EXILE ON MAIN ST.

Lisa finds herself cataloging the differences between the boy she had spent a weekend with, all those years ago, and the man sleeping in her bed now.

Physically he has matured. Everyone grows old, that's a fact, and everyone changes with age. That is not what she means.

Dean's matured in the same way that a skittish colt matures into a beautiful stallion.

The long limbs that seemed out of place and looked like they were missing something when Dean was nineteen, have now filled with muscle and purpose; the skinny face where his mouth took too much space, has filled and become solid, dependable. Trustworthy.

There are some things that she misses.

The bad boy attitude, that she can't decide if it was a casualty of age or of the life he led; the open laughter, that she remembers so well but has yet to openly experience; the carefree way in which Dean used to make love, now replaced by a attentive lover that notices every detail, but is afraid of baring himself to her.

There are some things that are new.

The hand-shape burn mark on his shoulder, that Dean takes half a year to tell her that is from the angel who pulled him out of Hell; the way he would start to shiver uncontrollably whenever Lisa tried to cook a lobster, something that she gave up when he finally confessed that it sounded like the souls he had tortured in Hell; the way he refuses to drive that car of his, conserving it like a shrine to a life that she knows he can't go back to, but that he can't really let go.

TWO AND A HALF MEN

It looks so easy when Dean does it, easy enough that Sam almost considers picking up the baby as well and try to feed it—him.

He doesn't ponder too hard on it. It's just a fleeting thought, like so many that Sam has these days. Thought and discarded because there was no point to them. There is certainly is no point in who feeds the baby, just that it gets fed.

But Sam is curious and picks it up when Dean is in the bathroom. Earlier, he had barely looked at it, merely collecting the baby as evidence of what had happened in that house.

He had hardly noticed how warm the baby is. Or how good it smells.

Sam leans forward and takes a whiff, trying to catalogue exactly what it is that he is smelling. It's not soap, or food, and it's not his diaper. It's a particular smell that Sam had forgotten even to exist.

The baby smells like life.

"You sniffing a baby?" Dean asks, light tone in his voice, towel around his neck.

"Kid needs a change," Sam says. It's the first thing that comes to his mind, and it's a reason to hand back the baby to his brother.

THE THIRD MAN

Dean couldn't move. It was like the world had been turned upside down and he was the only one who had noticed the difference.

Angels might be pricks in general, but Castiel had always been the one that Dean could count on to do the right thing. It couldn't count as 'the right thing' to torture a kid like that, no matter what was at stake.

And Sam... Sam had been Dean's moral compass for years. When the hunting world started to be too much and Dean would lose sight of what was right and what was wrong, Sam was there, to gently tell him that vampires weren't evil just because they were vampires; to remind him that a monster isn't a monster until it decides to act as a monster; to guide a little kid who could turn the whole world into ashes, into the right path.

Asking if there would be any permanent damage didn't quite cover it. Not even by far.

But Dean was just one. And his moral compass was broken.

WEEKEND AT BOBBY'S

"I could go alone," Sam suggests. After they've checked in their luggage, and pass through at least five security checks points.

"I'm fine," Dean says, for what feels like the hundredth time since Bobby put in his request.

"Did you take the pill?"

Dean rolls his eyes, wondering how he had become the chick in that relationship. After all the sass that he'd had to face from his brother about the frigging sedative p—

"The one for the traveling sickness," Sam cuts in through his thoughts.

Dean pales further more. He had completely forgotten about that one. How could he forget ab—

"Man... these are going to be some long nine hours," Sam concludes, seeing his brother's face.

LIVE FREE OR TWI-HARD

"Drink," the man, the thing, says again. "You'll feel better."

Dean shakes his head. He will never do that. The thirst inside feels like nothing he's felt before, like he's spent the whole day licking sand after pouring raw alcohol down his throat. It feels like his insides are turning into dust and he wonders how it is possible that the drool that runs down his mouth can possibly be liquid at all.

It takes him a minute to realize that it's not drool trickling down his chin. It's blood.