A little note: I apologise if anything is off regarding Supernatural's chronology and its events. I watched the earlier seasons almost three years ago and my knowledge on it is a bit fuzzy.

The quote at the end of the story is taken from an English translation of a Hetalia doujin originally published in Japanese. I cannot recall the name of the doujin and the translator, but if you can identify it, kudos to you!

Eternal thanks to my beta CrystalSparkyStar.

The first time America hears of the Winchesters, he's in a diner in Lawrence, Kansas. His fingertips drum the smooth surface of the counter, his eyes glazing over, as he recalls the meeting he has just attended with his brother, Canada, regarding some international trade business. Very boring stuff, indeed. He takes a loud slurp out of the straw of his chocolate milkshake, earning himself the disapproving glares of two old women sitting in the nearby booth.

The diner is very busy. It is a small town franchise run by the woman behind the cashier, her daughter serving milkshakes and burgers to the patrons. Even at three in the afternoon, there are still people coming in and out, bringing with them the dust from the roads and their cars.

The man sitting next to America leaves, throwing the newspaper he was reading on the counter, its pages spread open, as a result of the rough aim. America sneaks a peek at the article the newspaper had flipped to, milkshake forgotten, squinting his eyes to read the tiny letters.

"MYSTERIOUS FIRE BREAKS OUT AT WINCHESTERS' RESIDENCE.'"

America grabs the paper and settles down on the bar stool, his eyes scanning the interesting article. By the time he'd finished reading it, he was nearly in tears and had to furiously wipe at his eyes under his glasses. According to the article, the mother of the family had died in the mysterious fire and the father was now left with two boys to raise – one only six months old. A tragedy, indeed.

He slurps at his milkshake mournfully.

Exactly twenty-two years later, America's sitting at his desk, his legs propped up on the table, as he shifts through a few documents his secretary has brought him. The air conditioner is shot, and he's sweating profusely as a result. Sighing, he turns the official papers over and starts reading.

Boring stuff, again.

So his day was certainly brightened up when the head of security came into his room, looking grim.

America throws down the documents. "Hey, Bill! Got anything more interesting than these papers Laura gave me to review?"

"Mr. Jones," his head of secretary begins, "Have you been reading the papers?"

America frowns. "Not really. Should I?"

In response, his head of secretary hands him a rolled up newspaper. "Years ago, you told me to be on the lookout for the Winchester family, to tell you if anything else had happened to them..."

America flips through the paper, legs still on his desk. "What am I looking for?"

The head of security sighs. "Page twenty-five. It's a small column at the bottom of the page."

America squints. He really does need better glasses. It takes him almost two minutes to finish reading. "Sam Winchester's girlfriend dies in a mysterious fire?" This couldn't be a coincidence. If there was anything time had taught America, it was the fact that coincidences was the way the universe sent a subtle hint about something important to other people.

Bill stares piercingly at his boss. "Do you want me to look further into this?"

"No!" America snaps too quickly, and immediately regrets it when his head of security looks startled. "I mean, it's nothing, probably just a coincidence." No, it's not."It's okay, Bill. You're dismissed." Bill instantly retreats, leaving America alone in the sweltering hot room with his dark thoughts.

Of course America knows about demons.

He knows about the monsters; knows that the stories told to children were not true, that monsters really did exist.

Occasionally he takes out the shotgun filled with salt from the cabinet in his bedroom and rides out to the nearest hunter joint, mingling around with the local hunters. He gets wind of a hunt, and he gets onto it. He loves the thrill of the chase, craves the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he takes aim at another deadly beast and shoots it down.

The next day, he'd always get a call from his brother berating him for using his salt rounds without permission and that if he wanted his own salt rounds, he could bloody well sit his lazy ass down and make some himself.

America raises an eyebrow when he sees Dean Winchester's face in the papers, an extremely long and tedious article, detailing his latest antics. The Winchester boy had apparently killed someone in St Louis, Missouri and was now, according to the papers, dead.

Both facts were very much false and America knows it.

