Author's Note: Another revamped reject pulled from the harddrive. In it's original form it was definitely a reject but when I sat down and started picking at it, it took off on its own. I don't know where I was going with it originally, but it certainly wasn't where it went this time! Tell me what you think of it now, and as always, thank you for reading.

-T

He kneels in the dirt, staring down at the blood on his hands, knowing death is inevitable. He can't stop it.

"Sam! Sammy help me!"

"It's okay, it's okay. It's not that bad. We'll fix you up, alright? You'll be as good as new."

"SAM!"

"No! Don't! Get away from him!"

Blood covers his hands, runs down between his fingers to drip into the dirt. The howling of the hounds runs counterpoint to the deep rumble of thunder.

"Dean?"

"Sammy!"

"DEAN!"

He woke with a start.

For a long moment he could do nothing but lay still upon the bed, his hands clenched in the twisted mass of blankets beneath him. He stared blankly up at the cracked ceiling trying to make sense of where he was and how he'd gotten there. Memory brought with it the pounding headache that never seemed to leave him anymore. The headache goaded him up out of the bed and into the bathroom.

Leaning heavily upon the sink, he washed his face, splashing cold water upon fevered skin with hands that shook. The mirror was his enemy anymore. He avoided looking at his own image, keeping his eyes downcast. It only made the ache behind his eyes worse. That ache made him seek out the large bottle of painkillers he had stashed in his bag. He dry swallowed four – the recommended dose of two couldn't even come close to relieving his throbbing head.

He was hungry. His stomach rumbled. When was the last time he'd eaten? Didn't have time now. How many hours had passed since he'd stopped here at this run-down motel? He couldn't risk remaining in one place any longer than five. Was there time to grab a bite? He'd get something at the gas-mart.

For once I'd like to eat something not nuked at the local mini-mart. God knows what's in this stuff.

A stabbing pain struck him in the temple. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his right eye. "Dammit."

The headaches are getting worse.

"I know."

He grabbed his bag, did a quick once over to make sure he had everything. Keys? In his pocket.

Where to now?

I don't know.

I'm tired, and hungry. I need more sleep.

"You stop and they'll find you."

Tossing the key on one of the beds, he left the room. As he closed the door quietly behind him it occurred to him to wonder why he was still renting doubles.

He stayed on the road as much as possible, only stopping for short periods of time. Four or five hours was as long as he would stay in one place – four hours of sleep, an hour to shower and get something to eat. He was no longer the hunter, but the hunted.

Stand and fight.

No.

Coward.

"It would be suicide."

I don't care.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel. His foot came down harder on the pedal, pushing the Chevy along a little faster. What in the hell was he listening to? Some modern crap. That had to go. Indiana had a classic rock station didn't it? Yeah, there it was.

He hit Indianapolis and decided to backtrack, turning around on his own path, traveling halfway back to Ohio before hanging a left and heading North. He'd skirt around the lakes and get lost in Chicago for a few hours. There was a bar there he liked. A girl...

Grief hit him hard, unexpectedly. He remembers the smell...

Burning hair.

Jess.

She liked the scent of vanilla (lilac), wore white (purple) often. The color suited her fair (dark) skin. He thought she looked sexy in a sweater, sexier still in lace underwear.

What color she wore didn't matter any more than the color of her skin.

Whoa, let's not forget who dumped who...

"Stop. Please, just...stop."

The headache was blinding him. He turned down a dirt road and pulled off beneath the trees where the car could not be seen from the road. Dark car. Dark, moonless night. He'd be safe for a few minutes.

He pressed his forehead to the wheel.

Jess. Her hair was so beautiful. I loved how it smelled.

Lilacs.

"No, it wasn't..."

Vanilla.

Moaning, he fumbled for his bag on the seat beside him. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd last taken anything for the pain. Long enough. He had two more tablets.

Moments later he was on his knees at the side of the road, what little he'd eaten coming up in gut twisting heaves. The bile taste remained in his mouth as he wiped his lips on his sleeve and stumbled back into the car. He set the alarm on his watch. He had to sleep.

He had to sleep.

Prayed he wouldn't dream.

