Disclaimer: Perhaps as a stocking stuffer? Kripke?

A/N: Last, but hopefully not least. Wherein Dean gets tested, hugged, punched; and exchanges explanations, information and sarcasm with an old "friend." Thanks to everyone for sticking with it to the end!

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Chapter 8: "Most of American life consists of driving somewhere and then returning home, wondering why the hell you went."—John Updike

Dean found himself kneeling in the dirt at the same crossroads where he had been taken to Hell and the first thing he wondered was how much time had passed here on Earth. He had a momentary twinge of concern that his stay in Hell would be like that of a mortal taken to Faerie, and he would find that centuries had passed. That Sam was long since gone and turned to dust.

He shook his head, to dispel the nightmarish image the thought conjured up, and then stood. Can we not create a problem, asshole, when it might not exist? Even as he brushed the dirt off his pants with one hand, the box he held in the other began to flicker and then it disappeared entirely. A smile touched his lips and he wondered if Lilith--his grin widened as he recalled the truly touching, and Oscar-worthy, scene at the portal--had gotten his message yet.

Dean reached down and patted one of the pockets in his jeans. He could feel the small lump that was an inscribed box no bigger than his thumb, inside which lay a Sword no bigger than the span from his knuckle to the end of his finger. The Great Sword sang in his mind.

//Clever clever Dean,// it crooned, sounding like nothing so much as a proud parent. //Fooled the Darkness.// And then it roared with triumphant laughter.

Dean joined in. "That never gets old. I hate being messed with." His eyes darkened to a brilliant jade. "Especially when it ends up hurting Sam."

He started back toward civilization and the motel he and Sam had stayed in the night Dean had left to honor the Deal. He had not gone very far before he heard a familiar sound--the jungle cat growl from the engine of his car--coming closer. Stopping dead in his tracks, eyes wide, he waited, staring down the dirt road until the sleek black vehicle raced around a curve and into view.

The Impala slammed to a halt so suddenly it practically planted its nose in the ground. Sam flew out of the driver's door, with Bobby exiting more slowly. Dean could see the Colt in his hand.

"Damn, Bobby, I always thought I was your favorite Winchester, 'cause you hadn't pointed a shotgun at me, or conked me one and tied me up," he said snarkily, referencing the time Sam was possessed by the Demon Formerly Known as Meg. "Guess I really am my father's son," he added, nodding at the gun.

Bobby's lips quirked, but he kept the Colt steady. Sam still had not said anything and Dean was getting concerned. His younger brother was just staring at him, his eyes showing so much pain and need that Dean could not breathe for a moment.

"Hey, Sammy, it's me," Dean said, his voice gentle.

Sam's only response was, "Christo." Then, "Yahweh. Allah. Shiva. Ahura-Mazda," with each Name being said more firmly and forcefully than the one before.

Dean waited patiently until his walking encyclopedia of a little brother finally wound down. Dean smirked at Sam. "See? Not a flinch."

"Good to see you, Dean," Bobby said, stepping forward with a smile and a canteen. "Must've worked up one hell of a thirst.

"Sure have, Bobby," Dean replied, grinning. "Why don't I take a sip of the perfectly normal, not blessed or anything, water in that canteen?"

Bobby chuckled but watched Dean like a wolf sighting a wounded deer as Dean took first one, then another, deep drink without effect. After the second one, both Bobby and Sam relaxed slightly, but Dean knew the testing wasn't over. There was still the trap waiting back at the cabin. After all, throwing holy water on Dad hadn't bothered the yellow-eyed bastard inside.

Sam glanced behind Dean. "The portal's closed? Nothing else came through?"

"That why you brought the fire power?" He avoided adding, "Or was it for me?" Considering how wrecked Sam looked right now and all. He just smiled and said, "Don't worry. They threw me out. Something about being too annoying. I don't get that. You know I'm a joy to be around." At Sam's classic eyerolling bitchface, Dean began to whoop with laughter. God, he had missed that look!

Sam insisted on driving and Dean knew he wouldn't get the keys until the final test was passed. He took the shotgun position with Bobby ensconced behind him with the Colt and the holy water. Sam kept glancing over at him, while Dean kept waiting for the Emo King to emerge, but Sam was still keeping an emotional distance between them. Dean guessed Sammy was trying to stay cool and a little remote in case Dean failed the last tests.

