After the success of his first book, Intangible Rules for Tangible Success, his publishers had practically begged Sam to write another. It could be a sort of combination of autobiography and pop psychology, they said, an inside look at what it's like to grow up with a future serial killer as a brother and how he overcame that barrier to rise to his current success. Sam refused of course, for so many reasons. While it was a known fact among his fans and associates that he was related to a famous murderer, it wasn't something he ever discussed and for the most part, people tended to respect his silence on the subject. Not to mention that talking about his childhood was obviously the last thing he could do.

It wasn't that Sam didn't still know or believe the truth about the world, he'd seen too much as a child to ever really forget it, it was simply that he chose not to think about it. That was one of his rules actually: Don't waste mental energy on things outside of your path to success. For Sam, those things were monsters, his ex-wife Jessica, and his older brother.

The last time he'd seen Dean, had been something like 16 years ago. He'd shown up at Sam's apartment in the middle of the night babbling something about their dad suddenly disappearing in some kind of flash of light. It sounded as though the two of them had unknowingly run across some kind of cursed object and Dad's luck had finally run out. Sam mourned their father, he really did, but that didn't mean that he was about to leave school and run off on a pointless search for someone who, going by Dean's own account, was in all likelihood dead.

He'd even begged Dean not to go. Without their father's relentless mission pushing him on, it had seemed like the perfect time to get his big brother out of hunting. Dean, however, was as stubborn as always and full of wild theories about Dad not really being dead, just sucked into an alternate timeline or something. Yeah, right, that sounded plausible. Even after leaving for Stanford, Sam had been used to thinking of his big brother as his protector, and the man's anger when Sam refused to go with him was almost frightening. After a prolonged argument, Dean had yelled something about never wanting to see him again, and he never had.

The only times Sam has seen his brother since, were when he showed up on the news or when Sam walked by one of his wanted posters. The first such incident had been when Sam was in the final year of his bachelor's degree and he'd turned on the national news to find a story about Dean Winchester murdering a bunch of people in St. Louis before being killed by the police. Sam, of course, assumed that the supposed murder victims had actually been monsters his brother was hunting and once more he found himself mourning for a family member killed in a hunt.

He was as surprised as anyone when the next year, Sam's first year of law school, his supposedly dead brother had shown up involved in a bank robbery in Milwaukee. This one was a little harder for Sam to explain away; holding up a bank was definitely not a standard hunter activity. Was there a monster involved somehow, or was Dean really just that stupid and that hard up for money? Next came the police officers killed in an explosion in Colorado and Sam did some more thinking. How likely was it the entire police force, including the support staff, could all have been monsters? It wasn't until undeniable footage showed up of his brother brazenly holding up banks across the country with an automatic and not caring how many civilians he shot in the process, that Sam was forced to admit to himself that his brother really was the psycho murderer that the rest of the world had long believed him to be. Somewhere along the way, Dean's mind must just have snapped, pushed to the edge by years of nightmares and violence. From then on, he's avoided watching or reading about his brother. He changes the channel whenever the news decides to report on their lack of progress in the search for Dean Winchester, and he avoids looking at the wanted posters he goes by every morning on the walk between his favorite bagel stand and his office.

Sometimes, he wonders if Dean ever reads about him. Has he ever come across any of Sam's videos online? Maybe walked past his book in a store window? A small childish part of his brain wants Dean to know and be proud of what he's accomplished as the youngest senior partner his firm has ever had. Another part of him wonders if Dean is still angry with him for refusing to come with him that night all those years ago, and if he might ever decide to take his famously murderous rage out on his little brother for abandoning the family business. He's therefore less than thrilled when one evening he comes home from a very long day at the office (it's almost ten) to find his brother sitting on his couch with his feet on the table and a beer in his hand.

His brief case makes a thud against his hard wood floors as he drops it in surprise.

"Dean?"

"Heya Sammy" Dean replies before casually sipping his beer like this is something they do all the time.

"What are you doing here? How did you even get in? My security system . . ."

"The code was a combination of your birthday and your jersey number from that time you were on the soccer team in seventh grade. Not exactly difficult to figure out."

Sam can't help but be mildly impressed, but, he supposes that Dean basically is a professional thief in many ways, he should be used to breaking into places. He takes a moment to gather himself and lets his ever-calculating mind take in the details of the situation. Dean is drinking Lucky's; he must have brought it with him since Sam doesn't keep any beer around. He looks older than Sam remembers, which is simultaneously surprising and unsurprising. Somehow, Sam had never stopped thinking of him as the cocky twenty-something he is on his wanted poster, mocking the world with his overdone Blue Steel. There's also a scar on the right side of his face running from his temple to his jaw. Sam can't immediately tell whether it was made by a knife or claws. The other side of his face sports a greenish bruise from some recent fight.

