About four months after his brother got sent to Hell, Sam found a portal that would allow him to go fetch Dean back. He wasn't sure what he expected when he walked into that dark tunnel, but it certainly wasn't what he got.

He came out into a brightly lit hallway. The walls were industrial gray, the floor was scuffed and dusty commercial grade linoleum, and the lighting was your average overhead fluorescents. There were a few doors scattered along the corridor, all shut upon what looked like darkened rooms. Nobody paid them much attention. It had been from inside one of these rooms that Sam had emerged. It had shut and locked behind him.

Sam wasn't alone in the hallway. Stretching out as far as he could see, and vanishing around both corners, was a long line of people. They stood in line quite patiently, front to back, just waiting until the line actually moved and they could shuffle forward a few inches. There was a wide diversity of people standing there; all adults, but they were of all genders, races and, judging from their clothing, from all walks of life, rich or poor. What was eerie about it was that none of them said anything, not to each other, not even to Sam when he directly addressed them. They would only nod in the direction in which the line was moving, and shuffle along when it was time to advance. Frustrated, Sam turned on his heel, intending to skip to the front of the line to see where it was going.

As soon as he completed his turn he ran into a man in a button-down shirt and a tie. "Where do you think you're going?" the man demanded.

"Uh..." Sam hesitated, stalling as he felt for the knife he thought he'd brought with him - just in case. It was suspiciously missing from his belt - damn. "I was uh...I need to talk to someone in charge," he said, immediately wondering if that request wasn't such a good idea considering he was in Hell - or so he thought.

The man consulted a clipboard, upon which was a thick sheaf of paper. "Name."

"What?"

Scowling up at Sam (for he wasn't much over five and a half feet tall) the man tapped his ball point pen on the top of the clipboard, clearly annoyed. "Are you deaf? What is your name?"

"Sam. Sam Winchester."

He waited. Supposedly he was well known in Hell.

Apparently he was, but it wasn't going to do him any favors.

"Ooooh," Clipboard man said sarcastically, putting his hands on his hips. "So you thought you could skip to the head of the line did you? Well," he pointed his pen at Sam. "We don't put up with no prima dona celebrity types here. You'll wait in line just like everybody else." With a smug expression he consulted his clipboard. "Winchester. You're back there."

Sam turned around and looked back over his shoulder in the direction the man was pointing, which was toward the end of the line. "What?"

"It's in alphabetical order. You'll be between Waters and Winston, three point six, six, six miles back that way."

"You're kidding."

"No," the man said. "We do not kid around here at the BDM. It's expressly forbidden."

"The what?" Sam asked, confused. "Where are we?"

Clipboard man rolled his eyes elaborately. "The Bureau of Demon Management, building one, sixth level of Hell."

"But...I'm not a demon."

"Right. That's what they all say. Of course you aren't a demon - yet. You haven't gotten your assignment! That's why you're here." Another eye roll. "Sheesh. Chosen Ones, you'd think they'd have more of a clue." A door opened, and a dazed looking young woman stumbled out into the hall. Sam was startled to recognize her as Lindsey Lohan. "Ah, excuse me. I have to go tend to this one personally. I heard she's a real pistol." As he hurried away to meet the new arrival Clipboard man shot a nasty glare back at Sam. "You better not be thinking about ditching. If I catch you ditching I'll put you back in line behind Zymanski!"

Sam debated whether he should go to the back of the line as instructed, or try to get to the front. He probably could take the smaller man in a fight - if he were really a man. Sam wasn't sure what he was, man or demon, or even if they were truly in Hell. What he'd expected to find was radically different from what he now faced.

As he was puzzling this out, he heard a voice say "psst" near his elbow. One of the people in line was leaning toward him trying to get his attention. It was a man dressed in a pricey looking suit, carrying a briefcase, and wearing a blue tooth headset in one ear. Sam glanced up at him. He looked back and forth uneasily, and then edged closer to make his address in a whispering voice.

"You really don't want to tick him off," the man said. "I heard about this guy, Kripke. He got sent to the back of the line so many times it took him thirty-two years to get his assignment!"