America is lounging in a dingy bar in Nebraska when the Winchesters tramp in, their boots making the floorboards creak heavily, as the older brother orders himself two drinks from the bar, the younger one standing awkwardly besides him. Dean chats away with the blonde girl tending the bar, while Sam decides to sit down next to America, his shoulders slumped.

America finishes his shot of whiskey and signals for the blonde girl to refill it. Dean sends him an annoyed glare, as the girl tosses her hair and walks away from him to get another drink for America.

Sam nods at the shotgun that America has propped against his stool. "That one's a vintage. Where did you get it from?" The younger Winchester's tone is curious and slightly envious, his head cocked to one side.

America chuckles. He doesn't think it would be proper of him to tell Sam that the ancient shotgun had been a gift from England almost a century ago. Instead, he says: "Got it from my grandfather, as a parting gift."

Dean harrumphs, as he slouches next to Sam, staring suspiciously at America. America merely rolls his eyes at Dean's overbearing attitude, before throwing back the entire contents in his glass. The whiskey burns his throat, a pleasantly warm sensation that heats him up from his toes.

"How come I've never seen you around here before?" Dean demands, as Sam takes out a handgun from his pocket, before polishing it with a white cloth conveniently placed on the counter top for hunters. "What's your name?"

America nearly laughs, but he controls himself and replies. "Alfred. And you?"

"We're the Winchester brothers," Dean says, almost too proudly. "You've heard of us, right?"

"Yeah." America gets up from his stool and grabs the shotgun. "You're the guys who got the Colt, right?"

Sam instantly freezes halfway through his cleaning and Dean's mouth tightens, his hand drifting towards the back of his pants, where America knows his gun is stuffed into. "How the hell do you know that?"

America smiles broadly, as he slings the shotgun over his shoulder. "Well, it's not really a secret, right?"

He walks out of the roadhouse, whistling the 'Star-Spangled Banner' quietly to himself while Sam restrains Dean from shooting him in the head.

Dean and Sam Winchester's faces are in the newspaper again.

England is sitting opposite America, when the younger man reads the papers and swears too loudly, causing almost everyone in the tiny cafe to look at the pair, angered.

Putting down his cup of tea, England peers at his friend. "Something bothering you in the news?"

"Yeah," grunts America, as he snaps the papers shut. "The Winchesters apparently escaped from prison. Their names are on the FBI's list. If they're not careful, they're going to get caught one day and that'll mean more demons and monsters running all over the place."

The British man quirks one monstrous eyebrow. "I thought you didn't believe in that stuff?"

"I try not to." was America's quiet reply. "But sometimes, just ignoring it doesn't solve the problem."

England wisely decides not to say anything more.

He feels it when Sam Winchester dies, feels the phantom pain that stabs his body, as Sam Winchester's life winks out.

He feels Dean's agony, his pain; he hears Dean pleading his brother, silently, to just 'hold on, hold on Sammy don't go'.

He feels it when Dean makes the bargain for Sam's life; hears him offering up his life in exchange for Sam's.

One year.

America's heart lurches for Dean and Sam. One year is an awfully short time, even for a human being.

America is getting a headache from the spike of supernatural activity in his country.

First. the gates of hell getting opened. Now, the first demon ever made is walking openly on his land. The thought alone is enough to make his head throb even more painfully.

"Sir?" America looks up from his book, snapping it shut as his head of secretary enters the room. "We have a situation down in the control room. We need you up there."

Yes, his headache is definitely going to get worse.

When he reaches the control room, people are running around frantically, barking orders to each other. As he enters, the noise grinds to a stop. Everyone is staring at him, snapping to attention, as America looks at the many screens mounted on the wall.

"What's going on here?" America's question is soft, but it rings with authority.

"There's been an explosion at a police station in Monument, Colorado," was the short answer. "Earlier on, there were reports about the local population going nuts. A helicopter was dispatched earlier too by the FBI, but the local authorities lost contact with them and we haven't heard a word from our agents." The speaker turned around to face America, his expression tense. "Sir, the FBI and the helicopter were sent to extradite the Winchesters."

Ah, the Winchesters. Everything suddenly makes sense.