"Why are you here?" he asks again, more firmly, trying not to sound afraid. He wishes that he had a gun. He's thought about getting one before, for self-defence, but the very idea of holding one again reminds him so much of the worst parts of his childhood that he feels almost nauseous.

"What, I'm not allowed to visit my little brother?"

Sam doesn't even know how to respond to that one, so he just keeps staring.

"Relax Sammy, I just wanted to check up on you, okay? You haven't seen anything weird around lately have you?"

"You mean weird like a serial killer breaking into my house?"

"Well obviously I mean other than that."

"No, Dean. I haven't seen anything weird. Now, why have you suddenly showed up after 16 years to ask me that?"

Dean takes another sip of beer. "I had a run in with a couple of angels the other day" he says, still perfectly casual.

Sam scoffs. "There's no such thing as angels."

"Oh yes there is. Winged douches all of them. These two were going on about having to stop the Winchester brothers from wrecking time or something. I took them out, but I couldn't be sure there weren't more, and since they said brothers, plural, I thought it might be a good time for a family reunion."

Once again, Sam's not sure what to say. It would be so much easier to believe that his brother was insane than that he's really had been fighting with actual angels. On the other hand, Sam knows demons exist, they're the ones that screwed up his life after all, so why not angels? There had been a time in his life when he had believed in them, even prayed to them. He decides to buy himself some more time to think.

"And what makes you think that I won't just call the police, cash in on all that reward money you're worth."

"Ouch Sammy, that's cold. Besides, you don't exactly seem like you're strapped for cash."

"It's Sam. And some of us actually have jobs and work for our money."

"What I do is work, hell, it's a public service. It only makes sense that I help myself to a little public money now and then."

"And shooting up those banks a few years back? How do you justify that one exactly?"

For the first time since he's arrived, Dean's cool persona slips, and he actually looks hurt.

"Sam, you don't really think I did all those things they say I did, do you?"

"The evidence was pretty damning Dean. You practically smiled and waved for the camera before you killed all those people in that bank."

"Yeah, and why would I do that exactly?" Dean asks angrily. "I'm not an idiot Sam, and I don't actually enjoy being on the FBI's most wanted list."

"So why do it then?"

"It wasn't me! It was a leviathan trying to frame me to get me off their backs."

"A leviathan?"

"Yes, an evil shapeshifting pile of goo, let loose from purgatory. A leviathan."

"First angels, now leviathans?"

"Yeah, that's right."

Sam raises an eyebrow at him and Dean sighs dramatically and leans back further on Sam's couch.

"Come on Sam, can we just talk for a minute? Have a beer." Dean nudges the rest of the six pack sitting at the base of the couch towards Sam with his foot.

"I don't drink beer."

"Wow, you really are as stiff and boring as you seem in that video series."

"You watched my videos?"

"Of course, I watched them. Didn't I always read all of your school assignments?"

"I'm not a child Dean. Those videos are a serious attempt to help people achieve self-improvement."

"Yeah, yeah. Though I got to say, that book of yours, rule number four, don't get distracted by family, hard not to take that one personally, Sammy."

"You read the book too?" Sam asks, secretly pleased.

"I can read."

"I know you can." Sam glances again at the six-pack sitting in the middle of his living room floor and notices that it's more than half empty. "Seriously Dean? You thought it would be a good idea to show up here drunk?"

"Drunk? From three and a half beers?" Dean gives an offended snort. "That hasn't been enough to get me drunk since I was about thirteen."

Sam grimaces. "Look Dean, I haven't seen any Angels or Leviathans or any other crazy shit around okay? So, could you please just leave?"

Dean's expression goes cold and for a moment he just stares Sam in the face like he's waiting for something else to happen. The moment passes and Dean seems to give up. "Fine Sammy, if that's what you really want."

"It is" Sam says to his brother's back as he walks out the front door.

Sam's alarm goes off at five the next morning and as he staggers towards his kitchen in a quest for espresso, he trips over a mostly empty six pack sitting obtrusively in his modern living room like red ink on a college paper. He barely catches himself and ends up stubbing his toe on his coffee table. By the time he finally makes it into the kitchen he's in a foul mood and he dumps the offending alcohol straight into the trash, for once not even caring that he's supposed to sort out the glass and the cardboard into the recycling.

He gets dressed that morning, as usual, in one of his suits, well tailored but with no embellishments, just how likes it. He goes about his morning routine, deliberately doing everything exactly the same as always. It's not until he's on his way out the door that he notices the second memento of Dean's visit. On the table by the door, where he usually keeps his keys, is a scrap of paper torn off from something larger. 'Just in case' someone has scrawled across it, followed by a phone number. As he picks it up to read it, Sam notices a small charm that was lying underneath. It looks like some kind of pentacle surrounded by flames. It's nothing Sam recognizes but if he had to guess, his money would be on is being some kind of protection amulet. He holds the amulet and the paper in his hand, thinks for a moment, and slips them into his pocket.