Well, here it is: the last chapter. Over three years after the first one. I was still a minor when I started this story - that's weird to think about.

I almost don't know what to do with my life.

But I guess I'll procrastinate and watch Netflix, which was what I did most of the time while I was writing it.

And heeeeey, who remembers I have a Tweetbook account? Banishing_Rune! I'm super sarcastic and most people think that's funny. Sometimes I even post updates about writing projects.

When I'm actually writing, which we all know happens roughly as often as the appearance of Halley's comet.

Finally: huge thank-you to my editor decemberdove, without whom this story probably wouldn't exist - not in its current excellent form, definitely.

Even once that freaking demon was out of Sam, hopefully for good, it wasn't like everything was automatically sunshine and roses. Dean hadn't been expecting it to be, though, so even if that wasn't exactly okay, it was at least unsurprising. A good twenty years of hunting had taught him all about fallout. Closing a case almost always solved one problem and made ten smaller ones - especially when a member of your team or duo or whatever had been right smack dab in the middle of said case.

They spent three weeks at Bobby's, doing what Sam rather bitterly called "convalescing." He didn't openly object to the time they were taking off for him to recover, though, and if he had, Dean would've pulled rank (age) and forced him to keep his ass firmly in Sioux Falls, reading, sleeping, and watching the first snows of the season roll in through the window of their room. This was worse than anything either of them had ever been through before, except maybe their two-year separation, and Dean knew Sam needed downtime. They probably would've stayed longer if he hadn't had Dean to act as a crutch. Or a therapist, or a distraction, or even a wet blanket if he felt like rushing into something again. Whatever he needed him to be.

When they'd first showed up, without bothering to call ahead, Bobby had stared at them from the doorway for a second, then wrapped both of them in a bone-crushing hug. Then he marched them inside, sat them down on the couch, and delivered a blistering lecture that had Dean feeling around eight years old by the end of it...because he hadn't heard from either of them since he'd told Dean about the devil's trap, so for all he knew, both of them could've been dead, possessed, or at least separated and hating each other. Dean would've tried to explain that pretty much all of his attention had been taken up by having Sam back, but he didn't think that would've calmed Bobby down any.

Sam had a lot of nightmares, mostly loud, violent ones that both Dean and Bobby understood. He had times where he was quiet and pale and couldn't seem to do anything but sit there, and there were days where he couldn't stand Dean touching him, or seeing him naked, or even being in the same room as him. Then there were other days when he was all panicked and feverish and couldn't stand to be out of contact with Dean.

When those days (and nights) came, they tried to be quiet, but sometimes they weren't. Bobby had to have heard. He had to've seen that they'd pushed the two beds in their room together, too, and noticed that they both came downstairs with wet hair after he heard the shower running. He never said anything about it, though. Actually, he was downright warm towards them, treating them like family - just like he'd used to. He seemed glad they'd shown up together. That made Dean wonder how long he'd known.

He was helpful in other ways, too. Like making sure this'd never happen again. Charms would've worked, but they could be misplaced, which was why the two brothers ended up getting a symbol out of one of Bobby's books tattooed over their hearts: a pentagram inside a flaming circle, in black ink. They matched. Dean liked that.

Sam got better, with rest and Dean doing his best to give him what he needed (and, not to pat himself on the back or anything, but that was pretty hard, what with it seesawing back and forth between two different extremes practically every other day). He bounced back a lot quicker than Dean had expected him to. He didn't feel like talking about his possession very often, but when he did, it sounded like he'd been through literal hell for almost two weeks.

Dean didn't say a word about hunting while they were holed up in South Dakota - or about looking for Dad. For one, he wasn't feeling too warmly towards the bastard right now, after finding out about how he'd lied to him and what he'd done to Sam. Two, even if (and Dean had gone to great pains to put that "if" on the table) they decided to get back in the game without trekking all over God's green earth to find John Winchester, Sam had to be the one who made the first move.

Dean realized now that he'd really underestimated his little brother's resiliency and strength, because he'd tentatively predicted that first move coming somewhere around the dawn of 2006. Instead, he found Sam in jeans and boots at the three-week mark, just after a low-key but, in Dean's opinion, awesome Thanksgiving. Sam was using the wifi that Bobby had grudgingly invested in last year. He looked up from his laptop, smiling, when Dean stepped into their room.

"Found something," he said. "Looks like your standard restless spirit. Should be nice and easy - perfect for both of us to ease back in."

Dean knew he should've asked Sam if he was sure about not going back to school. But he didn't, because he was afraid he'd say no, and he was afraid he wouldn't be able to handle civilian life for more than a few months. Besides, maybe Sam was just taking a gap year or something. A hunting year between his undergraduate stuff and law school. He could still be planning to go back later, and maybe Dean would feel more confident by then.

So they left for Kentucky a few days later. And Sam was right: it was just a ghost. A nice, easy ghost.

There was another ghost after that. Then a cursed music box. Then something they'd suspected was a witch at work, but which had just turned out to be a series of freak accidents (it did happen, just not that often). Christmas passed, then New Year's. It wasn't hard to build up a rhythm, both at work and in the relationship they were steadily rebuilding. Sex helped a lot. Talking helped more, but to Dean's relief, they'd already gotten most of that out of the way right after Lucy had been exorcised.

It was another couple weeks before Dean realized his drinking had gone way down, because of a casual comment Sam made about it. He knew the reason: he now constantly had that good feeling that usually only came to him when he was drunk. He was happy for the first time in years. He and Sam were back together, really back together, and they were hunting, and it was going awesome. Plus, they'd reconnected with Bobby. Things were damn near perfect, by Dean's standards.

But God or somebody was clearly allergic to his happiness, because as per usual, the universe threw a wrench into the middle of everything.

It was night. They'd debunked the witch thing earlier that day and found a few possible new cases, but they'd decided to spend one more night in their surprisingly nice motel before deciding on a location and shipping out the next morning. The "hunt" had been a frustration and a disappointment, since they'd been wasting time on something stupid while deaths they could actually prevent were happening in other places (again), but the sex that Sam had initiated after dinner had helped both of them feel a lot better.

They were all cleaned up now, resting next to each other in one bed with their fingers loosely tangled together, waiting to fall asleep. It wouldn't be long - coming always sucked the wind right out of Dean's sails, especially when there was a long day of hard work on top of it. Then his phone rang.

Sam groaned loudly, pulling his hand away from Dean's and rolling over. "Oh, come on. You gotta be kidding me."

"Sorry," Dean apologized, in a mumble, as he sat up and groped across the surface of the nightstand that he'd tossed his cellphone onto earlier. Sam rolled back over and touched the hand that he was pushing into the mattress to support his weight.

"Just don't answer it," he suggested, then yawned so widely Dean practically heard his jaw crack. "I can stand another thirty seconds of 'Smoke on the Water' if it means I get to go to sleep."

"Might be important, though," Dean replied, finally locating the phone. He'd forgotten that he'd plugged it in to charge. When he yanked it towards his ear, the cord twanged taut before it even reached his shoulder. "Could be Bobby or somebody."

Sam muttered some gibberish that sounded vaguely like a suggestion of where Bobby could go and what he could do with himself when he got there, then pulled away from Dean with a sigh of defeat and retreated underneath the bedding. Dean smirked with one side of his mouth. Sam could go for days with no sleep as long as he kept busy, but once he laid down, he needed at least five hours. And even if he got that, good luck getting him up and functioning before six-thirty if there weren't lives on the line.

Dean pressed the "answer call" button, but had to duck his head in order to put his ear to the phone without ripping the plug out of the wall. "Yeah. This is Dean." Anybody who had the number to this phone would also have his last name.

"Hey, Dean," the caller answered, coolly.