Agonizing pain shoots through his center, blood pours into places it shouldn't go, drowning him, killing him.

There is too much. Too much blood.

His brother is dying, slipping from his grasp to lie motionless upon the muddy ground.

"Nooooooo!"

Dogs howl. Thunder rumbles. No matter how hard he tries the blood won' t come off his hands. It marks him. It accuses him. He's failed...

What?Who?

It's all my fault, all my fault...

He lost track of the miles and the days. Bobby called, several times. There was no way he could go to Bobby. It would be too predictable. It would make Bobby a target. They wanted him and they wanted him badly and they wouldn't let anybody stand in their way.

Everyone who got in their way died. Mom, Jess, Dad...

His brother lay dying in his arms.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and wondered just who he was apologizing to as he pushed open the door to the diner.

So many lives destroyed. It wasn't...

Fair? No. It wasn't. It isn't.

Can't involve Bobby in this, not this time.

The diner was a tiny road-side dive built out of an old gas station. They still sold gas, maps, and cigarettes, but the service bays had been turned into a restaurant, a greasy spoon. Just your basics were served there - fried eggs, burgers, grilled cheese It was the kind of place that attracted the down and out and the road weary. A couple of locals nursed hangovers in booths at the back. Truckers guzzled coffee and spooned food into their mouths from plates piled high with greasy, monochrome slop.

He got a table by the window with a clear shot toward the door if he needed to go in a hurry. He kept a a gun at his belt. The waitress didn't even give it a second glance.

His head was throbbing.

I knew you wouldn't have the sack.

This is for our Mom, you son-of-a-bitch.

I'm scared, Sam.

Stabbing at rubbery eggs with a fork, he gazed out the window. The sun was up, burning off the night's chill. He'd been forced to stop by the fog hugging the road. It made driving dangerous – especially for someone who had been awake for more than twenty-four hours. Topeka was not far. He could crash there maybe. He had plenty of salt in the car. A bundle of sage could be found at the local grocery store. Demons wouldn't get in...

The nightmares – that was different story.

Maybe it was the smell of fried potatoes that drew her, or maybe, unlike the others, she knew exactly what clues to follow. He should have known she would be the one to finally catch up to him. She didn't scare him like the others. She was on his side – wasn't she?

Don't trust her. Don't trust anyone. Especially not now.

"You really stepped in it this time," she said. "Whose dumb-ass plan was it? No, don't tell me, it doesn't matter now."

He didn't raise his eyes from his plate, continuing to finish his breakfast as if she weren't even there. He didn't want her to see the truth, despite the fact she obviously knew what he was protecting, what he had done. Nor did he want her to sense his ever growing fear that she might be right and he had made a grave error in judgment.

"We had to do something," he said, pushing his empty plate aside. A pool of grease was all that remained. He'd gone too long without eating again. "I. I had to do something."

Ruby scowled. Her bitterness flavored her tone. "You did something all right." She sat back in her seat. "If you didn't have the balls to destroy Lilith, you should have just let him die."

"I couldn't." Pain stabbed him between the eyes. He raised a hand to rub the spot uneasily. "You don't understand."

"I understand more than you think," she snapped.

Wordlessly he stood up from his seat and threw a couple of singles down for a tip. Ruby rose with him, and caught his arm before he could get away from her. The headache flared bright and painful, bringing with it a wave of nausea and dizziness. Quickly he reached out to the back of the chair to steady himself. She didn't miss it.

"You had no idea what you were doing, and you damn sure don't know what you've done."

"I figured it out enough to get this far."

"And it's driving you completely insane. Don't lie and say it isn't." She gave him a condescending look. "I could have helped you."

"I don't need your help, bitch."

He jerked his elbow from her grasp, but she was back quickly, locking onto his sleeve in a grip he could not break. She pulled him around to face her, stepping up to confront him directly. Her eyes met his for the first time. He saw her hard expression slip askew, just slightly, and only for a fraction of a second.

What had she seen?

"Nobody is after you," Her whisper was fierce, intense, like the thrust of a knife. "Not right now. Not like you think."

"You're lying."