America stares at the screen. A recording taken from security cameras before the police station blew up is playing. A little girl is standing in the middle of a police room, talking to a police officer when suddenly, her eyes rolls back into their sockets, showing the white. She lifts her palm straight into the face of the man, a sinister smile on her face and a blinding white light suddenly flashes, before the recording goes dead.

A dark pit opens up in America's stomach. He knows who she is. And he is scared. No – he's not just scared.

For the first time in centuries, America is terrified.

He feels it when Dean's soul is dragged into hell; hears Sam screaming and crying for his brother.

America reflects on the ironic situation with a grimace, as he sits at the booth in a random diner, picking at the fries on his plate. He is powerless to help the brothers. The situation is way above him. Even for an immortal nation, he does has his limits. And one of them was not to interfere with whatever his people wanted to do.

He is merely the ship. The citizens are the wind.

He feels Sam's agony and remembers the wide-eyed, curious boy that had idly asked him about his ancient shotgun in another roadhouse in Nebraska a long time ago. Or had it been just a year ago? America doesn't keep track of time as properly as England does, preferring instead to just live in the moment.

"Hey, did you hear they sighted a Wendigo two miles south from here?" the bartender is whispering to a couple, unaware that no matter how soft he spoke, America will hear him. "There's been two killings already. You guys up for that?"

The couple shakes their heads. The man replies, "We just got back from a werewolf hunt. Maybe you could ask somebody else?"

The door of the diner opens and closes, the small bell placed on the top of the door jingling. The bartender turns around and sees that the young man with the military jacket, soft blue eyes and glasses has left. A hefty tip has been left on the table.

The next day, news that the Wendigo has been shot and its body found burned in the forest reaches the ears of the bartender and he shakes his head in marvel.

America isn't sure whether he should laugh or cry.

Angels. Freaking angels were in the equation now. Dean's soul must be worth a lot for the angels to finally decide on entering the battle openly.

He feels, rather than hears the rustle of wings in his office; senses that he is not the only non-human being in the building. As he turns his chair around, he sees the angel standing awkwardly in the middle of his office, his piercing blue eyes staring through him.

America waves a hand at the sofa. The angel merely blinks in confusion.

With a sigh, America stands up. "You should sit. It seems like we have a lot to talk about."

"No," the angel's voice is surprisingly deep. America didn't quite expect that. "I have merely come with a warning from those higher than me."

"Hm," America strokes his chin as he stares at the angel before him. He is in a tan trenchcoat, a blue tie hanging awkwardly from the collar of his white shirt. "You know, the guy you are currently wearing as your meatsuit, I quite liked him. Jimmy Novak, was it? Has a wife and one kid. Lovely girl."

The angel is clearly surprised. "My... vessel is a holy man. He prayed for this."

"Did you tell him the risks inherent in being an angel's meatsuit?" America challenges, as he sits down in his own sofa right next to where the angel is standing. "Or did you lie to him?"

The angel stiffens up. "Angels do not lie-"

America snorts. "And Nations are saints. Total bullshit. Why are you here?"

Ah yes, the angel straightens himself up to his full height, gathering his wits together to speak. Clearly, he is an obedient one. "My name is Castiel and I am an angel of the Lord. I have come with very strict instructions from my superiors that you are not to interact with the Winchesters in any way."

America snorts. "What, Heaven has a plan for those brothers now? Where were you guys all those years ago when their mother got killed?"

Castiel shifts his feet. "I merely follow my orders-"

"And your orders were to make me stand down." America's eyebrows quirk upwards. "You don't need to worry about me. I'm just another immortal nation that has too much time to kill. I've played this game long enough to know how it goes."

Castiel nods respectfully. "I... have been put in charge of Dean Winchester. To ensure his safety."

America nearly laughs out loud. Sure, this angel was probably a thousand times older than him, but he is just so uncomfortable in his new vessel that America feels pity for him. "God knows those two brothers need the protection," he replies, then frowns. "Wait, did you just say Dean Winchester? What about Sam?"

The angel doesn't look him in the eye. "Sam is an abomination. He is not under angelic protection."

"What?" America is incredulous. "Sam? An abomination? Dude, is your head straight or something? Have you even met the guy? He's like, the human version of a teddy bear! Well, a monster-hunting teddy bear, but you get my point!"