It took him a second to place the voice. Which was stupid, even if he was tired and had come hard less than half an hour ago. He'd heard that voice every single day for his entire life, up until a few months ago. His body recognized it before his mind did, squaring his shoulders and pulling his spine ramrod straight.

"Dad?" he asked in something just a little too hoarse to be a whisper. Beside him in the bed, Sam must've reflexively gone fetal, because the covers were suddenly pulled tight across Dean's lap as he twisted them up. Dean could only imagine what he was feeling right now, but he couldn't even look at him to check if he was okay, much less try to comfort him. Not with their father on the phone.

"We need to have a talk," John Winchester continued.

"Yes, sir," Dean replied promptly and automatically - even as resentment bubbled up inside him. They sure as shit did need to have a talk. A couple of talks, actually. The first could be about where Dad had been and why he hadn't so much as dropped Dean a text to let him know he was alive since he went MIA, and the second could be about how he'd lied straight to both Dean and Sam's faces.

None of those totally-legitimate complaints seemed to be able to make it out of Dean's mouth, though. It felt like they got stuck in his throat...along with all the others he'd swallowed, for the sake of their family, in the twenty-some years since his mother had died.

"I've been talking to some people," Dad went on, and Dean wanted to scream Who?! Because he'd been talking to some people, too. He'd been talking to everyone. Caleb, Pastor Jim, Bobby (even though he technically hadn't called that last one about Dad's disappearing act specifically). Others, too. Hunters he hadn't seen in years, either because injury or illness had put them outta the game or because him and Dad had only ever worked with them once, and barely remembered. He'd asked every single one of them if they had any idea where his dad might've gone, or if they'd heard from him since he left. No one had. "They say you're working with your brother."

Dean couldn't imagine who'd been saying that, since the only person he knew for sure had seen them was Bobby, and he doubted he'd rat them out. There wasn't much use denying it if Dad already knew, though, so he swallowed with a throat that felt like it'd shrunk down to the size of a coffee stirrer and carefully said, "That's right."

"Thought Sam was at school."

"He was. Semester hadn't started yet, though." Dean wasn't gonna tell Dad that Sam had applied to law school and been gearing up for an interview. He'd been mad enough when he'd learned his major was Criminal Justice, during that one phone call shortly after Sam'd first left - he'd thought it was useless. "I went and picked him up."

"Why?" It was just one word. There was no way it could've conveyed everything that Dean felt like it had.

"I needed his help." Dean swallowed again. "I was looking for you."

He wondered what Sam was doing. Or what he was thinking, at least. He hadn't moved a muscle or said a word since Dean had all but told him who the call was from. He might've even stopped breathing.

Dad snorted, sounding less than impressed. "And I'm sure he's just been a ton of help, after two goddamn years on the bench. You and I both know why you went and got him, Dean - didn't we talk about this?"

Dean couldn't manage anything but another, weaker, "Yes, sir."

"If I'd've thought this'd be a problem again, I might not've..." Dad trailed off, angry, and Dean pictured him shaking his head. "What'd Sammy do when you showed up?"

That brought back the way Sam had acted at first, and why. The memories loosened Dean's throat slightly, letting just a couple drops of the anger he'd felt when he first learned about what Dad had done to Sam, to both of them, slip through.

"He was happy to help," Dean said, with a slight edge. "He was worried sick about you, once I told him how long you'd been gone. We both were."

There was a short silence, which Dean thought might've been because of shock. Then, flatly, Dad said, "I think I'd better come talk to you two in person."

"I - " Dean started, but Dad cut him off. Which might've been a good thing, since he didn't have any idea what he was going to say.

"Don't bother, I know where you are," Dad said. "Nice job on that 'witch,' by the way. You were right this summer, you're definitely ready for solo hunts." His voice was sarcastic. Dean flinched. "I'll be there tomorrow or the day after. Stay put."

After snapping out that last command, he hung up. Dean slowly, stiffly took the phone away from his ear and stared at it once it was in his field of vision, wondering if it was normal for his whole body to feel kinda numb. He supposed he could call back, but the number wasn't one of the ones he recognized as belonging to Dad's cells, so he could've been using a payphone he'd already walked away from. Dean told himself there wasn't a point.

It was a long time before he could look at Sam, before he could even move enough to turn his head. He didn't know how long, and it didn't matter. Swallowing, he put the phone back on the nightstand with one hand, and laid the other on top of the lump of blankets that was his younger brother as gently as he could. Sam flinched at the contact.

When he didn't say anything, or move again, Dean cleared his throat. He had to do it a few times before he felt like he could talk. "So. Dad's alive."

"Clearly," Sam replied with a raspy voice. A second later, he almost spat out, "What'd the bastard have to say for himself?"

Dean shook his head, hearing the fear behind the anger in Sam's words and feeling helpless. He hadn't gotten anything out of Dad to account for the past couple of months, hadn't even been able to ask, and as mad at himself as he was about that, he was pretty sure Sam would've been in the same boat as him. Hell, he probably wouldn't have even managed to say anything, if Dad had called his cell instead of Dean's.

Sam wouldn't be able to see him shaking his head, facing away from Dean and with his own buried under the covers. So, heavily, Dean said, "He knows." A few seconds passed, then he added, "Again."

Sam immediately tensed under the hand that Dean had on him, pulling himself into knots of coiled muscle. It had to hurt. Despite that shocked reaction, though, he quietly said, "I figured. So what'd he say about it?"

"He's gonna come talk to us." Dean licked dry lips. "He knows where we are. He'll either be here tomorrow or...or the day after."

Once again, Sam's reaction was instant. First he pulled away from Dean, then he sat up, sheets and blanket and comforter sliding off of his upper body and his hair falling into his eyes. Dean reached over to grab his shoulder, but Sam hunched up before he could touch him. He brought his legs to his chest and wrapped both arms around them, then buried his face in his knees.

"Sam - " Dean started, concerned.

"I can't do it." Sam cut him off, voice muffled by the comforter. "I hate it, Dean, but I'm not - I'm not strong enough. Maybe if it was a year from now, but not...here."

Dean got it. Dad finding out the first time had been worse for Sam (even if he didn't quite understand that, seeing as Sam hadn't been the one with ninety-nine percent of his faith and respect invested in the man), and even with how little he'd talked about what Lucy had done to him, Dean understood that she'd taken an already-crippling wound and ripped it open wide enough to swallow practically everything that Sam was. He was still recovering from being held captive and tortured inside his own body, and facing one of the main roots of all the problems he had today was just too much for him right now.

"Well, we can't run away," Dean said, apologetically. "He told us to stay put."

As Sam raised his head from his knees and stared at Dean through red, swollen eyelids, he realized those hadn't been the right words. What he'd meant was that, even if they left, Dad would just track them down again anyway, and then he'd be even madder than he already was. What Sam had heard was obviously very different.

"Right - and you always do every single thing he tells you," Sam said. The bitterness in his voice was years old. "Took his side every time he and I went at it over me staying out the year at one school. Dragged me out gravedigging at midnight because he called and asked you to. Only came and got me to help you look for him."

"I didn't - " Dean began. It wasn't exactly news to him that that was how Sam viewed their childhood, especially when he was at rock bottom like this, but it still stung to hear him say it.

"Shut up," Sam interrupted, and Dean flashed back, with an impact like a punch in the gut, to his possession. Before he'd known what was going on. "He programmed you perfectly. You've been a good little soldier for as long as I can remember, but it didn't quite take with me. That's probably the only reason this happened." He gestured back and forth between the two of them. Something about it looked disgusted. "Bet you anything he blames me for screwing you up. You were always his golden boy."

