at being a stubborn ass so he won. They probably could've squished two beds in the room, but Dean had decided it was more important for Sammy to have his own space. The futon was comfortable, anyway. Better than most of the motel beds he'd slept on throughout his life.

So no. Not the Taj Mahal. But the look on Sammy's face when Dean took him shopping for stuff, his stuff for his room that he got to choose...it was worth it.

Sammy keeps bugging him about getting his GED, but he's pretty happy in the shop. He's working with his hands, like he always has, and he doesn't think he'd feel comfortable making a living without breaking a sweat. Every day when he comes home and steps into the shower (the glorious shower), he feels the ache in his muscles and can watch the dirt run off of his hands and arms and he feels like he's earned every penny he made that day.

And that's maybe the weirdest thing. He comes home at five or so and Sammy's already home, his homework spread out across the floor of the apartment. He cleans up and Sammy takes a break from his homework to cook and eat dinner together. They talk about their days. Sammy tells him all about high school, an experience Dean largely missed, and Dean tells him about whatever quirky customers he had that day. They laugh about stupid, everyday stuff, they eat actual food prepared in a kitchen, and they argue over whose turn it is to wash the dishes. Sammy talks about college and it hurts Dean's heart a little bit, but there's nothing but Sammy keeping him in Morgantown; he could move if Sammy chooses to. They watch TV together and Dean tries to help Sammy with his homework, though most of the time he's more of a hindrance than an assistance. They're happy.

And it took a while, but Dean's stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He pulls the futon out into its bed form and grabs his blankets from where he folds them next to it, stretching them over the bed and crawling in beneath them. The apartment is dark, quiet. Quieter than the motels ever got. He's still not used to it, not yet, the fact that the apartment is theirs, and they'll be sleeping here in a month's time, in these same beds, under this same roof. His clothes are in a dresser. Sammy's stuff is in another. It's their place, and it'll be their place until they decide—together—to find somewhere else.

As he closes his eyes, Dean can hear some cats fighting outside the window, the chirp of crickets, the sound of a car going by outside accompanied by a quick flash of headlights. And he's totally aware that somewhere in Morgantown, there's liable to be somebody whose life is being fucked up by some fugly.

And he knows, deep inside, that he can't ignore it forever.

Sammy knows, too. They haven't talked about it, not out loud, but whenever something weird shows up in the newspaper (Dean reads the newspaper now, how freaky is that), they always catch each other's eye, and the question hangs unasked: Should we?

The answer's been no. So far.

But not forever.

Maybe that's okay. It's all either of them know, after all. Sammy's been in school now for a couple of months, and he's blossoming, and Dean thinks he could get used to being a mechanic for a while, but in their hearts they know that they can't ignore the world they grew up in forever. Because Morgantown seems pretty safe, but something still curls tight around Dean's heart when Sammy goes out after dark by himself, even if only to take out the trash. He knows what's out there, what's in the dark. So does Sammy, but in the end, Dean's the big brother. And Dean knows, above all, that there are things in the dark that people don't know about, and that some of those things are waiting for his little brother in particular, because while he hasn't shown up yet, Azazel isn't dead.

One of these days he's going to wake up and Sammy's going to be waiting with a section of the paper and a grim expression.

One of these days he's going to wake up and the life his dad trained into him is going to say where have you been?

Dean's not waiting for the other shoe to drop. He's waiting for the past to come knocking at his door.

But it's his door, and he can choose to open it or to keep it shut.

One of these days, he knows he and Sammy will make the decision to open it.

And every night, he goes to bed under the blankets he bought in the apartment he rents with his little brother safe in his own room, and he prays that tomorrow won't be that day.

And so far, it hasn't been.

And for now, that's good enough.