Castiel is patient with him. "The boy is drinking demon blood. If he doesn't stop what he is doing, I fear his destiny lies along a dark path."

America sits back in his seat, stunned beyond belief. Sam, drinking demon blood? Impossible. "I don't believe you."

Castiel merely shrugs. "I have said too much. Stay away from the Winchesters, America. You may watch them, but do not interfere. We are in charge now." With another rustling of wings, the angel disappears, leaving a very disorientated America in its wake.

With a sigh, America reaches into his pocket. Pressing a well-known number into the keypad, he patiently waits for the line to connect.

"Yo, England, sorry for bothering you; do you have anything on angels? Yes, it's important. No, I am not planning to summon one. Whatever gave you that idea?"

Dean and Sam Winchester's names are once again on the FBI's Most Wanted list for murder, slash credit card fraud, slash robbery, slash God knows what else.

America doesn't even bother turning around when his head of secretary enters the room. "It's those Winchesters again, isn't it?"

"Sir," Bill isn't convinced. "We need to do something about these two. I have state authorities calling in twice a day to send agents to nab the Winchesters whenever someone so much as spots them in town."

America sighs and continues doodling on his notebook.

"Wipe their names off the list."

Bill blinks. "I'm sorry sir, but we can't do that. You've already done it once, I don't think we can pull it off a second time."

This time, America turns around to face his head of secretary. There is an odd glint in his eyes that makes the other man take a step backwards. "I said, wipe their names off the list. Any report that turns up with the Winchesters' names on it, make sure it disappears into the void. Local media, newspapers, whatever. Make sure they don't get caught, and make sure those two have enough money in their bank accounts. Credit card fraud really doesn't suit them."

Bill doesn't dare question his boss when he's in this mood. "It will be done, sir."

"Great!" America says enthusiastically as he swings his legs on the desk.

He is faintly amused when he hears that the Winchesters had gotten the shock of their life when they realized that they have been officially announced dead after an apparent manhunt in Seattle, which had unfortunately gone sour for the brothers.

He first meets Crowley when he's visiting England at his house. Really, he's not even surprised that his old mentor is trading information with a crossroads demon over a cup of tea and biscuits.

"So, you're the mighty America I've heard so much about." Crowley is short, even shorter than England and worth twice the sarcasm. "Tell me, hotshot, how's the country going? I hear Lucifer's walking free now. Must feel awful, doesn't it?"

America just dumps his cup of tea all over the demon's head in response and walks out of the door, ignoring a spluttering demon behind him.

(It's alright, he didn't really like the tea in the first place.)

Castiel is sitting on the bench when America walks past him; with a long-suffering sigh, America reverses his steps and throws himself on the bench, waiting for the angel to speak. Children are playing on the swings and the slides in the nearby park, their yells of joy reverberating in America's ears.

It takes about ten minutes of silence for Castiel to open his mouth. "I told you that the Dean Winchester was under my protection."

"Yes, I remember."

An awkward pause. "I... need help."

America's eyes narrowed. "For what?"

"I..." For the first time ever, Castiel looks uncertain. "I've rebelled against heaven because I did not agree with what they were doing. My power is not what it used to be. I'm afraid I might fail the Winchesters and their plan to trap Lucifer back in the cage."

America nods sharply. "I understand." Rebelling because you believed in your principles was something America was very familiar with and at the moment, he felt nothing but admiration for the angel before him.

Dean Winchester might be suspicious of the two black suited men that constantly tailed him, but so far none of them have had their heads blown off and America is grateful for every single piece of good news he can get in this grim atmosphere.

He nearly runs into the devil in New Jersey.

Or, it would be more fitting to say that the devil runs into him.

He had always been one for attracting shady people; something that England had constantly reminded him of over the centuries.

America had been standing on the corner of the street, people passing all around him, an unlighted cigarette twirling aimlessly in his fingers, when he catches the eyes of a most... unusual man. The people around the guy do not seem to notice him; it was as if he was a ghost, his dark, sunken eyes contributing to the image.