Dean swallowed, the mouthful of saliva moving painfully past the hot coal that'd somehow wound up in the middle of his chest while Sam was talking. And then, for the first time since he'd figured out Sam's weird behavior was due to a demon, he got angry.

It would've been easy, and it would've felt good, to yell. Or to leave. Or to kick Sam out, because if he really thought that Dean and Dad were so buddy-buddy, maybe it'd be for the best if he legged it - again - and left Dean alone to deal with their father. Again.

Dean breathed deep and didn't let it out, though. He wasn't the twenty-four-year-old who'd picked fights with strangers in bars anymore, because the hole in him that'd made him do that had been filled back in. He could stay calm enough to realize that he and Sam were both pissed for the same reason: they were scared. Yelling wouldn't solve anything.

"He blames me, actually," Dean said, quietly. "'Cause I'm older. I should've been able to put a stop to it - or never even have started it in the first place."

Sam snorted. "And you know that...how?"

"He told me," Dean replied. "Often as he could remember to, along with a whole bunch of other stuff."

Sam had turned away, but now he looked at him again.

"You left," Dean said. "I stayed. With him, and him knowing. For two years."

Sam didn't really want to talk about his possession, and that was fine with Dean, because he didn't really want to talk about those two years. He regretted bringing them up now, actually, but at least he could see the anger draining out of Sam, so it'd done some good.

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbled. "I didn't...think..."

"Nope," Dean agreed, even though he knew that probably wasn't what Sam had meant. He needed an outlet for the anger he'd been feeling. Just a small one. Sam being back didn't mean he was a Buddhist monk or anything. They sat next to each other, silent, both of them looking down at their laps, for around three or four minutes. Eventually, Sam spoke up. Voice quiet, he asked, "What're we gonna do?"

Dean had been expecting that question, actually, and for once, he actually had an answer. He cleared his throat and shifted on the mattress, looking over at Sam.

"Same thing we used to do," he said, and Sam lifted his head. "We'll move into a room with two beds. We won't touch in front of Dad, won't talk about it unless he brings it up, won't tell him the truth. Then when he leaves again - "

"But what if he doesn't?" Sam interrupted. "This is the first time in our entire lives he's taken off without telling at least one of us. What if it was a one-time thing? And even if he wasn't planning on that, what if he feels like he has to stick around 'cause we need him to keep an eye on us?"

A cold ball of lead settled heavily in Dean's gut, because he hadn't thought of that. He'd just pretty much assumed that Dad would drift out of the picture again as soon as they could convince him they hadn't fallen back into their old habits. But that was stupid, because Sam was right: he'd never done this before. From the point that Sam had hit double digits to when he'd left, the three of them had been an inseparable team, and that'd been a system that worked - and in Dean's experience, their father wasn't in the habit of fixing things that weren't broken.

Maybe he'd been hunting something he didn't want or trust Dean around. Maybe he'd just gotten sick of him and needed a vacation. Whatever it was was clearly over now, since he'd contacted them. And there was no reason to assume that things weren't going to go right back to the way they were.

Dean swallowed. "If he does end up sticking around," he started, carefully, "no big deal. Nothing new. He can't watch us all the time, and we've kept it hid before - "

Sam interrupted again. "So what happens if I don't want to hide it this time around?" Dean had been keeping his tone pretty low while he tried to work through this, so Sam's angry voice was shockingly loud. He was just a firecracker tonight.

In his rawest, most honest heart, Dean didn't want to hide it, either. He felt impossibly exhausted just thinking about another twenty years of sneaking around (especially because they'd have to be even sneakier now that Dad knew), but "We have to."

"Why?" Sam challenged, but he didn't sound angry anymore. That was a relief. "What's the worst thing he can possibly do to us if he gets here and finds out we really are back together?"

"Well, take us out and shoot us, for one," Dean said with a knee-jerk laugh, even though it wasn't funny.

"D'you really think he'd do that, though?" Sam asked. "He yelled at us when he found out. He didn't hit us, and he barely threw me around. And even if he tried, d'you really think we couldn't take him? I'm taller than he is now, and we're both younger, and there're two of us."

Dean drew in a deep breath. Even with how pissed he was at Dad for pulling a disappearing act and lying to him about talking to Sam two years ago, the idea of actually, physically fighting with him gave him a queasy feeling.

"Look, Sammy," he started, and silently swore at himself for using the nickname when Sam's face ticked. He'd never said anything about it, which made Dean think he didn't know he reacted that way when Dean called him that, but obviously, he had some new complex about "Sammy." Probably something that'd happened during the possession, just like all his other new complexes. "I ain't looking forward to it, either, and I'm sure as hell not any happier with him than you are, but...he's our dad."

"I know he is." And now Sam was calm, thinking everything through. This wasn't how they usually argued - the fight they'd had about fifteen minutes earlier was way more typical. Might be a good idea, Dean thought, to try real hard to help Sam keep this one slow and quiet, so they could work out a solution that'd make both of them happy. "And that's why I get why this - us - upset him so much. Upsets him so much, still. I mean, if I had kids, and I found out that they were..."

He trailed off. Dean stayed silent and let him gather up the rest of whatever he was gonna say, because kids - especially Sam's kids - were not a subject he was even comfortable being in the same state as. Eventually, Sam continued.

"If he's gonna see it as a problem, though, then he's gonna have to share some of the blame for it," he said, talking more quietly now. He'd straightened his legs and leaned back against the headboard. Dean copied his position, shifting all his weight onto one side so he was angled towards Sam as he listened to him. "I don't think it's unfair to ask him to just live with it. After all, he was the one who decided we were gonna grow up hunting, and if we hadn't...we probably wouldn't have turned out like this."

That bothered Dean. A lot. Hunting and Sam were just about his entire life, and losing one had broken him. Without both, he just couldn't really see himself existing. Not like he was now, at least.

But Sam had a point. They'd grown up in a bubble, they'd been each other's only constant and comfort. Dean could agree with him while still resolving to never think about what life would've been like without hunting ever again. If Dad had just put all the weird parts of Mom's death outta his mind and kept on fixing cars.

Yeah. Best not to think about that, or wonder about it, or wish for it. There was no changing the past, nobody got any second chances, and anything could've happened if just one tiny thing had been different. Good or bad. Maybe this was the best of all possible outcomes.

And that possibility just completely sucked ass, but oddly enough, it was also the tiniest bit comforting. Dean felt guilty about that.

"So what d'you wanna do?" he asked Sam, to take his mind off everything that'd just run through it. "I know we aren't a textbook incest case. Not abusive or anything like that." He still remembered how much it'd shaken him to find out that what he and Sam had was the exception, not the rule. To find out that, to most people, it was sick and wrong. "No danger of you popping out a two-headed baby." Sam almost smirked at that. "Might be a little too wrapped up in each other, but that's it. If you're totally objective, then that's the only bad thing about us." Dean sighed, sitting up straight and running a hand through his hair. "No way is Dad gonna let us explain all that, though. And even if we shouted over him 'til he heard every last piece, it wouldn't matter. He wouldn't understand."

"He doesn't have to understand, though," Sam said. "I'm not even sure I'd want him to understand, if he could. He doesn't have to accept it, either, or like it. He can leave again, if he wants. It didn't seem to be too much of a problem for him last time, and I think we've been doing fine on our own so far. Minus this latest hunt."

Dean huffed out a laugh. Sam smiled.

"If he wants to stay, though," he continued, "then he has to keep his mouth shut. He can't bully us out of this like he did two years ago, and if he tries, we'll leave. We'll cut him off. We're adults, we chose each other all over again. We know exactly what we're doing. And we can choose that, too."

"You think he'll just let us walk away from him like that?" Dean asked. Not challenging Sam - just honestly asking.