"No I'm not," she said quickly. She held her anger in check, he could hear the strain in her voice. "You're paranoid, delusional. Your mind is a freakin' mess and that's how it's coping."

"The hounds..."

"Lost the scent. It's muddied and unclear, just like your thinking!"

"There's nothing wrong with me!"

He shouted the words. Diners paused. Eyes turned his way and he retreated, frightened lest some of those eyes blacken over and the demons converge upon him. He turned tail and ran out to the car where he leaned hard against it, his head bowed between his arms.

She's just trying to help.

You can't trust her. Don't trust her.

I couldn't let him die. He's my brother.

Are you sure what you brought back is one hundred percent Sam?

"Stop. Please. Stop." He shook his head slowly back and forth, still fighting back nausea. The food was bad enough going down. He didn't want to experience it coming back up again. "I did the right thing. I know I did the right thing."

Ruby was there, standing on the other side of the car. "Let me help," she said.

He looked away from her. "No."

"Don't be stupid!"

"No."

When he looked up again he expected her to be gone but she wasn't. Was it sympathy he saw in her eyes? Whatever it was it was swiftly swallowed away by darkness.

"Fine," she said hotly. "Deal with this on your own, but deal with it, and soon. The hounds may have been thwarted, but not Lilith, and not the other two hundred plus demons running amok out there. They may not be after you now, but they will be. Face them like this and they'll slaughter you." Her eyes cleared. "Is that what you want?"

Bring it on!

No!

His head felt like it was going to explode, his shoulders and back ached from the burden he now carried, a burden a thousand times more heavy than anything he'd experienced before. "I can't let him die, Ruby. You know what will happen."

"And I know what will happen if you don't!" She let him go and stepped back. Just before she turned on her heel to leave him, she provided a parting shot. "Death is going to end this standoff whether you like it or not. One...or both. You decide."

There is nothing like New Orleans anywhere else on the planet. He leans back in his chair, perched on a hotel balcony overlooking Bourbon Street. There's a beautiful woman asleep in the bed behind him, and room service on the way bearing the best creole cuisine to be had. Somewhere below a band plays the blues. He's in no hurry to leave. The job is done and Dad can wait another day...

Dust motes dance in the sunlight streaming through the library's high windows. He's alone save for the clerk yawning over her coffee behind the desk, and the ghosts that wander through the stacks. He instinctively knows they're there. Guess there is more Hunter in him than he knew. With a sigh he bends his head over the dusty tome he's selected, and begins to read. After a while he notices the girl behind the desk watching him. She's pretty, blond - and tall. Tall is good...

A dark man appears from out of the shadows, a knife in his hand...

A black dog appears out of thin air, jaws parting to reveal dagger-like teeth as it gathers itself to spring...

"NOOOOOOOOO!!"

He woke with a gasp, clutching his chest where his heart was pounding wildly.

His heart is...damaged.

How damaged?

A silver bullet to the heart.

I'm a hunter, and your brother is fair game.

"Dammit!"

The dull ache always present in his head flared into full fledged pain, forcing him to close his eyes again momentarily.

Sleep hadn't taken the pain away. It never did. He remembered...too much.

It was morning. He'd parked the car lest he fall asleep at the wheel, pulling into the drive of an abandoned farmhouse. Now he sat looking out the windshield, hand paused upon the ignition key. The sun rose over the acres of farm fields stretching out before him, a serene setting that could make him believe everything was okay. How long had it been since he'd watched the sun rise? How long had it been since he'd found just the smallest moment of peace like this?

Breakfast – eggs and English muffins. Do you want jam or honey, honey? She laughs at her own joke. She was so beautiful with the sun behind her. Blond, beautiful, dressed all in white, she looked like an angel.

Remember, angels are watching over you.

There's no such thing as angels.

Did you ever think about how much Jess was like Mom?

They both died, and it was all my fault.

"No." He turned his gaze up to the rear view mirror and caught only a glimpse of his eyes. "It's not your fault."

"It came for me."

"You're as much a victim as anyone."

"I'm a monster..."

"I don't want to hear it anymore! How can you not give a damn about your..."

Self?