The moment America lays his eyes upon him, an ungodly shudder goes through the young nation and he is suddenly filled with the impulse to sprint away, preferably to the nearest nation (which would be Canada, in this case) and just lock himself up forever.

He is also very certain of the fact that this man is definitely not human. Nor is he an angel. Which would make him...

The man turns his ghostly eyes upon America and it takes all of America's willpower not to back up and run. The man's face is mottled all over with dry, flaking skin; red, dry scabs litter his previously handsome face, his unkempt clothing hanging off his frame. But what made something deep in America's stomach twist was the way the man stared at him, a hungry look in his eyes.

It was the way one would look at a mouse before it got itself caught in the mouse trap.

The man (Nick? Was his name Nick? America can't even sense the man anymore, it was as if he was just gone) raises one finger, pointing it at himself, before turning it upon America. The message being sent was clear enough.

I know who you are. Stay out of this.

Later, when America recalls the incident to Canada, his brother merely asks: "Why didn't you try beating him up? Or at least, exorcise him from his vessel? The Devil is still an angel, he needs a vessel to survive. Don't tell me you pissed your pants when you saw him and couldn't remember everything England taught us years ago?"

"I did not piss my pants!" America had replied indignantly, his chest puffing out.

Canada had merely shook his head in fond annoyance.

America hadn't expected Dean Winchester to walk into the dingy, rowdy bar with Castiel, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world was on him. Which it probably was, America reminded himself.

It wasn't everyday your beloved brother lets himself get possessed by the devil, after all.

Castiel is speaking rapidly to Dean in a low tone. Naturally, America hears every single word of the conversation. "Dean, we need to get you to the cemetery as fast as possible. Every moment you delay in facing Lucifer and Michael is more time Sam will spend fighting Lucifer off in his own body, and he will weaken rapidly."

"My brother is gone." Dean says hollowly, a shade of the man he previously was; the man who had run up hundreds of charges in credit card fraud, had his name framed on the FBI board for being the most wanted man in America and had posed infamously for his mug shot. The photo was still in America's room, stuck on some corkboard somewhere. "He didn't reply me when I called him." Castiel opens his mouth to interrupt, but Dean cut in. "Look, I think we're all going to die when we get to that cemetery so for now, lay off my back. Let me get a drink, okay? If I'm going to go out, I'm going to go out drunk." Dean waves to the bartender, who quickly pours him a drink before leaving.

As Dean lifts the glass to his mouth, America decides to announce his presence. "You might not want to do that, Winchester." he says quietly, drumming his fingers on the table.

Dean squints through the semi-darkness at America. "Do I know you?" After a few seconds, his face lights up with recognition. "Wait, you're that Alfred dude with the neat shotgun years ago, back at Ellen's-" His voice dies away, pain filling his face as he looks down into his glass.

America waits a while. "I'm sorry about their deaths." he says sincerely. It had been a terrible way to die; and ultimately, their sacrifice had been for nothing. The Devil had walked free that day with barely a scratch.

Dean snorts with derision. "Yeah, sure."

Castiel turns to Dean, confusion in his eyes once again. "Dean, do you not know who you are talking t-"

Dean turns to face Castiel. "Wait, you're telling me you know this guy?" He points to a bemused America. "The kid's barely an adult! And you never told me about meeting another hunter-"

"He doesn't know." America interrupts cheerfully in response to Castiel's expression. "It's better that way."

Castiel nods. "I understand."

Dean is clearly in the dark. "Excuse me, what the hell's going on? Why are you suddenly cosying up with some kid you've never told me about? Who are you?" The last question was aimed at America, and he knew it.

"Alfred Jones." America offers his hand across the table. Warily, Dean shakes it. "I've known Castiel for barely two years. Same as you, I guess."

"Jones, huh?" Dean's eyes had returned to his drink. "Look, no offense, but Cas and I are in a bit of a rush to go somewhere important. Sorry if I don't have the time to chat with you."

Castiel, catching America's eye, respectfully gets out of his seat and goes out of the bar. America notes with interest how Dean's eyes follow the angel's every movement, lingering on the door, as Castiel passes out of view, before the realization hits him.