"He let me walk away without much trouble," Sam pointed out, and Dean had forgotten about that. "And if we make it perfectly clear that we're not gonna let go of each other again just 'cause he wants us to, and that we're not gonna put up with him? Definitely."

"He'll hate it, though," Dean said

"Oh - man. Of course he will," Sam said, like that was so obvious he was shocked Dean had even felt the need to bring it up. "But, honestly, I don't really give a damn whether or not Dad's happy."

"Wow," Dean said, surprised. "That's...kinda cold, Sam."

"D'you think he cared about us being happy when he talked to me?" Sam fired back almost immediately, like he'd been waiting for that response. "Or when he talked to you? Or when he called us just now?"

"No, no, I'm not saying you're wrong," Dean said quickly.

As bad as it sounded at first take, he agreed with what Sam had just said. Months had passed between Dad talking to Sam and Dad talking to him, so he'd had plenty of time to cool down and think it all through. He very obviously hadn't bothered to do that. He could've talked to them together, he could've done research, he could've been calm and made an informed decision. He hadn't. And even two years later, he'd cut them off every time they'd tried to tell their side of the story, he had no grasp of their current situation, and he was still disgusted and angry. They didn't owe him any of the respect or consideration that he hadn't bothered giving them - Sam was a hundred and ten percent right about that. What'd made Dean comment on how callous it seemed was...

"It just sounds weird, coming from you. More like something I'd say." Carefully, aware of how stupid the question could come out sounding because of what they'd just been through (and were still going through, really), Dean asked, "Are you okay?"

"No," Sam replied bluntly. "I'm not. Neither are you. We haven't been okay for a long time, and we're getting better now, but I think it's gonna be a while before we can really, honestly say we're 'okay.'" He sighed heavily, closing his eyes. "I'm done holding in what I'm feeling. Even if it makes me as bad as Dad as."

What Dean had said was that it sounded like something he would say, not something Dad would say; he hoped Sam hadn't heard it like that. He let Sam take his hand when he reached for it, and gave him the eye contact he'd started searching for when he did. He wanted to tell him he wasn't anything like Dad, but with how deep they were into each other right now, he was afraid Sam'd be able to pick up on the fact that he was lying.

"This is the best part of my life," Sam said softly. Dean started frowning before he'd even finished talking, because he couldn't possibly believe that, so Sam quickly added, "I mean, it could be. We don't have to hide what we're doing any more than normal couples do, 'cause nobody but us knows we're brothers when we're on a hunt. We don't have to feel guilty about the feelings we've got for each other, and we don't have to worry about getting caught. This is the first time, since this whole thing got started, that this has happened to us. That we've had this." Sam squeezed Dean's hand. "I'm not gonna let anybody kill it before it even gets started."

"I won't, either," Dean responded quietly, squeezing back. He meant it. As much as it terrified him, really being with Sam while he knew Dad was watching them, socking it all away again actually seemed like the riskier option now that Sam had laid everything out. Dean really didn't want to lose what he'd just described. He'd been feeling the same way for a while now, but Sam had been the first one to put it in words. "So...that's what you wanna do? Wait for Dad here and 'this is us' in his face when he shows up 'til he either leaves again or learns to deal with it?"

"Doesn't sound like a great plan when you put it like that," Sam said with a small laugh. "But yeah. That's what I wanna do."

"So...no switching rooms," Dean said. "No walking on eggshells around Dad, no keeping two feet of space between us all the time..."

"Right," Sam agreed. "We don't have to, like, make out in front of him, though. We're not gonna yell at him or accuse him, either. We'll just be normal, and however he reacts to that, we'll deal with it calmly."

"Okay." Dean didn't really have anything to add to Sam's plan. It was all pretty simple, and they'd be making most of it up as they went along. That was how Dean usually liked to do things - Sam preferred to have everything mapped out with as little as possible left to chance. And he might've tried his best here, but it was tough as hell to map out something as unpredictable as how Dad was gonna react when he realized they were back to being a couple. "Sounds good to me."

"You sure you're okay with this?" Sam asked, cautiously. "You wanted to try and fool him again, originally. I don't wanna do that, but I don't think I want you agreeing to this just to make me happy, either."

"No way would I be able to do this by myself," Dean admitted. "Wouldn't have the balls." He only had to remember how he'd acted when Dad had confronted him the first time to prove that to himself. "But I think I'll be okay so long as you're with me the whole time."

Instead of commenting on Dean saying something that could've come out of a chick flick, Sam smiled. It looked empty and bleak to Dean. "That's how he did it last time - he split us up. I was stupid enough to let him talk to me alone instead of going to you, and that's not a mistake I'm gonna make this time around."

"Sam?" With the hand that Sam wasn't loosely holding, Dean reached for his little brother's face, brushing damp curls of dark hair away from it. Sam looked tired in the neon light coming in through the window. They'd had a tough day even before Dad had called and it was getting late, but they couldn't go to sleep 'til they were done talking. "Last time wasn't your fault. I don't blame you. And you don't have to fix this time all on your own."

"I know," Sam answered, then let go of Dean's hand and stretched himself out on the mattress. Dean laid down beside him, then watched him roll over. He thought he was turning away from him at first, and wondered how he'd screwed up this time. But then Sam scooted backwards into the position of the little spoon, and Dean put an arm over him.

Sam didn't say anything else, and Dean couldn't think of anything he wanted or needed to say, so he assumed that meant they were done. It was time to rest and wait for Dad to show up.

Neither of them slept much that night.

Dad didn't show the following day, which felt like the worst thing he could've done to them. Dean felt like he was strung so taut he'd vibrate if he didn't move, which, long story short, translated into pacing. A lot of pacing, mapping out the boundaries of the small room over and over again while he waited for Dad. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this. Or, well, he could, but it'd happened so long ago it hardly mattered anymore. Waiting for Dad to come back to the room, pick him up, and take him on his very first hunt. On a stakeout in the woods, waiting for something awful to glide through so they could try and kill it before it took too many bites out of them. Yeah, even with how young he'd been then, this was close.

However bad Dean was, though, Sam was worse. He'd been so calm and collected last night, like he'd had everything in hand and knew it, but all of that had been long gone by the time he got up this morning. His jerky, burn-out behavior reminded Dean painfully of how he'd been right after he'd thrown Lucy. Or maybe it wasn't just a reminder. The stress of all of this might've brought that trauma boiling back to the surface - there was no way it was totally healed. Not after less than a month.

They couldn't leave the room much or for long, which only amplified everything that was wrong with them. Dad could arrive while they were gone, and neither of them wanted to come back and find him already raging about the one bed, having picked or tricked his way into their room. Sam got breakfast and lunch, desperate for air, and Dean got dinner because he was deep in a paranoia attack by then and couldn't handle going outside. When Dean got back with burgers and sodas, the way that Sam looked at him let him know he'd expected him to just leave. That pissed Dean off, because that was Sam's go-to solution when it came to problems involving Dad.

They had sex twice, but it wasn't good. Dean's orgasms, at least, were weak and unsatisfying, and he could tell both times just made Sam feel more neurotic and guilty.

Sam finally wore himself out around seven that night. He crashed in the middle of the bed, on top of the covers and with all his clothes still on. Dean pulled his shoes off and got the comforter out from under him, then laid it over him and tucked him in, because he was the older brother. Sam didn't wake up, but even his sleep was anxious: lots of twitches and grimaces. Dean wanted to lay down next to him and see if that helped, but he knew he'd fall asleep if he did.