Abruptly the conversation – the argument – ceased. His hands tightened around the steering wheel. Crazy. He was going crazy. Maybe this is what they'd had planned all along. Death would have been too easy. They'd set him up to be tormented into madness.

He's your weakness, and the bad guys know it.

What's dead should stay dead.

"No. No. There's a way...something..."

He turned the key.

"Why? Why did you do it?"

"You know why. You of all people should know why!"

The car rumbled to life. He put it in gear and turned around, pointing her long nose back toward the highway. They took it slow over the rutted dirt driveway. The Impala's suspension squeaked. Her front end lurched through a pothole.

Yeah, I know everything now. Hopes and dreams, fears...secrets.

I'm sorry.

Don't be sorry. No more sorry. No more blame. Let's just work this out before Lilith finds us.

"Sure. We'll work it out. Two heads are better than one."

He laughed and could not help but notice the slight note of hysteria in his voice. It was frightening, sobering. He ground his teeth tightly together and focused on driving.

The car bumped up onto the highway and the ride smoothed out upon the even pavement. She picked up speed. He drove one handed, digging into his pocket for the new phone he'd just picked up. It was time to make a concession - stop running, get help.

He dialed. Got voicemail.

"Bobby. It's...me."

What else could he say? He didn't know. What he did know was the way to Bobby's – the closest thing he had to a home besides the car. They knew that, though, and might be watching, waiting for him to arrive.

What if they're not? What if Ruby is right and you're just jumpin' at shadows?

Bobby knows how to defend himself.

"I'm on my way there," he said. "I need your help." Tears filled his eyes, he couldn't stop them if he tried. "I'm scared, Bobby, and I don't know what to do!"

He hung up abruptly and tossed the phone into the passenger's seat. His sleeve served to clear his eyes and dry his face.

Wuss.

Shut up.

"I have to fix this."

It might not be fixable.

"Bobby will know what to do. He'll know how."

"What if he doesn't. What if he can't?"

"I..."

I don't wanna die, Sammy. I don't want to go to Hell.

You're not going to Hell, Dean! I'm not gonna let you!

"My family isn't exactly the Brady Bunch."

They don't share stuff, not really. Sam's more open about how he feels, sure, but there are things he keeps to himself. When he puts up walls no one can get around around them, not even Dean. Dean is less fortunate. His walls are there all the time, but Sam can see right through them. He knows Dean's secrets – or thought he did.

Dean knows Sam has kept things hidden from him, but they are things he would have never guessed were there, not in a million years.

Revelation Number One: Mary Winchester knew the man who killed her.

Revelation Two: Dean had always known this.

Revelation Three: Sam only recently learned of it – and never said a word.

He's four. He hears a noise from down the hall. The baby is fussing. He should go – wake Mommy – but Mommy is awake.

"You!"

What was in that blood?

I don't know. Does it matter now?

He poisoned you, changed you.

I guess, I don't know. Maybe it just woke something up that was already there.

Are you really my brother?

Dean, how can you even ask that?

You're not human, Sammy.

No. I'm not, not any more.

So what does that make me?

Their mother died. Their father all but abandoned them. All they had were each other. Dean clung to Sam like a life preserver and struggled to keep both of them afloat despite his own issues. Sam was drawn to deeper water. The cold depths called to him. The demon had left its mark. Dean knew the moment he let go, he'd lose his brother forever, so he held on even tighter.

Sam loved him for that, if nothing else.

Is that all I was to you, Sammy a debt to be paid?

"No. I just...wonder sometimes what you gave up your life for, Dean."

What am I?

His puppet.

His who?

Dad.

The demon.

Same difference.

He's dead. Gone. And he's not coming back.

He shook his head, pressing his thumb against the bridge of his nose. "That can't erase what he already did to me."

It's all spinning out of control!

Fear. He was afraid. Not of Hell, not of Lilith, but of ...living? What was death, really? The destruction of the physical body, or the corruption of the soul? What happened to the soul who forgot who and what it had been?

In Hell they become demons.

This isn't Hell.

Isn't it?

Bobby came out onto the porch and shut the door behind him. In one hand he held Samuel Colt's pistol, the hammer cocked back ready to fire. In the other he held a small canteen. Holy water.