"Whoa. Really?"

"Seriously."

"What was his assignment?"

"Television producer." The suited man made a face and shivered. "That's almost worse than Roads and Sewers."

"Gibson!" CBM shouted from a few yards away. "Do I hear you talking in my line? Hello! A little reminder – THERE IS NO TALKING, PEOPLE!! No talking, no singing, no shifting of weight, no sighing and absolutely, positively NO YAWNING!" He smacked a woman who had dared yawn in the back of the head with his clipboard.

Gibson looked frightened, and promptly clammed up, leaving Sam to conclude he'd better get to his own place in line pronto if he wanted to save his brother any time within the next century.

He had no idea how long he'd waited in line. Time seemed to be a little – skewed – in Hell. Sam could have been standing in line for hours, days, months or even YEARS for all he knew. He spent most of his time thinking and planning how he was going to escape once he found his brother. While he waited and thought he scanned the crowd both ahead and behind him, looking for a familiar face. The only one he saw was that of George Carlin, who seemed positively giddy to be sent to the back of the line for cracking jokes. The late comic was apparently enjoying poking fun at the civil service demons who were running things – specifically ClipBoard Man, who Sam learned had high blood pressure, a short temper and the name of Carl. If Carl hadn't been dead already Mr. Carlin's antics would have given him a stroke. At least the poor sods waiting in line got a little bit of entertainment for a while.

When finally Sam rounded what seemed like the last of far too many bends in a hallway that was far, far too long, he came to where he could actually see the front of the line. There, at the end of the corridor, was a room with a long counter set up with several work stations. Each work station was attended by a man or a woman dressed in the same nerdy uniform as Carl – blue oxford cloth button-down shirt and khaki pants. There were several work stations but it seemed that only two were open to receive "customers." At every other station the worker was engaged in some mundane personal task (one woman was painting her nails, the young man next to her was working a crossword puzzle) behind signs that said "Next Window Please."

Sam groaned in frustration. Carl walked by and glared, threatening him with a gesture indicating the back of the line. Quickly Sam snapped to attention. The last thing he wanted to do at this point was start the whole process all over again. If he hadn't lost his knife he'd just have stabbed the son-of-a-bitch, but weaponless, he had to play along – at least for a little while.

He silently counted down the people in front of him until, glory be, he was the next in line. When the man behind the counter yelled, "NEXT!" Sam stepped to be served - finally!

"Look..." Sam began, and then stopped as the guy (whose name tag read Dexter) held out a hand as if requesting something. "What?"

"Where's your paperwork?" Dexter asked, not even looking at Sam. "Forms 665, 667 and 42?"

"What forms? Nobody told me about any forms!"

Dexter turned his attention away from his computer and gave Sam a hard stare from behind a pair of thick-lensed, Drew Carey glasses that had been repaired at both sides with liberal amounts of white tape. With his dark hair slicked back and his collar buttoned up to the very top button, he closely resembled the Mr. Spock bobble-head that was nodding on top of his computer monitor. Issuing from one of the speakers sitting near his station was the easy-listening muzak version of Barry Manilow's Cococabana. Sam made a face. Dexter pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger.

"You don't," he drawled. "Have any paperwork?"

"No, but..." Sam flinched as a pile of multicolored forms were slammed down on the counter in front of him.

"Take these and fill them out. When you're done the pink copy goes to registration, the blue administration, yellow is for the file and green goes to accounting. Bring the purple copy back here to me."

"Huh?"

Dexter pointed to another door, where another line stretched out for what seemed like miles. "Over there."

"Oh, no..." Sam groaned.

"NEXT!"

"No! Wait, wait!" Two Carl-like men carrying clipboards ushered Sam away from the counter. "I don't need an assignment! I'm just looking for my..."

"And remember, NO YAWNING!" Dexter called after him. "They hate it when you yawn!"

Sam found himself back in line, or rather, lines. Dutifully following instructions he stood in one line, and then another, and then another in order to turn in all the different colored copies of the forms he had been given. Again, time seemed to slow to a snail's pace. He couldn't talk, he couldn't fidget. A yawn in the accounting line got him busted back to the end to start all over.