He forced himself to stay awake on the off chance Dad came tonight. Sitting in a chair near the window so he could watch the road and the parking lot, occasionally glancing over at Sam to make sure that he wasn't having a nightmare he needed to be woken up from, Dean wondered if they should just go ahead and leave. Count on Dad not being willing or able to actually track them down. He'd known Dad longer than Sam, and right now, he felt pretty confident about the two of them having to ditch him eventually. Why not just skip right to the end and avoid all the stress of a confrontation?

He wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep and he didn't remember getting in bed with Sam, but both of those things must've happened at some point, because he woke up under the comforter when Sam shoved a hand against his head and mumbled, "'d Dad get in las' night?"

"If he did, you think you'd still be asleep?" replied Dean.

"'aybe he won' come."

God, Dean hated to burst Sam's bubble. Especially when he was like this: half-awake, vulnerable, sounding, looking, and acting years younger than he actually was. So he just weakly agreed, "Maybe."

Sam didn't respond. After a while, Dean rolled over to face him, expecting him to be asleep; but his eyes were open, if glazed.

"You gonna get up and start tying yourself in knots again?" Dean asked Sam.

"Don't see what good that could do," Sam replied, sounding slightly more awake. He'd stopped slurring, at least. "I wanna stay in bed." He rolled over, too, putting his back to Dean. "I'm tired."

"Sounds like a plan I can get behind." Dean put a tentative arm over Sam, and was relieved when he let him do it. He must've worn himself out in more ways than one last night, to have given up on freaking out.

He'd also proved that he was more mature than Dean in some areas, again, by realizing the stress wasn't accomplishing anything. Dean really hated when he did that. The four years between them probably didn't matter so much anymore now that they were in their twenties, but Dean was still painfully aware of how much younger than him Sam was at times like these. Because he still had a slow-burning lump of anxiety where some of his more important organs should be.

Dean must've gone back to sleep in spite of that lump, because the next thing he knew, he was startling awake to "Smoke on the Water." Sam, who'd still been under his arm, shot up like somebody had stabbed a pen into his thigh, swearing loudly and foully.

Guess that's one way to get his ass in gear in the mornings, Dean thought as he sat up, too, a little more slowly, then immediately felt guilty.

"Might not be Dad," he said out loud, trying to get Sam back into the zen state he'd been in back when he'd still been mostly asleep. It was probably Dad, though. It wasn't the same number as last time when he looked at it, but it still wasn't one familiar enough to have a name attached to it in his phone.

Dean answered the call. He had to swallow to wet his mouth and throat before he said anything, knowing his voice would come out as a dry hiss if he didn't. Then he carefully asked, "Hello?"

"Hey - just got here," Dad said briskly. His voice had a vaguely-crackly quality to it that probably meant he was on a cell phone. He must've gotten a new one, with a new number.

What little moisture Dean had been able to put in his mouth spontaneously dried up, and he really, really wished he'd tried harder to talk Sam into switching to a room with two beds. Or that he'd at least gone and got a separate room for himself. Because he wasn't ready for this, he couldn't do this. Just like Sam hadn't been the night before last.

"At the motel?" Dean asked, struggling to keep the dread and panic out of his voice. Sam, who'd fallen abruptly silent when Dean answered the phone, scrambled out of bed, apparently going back to yesterday's full-speed-ahead spazziness instead of seizing up like he'd done the first time Dad had called.

"No, the diner a few blocks over," Dad replied. "You know it? The one with the rooster on the sign?"

"The diner with the rooster on the sign?" Dean repeated back to him, so that Sam would stop shaking and yanking his sneakers on before he lost his balance and cracked his head open on the Formica countertop of the kitchenette.

"Yeah. I've been driving all night, figured I'd grab breakfast." Dean glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Quarter after eight in the morning, so yeah, breakfast was reasonable. "If you two haven't eaten yet, wanna come down and join me? Hell, just come down and have some coffee if you have eaten. We can talk here."

While he'd been saying those last few things, Dean had set his phone on speaker, gotten out of bed, and taken it over to Sam (and noticed, with some embarrassment, that he'd worn his boots to bed last night or this morning, whenever he'd turned in) so that he could listen, too. Dean had forgotten about charging his phone, so he didn't have to bother with unplugging it.

They looked at each other after Dad had put that offer out there, standing over by the tiny kitchenette with its bolted-down microwave, Dean holding his cell phone and Sam holding one of his soft, preppy college-kid shoes. Dean was thinking that Dad sounded a lot calmer and more friendly than he had last time. Even if it was forcing it, it meant he was making an effort, so maybe the long drive he'd mentioned had mellowed him. And even after nearly twenty years of a relationship, Dean couldn't guess exactly what Sam was thinking. But his eyes - bright, hard, and roughly the same color as a Heineken bottle - were full of renewed determination and hope. They had prep time and distance now. It wasn't a cold open.

Dean cleared his throat before the silence could stretch out far enough for Dad to ask if he was still there. "Yeah, that sounds good. See you in a bit - gotta freshen up. Just got outta bed."

He didn't say "we," which he didn't think Sam liked, based on the look he gave him. He didn't care, though. He wanted to keep Dad in this casual mood, even if he was faking it, at least until they got to the diner. And he'd cut out as many words as he needed to do that.

"Okay, then," Dad said, and that sounded like the end of it. Instead of hanging up, though, he added, "I wanna see both of you, understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dean replied. It was automatic, just like it'd been last time, and in his opinion, it wasn't a big deal. He rolled his eyes at Sam's clear disapproval - and, when he saw him drawing in a deep breath to say something, he hurriedly said, "See you then" into the phone and hung up before he could get it out.

"Well, that's quite a turnaround," Sam said to Dean as he shoved his phone into the pocket of his jeans. He sounded mad about the fact that he wasn't getting to say it to Dad. "He was all about cornering us one-on-one two years ago. Wonder what his plan is, wanting us together."

"Okay." Dean raised his hands, palms out, to try and get Sam to slow down and realize he was running on anger alone. "Sam? I'm pissed, too, but we can't go in there swinging. Didn't you say something like that? He's probably gonna get real mad, and things are gonna go south right off the bat if we just all end up yelling at each other. We keep our cool, that makes us better than him without us really doing anything."

He didn't remember where he'd first heard or read that, that the first person to get mad and show it lost the argument, but he must've been young, because he'd had a love-hate relationship with that truth for a long time. On the one hand, he had a knack for goading authority figures, but on the other, he got angry and violent fast when the topic was something that cut him deep. Or when a monster he was interrogating didn't cooperate; when innocent lives or people he gave a damn about were hanging in the balance.

He'd never gone to either extreme with Dad. But now, with what he knew, with what had happened, with the stress of the last few weeks, with what was at stake...his emotions were gonna be running high. And in the back of his mind, he'd kinda been expecting Sam to keep him grounded. It was looking more and more like that might not happen, though.

"I know. I know," Sam said, looking frustrated as he ran a palm over his hair. He had a wicked case of bedhead.

"Night before last, your first reaction was that you couldn't handle facing Dad," Dean said. "You went from zero to sixty way too fast here."

"I know."

"You remember that plan you came up with? That was good. You gotta go back to that."

"Yeah, I do. I know." Sam walked away from Dean, going back to the bed and sitting down on the edge. He still had a shoe in one of his hands (the other one was on his foot, making him look lopsided and awkward when he walked), but he didn't put it on. "You don't have to worry about having to hold me back or anything, Dean. I'm not gonna go nuts the second I see him. I'm just upset, and I still don't wanna do this." He put the shoe on, finally, as Dean followed him over to the bed. "I have to, though. Don't worry about me. Just...please help me get through this."

Dean sat down next to Sam ad put arm around his shoulders. They'd reached the point in the conversation where things were getting too heavy, and he was uncomfortable and out of his depth, and they'd just been having way too many of these talks lately, and he was sick of it. So he didn't say anything. After a second, Sam leaned against him with a heavy sigh.