They drove past the same small church. Still there and structurally the same, so he supposed not too much time had passed. It had been darkened and uncaring on his way to the crossroads. This time, though, for just an instant, he thought he caught a glimpse of a gleam of light behind the stained glass window above the front door, but when he looked at it head on, only a shadowed window met his gaze.

After they got back to the cabin, Bobby actually ran through an exorcism ritual; Dean just stood there, arms folded, smiling. Finally, there was the demonic version of the roach motel from the Key of Solomon, carefully repainted after the destruction Meg had visited on it. Dean, while understanding Sam and Bobby's caution, couldn't help himself; it had been a long and draining road back and he was getting tired.

He stuck his right arm out past the rim of the circle drawn on the ceiling and warbled, "You put your right arm in," he pulled it back, "you put your right arm out. You put your right arm in and you shake it all about." He stopped singing for a minute. "Aw, heck, let's just jump to the end."

He began to sing at the top of his lungs. "You put your whole self in," he jumped inside the circle, "you put your whole self out." He suited action to words. "You put your whole self in," in once again, "and you shake it all about," he vigorously waggled his ass, "you do the hokey-pokey and you turn yourself around, and that's what it's all about!"

He ended on a note that threatened to shake the house down. Then he stepped outside again and smiled at Sam and Bobby, who were staring at him with wide eyes and mouths hanging open. "Christo," Bobby whispered in disbelief. Dean just laughed.

Sam spluttered for a moment then said, "Dude, where the hell did you learn the hokey-pokey?"

"Where do you think? From you, jerk. When you were six, you learned it at school. You didn't stop singing it--well, really, more like shouting it; you couldn't sing to save your life, dude!--for the next three months, and wagging your butt everywhere. I came this close to being an only child: Dad was ready to hand you off to the next person who said, 'Oh, isn't that cute?'"

Dean cracked up at the thunderstruck expression on Sam's face.

Since it was seriously in doubt that many demons knew, or could have survived, the hokey-pokey--okay, or the trap--Dean instantly found himself encased in a massive Sammy-hug. He would never admit it if anyone asked, but he buried his face against his brother's neck and blinked away tears--something had probably blown into his eyes. Yep. That was his story and he was sticking to it--before he'd pushed away and muttered something about "his damn ten-foot tall sister." Because continuing to hold on would have been, you know, embarrassing.

Two seconds later, a pile driver had connected with his face. Blinking up muzzily from the ground, he stared at the now-furious Sam standing over him and glaring at him with the mightiest bitchface in the history of bitchfaces.

"That, you son of a bitch, is for drugging me and taking off on your own! For, for leaving me, you bastard!"

Dean observed a noticeable wibble to Sam's lower lip and a suspicious moisture in his younger brother's eyes. A second later, Sam exploded past him and out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him. Bobby just grinned and strolled toward the door himself.

"I'll be working on my truck. Call me if he's trying to strangle you. Otherwise, it's your problem," he said over his shoulder. Then he stopped and said softly, "It's been hell on him, Dean. I didn't think he was going to make it."

Dean stood up and nodded. He didn't bother to keep the walls up, not in front of Bobby, and all his worry and sorrow for Sam sat openly on his face. Dean had seen the haunted look in Sam's eyes, behind the anger, and he would do whatever it took to erase it. Of course, what it would take would be time--lots of it, to convince Sam that Dean was really here and not going to fade away like early morning mist--and, most likely, the Mother of all chick flick moments. He headed for the door. He could do this; he was Sam's big brother and this is what big brothers do. They take care of their little, if seriously oversized, brothers, no matter what.

And he wouldn't even take a raincoat. Even though the immediate forecast was for major storms and torrential downpours.

Because after that, it would sunshine, and the open road with the wind at their backs.

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Epilogue: The Beginning

Dean leaned back with a contented sigh, the last of the French fries wending its way down his gullet. In the few weeks he had been back, he had eaten his way through everything in Bobby's house and practically cleaned out the local diner in the nearby town. Sam had taken to staring at him and shaking his head. When he wasn't cringing in embarrassment as Dean ordered everything on the menu, that is.

"Dude," Sammy had finally said, "you've always had an appetite, but this is ridiculous!"

He'd shrugged. "Guess being around all that hellfire does something to your metabolism. It's not as if I'm adding any weight to the incredible perfection of my form!" He'd grinned at Sam's eye roll.