By the time he got back to Dexter's station he was exhausted - and cranky.

Dexter looked at the purple form. (Which Sam had discovered wanted nothing more than his name, age and blood type.) From a drawer he pulled out a stamp and ink pad and proceeded to apply a liberal number of stamps to the page. (The stamp, Sam noted, was a smiley face.) Sam stood there somewhat hypnotized by the strains of Celine Dion, music made even more sickening by virtue of being a soothing muzaked rendition performed on the pan flute. He noticed Mr. Spock had been joined by a Jar Jar Binks action figure and a bumper sticker stuck on the side of the monitor read: My other Car is a Federation Starship.

Sam also noted that all the civil servant demons were now wearing pink oxford cloth button-downs and that Dexter had a stain on his pocket where his pen had leaked – too nerdy even for a pocket protector. Sam wasn't sure if he should feel disgust or pity.

Stabbing a finger at his keyboard, Dexter scowled. "You aren't in the system."

"Should I be?"

"Everybody who comes here is, but I don't see any Wincheddars listed." Dexter's fingers poked at random keys. "No. No Stan Winchedder."

"Ugh," Sam hung his head. "No, no. It's WinCHESTER, not Wincheddar, and it's Sam, not Stan."

"Oh." Dexter laughed and snorted in a manner very akin to that of Steve Urkel. "Wincheddar, that is dumb. Like some sort of cheese eating contest. You know my Aunt Mable entered a cheese eating contest. She didn't win any cheddar but she sure was constipa..."

"Will you just look!" Sam pounded a hand on the counter, making Spock nod alarmingly – something unbecoming for a Vulcan. "Just...just forget about me, okay. Look up Dean Winchester. Dee, eee, aye, inn. Dean."

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Dexter glowered at Sam. "I know how to spell."

"Please..."

Dexter grunted and turned back to the computer. It beeped, squealed, and then went off with a pop. A small stream of acrid smoke trickled up from beneath the counter. "Uh-oh."

"What, uhoh?" Sam asked, alarmed. "No uh-oh!"

"System is down." With a fluid motion, Dexter pulled out a sign that said, "Next Window Please" and put it up on the counter in front of his station. "I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time, sir. Our computers are down." He pointed back behind Sam. "The line for waiting for tomorrow's line is over there...ow."

Sam reached over the counter and grabbed a fist full of pink oxford cloth button-down, yanking Dexter toward him with a firm shake and a growl.

"Now look here you little weas..."

He stopped abruptly.

They were nose to nose. Sam could now see Dexter's face more clearly through the distorting lenses of his glasses. Oddly, as shocked as he was at what he saw there, he found himself mesmerized by the pimple on the guy's forehead. Sam cocked his head sideways. There was another zit on Dexter's chin.

I was the one constantly battling acne. He always had perfect skin, the creep.

Of course! This is Hell. Ha ha. Payback is a bitch.

What am I thinking?!

"Dean? Dean!"

"Uh, hello! Didn't you hear me? I can't look anything up for you, sir. The computer is..."

"No," Sam abruptly let "Dexter" go. "You are Dean!" He exclaimed, grinning. "Dean, it's me! Sam! Sammy!"

The look he received back was wary. "Uh...oh. Kay. Why don't you just step back away from the counter for a minute and I'll go get my supervisor."

"Dean! Come on! Quit fooling around!" Sam leaned over the counter and whispered loudly. "I'm going to get you out of here!"

"What?" Dean/Dexter squeaked. He picked up a nearby telephone receiver and poised one finger over a red button. Said finger had a Scooby Doo band aid wrapped around it. "Don't make me have to call security! I'll do it, I swear!"

Sam blinked, the full scope of what stood before him finally hitting home. "Oh, my God. What have they done to you?"

If there was any more doubt in Sam's mind that this – nerd – was his brother, it disappeared when that right eyebrow quirked up over the top of the taped-up glasses. "Who? The bosses?" Dean/Dexter snorted and hung up the phone. "Hey, I'm lucky to have this job. Do you know how hard it is to get a civil service position around here these days?"