Dean let him have that for a while. He kind of needed it, too, to be honest. Then he pulled his arm back and said, "Dad's waiting on us. Pull on a hat or something cover up...that - " He gestured to the disaster that was Sam's head. " - and we'll go show him we ain't backing down this time."

Sam dug a gray beanie out of the bottom of his backpack and tugged it over his hair, the dark ends curling out from underneath, and then they both put on their jackets. Dean wore his leather one, passed down from Dad, and didn't think about it until they were already in the car and halfway to the diner. Sam didn't say anything, so maybe he was too preoccupied to notice it, too.

Dean started scanning the parking lot as soon as they reached it, because Dad had to have a car and he was curious about what he was driving. He knew he probably wouldn't be ale to pick it out, from all the other ones whose owners were grabbing breakfast before heading to work (and that one snow-covered lump that must've been there for weeks), especially if it was a rental, but he -

"Oh, my god," Dean blurted out the second he saw it. He couldn't do much else; he kept heading for the parking spot he'd chosen on autopilot, but he was surprised his foot didn't just slide off the gas and leave them stranded in the middle of the lot.

"What? What is it?" Sam, who'd been sitting quietly and breathing deeply for the whole of the short drive, probably psyching himself up, straightened and looked around.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Dean groaned more than said, pulling in and then killing the engine with a rough jerk of the keys. He put his hands on his head and turned, looking. It was partially blocked by another car now, but he could still see way too much. "I can't believe he did this.

"What?!" Sam repeated, yesterday's hysteria edging back into his voice.

"That!" Dean didn't understand at all how Sam could've missed it, but he pointed anyway to keep a breakdown out of their future.

Sam looked. Then he opened his door and climbed out of the car, leaning on the roof and squinting to get a better view. Dean followed him, waiting for a reaction. Even Sam, who was functionally illiterate when it came to everything with an engine, had to understand why this was such a nasty shock.

"Oh," Sam said, after a while. "You think that's Dad's?"

"Yeah," Dean replied heavily, feeling some of what little respect he still had for the man slipping away.

"Well, good for him," Sam said flatly. "Looks nice. Wonder how many collection agencies he's got looking for it - looks like he's got his gear in it, so he must've had it long enough for the dealership to figure out he's not gonna pay." He pounded the Impala's roof, sucking in a huge breath. "Okay. Let's do this."

He started for the front door of the diner. Dean, floored by his complete lack of...well, anything, stayed where he was, staring at him. Sam stopped as soon as he realized Dean wasn't next to him. "...what? You okay?"

"I can't even believe you," Dean said, shaking his head. Sam stared at him, then looked at it again, finally putting two and two together. And getting seven.

"It's a car," he said. "He got a new car."

"That's not a car!" Dean exclaimed, putting a protective hand on one of the Impala's side mirrors. "It's - it's a betrayal!"

It was a monstrosity - a word that Dean, who hunted and killed real, actual monsters, did not use lightly. A pickup, looking so shiny and new it just had to be this year's model, or last at the very latest. Way bigger than it had to be, foreign-made, probably, dull modern shape, raised so high up off the road you'd practically have to take a running jump to get in. It had no character, no history, and no proof of love or baptisms of blood and fire. And it was black, like a mockery of better cars more deserving of the color.

There was some kind of storage thing in the bed that had to hold the arsenal. Dad had to've bought all new gear, since nothing was missing from the trunk of the Impala, and that bothered Dean almost as much as it did.

"A betrayal," Sam repeated. Dean nodded. Sam put his hands on his hips and looked up at the sky as he shifted his weight, then took a breath. He couldn't seem to figure out what to do with it at first, but then he eventually said, "We have literally spent hours talking about how Dad lied to us, split us up, and basically made both of us miserable for two years, and the truck is a betrayal."

"This is worse," Dean blurted, then immediately backtracked. "Okay, no, no, it isn't. You're right." He paused. "But - "

"Dude." Sam cut him off. "It's a car."

Dean chewed on the inside of one of his cheeks, holding Sam's stare. Silently, he acknowledged that he was tired and frayed, that things had been rough lately, that he might be overreacting, and that this might not be the best issue to waste his limited energy on. Blowing out a breath, he walked up to the diner with Sam. As they walked through the door, though, he couldn't resist muttering, "That thing's engine'll crap out in two years, tops. Bet on it."

Sam looked at him, and Dean prepared to defend himself with a rant about planned obsolescence in newer cars. But Sam smirked, looking amused and exasperated at the same time, and quietly said, "I love you."

Hearing that made Dean realize that neither of them had said it since Dad called. He silently followed Sam into the building, not even really thinking about the truck anymore, aware they had to put a stop to all this for good.

He started scanning the crowded, noisy diner as soon as they were inside, and was sure that Sam did, too, which would've been automatic even if they hadn't been looking for Dad. You weren't brought up to fight and kill by an ex-Marine without learning how to check doors and corners.

Dad was easy to find. He was in a booth right next to the big window that stretched along the front of the diner, which meant he'd been able to see them pull up. And fight over his stupid truck. He had a plate of hash browns and scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee in front of him, but he wasn't eating. He'd been waiting for them to come in, and now he was looking at them.

Dean's first reaction was shock at how old he looked. Gray hair, tired eyes, grizzled neck and jaw. He wasn't sure if Dad had started looking like that, bit by bit, a long time ago and he was only noticing it now because he hadn't seen him for months, or if something had happened during those months to age him.

Sam slid into the booth across from Dad very first, and Dean sat next to him without a second thought. It was immediately clear that Dad noticed, though. His eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them, taking in how close they were sitting to each other, the lack of tension between the two of them, and just pretty much everything.

Dad cleared his throat after a couple seconds of silence. "Appreciate you coming out to meet me."

"Well, y'know. We have kinda been looking all over the country for you, so." Sam sounded just a little too upbeat, and the smile he gave Dad was just a little too tight. Dean almost put a hand on his thigh to rein him in, then checked himself in case Dad saw the movement, then remembered they wanted him to see that kind of thing. It was too late by then, though; Sam had calmed himself down and the moment had passed.

Dad looked down at his hands, folded on the table in front of him and behind his plate, and to Dean's surprise, he looked guilty.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean for it to turn out this way, believe me. I'm sorry Dean pulled you away from school." Dean noted, with a little spark of anger, the exact way he worded that. "I was just trying - "

He shut up abruptly when a waitress in black slacks and a waist apron came over to their booth. She smiled at Sam and Dean, pad at the ready, and asked, "Can I get you boys anything?"

"Uh, yeah." Sam leaned around Dean in order to get a good look at the menu, hanging above the counter. He also put a hand on Dean's shoulder, sending icy needles rocketing through his torso from the point of contact and ratcheting up his awareness of Dad and where he was looking. "I'll have the, uh...Denver omelette. Sourdough toast on the side."

"Coffee?" the waitress asked, scribbling.

"Pot for the table, if that's okay," Dad said. She nodded, then turned to look expectantly at Dean. It took him half a second too long to realize she was waiting for him to order. Sam had taken his hand away, and he'd been analyzing what Dad might think of that.

"Uh," he said, then coughed. "Whatever you've got with fried eggs, bacon, and sausages. And a whole lot of 'em."

"Right." She nodded, wrote down whatever the hell he'd ordered, and left. Dean wasn't sure what he'd do when she came back. He wasn't feeling hungry at all right then, but at the same time, he was craving comfort food. Something solid to put in his mouth to stop his nervousness from pushing anything stupid out. It was a weird combination.