Remembering that conversation, he smiled quietly. Things were getting back to normal between him and Sam. It hadn't been easy at first. Sam hadn't cooled off quickly and Dean could see, behind the anger, the hurt and pain. It had taken considerable effort to erase them both from Sam's eyes and Dean regretted nothing so much as every tear his younger brother had shed for him.

Sammy had stuck to him like a burr, seeming afraid to let Dean out of his sight. It had taken all of Dean's persuasive powers a few minutes ago to even get Sam to leave the diner's damn booth and take the leak the younger man clearly was in desperate need of. He'd assured Sam he didn't need protection just to order another round of French fries. Two weeks of this, and Dean was starting to consider stronger measures.

Not bathing might work, but it would probably also cause Bobby to throw him out.

Abruptly, Dean sat up straight, all thoughts of food forgotten. Every nerve ending in his body suddenly afire and screaming at him. Hell comes! Beware! He hadn't even needed Iceflame's roar of warning; he'd already realized an enemy was here.

Not for the first time, he recognized that Hell had left a mark on him. And he had kept it to himself: He wasn't sure how even Sammy, much less Bobby, would take learning that Dean could sense demonic presences or that he had known when a hellhound had hunted in the hills beyond Bobby's home. Or that he could see in total darkness and that fire no longer burned him--he had learned that tidbit when he'd tripped and landed with one hand in the lit fireplace.

He never told them, afraid they would turn from him, afraid they would fear him as he himself sometimes feared that he wasn't right. At those times, he would reach again for the Sword, feeling once more its acceptance, seeing the brilliant white light that lay within, the weapon for Good the Sword was. If he could wield it, then he couldn't be an agent for Hell, could he?

Maybe it was time to tell Sam and Bobby. About his newfound abilities and about the Sword. Maybe his stay in Hell had not made him Lucifer's point man, but a weapon against the darkness.

The spidey sense tingled again, much more strongly, practically screaming at him. A shadow fell across the booth's table and he looked up, expecting Sam, but finding Tillih. He stiffened, reaching for the disguised Sword strapped to his right arm in the knife sheath.

She raised a placating hand. "I'm just here to talk." Without asking permission, she slid into the booth across the table from him.

In response, he stretched his right arm over the table, bringing the Sword closer to his uninvited--and unwanted--guest. He could feel the ancient blade reacting to the nearness of a demonic presence. Itwanted to act, wanted to destroy the evil, and it whispered war chants in his mind. Not yet, he told it silently, I want to know why she's here.

"So, slumming?" He asked. "Or you just couldn't go on anymore without me?"

She gave a throaty chuckle. "Actually, I rather do miss you. You wouldn't consider coming back, would you?"

"Right after I check into the asylum, sweetheart." He glanced past her, wondering whether Sam had fallen in. Backup right now might not be a bad idea.

"I didn't think so. Didn't hurt to ask, though." She noticed his looking behind her. "Oh, don't worry. Little—or not so little—Sammy is just fine. If locked into the bathroom.

He gave a snort of laughter. "Thanks so much. I'm the one who's gonna have to live with his bitchface for the rest of the day." He cocked his head. "I'm surprised you could show up like this. I thought demons had to claw their way out of Hell."

She shrugged. "That's true for lesser demons, but not for one such as myself. I come and go as I please."

"Right, how could I forget? Lilith. Mother of Demons. Adam's first wife."

She gave him an exasperated look. "Not that last part, thank you. Trust humans to get it wrong. As if I would be a wife to a mortal. I'm one of the original Fallen, Dean, and one of the most powerful." She studied him. "And I'm also surprised you knew my name."

"I'm impressed then that someone as important as you came to play with little old unimportant me," he said, ignoring her silent question about how he knew. "Or I would be, if I weren't pretty sure it was more about the Sword than me." He gave her a mock sad smile. "Breaks my heart."

Lilith leaned back in the booth, laughing. "You really are so entertaining, Dean. You sure you don't want to come back? I treat my pets very well."

"Wait, let me give that offer the consideration it deserves…okay, done now. No." They flashed equally insincere smiles at each other. Then he leaned forward. "Now tell me why you're really here?"

"I spent a lot of time on this plan, Dean. I even used Azazel's idea for a demon army to help maneuver you into a position where you would need to make a deal. I was actually rather furious at him for almost killing you back in Missouri; without you, we couldn't get at the Sword."