"I think I'm going to puke."

"Not in MY line!" Dean's eyes got huge behind the thick glasses as he pointed in another direction. "The men's room is...hey! You can't do that! WHOA!"

What Sam had done was climb over the counter and grab his brother by the arm. "You're coming with me."

"Coming with...what? No! Who ARE you? Help! Security! Abduction! Assault!" Stumbling along behind Sam, Dean waved his free hand at his fellow civil servants in attempt to attract their attention to his plight. "HOSTAGE SITUATION!"

They pointedly ignored him.

Security, however, did not. Three huge hulking figures dressed as guards came bursting through a nearby door. They all carried pitchforks with lightning crackling between the tines; suped up, wickedly dangerous, demon cattle prods.

"Uh-oh," Sam jerked Dean along faster. "Will you come ON!"

"You're in trouble now buddy! Ow! RAPE! MURDER! MALICIOUS INTENT!"

"That's it."

Without warning, Sam turned around and planted a fist right in the middle of his brother's face. He heard the glasses crack in yet another place, and Dean dropped like a rock into his arms. Throwing him over one shoulder in a fireman's carry, Sam took off down a dark, winding, corridor with the guards in hot pursuit.

"Sorry, Dean. Had to do it."

"This," Dean said quietly. "Is a broom closet."

"I'm aware of that."

"So is this where you molest me?"

"What? No!"

Sam scowled. He flipped on a penlight, illuminating the cramped interior of the janitor's closet in which they were hiding. Dean stood under a string mop, making it look as if he had dingy white dreadlocks, which clashed with his glasses, which now sported a cracked lens and sat lopsided on his face. As for himself, Sam had the handle of a vacuum cleaner digging into his back and the overwhelming smell of Pine Sol was making him light headed.

"We're hiding," he hissed.

"I know! From security!" Dean sucked in a breath, obviously preparing to start shouting for help again.

Sam clapped a hand over his mouth. "Shh! Just hear me out, okay! I'm not going to hurt you!" He gave his nerdified brother a sickly grin. "Don't yell, okay? Please."

After a moment of contemplation, Dean nodded. Sam took his hand away.

"You broke my glasses," was the first thing he said.

"So what," Sam grumbled. "You don't wear glasses. Look, I don't know what they've done to you, but you have to believe me. This is Hell..."

"I know that," Dean said, rolling his eyes.

Sam tipped his head sideways, frowning. "You do?"

"Well yah. I'm not stupid." At Sam's puzzled look he continued. "What did you think we do all day down here, lounge around toasting marshmallows? Everybody has a job, that's what the BDM is for. I got lucky. They gave me a cushy assignment. You should see the poor saps who got stuck in Roads and Sewers." The grimace and shudder told it all. "That's just gross."

Curious, Sam asked, "So...what do you do in your spare time?"

"There is no spare time. Just work."

"What? No weekends? No holidays?"

"Of course not, you idiot, this is Hell you know."

"I'm certainly believing it now," Sam muttered. "Look. Dean..."

"Dexter."

Sam groaned. "Dexter, whatever."

"No, Dexter Kalinowski."

"What?"

Dean straightened, or tried to straighten, his glasses. "My last name isn't Whatever. It's Kalinowski. It's Polish."

"Pol...what? Polish? You've got to be kid..." Sam sighed. "No. Your name is not Palindecki..."

"Kalinowski."

"Whatever! Your name is Winchester. Dean Winchester..."

"Not WinCHEDDAR?"

The snorting laugh made Sam wince. "No!"

"Right. It's Kalinowksi,." Dean said, with a patronizing tone indicative of someone speaking to a developmentally challenged child of two. "Kay, aye, el..."

Sam couldn't help himself. He swatted Dean in the back of the head. "Cut it out!"

"Ow! Don't hit me! Look here sir, I'm a certified BDM employee. I've got a 401k and a pension plan and I am supposed to be treated with a little respect!"