What have you done, Dean Winchester? Falling for an angel? America shakes his head sadly. It wouldn't be easy with those two; they barely knew each other. The road ahead would be hard and cruel, but if those two prevailed-

A smile curls on America's lips. Well, that'd be a story to tell to the world one day.

"Hey, why did Cas go?" Dean is still staring at the open door.

America cut straight to the chase. "Where's your brother, Dean?"

Dean swallows a few times before answering. "He got possessed by the Devil. Lucifer's wearing him as his meatsuit for the end of the world." He frowns. Why is he telling this boy everything? "Me and Cas are on my way to a cemetery in Lawrence, Kansas to stop him and his buddy, Michael. Our friend, Bobby, is coming along later, too. We were supposed to meet up with him soon..."

"You're going to save him," America says confidently.

Dean doesn't reply.

"Look at me, Dean."

Startled, the hunter looks up into America's face. Despite the dim lighting, he sees an unknown fire burning in the younger man's eyes; a blue, pure fire of righteousness and power. "Sam isn't lost yet. I can feel him there; he's still fighting. For you, for the world, for everything." The light from the lone bulb above them casts an ominous shadow over America, making him look ancient. "Where is your faith, Dean? I know, he's your younger brother and you're worried for him. But just this once, will you believe in him? Can you believe that Sam will make the right choice?"

Dean chokes on a sob. "He's made lots of bad decisions, Jones. I can't believe that he'll make the right choice on his own."

America's voice softens. "Which is why you need to be there for him as soon as possible." He shoves the glass far away from Dean, but the hunter doesn't seem to notice. "And you're going to need to be sober for that. "

Dean still isn't convinced as he stares down at the table. "But what if we lose? What if Michael and Lucifer have their own way and take out the entire world just for this pissing contest?"

America smiles sadly. "Have faith, Dean Winchester. I'm sure your angel would've taught that much to you by now."

"Faith, destiny – it's all the same crap," sneers Dean, as he looks up again. "What do I put my faith in? God? The guy upstairs doesn't care. And if he doesn't care, who would?"

America pokes Dean in the chest, a small smile on his face. "You're pretty funny sometimes, you know? I'm asking you to have faith in yourself." Dean is silent now. "Sam is counting on you to save him. Isn't that enough?"

"Yes, but I'm just- I'm just worried we'll lose, damnit!" Dean tries to protest.

America lifts a hand to silence Dean. "Faith, trust and love, Dean Winchester. Don't ever, ever forget these three virtues." At that moment, Castiel enters the bar again. The urgent expression on his face tells America all he needs to know.

It's time for Dean to face his brother.

Dean's eyes are once again fixated on Castiel and America smiles, despite himself. "Go, your brother needs you." And you need him, was the silent continuation to the sentence.

Dean stands up and offers his hand to America. "Until next time, Jones."

America stands up too and gladly shakes the offered hand with a wide grin on his face. "I'll be seeing you around, Winchester."

(The next day, Castiel appears to tell him that Sam has sacrificed his life to drag both Lucifer and Michael into the pit, and that getting him out would be virtually impossible.

"He fought until the end. It was... unexpected," Castiel says, admiration in his voice.

There is pride in America's voice, as he answers bemusedly. "Where is your faith in humans, Castiel?" he teases.

Castiel smiles back gently.)

It isn't until almost four years later, that America finally meets the Winchesters again.

He's in the same, old diner in Lawrence, Kansas; flipping the daily newspaper, when he hears the bell ringing and sees the Winchester brothers enter, followed by Castiel.

"I told you, Dean, Metatron was rotten from the start, we shouldn't have trusted him-"

"Yeah, and so was Ezekiel, or Gadreel, or whoever the hell was in you this time. Now on top of that, we have Abbadon to deal with," Dean shoots back, as he fits himself into a booth near the window. "You know, Kevin would've liked it here; we never got a chance to really show the kid around before-"

"Don't." Sam says so quietly that America has to strain to listen. "Not here, Dean."

There is a pregnant pause. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry."

Castiel, as usual, is the first to notice him. "Dean, over there."