Especially on top of everything else he was feeling. He just didn't know what to do, or how to act. He was way too aware of him and Sam, and how they looked to Dad. Doing nothing felt stiff and awkward. Doing anything else felt over-the-top and fake. Right now, he couldn't remember how he normally acted with Sam, when they weren't worried about someone watching and judging them.

As soon as the waitress was outta earshot, Dad leaned forward, lowering his voice. "I'm sorry. I can't tell either of you why I left, or what I've been doing, or where I went - it's for your own good. You gotta trust me on this."

"Trust you?" Sam repeated, incredulous, sounding like he was on the edge of a disbelieving laugh. Dean could feel the rant that was about to come pouring out of him, calling out Dad asking them to trust him and the "for your own good" part, and this time, he did put a hand on Sam's thigh. He didn't think it to death, didn't pick it to pieces, just moved to keep Sam quiet and on the higher ground. It worked; the knots he'd pulled himself into uncoiled under Dean's palm.

And Dad saw it. His eyes fastened on Dean's leather-clad shoulder when it moved, and followed it down to where his arm disappeared under the table, and he had to have figured out where it went from there. Dean saw his knuckles whiten as he squeezed his hands together more tightly.

"I didn't bring you here to talk about me," Dad said, voice tight and forcibly controlled. Dean could hear (or imagined he could hear, at least) him struggling not to blow up. He must've given himself a version of the pep talk Dean had given Sam before they'd met up. "Tell me what you two've been up to."

Dean answered before Sam could. "Well, we cleaned up that demon in Nevada." He knew that wasn't what Dad had been asking about, and he didn't care. Some of Sam's irritation had bled over into him. If Dad wanted to know whether or not they were bumping uglies again, he could ask in those exact words. "Which turned into a total shitstorm 'bout a month later...anyway, that ghost general gave us your journal once we'd set his base to rights and then we followed the coordinates you'd left in it."

"He was a colonel," Sam said. Dean glanced at him, and decided he could move his hand off his leg.

"Huh?"

"He was a colonel, not a general. The ghost."

"Fine. Whatever." Dean turned back to Dad, who'd been watching their exchange with a rock-hard face. "The ghost colonel gave us your journal and then we went to Texas and killed an adlet."

"Oh. So that's what it was," Dad said, tone neutral.

"Yeah. It bit Sam before we found out, so that was a close one," Dean replied. "Good thing it wasn't a werewolf."

"Why'd you have to send us after that thing, and the demon?" Sam quietly broke in. Dean let him talk, because he sounded calm. "What were you doing?"

Dad blew out a hard breath, annoyed. "You don't need to know what I was doing. In fact, it's better, way better, if you don't." He looked at Dean. "I thought it'd be just you I was sending. I knew you were competent. Enough." Dean swallowed. "I haven't been doing much real hunting lately, and I know I won't be for a while. I thought it'd be useful to have you going after small fry, carrying on, while I was busy."

Sam's head tilted strangely, and Dean sensed danger even before he repeated, "'Small fry'? A demon's not 'small fry'. You wanted him to go out by himself and exorcise a - "

And their waitress was back, juggling a pot of coffee, two mugs, and a small wire basket full of packets of creamer and sugar. Sam's jaw clapped shut with an audible click of teeth coming together, and he stayed silent while she set it down and arranged all of it on the table.

He didn't continue even once she'd filled all their mugs and Dad had sent her off with a muttered "Thanks." Dean had taken his hand this time, squeezing it as a reminder to stay calm. Dad didn't ask what he'd been going to say, and for a while, they all just stared at each other. Dean eventually broke the silence.

"Food's getting cold, Dad," he said, nodding to the eggs and hash browns.

"Lost my appetite," Dad replied, sliding the untouched plate over to the edge of the table for the waitress to pick up the next time she came around. It was pretty clear what he meant. Dean squeezed Sam's hand again. "Tell me what you did after the adlet."

"Mothman on Three Mile Island," Dean said. "Bobby helped us out with that one; we're back in good with him." No reaction to that from Dad. "Then what we thought was a ghost in Colorado...then a naiad in Washington. Jeez, that one was tough. Couldn't figure it out, and she almost got me."

Dad nodded in a way that said he wasn't really listening and didn't really care. "And when did you manage to wear Sammy down enough to let you stick it in him again?"

Even with the plan they'd made, it was a reflex for Dean to want to deny it. Good thing Sam answered instead of him.

"If you're asking about the first time we made love since I left," Sam began, just a tiny bite to his words. Dean appreciated that, and the emphasis on "made love," and the little jump the muscle under one of Dad's eyes gave when he said it. "Then it was after we wrapped the naiad thing up, and right after Dean exorcised the demon that'd been riding me since Colorado."

Dad's head jerked at that, eyes boring into Sam in shock. That'd definitely surprised him. Dean couldn't help a flicker of vindictive pleasure.

"You were possessed?" Dad asked. Demanded, really. "For how long? By what?"

"A demon. I told you." Sam pulled his hand out of Dean's and leaned back against the booth, folding his arms over his chest. "The same one you left for us in Nevada. It wanted revenge, and it was in me for a couple weeks."

"A couple weeks?" Dad repeated. He was getting mad now, but not about what they'd expected him to. He rounded on Dean. "How in the hell didn't you pick up on that? You went to the trouble of dragging him outta Stanford, so you must've had eyes on him at all times. Were you just too focused on his ass to notice he was acting weird?"

"He wasn't," Dean replied, closing his eyes. "I mean, he was, but it wasn't outta character for him. I tried to give him space. I figured we'd gone too fast."

"So you already had your hands down each other's pants when this demon came back," Dad summarized. "Y'know, that's probably what drew it to you in the first place. These things can taste sin."

"She wanted to end what we had," Sam said levelly. "She wanted revenge for the first exorcism, on the army base, and she knew that was what'd hurt us the most."

"So you're telling me a demon tried to break you two up," Dad said. Sam reached for the basket of sugar and started ruining his coffee, focusing way too much on that. Dean kept an eye on him. "Bullshit. They go outta their way to cause incest. It probably thought you two were tame - you sure it didn't jump in Dean and spend the next two weeks rutting you into the ground?"

"Pretty fucking sure," Sam snapped at the same time Dean ground out, "Watch it." Luckily, their waitress brought their food out then and took away Dad's, giving them a minute to get back on track.

"Right," Dad said, as soon as they were alone again. "You probably would've enjoyed that."

It was directed at Sam. Dean shifted in his seat, jaw clenching, and it was Sam's turn to put a hand on his thigh.

"What matters is that Dean caught on," Sam said. "He saved me."

"And then you spread 'em," Dad deduced. "You think jumping in bed with your older brother's the right way to pay him back for that, Sammy? Are you some kinda whore?"

Dean didn't even realize he was halfway across the table until Sam's hand, clamped on the collar of his jacket, stopped him. Dad had tensed, hand darting under the table to go for something in his pocket, and his eyes were locked with Dean's. Dean slowly sat back down, half-marveling at the fact that he hadn't knocked anything over or attracted the attention of anybody else in the diner, and wondering if Sam had just saved him from getting stabbed in the face. It made something wither inside him, to realize his father was ready and willing to hurt him like that. To even risk killing him.

As the adrenaline filtered out of Dean's blood, though, he realized that it was totally possible Dad had a roll of quarters or pepper spray or something in his pocket, not a knife. Killing one of them would never even cross his mind - he was their dad.

Sam patted his back as soon as he was settled back in the booth, a little congratulations for letting himself be reined in, but Dean noticed he didn't take his eyes off Dad.

"You better stay over there," Dad said quietly.