"Shut up and listen to me," Sam put his hands on his brother's shoulders and would have stared into his eyes but the glasses were in the way. He paused for a beat and then, despite Dean's frightened shriek, he made the glasses go away by tossing them over his shoulder. "You are my brother, Dean Winchester. You sold your soul and went to Hell where you've obviously been brainwashed."

"If someone around here is brainwashed it isn't me." Dean said, and added under his breath, "Brain dead is more like it." He cocked his brow again. "Are you off your meds? And I mean that in the kindest way. Why don't we get out of this closet and get you some help. I know this doctor..."

"No you don't."

Dean scowled. "Yes I do."

"No. You don't. You don't know anything – you as in Dexter - don't know anything. Dexter doesn't exist."

To Sam's ultimate horror his captive(?) burst into tears. "You're going to murder me aren't you? Hack me up into pieces and write nasty things on the walls with my blood. Please...please! At least me call my neighbor so she can go feed Mr. Piddles..."

"If you don't shut up I will murder you, and stuff you down a paper shredder!" Sam paused. "Who is Mr. Piddles?"

"My cat."

"Oh dear lord."

"Please don't kill me!" Dean's eyes went very wide as apparently a very frightening thought occurred to him. "You aren't going to eat me are you? I'll taste horrible, I swear! I have this glandular problem..."

"Will. You. Please. Shut. Up!"

Dean shut up, but continued to sniffle.

Sam took a deep breath and tried again. "I've come here to rescue you."

The whine was like nails on a chalkboard. "But I don't need rescuing!"

"Yes you do."

"No I don't!"

"Yes you do!"

"No I don't!"

"Dean!"

"What? Oh!" Dean clapped his hands over his mouth, obviously shocked and appalled at himself.

"Uh-huh! See!" Sam crowed. "See, you knew!"

Lowering his hands, Dean poked Sam in the chest with one finger. "I can't see anything, you took my glasses you big dork!"

"Dork! Look who's talking! Come on! Admit it! You remembered something!"

"I did not."

"You did too."

"I did not!"

"Did too!"

"I...you...I... grrughk!" Dean looked absolutely livid, his face red, his cheeks puffed out, his eyes rolling as he tried to think of a comeback. "You..."

What burst out of his mouth next was an even bigger breakthrough for Sam.

"Bitch!"

"Jerk!" Sam said promptly.

They stopped and stared at each other. It was so quiet in the broom closet you could have heard a pin drop – if either of them had a pin on their person to drop, which they didn't.

"Sam," Dean whispered finally, in a very small, but decidedly more Dean-like voice.

"Yeah," Sam grinned broadly. "What is it?"

"I'm wearing pink..."

"It's flattering."

"And penny loafers."

Sam nodded. "With brand new shiny copper pennies in them."

"I've been listening to Barry Manilow and liking it."

"And don't forget Celine Dion, Enya, and Kenny G."

Dean suddenly grabbed his brother by the lapels of his jacket and shook Sam so hard he felt like his eyes were going to pop right out of his head.

"YOU HAVE GOT TO GET ME OUTTA HERE!!"

Bobby and Sam stood at the window of Bobby's shop, looking out onto the salvage yard where a denim clad butt was poking out from beneath the hood of an old pick-up truck. Through the window they could hear the thumping bass of AC/DC's Back in Black issuing from a radio cranked up "past 11." If the radio had not been so loud they would have also heard a string of expletives coming from the pick-up's engine compartment due to a stubborn spark plug that refused to come out.

"He bought every skin mag in the place, two boxes of Trojans, a case of beer and a bottle of Jack Daniels," Bobby said quietly, and then added: "How long has it been since he showered?"

"Almost a week," Sam said. "And he's rebuilt nearly four engines from the ground up. It would have been five if he hadn't taken time out to clean all the guns we own, sneak into OzzFest, and get himself laid by that big-boobed frat girl from the University of Nebraska."

"Hmm, Kitty," Bobby recalled appreciatively.

"Oh, and then there's the tattoo..."

"Damn, boy!.What did they do to him down there?"

Sam shuddered and put a hand over his eyes as his memory shot him a rather sickening visual. "God, Bobby, trust me, you don't want to know."