"Me? Why me?"

"You figured out everything else, but not this? Oh, wait, it's that little low self-esteem problem you have. You really need to work on that. It makes you overly needy, you know."

"Thanks for the heads-up, but if I decide to go looking for a therapist, you'd be the last person I'd pick."

She smiled and shrugged. "Just have your best interests at heart, child."

He smirked at her. "Sure you do. Or maybe you just don't want to think about what it means if a dummy and a failure outsmarted you."

Her smile widened. "There is always that." She leaned back in the booth. "The answer to your question is that you are a Champion. In the supernatural sense of the word, that is. And only a Champion can wield the sword."

He frowned. "That's got to be wrong. I'm nobody special. Not like Sam…and the Sword, it doesn't hate him but it wouldn't let him use it."

Her laughter trilled out again. "That esteem problem is even worse than I thought. No wonder our minions have been hitting you with it for years. Maybe I should have tried that approach, instead of working at puffing up your fragile ego."

You beat her. Remember that. You beat her. Nothing she says changes that or matters.

"As for Sam," Lilith said, "he has a great capacity for darkness in him. Yes, he has great capacity for good, as well, but never doubt his ability to go dark. That is what the Sword senses."

"Sam's not going dark," he growled. "Besides, I've done things, killed hosts--."

"All this time hunting the supernatural, and you still don't know the rules. Tsk tsk." She sighed. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, since it's actually something nice and it might end up getting me thrown out of the Fallen Angel Corps--"

"Wow," Dean said, hazel eyes opened to Bambi-like proportions with mock amazement, "do you have a secret handshake and everything?"

She worked at ignoring him, "--but do you think Good fights Evil with milk and cookies? Do you really think that You-Know-Who's 'perfect warrior' Mika'el--the suck-up--"

"Bet you don't say that to his face," Dean noted.

A shake of her head was the only acknowledgement of his comment. "Sam hasn't tried to kill you yet? Amazing."

"Actually, if you must know, he has. I just took the bullets out first."

"Wise move, but I'd continue to keep him away from anything he might use to do you damage, if I were you." A note of exasperation entered her voice. "Now, do us both a favor and shut up. Mika'el and his ilk are tough and dangerous; they have to be, because we are. And while you may be both of those, and while there have been times you made hard decisions and have had to destroy the host because you could not let the Evil go--you have not yet crossed the line from what Good would do, to what Evil would do. Apparently, the Sword believes you never will. And that is my good deed for the millennium."

She stretched languidly. "But I haven't answered your question. I came because I have to know, after all the effort and planning to find a way to neutralize the threat of the Sword, what went wrong? How did you know?"

After a moment, Dean replied, "Just little things here and there. I was still wearing an anti-possession charm a friend had given me; it had the Seal of Solomon on it. Guess it wasn't close enough to you when I first came to the settlement--," he stopped frowning, "--which I suppose was never really there, huh?" At her nod, he asked, "Was anything real? Any of the people."

"Only you and me. All the others faded away the instant they stepped into the portal. Everything, including the very land we traversed--I set it up as a bridge of sorts to the place where the Sword was--was created by me."

For a moment, his eyes flashed with anger--people he had come to like had been nothing more than empty-shell puppets--but there was nothing he could do about it. He contented himself with glaring at her. "And you were the one I met at the crossroads. You held my contract?"

She inclined her head, indicating the affirmative.

After a few seconds of angry silence, he shook himself and started speaking again, his tone considerably sharper. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. Explaining what a screw-up you were." He smirked at her indignant expression. "When my left leg was hurt--you know, when I first arrived—and you worked on it, you were fine. But when the demon ripped up my right leg, the one I had the charm on, and you went to fix it, you flinched for a second. You covered it pretty well, but that's when I knew you were a demon. I just didn't know why you were there. Didn't make sense you'd be there to trap me into something, since I was already in Hell. And there was always the chance you were there because you'd pissed someone off. I figured I'd just wait and watch.