"I will as long as you don't talk about him like that ever again," Dean said, and rushed on before Dad could reply or he could overthink it. "You crossed the line, okay? You're pissed, I get that. Nobody wants their sons screwing. But you didn't see it, you don't know what happened. You weren't there, 'cause you were off doing god knows what. It was just us. We had to deal with it. We were alone. So you don't get to say anything. Not a word about what happened after I sent that demon back to Hell where it belonged - a demon you put in front of us. Not a word about him. Not a word about me."

Dad was leaning forward before he was even done, eyes like ice, voice gone low and iron-hard with fury. "Don't you even dare try to make this into something good or healthy or necessary. This is a sickness - a perversion. Something I thought I'd cured the both of you of years ago. I know - "

And that was it. Dean had started worrying about Sam losing it this morning, but he should've kept on worrying about himself the whole time. Because he was done holding back, he couldn't anymore, the dam in him had broken. What Dad had just said was what it all boiled down to, in the end. He thought he knew. He thought he knew what they had, how it'd started, who they were, what was best for them, what they needed, what they wanted deep down, how to help them. But, in reality, he didn't know anything.

Not one.

Fucking.

Thing.

"Shut up."

He'd been expecting to yell, so it was as much a surprise to him as it was to everyone else when it came out quiet. It did the job, though: Dad stopped talking. Maybe just out of surprise that Dean hadn't bowed his head and taken his abuse once he'd used up what little fight Dad thought he had in him, like usual.

He didn't care why. What mattered was that Dad had shut his mouth, and Dean wasn't going to give him a chance to open it again until he'd heard everything he had to say.

"You're gonna shut up and listen to me," Dean started. "Seems like you have a tough time with that. I know I tried to give you our side of the story, and Sam says he did, too, but you cut us off both times and crammed your version down our throats. And your version is that it's bad, it happened 'cause there's something wrong with at least one of us, it's disgusting and there's nothing good about it, it's hurting both of us real bad on some level." He was no stranger to running his mouth, but this was different. He didn't have to think about the words, they just came, and there were so many of them. "You are so dead set on making this into something wrong and sick. You've spent two damn years being pissed and blaming us for it, and you know why I think that is? You know why I think you can't let it go for so much as a second? 'Cause you'll start feeling guilty, and you can't handle that."

Dean hadn't taken his eyes off Dad's face once since Sam had made him sit back down, and he'd watched the anger steadily smooth out until he was totally expressionless. That blank face struck Dean as a worse sign than red cheeks and veins popping out, but he kept talking. He had lots more to say.

"I just said you didn't have any right to talk about what we did after the exorcism," Dean said. "'Cause you weren't there. And you know what? That just applies to this whole thing. You weren't there. You were never there. And we never stayed in one place long enough for anybody to fill that hole you kept on leaving us with - nobody but each other. I only ever had him, and by the time I hit double digits, I only wanted him. Same thing happened with him. We can barely function without each other 'cause you missed just about everything we had to help each other through, and you think what we need is to be split up? That the best thing for us'd be to hate each other?" Dean had his hands on the table, gripping the edge. "First time anything ever happened, I was seven. I think that's when it really started. You were totally clueless for over fifteen years. Teachers at schools we only spent a couple weeks in picked up on it, and you didn't. Not sure if you didn't wanna see it, or if you just never paid enough attention to us, but when you finally did figure it out, it was only 'cause you got lucky and walked in on us. With what that says about you, you still think it's all on us?"

Sam was drinking his sugary coffee next to him. Dean couldn't see him all that well, just peripheral vision, but he thought his eyes were closed, and that the lashes were wet. Across from them, Dad's blankness had cracked slightly, letting something Dean couldn't quite put a name to show through. His mouth worked; he swallowed and looked away for the first time since Dean had jumped at him. Dean took a breather, partly because he needed one and partly because he had a weird feeling Dad was about to say something he'd wanna hear.

"I'm sorry." Dad muttered it out. Dean wouldn't've known he'd said it if he hadn't been listening for it and watching his lips.

He laughed - that was his first, unstoppable reaction. "Jesus Christ. I'm not asking you to apologize." Sam cleared his throat. He probably appreciated the apology, which was admittedly a pretty big deal. Dean ignored him for the moment, though. "My point is that you don't know anything about us, and our relationship isn't what you think it is. Nobody talked anybody into anything; we both wanted it. We went over it so many times, how it was wrong, but we always decided to keep going 'cause of how we felt. We needed it. We still need it - we probably always will." Dean swallowed. "I love him. It's not just some perverted sex thing."

After a second, it was his turn to look away. He'd run out of steam, regretted saying everything he had, and kinda wanted to get up and leave. He couldn't do that, though, so he did the next best thing: picked up his fork and focused on his breakfast. He should've started earlier. Their waitress had given him exactly what he'd asked for, and it'd gotten cold, the grease congealing.

"We didn't meet with you so you could yell about how disgusted you are with us." Sam was the next person to speak, voice soft and level. "We know what you did - how you lied to us. We're adults, and we've chosen to stay together in spite of the problems with our relationship. We've also decided we're not going to make ourselves miserable again just because you tell us to." He coughed. "We won't - can't - ask you to like it. You can even leave again and pretend you don't have sons, if you want. But you have to accept there's nothing you can do to make us leave each other."

Silence. Then Dad said, "I have to leave again anyway, after this." He reached for his coffee, probably room temperature by now, and said, "You two do whatever you want. I don't care."

Dean knew that was the closest they'd get to a blessing from him. Sam knew it, too. He lowered his head and murmured, "Thank you."

Dad didn't reply. After a little bit, Dean nudged Sam and nodded to his omelette. "Better eat up. We're probably gonna leave town today."

For the most part, they ate in silence. Dad drank his coffee and seemed to try not to look at them. There was one point, though, where he turned his attention to Sam.

"The demon," he said. "Did it say anything to you?"

"What d'you mean?" Sam asked, after swallowing a mouthful of egg and diced tomatoes.

"Just anything weird."

Sam was quiet. For maybe just a little too long. Dean glanced over at him just in time to see him shake his head.

"No, not really," he replied, refilling his now-empty mug from the pot of coffee. "She did call me a whore a lot, though."

Dad let the subject drop.

He didn't pick up the check when it came, and Dean wasn't sure why he'd been half-expecting him to. He paid for his meal, and they paid for theirs. They got up, Dean letting his shoulder brush against Sam's as they did so, and left. It wasn't until he was unlocking the Impala that he realized Sam wasn't with him anymore.

He looked up and spotted him immediately - right outside the diner, talking to Dad. Dean took a step towards them, gut tightening, but Sam must've caught sight of him outta the corner of his eye, because he glanced at him and shook his head. So Dean stayed where he was. He watched Sam shake his head again, facing Dad this time, and Dad run a hand over his hair and sigh. Then they walked in separate directions: Dad towards his jacked-up abomination, Sam towards Dean. As soon as he was within earshot, Dean started talking.

"Goddammit, Sam, I am so sorry," he said. "Shouldn't've let him get you alone. God, I am so stupid - I swear, I'm gonna go after him and kick his freaking teeth in if he - "

"No, no. Dean." Sam cut him off. "It wasn't about us."

"Then...what was it about?" They opened their doors and got in. Dean on the driver's side, Sam sitting shotgun.

"Hunting." Sam looked troubled. "He told me I could still...quit again, if I wanted. And go home. To California."

"And what'd you say?" Dean made no move to reach for the keys.

"I told him I was home." Sam looked at him, and half-smiled. "Home is wherever you are."

Dean looked away, embarrassed. "You know I'd go with you if that's what you wanted."

When he looked at Sam again, his expression was almost...wistful or something, Dean didn't know, but he was also shaking his head.

"No," he said. "We've got work to do."

"Damn straight." Dean jammed the keys in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and they were off.