Dean and Sam turns around in perfect synchronization. America waves at them cheerfully before sauntering over to join them. "And how are you boys doing today?" he tips his head at them, ignoring the shocked expression spreading on Dean and Sam's face.

"You're Alfred Jones?" Dean looks at him shrewdly, his hand drifting to the back of his pants again. "Impossible."

America cocks his head to one side. "Mind telling me why you're going for your gun, Dean?"

Dean stands up abruptly, along with Sam. "The Alfred Jones I know would be older. You still look like how he used to be when I first met him all those years ago at the roadhouse!"

"Dean, Sam, please," Castiel is trying to get his two human friends to sit and calm down. "Alfred won't hurt you, he's been helping you two out for as long as you've been alive."

Dean turns around to look at Castiel. Very slowly, his hand drops to his side and he sits down, pulling Sam along with him. "You have thirty seconds to explain what Castiel meant, Jones. Or I'll shoot you right here, right now!"

America decides not to hold back anymore."I lied to you boys all those years ago. I'm not just a hunter, I work for the government, way up at the top."

Dean and Sam gape at him. Before they can speak, he continues. "I was the one who put the money into your account for years so that you would never run up more credit card frauds and risk getting arrested. I was the one who, again and again, pulled your names from the FBI's list of wanted criminals. I was the one who silenced all the news and reports regarding your criminal records and buried them so deep nobody would ever be able to find them again. I speak up on your behalf to the authorities, so that you can continue your hunting business without anyone disturbing you." He raises an eyebrow. "You can thank me right now, if you want. Or get me a hamburger with extra large fries and a chocolate milkshake."

"Impossible," Dean growls. "You're lying. You're too young to be in a position of power-"

"Dean," Sam is thoughtful, his hand stroking his chin. "He's right. We always seemed to get extra money at the end of each month-"

Dean stares at his brother. "You said that was from the frauds we ran!"

Sam shakes his head. "I didn't want to worry you, man. I thought it could've been an old friend of Dad siphoning his funds for us, but apparently not." He looks at a now silent America. "Who are you?"

Castiel snorts uncharacteristically. "You are asking the wrong question, Sam."

Realization dawns on both Sam and Dean's face. "You're not human," Dean says, too quietly.

"I am, yet I am not." America spreads his hands. "I am a paradox. I eat, breath, cry and feel like you do, but at the same time," -he closes his eyes- "I can hear every single person's thoughts in this nation. I can hear the oceans crashing against the rocks, feel the wind singing among the mountains and sense as discontent grows among my people."

"I felt it when you died all those years ago for the first time, Sam. I felt Dean's emotions, as he traded his life for yours, sensed it as he was dragged down into the depths of hell a year ago. I knew about Dean the instance he was resurrected, felt Lilith treading on my land." America's voice drops. "I know how you sacrificed your life to trap Lucifer and Michael in the cage. I was there when you killed those Leviathans, felt everything when Dean was sent into Purgatory with Castiel. And the meteor showers- angels falling onto land. I see everything, but I am at my core still human; flawed yet beautiful."

Sam's voice is reverent as he asks. "What is your real name?"

America stands up, a fond smile on his face. "I think you already know the answer to your question, Sam." As he makes his way to the door, Dean calls out one last question, still stunned over what he has heard.

"How does it work?"

America stands still for a moment, deep in thought. "Hm, an old friend once tried to describe it to me- I guess it'd be like a ship, you know? The government is the mast, the citizens are the wind and we're all sailing on the sea of time. As long as there's somebody to fix the ship, it can be used forever." He smiles. "I doubt we'll be meeting much after this, but know that I am eternally grateful to the two of you for everything you've done. We need all the hunters we can get to make sure the monsters under our bed stay there."

Sam stands up again, and offers his hand to America. The nation shakes it, surprised at the strong grip the boy has on his hand.

"You know," Sam says thoughtfully. "If you're the ship, I'll feel quite safe sailing on it."

America chuckles, as he releases Sam's hand, nods respectfully at the boy and makes his way out of the diner, tipping his head to Castiel and Dean as he went.

"The steering is entirely yours."