The Colt.

"You got it back from Bela," he said quietly. He wondered if he should be afraid. He'd stared down the barrel of a gun before – but not this one.

"Yeah, I did. And there's a bullet for you if you don't start talkin'."

"You'd shoot me, Bobby?"

"You ain't who you say you are. I know that."

He paused, his voice becoming a pained whisper. "I never said I was anybody." His eyes met those of the older man, the man who was like a father to...Dean. "Just...give me a chance to explain. It's not what you think. I'm no demon..."

No? Really? Are you sure about that?

"But...Bobby please, it's me." He struggled, groping around in the chaos swirling around in his head, seeking to pin down some sort of identity. "It's...Sa...Sam. Sam..."

Pain nailed him between the eyes, forcing him to double up, drop to his knees. White hot needles of pain driven by anguish and fear seemed to be shredding his mind to pieces. It struck him blind, rendered him deaf to everything but the cacophony going on inside his skull.

Denial.

Panic.

You. Are. Not. Me!

He clutched his temples, swaying unsteadily back and forth, his eyes rolling back as an agonizing pain exploded throughout his body..

Get out, get out, GET OUT!!

His voice rose to drown out the noise. It echoed across the salvage yard.

"I CAN'T!"

The screaming ceased immediately. The pain faded to a dull ache.

"I'm sorry...it was the only way...the only way..." His eyes closed, his breath came out in a gasping whisper, "Dean...I'm sorry," and he fell face first into the dust.

He has the power to save his brother. He's known it from the very beginning. Somewhere buried deep inside him the gifts the yellow-eyed demon gave him still exist. Sam is strong though, and stubborn, he's resisted the temptation many times before. He's pulled himself back from the edge so often it's become second nature.

But...

He died, and it could have been over right then and there had Dean left him alone, but Dean never could leave well enough alone. Sam's faith has wavered since he came back. Anger, hurt, bitterness and confusion wear down his resistance. The easy road becomes more of an option. Caring is pain. Turn it all off and the hurting stops. The rot inside him spreads. He thinks nothing of killing. Kill or be killed.

He still resists because of what his father taught him, what his brother believes in. Dean's presence keeps him grounded, and drives the darkness away.

Sam knows what Hell is like. He can't stand by and condemn his brother to eternal agony. The crossroads demon was a conniving bitch – that's why he shot her. Her price was too high for a corrupted soul. Dean is more valuable to Sam alive than to Lilith dead.

"You're my brother. I'd do anything for you."

If I can command demons, I can save Dean's soul.

It's a radical solution to be sure, but it may be the only way to save them both. One cannot survive without the other, and yet one of them must die according to the contract. One, or the other, that has always been the fly in the ointment, but Sam thinks he's found a loophole.

Dean's life and soul belong to Lilith. The terms of the deal were plain. A year would pass, Dean would die, and his soul would go to Hell. If they screwed around with the terms in an effort to save Dean, Sam would drop dead. This stipulation had been placed on Sam's life – but not his soul. As far as Sam can see, Dean owns that fair and square.

It all came down to semantics.

And if he's wrong it doesn't matter. Dean won't go to Hell even if Lilith does not consider Sam's life to be a fulfillment of her contract. If she comes after him again, she'll find Sam waiting for her armed with an arsenal of demonic abilities to match her own. They no longer frighten him. Dean will be there to keep him safe.

Just before midnight Sam puts his plan into action. He raises the gun to his temple, sees the horrified look on his brother's face as Dean realizes what is going to happen. There is no time to explain why it has to be. The hounds are converging on them fast; he can hear them even if he can't see them - growling, howling, barking, lusting after the blood they will soon spill and the soul they had been sent to retrieve.

Dean screams his name, rushes forward in an attempt to stop him from pulling the trigger. He'll fail. He's no Superman.

Turning his mind inward, Sam disengages it from his body less than a second before the bullet shatters his skull.

He always woke disoriented. He thought he'd be used to it by now, but he wasn't. There was always a moment of panic, confusion and a short waged battle before mind and body finally connected. Who was in control? He wasn't really sure anymore. The defining line was becoming more faded and smudged as time passed and two souls slowly bled into one.

