A/N: Okay, here's another fic I just pulled out of my ass. Ha ha. Being bored in History leads to me spending my time writing random fan fictions. This is just something that's been bugging me all season long, so I decided to blather about it.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. That's it. Don't yell at me.

"Sam, where's your friggin' phone?"

The brothers were currently on a case and, taking a break from the current angel/demon/Lucifer/Michael/Apocalypse/what-the-fuck-ever. They found a case that was simple and easy, something that was sorely needed.

Things between the boys were still a bit tense and uncomfortable, but definitely better than before. And, really, after the two of them managed to free the Big Boss Downstairs and bring on the end of the world, a bit of awkwardness is only to be expected.

But in a small town working an easy case, Dean could almost pretend they were back to three years ago, when it was just Sam and Dean, before everything got completely out of control.

The spirit they were tracking down would, hopefully, be nothing more than a salt-n-burn, but there was still a shit-load of research to wade through before they got to that point.

After spending most of the day scouring the internet for information, Sam stretched and announced his dire need of a shower. That was all well and good, but five minutes in to Sam's shower, Dean remembered that the woman from the county records office had called Sam earlier and left a voicemail, and Dean needed to double-check the info she'd left.

But Sam was in the shower, and Dean needed his phone.

Not wanting to be caught pawing through Sam's things when they were already on unstable ground, Dean thought he'd just ask Sam where the thing was.

His first time asking fell on deaf ears, so Dean, grumbling to himself, got up off his bed, which was covered in dusty books and newspapers, and marched to the bathroom door.

"Sam! You hear me? I need to listen to that chick's message on your phone! Where is it?"

Over the pounding water of the shower, Dean heard his brother call, "It's in my jacket. Front left pocket."

Grumbling once again about "friggin' deaf gargantuan little brothers," Dean swiftly walked the few steps to the chair where Sam had draped his jacket earlier.

"Stupid thing better be in here." Dean dug around in the left pocket, but came up empty. "Oh, come on." Vaguely annoyed, he reached into the right pocket instead and found the lame-ass phone that Sam always insisted on getting whenever he needed a new one.

"It was in the right pocket, not the left, dumbass!" Dean yelled good-naturedly.

A muffled, "Bite me!" could be heard from behind the bathroom door.

Chuckling, Dean held down the "1" on the keypad to reach Sam's voicemail.

Sam had a habit of saving practically all the voicemails he ever received, something that Dean never understood. When Dean asked, Sam just said he sometimes liked to listen to them again and said nothing more of it.

So of course, Dean had to flip through the ridiculously old messages that Sam never deleted. Why the hell does he want to keep listening to these things?

To avoid pissing Sam off, Dean was a good big brother and didn't delete the messages but kept pressing the "9" key to resave them.

Normally, Dean wouldn't take the time to listen to the damn things, but he was sick of researching and was itching for a short break, and saw this as an opportunity for a good time-waster.

The mechanic voice on the phone announced the time and date of the first saved message, then Dean heard his own voice.

"I'm getting food because I'm starving, and if I have to listen to any more of these old hags weep over their dead husbands on an empty stomach, I'm gonna lose my mind. Call me when you're done at the library." Saved.

"Why the hell don't you answer your phone? Call me back, bitch." Saved.

"Sam, I got some more information about that demon. Call me back. And tell that idjit brother of yours to check his damn phone once in a while." Dean huffed a laugh at Bobby's gruff message then saved it again.

There were a couple more messages, mostly from Dean, on there, and the snarkiness of them amused him.

But after listening to a couple more of them, the mechanical voice announced the when the next message was made, and it was a date that Dean recognized immediately, and his stomach sank.

It was made the day Lucifer rose.

This must be The Message. The one Dean left on Sam's cell when he was locked in that damn Green Room by the angels.

This had been bugging Dean for a while. Had Sam listened to the message? Considering it was saved on his phone, it was quite obvious that he had. Not that Dean was particularly fond of chick-flick moments, but he'd thought his voicemail would have had some effect on Sam. Maybe he would have come back for Dean, or, at the very least, he could have called Dean back. But he'd gotten nothing, not even an acknowledgement of its existence.

With a long-suffering sigh, Dean settled in to listen to the message.

"Listen to me, you blood-sucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam. A vampire. You're not you anymore, and there's no going back."

Dean stood there in shock. Unconsciously, his finger pressed the "9" to save the message before he threw the phone on the table, all thoughts of getting the information for the case forgotten.

What the hell was that? That sure as hell was not what he'd said, but it was his voice speaking in that voicemail!

Wracking his brain, Dean could have sworn he'd said something about how he and Sam were still family, that he was sorry for what he'd said. But that – what that message said – wasn't it.

Dean slumped into the nearest chair, feeling a strange combination of shock and absolute fury.

Zachariah. The angel's words from that night, "Sam has a part to play. A very important part to play. He may need a little nudging in the right direction, but I'll make sure he plays it," ran through his head. He hadn't had a clue as to what Zachariah was talking about, but he was scared for his brother. In the aftermath of everything, though, Dean forgot about it. And now he really wished he hadn't.

That conniving, manipulative bastard.

Furthermore, why did Sam still have the damn thing on his phone?

At that moment, the bathroom door opened and Sam walked out amidst a swirling cloud of steam, fully clothed and his hair dripping wet.

Running a towel over his wet hair, Sam asked, "Hey, did you get the info you needed?"

Dean didn't respond. He was too busy connecting the dots in his mind, not even noticing the death grip he had on the arms of his chair.

"Dude! Dean, did you get check the voicemail?" Sam insisted as he stepped closer to Dean and snapped his fingers.

Startled, Dean looked at his brother and finally registered what Sam had said. "Oh. Uh… No. I didn't."