"Then, during that last attack at the settlement, when the little girl was killed, I felt someone come up behind me and just for a moment the demon hesitated, pulled back. It came on again but suddenly it wasn't trying to harm me anymore. The whole bit with the sword in the ground and the 'It's more fun if you're alive.' After it moved away, there you were, right behind me, all, 'Oh, you poor thing.' That's when I was sure you were someone with power. The demon had stopped for that minute because it was scared of you, then waited until it realized it was supposed to give the impression it was after me. That silent little conversation it was having. I knew it was some kind of a setup, just wasn't sure then what it was about."

He beat a tattoo on the table lightly with his fingers. "Did you know that Sammy and me, we're pretty good at anagrams? No? You should have. As soon as I knew you weren't really a prisoner, well hell, your name just re-arranged itself in blinking lights. And why wouldyou, Mother of Demons, be wasting your time with me? There was something big going on but the puzzle had these blank spaces until I found Iceflame and began to wonder why a place like that would be in Hell and then realized that it wasn't--and everything just clicked. Not, of course, that I was going to say anything about it to you, when it looked as if you might nice enough to let me leave without a fight."

He grinned nastily then and began to tick things off on his fingers. "So let's see: Dad's out; Sam still isn't leading some demon army and he never will; the Deal's a thing of the past, I'm free and, oh yeah, I have Iceflame. That makes it: Winchesters, 3; Hell, zip, doesn't it?"

She just stared at him across the table and ignored his last comment. "That's it? The whole elaborate plan collapsed ultimately over two momentary occurrences--a flinch?--most people would not even have noticed, much less connected to a pattern? That…and an anagram? And you think you're the dumb Winchester?" A rueful smile crossed her features. "I guess I did, too. My mistake. One I will never make again." She gave him a clearly phony bright smile. "Well, will you look at the time? I really must be going. Souls to torment, and all that."

He shifted his right arm to block her movement from the booth. "And why should my brand new BFF and I let you go?"

"You don't believe that Sam is really just trapped in the bathroom, do you? I'll make you a very simple deal, Dean, no catches: I get to leave the diner in one piece and Sam gets to leave the bathroom in one piece."

Glaring at her, the warning--"He'd better, bitch, or I will hunt you down to the end of the universe"--clear in his eyes, he pulled his arm back and jerked his head in the direction of the diner exit. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

"I look forward to our next meeting, Dean." Lilith said with a cool smile.

His eyes gleamed with a feral light. "Me, too." For a moment, he was back at Bobby's two years ago, snarling at Meg: "…I swear, I will march into Hell and slaughter everyone of you evil sons-of-bitches, so help me God!"

He believed in keeping his promises.

Somehow, he didn't actually see her leave. One minute he was watching her, the next he saw Sam heading toward the booth. He studied his brother carefully as the younger man slid across the bench seat. Except for the annoyed expression on Sam's face, his little brother seemed fine and Dean relaxed.

"Fall in?" Dean asked with a grin. Sam just frowned at him.

"It was odd: first, the stall wouldn't open, then the faucet wouldn't work right, then the bathroom door was locked and then…" Sam looked sheepish, "then I seem to have lost some time."

Dean hesitated, thinking of playing along for a moment then he decided against it. There had been enough secrets in the Winchester family. The ones their father had kept, then the one he had kept for a while--what Dad had said to him before dying--then the ones Sam had kept, first the visions, then the demon cocktail and the stuff about their Mom, everything. None of the secret-keeping had worked well, leaving anger and feelings of betrayal in the wake of the moment of revelation. Time for a new approach.

He stood up. "Let's pay the bill, Sammy and head back to Bobby's. I have some stuff to tell the two of you. There's a new player in the game." At Sam's puzzled look, he grinned and raised his right arm and shook it slightly.

Sam stared at him as if he'd grown an extra head. "Your right arm is a 'new player in town?' Gee, what does that make your left foot, then?" The sarcasm could have drilled a hole in an iron door.

"Able to kick your ass," Dean growled though his lips twitched. "Not here, Sammy. Let's get back to Bobby's and I'll give you the whole story."

As he headed for the Impala, a quote learned in high school a lifetime ago echoed in his mind: That which does not kill you, makes you stronger. Well, Hell was damn well going to wish it had killed him.

With Iceflame's war cry ringing in his mind, Dean walked out of the diner with his brother, and into battle.

FIN

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A/N: For anyone who hasn't seen all of season 2 as yet, the anagram stuff is canonical and you'll find it in "The Usual Suspects." I hope this tied up all the loose ends and didn't disappoint anyone. Thanks again for coming along for the ride.