That was what Ruby had been trying to tell him. One, or both. Damn.

The last thing he remembered was lying in the dirt. Now he lay on a ragged sofa, its upholstery worn and faded. The musty scent of old books mingled with the smell of motor oil. That curious combination was utterly familiar, and served to bring his mind to the present. He was at Bobby's.

Bobby sat beside the sofa, the Colt in hand, but resting upon one knee, not pointed at anything, or anyone. His expression was wary, but curious too. Bobby wasn't the shoot first ask questions later type. He realized he could often learn things from his enemies. He might look and sound like an ignorant grease-monkey, but he was far from it. In another life, many years past, Bobby been Robert Singer, Professor Singer, a teacher, historian and author – before his own personal tragedy sent him into the supernatural underground.

Groaning, he sat up. His head ached. Nothing new there.

"Coffee?" he queried.

"After," Bobby said softly.

He began to run his hands through his hair – the habit of someone used to wearing it longer. He aborted the gesture. "You won't believe me."

Bobby gave him a "dude..." look. Yeah. Nothing was unbelievable in their profession. "You want anything from me, you talk. Who are you?"

How did he answer that question when he wasn't really sure himself? The inside of his head was awash in chaos. Doors opened and closed, memories swapping rooms like characters in an old fashioned comedy farce. Instead of the Marx brothers the Winchester brothers were the star performers. Sam, Dean, and one seriously jacked up mind.

"The Marx Brothers. What kind of analogy is that?"

Whatever works, dude.

"What?"

It's Bobby's voice, Bobby's hard stare. At least part of the exchange had been spoken aloud, and he had not realized it. He was losing control – if he ever had it from the start. He shook his head, catching burst of semi-hysterical laughter before it could escape. "I'm not a demon," he said.

"Figured that much."

"Forget the coffee. You got whiskey?"

"Some. Tell me what the hell and I'll give you a shot."

He licked his lips, thirsty, needy – getting drunk would help his headache until morning came and it hit him again tenfold. Getting drunk would make things easier for him to explain. It would help him forget too, at least temporarily.

He's going to give you a lot of shit for this. You know that don't you?

"I know."

"You'll be lucky he doesn't put a bullet in you."

He won't.

The pain made him grimace. He raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing it as if that small gesture could soothe the burning inside his skull. "Astral projection," he said softly. "I figured if demons could do it..."

Trust Bobby to understand with only those few words, preempting a stuttering attempt to go into more detail. The older hunter processed the information and came to all the correct conclusions. When he spoke his voice was rough with horror and disbelief.

"You're talking about possession!"

"No. I...no, it isn't." He rubbed his face with his hands, looked away uneasily. "I knew it would be – different - but I never thought it would be like this." A shudder ran through his body, and his voice dropped to a nearly inaudible whisper. "Bobby... I don't know who I am anymore."

"I don't doubt it," was the bitter reply. "Two souls can't survive in one body without someone taking point!"

"Which would ultimately destroy the weaker spirit! I can't do that! You know I can't!"

"Sam's body," Bobby demanded."Where is it?"

His response was blunt, brutal. The third person pronoun and disapproving tone tipped the scale, singling Dean out for only a moment, making Bobby flinch.

"He fed it to the hounds."

"Jesus wept!" Bobby rose from his seat, still clutching the Colt, but with a shaking hand. "How could you ever have thought this would work? Of all the stupid, bone-headed, ignorant..." His voice cracked, anger swiftly shifting to grief. "Do you know what you've done? Do you have any idea at all what you've done?"

He nodded, forcing himself to accept the truth that had been dogging him for weeks, the truth Ruby told him. He just didn't trust her enough to believe it. This was the real reason he had avoided coming to Bobby. Bobby would have the answer he dreaded and there could be no denying it. The truth of that was in the profound grief he now saw in the old man's eyes.

He had made a mistake, crossed a line he shouldn't have crossed and there was no going back. He could only go forward and pray to God this sacrifice would be worth it in the end.

I saved two souls from Hell.