Sam furrowed his brow in confusion. "Um. The phone's right there. It's not that hard to get to the voicemail, Dean." He turned to walk back to his duffel bag.

"I got distracted."

"Distracted? Didn't know you were so ADD."

Dean ignored that quip and said, "I was listening to your voicemails."

He could see Sam's shoulders tense following that statement. Sam coughed a couple times and responded, "You listened to them? A-all of them?" Sam's voice caught a little at the end.

Dean cleared his throat. "Well, no. Not all of them. I got caught up on one."

Jerkily shoving his dirty clothes into his duffel bag, Sam said shakily, "Whatever. Doesn't matter. The woman that called me didn't really say anything important anyway. We didn't need her information; everything she said, I found on the web earlier. Here, I'll show you." Sam was babbling and changing the subject. He clearly didn't want to discuss this.

But Dean didn't care what Sam didn't want right then.

As Sam was scurrying to his laptop, Dean said, "Stop, Sam. Just stop. We really have to talk about this." Sam froze, his eyes looking anywhere but at his brother.

"No. We don't. I know which message you're talking about, Dean, and it doesn't matter. Let's just finish this case, all right?" Sam kept his stance shifting awkwardly, obviously desperate to talk about something else. But Sam had to know.

He stood up and walked to his brother.

"Sam, look at me."

Sam obeyed and reluctantly looked Dean in the eyes. Dean could see fear in Sam's gaze; fear and sadness and deep regret. Yeah. They definitely needed to talk about this.

"That message you heard… It wasn't me, Sam."

Sam appeared to have resigned himself to the conversation and sighed. "Dean, it's fine. I get it. You were right, okay? I should have listened—"

"You don't get it! I didn't leave that message!" interrupted Dean, losing his patience. "Those damn angels screwed with it! I swear, next time I see Zachariah, I'm gonna punch that stupid smirk right off his face."

Sam held up his hand to stop Dean in his angry tirade. "Hold on. What do you mean, you didn't leave the message? It was from your phone, Dean. Your voice. I heard it. I keep it on my phone to remind myself. "

Dean tried to calm himself down before answering Sam. His brother actually believed that Dean left him that hateful message, that he would ever say something that terrible to him. Over the years, Dean had relied on Sam's basic understanding of how Dean felt about him, and that heart-felt monologues saying so weren't necessary. But that was for the olden days. They weren't that way anymore, and now that Dean thought about it, Sam believing that Dean hated him wasn't that hard to believe given what he had to go by.

That mind-set had to end. Now.

"That night, I called you. Bobby knocked some sense into me, and I couldn't just let you run off without trying to fix things." Sam's eyes had dropped back down to the floor. Dean could feel the anxiousness rolling off his brother in waves. "The voicemail I left you said that we're still family. That I wasn't exactly happy with you, but I was sorry for what I'd said."

Head cocked in bewilderment, Sam stuttered, "But—but the message, the one on my phone—"

"They changed it, Sammy. I'm betting it was Zachariah. He'd said something earlier about 'nudging you in the right direction.' That was probably it." Worried, Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder, giving it a little shake. "I don't believe any word of what that message you heard said, Sam. I don't. I'd never believe that."

Sam looked up to meet his brother's stare again, eyes wide and hopeful. "You don't?"

Dean smiled and said, "No. We're family, remember?"

Sam nodded and returned the smile. He looked completely overwhelmed with this new revelation. Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder again then led him over to the beds. The brothers sat down across from each other with a matching sighs. Sam sniffed a bit, but Dean pretended not to notice. A sudden thought popped into his head, though, and he had to ask.

"Hey, Sam." His brother looked up, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "When did you, uh… When did you listen to that message? The first time."

Sam bent forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. Speaking to the ground, he answered, "Right before Ruby and I went in. I'd, um… I'd been having second thoughts, I guess. I was scared to listen to your voicemail before, but… I dunno, once I did, I had to finish what I went there for, you know? I'm sorry, I really am, but I—I thought it was you."

Fresh anger flared up in Dean's chest. The angel was going down. He couldn't focus on that, though. Not while his little brother was doing his best impression of a kicked puppy.

He reached his hand out and gripped Sam's knee. The two of them sat in silence for a moment, contemplating what could have been.

That must have been it, the thing that sent Sam over the edge. He'd been reconsidering, but that message left him with no other choice. Sam didn't think he had a brother to run back to, so killing Lillith was all he had. Dean was starting to understand. What Sam did wasn't done to spite Dean; it was an act of desperation. A last resort.

"I'm so done with this, Sam." His little brother met Dean's eyes in shock. Knowing that Sam had probably thought Dean meant he was done with him, Dean continued. "For a year now, you and I have been nothing but pawns to those sons of bitches, and I'm sick of it. They've been manipulating us since day one. Don't go feeling guilty, all right, Sammy? Sure, you made mistakes. We both did. But it's time we got past that. We haven't been as close as we used to be, and I'm sorry for that, but we're still brothers. Always. Just remember that."

Sam bit down on his trembling bottom lip, sniffed once, then nodded.

Once he felt like Sam finally got the message, Dean nodded, too. He slapped Sam's knee once, then stood up with a grunt.

"Now that's out of the way, let's start doing some more research. I wanna burn this ghosty bitch fast and get a decent night's sleep tonight. This motel's got decent mattresses for once, and I'm not gonna let 'em go to waste."

Sam laughed. He stalked over to the table determinedly and snagged his phone. He held down a number then held it to his ear.

"What're you doing?"

Sam firmly replied, "Deleting something. I don't need it anymore."

Dean grinned. It's about damn time.

That night, it was the two of them, the unstoppable Winchester brothers, kicking ass and taking names.

And that's the way it should be.