"I've killed us both."

He stands in front of the mirror, forcing himself to look at what his mind still cannot comprehend. Part of him is comfortable there. Part of him must acclimate to a new, alien environment.

Sam's will is stronger, they both know it, but he won't let go of the soul he's vowed to save, the one thing keeping the monster inside him under control. Dean is just plain frightened, holding on tooth and nail to that which he knows is rightfully his, afraid Lilith has not been satisfied, but more than that, simply afraid of being alone.

Like two lost children they cling to each other in the dark.

Until two become one.

Inseparable.

Forever.

He was sitting in a bar in Boston, drinking a beer and jotting down notes from his last hunt when she came up beside him. Dark hair, rosy cheeks, eyes that lit up her whole face when she smiled...

Dimly he realized she wasn't smiling in reaction to what she saw in front of her, but the promise of something else – someone else.

Of course he knew her name. She didn't know his, not anymore. He called himself "Hunter" when an alias was not appropriate, blending who he was with what he was, because it was easy and anything else felt wrong. The name that fell from her lips made him tighten his hand around his glass with an almost imperceptible wince.

"Dean? Dean, is that you?"

No.

"Hello Sarah."

She might have understood if he had felt up to the monumental task of explaining it. She'd seen the other side, took a dip into his reality, and knew strange things existed between the lines of normalcy. He might have had her as his own if he wanted. What she wanted wasn't that far gone. He remembered how to talk to her, what to say - how to feel when she kissed him.

The made small talk for a few minutes before she asked the question he knew he couldn't avoid. He chose the easiest path, walking the line between truth and falsehood, answering her query with words he knew would hurt her, but for her own good. She deserved better than what he could ever offer her – both then and now.

"Sam's dead."

It cut deep. The light in her eyes dimmed. Sorrow ruined her smile. She expressed her condolences, and the conversation concluded quite abruptly. He watched her go feeling the undeniable ache of remorse, but forced himself to stay where he was, let her go, and not call her back to him.

Returning his attention to his drink, he filed his feelings for Sarah away in the past, where they belonged, and went back to his work. A half-hour later another woman came to him, this one fair where Sarah had been dark – except in her soul and her eyes, those were as black as pitch.

"I found Lilith. She's in Chicago," Ruby said. She sat – no, she mounted – the barstool next to him. Her smile was as sly as her innuendo. "She still can't figure out what happened. You've still got the advantage. Take it while you can."

He stopped writing, and closed the notebook, polishing off the last of his drink in one quick shot. He could feel the heat rising up inside him, demonic power feeding off his desire for vengeance, barely held in check. It would have consumed him had he been what he was before. Now it was tempered and trained, molded into a weapon no different from a gun or a knife, and wielded in a similar fashion. It pushed against its boundaries to be sure, but could not escape them.

Accomplishing this had required a partnership no one would have ever dreamed possible - not John Winchester, not the demon who had started it all. He was no longer a slave to anyone's will but his own, and had the power to keep it that way. He was untouchable by both man and demon alike.

Both respected him. Both feared him.

Walk the straight and narrow and he'd leave you alone. Cross the line, and he would go on the hunt. That had not changed.

He tossed the bartender a fifty to pay for his drink, and Ruby's. Looking at him over the edge of her glass, she drank deep of the amber liquid inside. He met her eye.

"Chicago."

"Yes."

She lasted only a moment beneath his gaze, quickly lowering her eyes, and flinching away from his physical presence. Her reaction made him smile. The apprentice had become the master. The hunted had once again become the hunter.

Outside he inhaled the cool night air as he unlocked the car and got in, folding himself into the seat with a grace born of familiarity. His mind was elsewhere while his hands followed a well worn path: turn the key, shift to drive, push the gas, spin the wheel, reach for the radio and turn on some tunes. It was going to be a long drive. Well worth it though.

He had a score to settle in Chicago, one last thing he felt he had to do in order to finally close the door on his past. With some regret he had realized it had only been a prologue to the life he was meant to live.

A quick glance in the rearview mirror and he had to admit an awful truth.

In a few more years nobody would remember Sam and Dean Winchester.

Not even him.