Summary: Dean already knows that the future isn't looking good. Sam's sneaking out at night and lying about it. Dean's pretty sure the angels are dicks and that they're lying to him, too. It isn't until he gets a visit from his own ghost that he realizes just how bad it's going to get, and the future that was becomes part of Dean's memories of the past. Surely, with all that he knows, he can fix things—if he can stay alive and sane, that is. A season 4 AU that bumps into seasons 5 and 6. Written for the 2011 spn_gen_bigbang challenge.

Characters: Dean, Sam and Castiel; with Ruby, Bobby, Uriel, Ellen and Jo
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. I just shake them out and play with them.
Word Count: 75k

Pairings: Sam/Ruby [off screen] Dean/Lisa [but not really]
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, AU/AR, death, h/c, language, violence; spoilers for up to 6.20 (in a way)

Artist: The talented amber1960. Visit my lj site where I've embedded her fantastic artwork into the story.

AN: Broadly inspired by a_phoenixdragon's excellent 2010 spn_j2_bigbang piece, Perspectives, which left me feeling melancholy, and for some reason (because it never happens in her story), gave me the image of Dean in a hospital bed, quietly rejecting the comfort Sam tries to offer. The brain can be a weird, weird place.

Acknowledgements: This story was beta'ed by my RL friend, Alecto Nyx, and by rince1wind. They both pulled it apart and helped me to put it back together as a, hopefully, much better piece. Also thanks to jukeboxhound for having the theological knowledge I needed and being willing to share.

There were several sites I went to for information on how to honour the Four Directions but the one I liked best was Four_Directions_Teaching (dot) com. I read a lot on their site but used an embarrassingly small amount. Once again, I must thank the contributors and maintainers of Wikipedia and the supernatural wiki. They are both wonderful places to procrastinate in.

Final thank you to reapertownusa for hosting the spn_gen_bigbang. It takes a lot of dedication to host and organize something like this and she did a wonderful job!

GHOSTS OF FUTURE PAST

Chapter 1

It's an itch between his shoulder blades, like he's being watched or something.

He first feels it while in the barn he and Bobby had prepped as they wait for whatever had pulled him out of Hell to show up. He dismisses it because of course he's tense—he's waiting for whatever pulled him out of Hell to show up. Then he feels it driving back from Olivia Lowry's house, but after seeing what was left of Olivia Lowry, he would've thought himself really fucking sick if he hadn't felt shivery. He feels it again shortly after, at the gas station on the way back to Bobby's, but he figures that it's just Victor haunting the crap out of them, along with Meg and Ronald… Except the feeling doesn't stop when they dispel the Witnesses—that creepy, crawly feeling that says something nasty's waiting just around the next corner—and it's starting to really bug him.

He decides to investigate. He's got the time since the world's being a little quieter and he doesn't sleep much anyway. Besides, if he's being haunted by something other than angels and nightmares, it would be good to know.

Then Castiel shows up and sends him back in time to watch, helplessly, as his mom makes a deal with the yellow-eyed son of a bitch who killed her.

"You can change it," Castiel had said, but it turns out all the angel wanted him to do was to witness the inevitability of it. He's not feeling too happy with the angels or this whole damn set-up, but before he can completely process his mother's little bombshell, Castiel points him to a warehouse with an equally cryptic command to "stop it".

When he gets there, it doesn't take a genius to understand what Dean's supposed to stop.

He watches through the chain-link divider as Sam uses some freaky psychic power tricks to exorcise a demon. Sam's eyes are closed, his hand is raised palm out, and he's got the most serene expression on his face, as if this is as safe as chanting 'ohm' in a monastery. Black, demon smoke pours out of the possessed bastard's mouth, dropping to the floor as if weighted and Dean knows that Sam did that. Standing beside his baby brother is the chick from the hotel in Pontiac, the one Sam had pretended was an anonymous hook-up but obviously isn't from the way she's coaching Sam through it.

He waits until the demon smoke is gone before stepping out into the dim room.

"Anything you want to tell me, Sam?" He looks at the tiny brunette standing so comfortably beside his brother. He already knows who she is, what she is: a fucking lying skank. Before either of them open their mouths, he takes the knife to her, which is the correct thing to do when faced with a demon, but Sam stops him and gets Ruby out of the building, safe.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean shouts at his idiotic brother. "You're working with a demon."

"Ruby's not like that." But he can't meet Dean's eyes, not fully and, shit, Dean doesn't need this. His brother was supposed to be safe.

"Why, Sam?" he asks trying for stern but knowing his voice is closer to pleading. "What are you hoping to get out of this?" He silently begs Sam to give him something he can understand, something that makes sense.

"You know why," Sam's voice is petulant and resentful and he sounds like a kid instead of a college-educated, experienced hunter.

"I do?"

Sam juts out his jaw and glares. "She's helping me get ready to kill Lilith."

"Kill Lilith," Dean repeats, absolutely stunned by the stupidity. "Why? Revenge?" Sam nods and Dean shakes his head in disbelief. "For sending me to hell? Did you happen to notice I'm back—alive and kicking? Or are you so busy doing your Anakin Skywalker impression that you weren't paying attention?" Low blow, he thinks to himself even as he says it, because it's not all Sam's fault that their rhythm's been off since he… got back.

Before he can soften it, Sam puffs up in anger. "Is it wrong to want a little payback?"

Dean sees the way Sam tightens his jaw and lifts his shoulders, and he knows Sam's not going to listen to anything Dean says now. Not only that, but he's not just his extra-large baby brother caught out in a lie, he's a freaking scary dude filled with dark power and bloodlust. This isn't his brother and he wants his brother, he wants them, back the way they were two years ago, when hunting was fun. He doesn't know how to do that: he's never been good with words.

"You—we—don't need payback, Sammy." Dean tries to keep himself calm but his nerves are jittering: this is so wrong. "This is wrong, all wrong. It's a slippery slope and it'll just get steeper and darker the more you travel on it." How can Sam not see how wrong this is?

Sam's shaking his head. "That is so hypocritical. Dad sold his soul, and you sold yours, all so that you could get revenge for Mom's death. Revenge that changed nothing."

"It wasn't like that." It wasn't. They'd sold their souls to save each other not to continue the quest, although that's exactly what had happened.

"At least I'm being proactive," Sam goes on, his voice cutting. "I'm not going to become some little martyr that everyone has to feel sorry for."

What the fuck? Is that how Sam sees him?

"Don't… It's not like that." Dean can hardly get the words out, his jaw is so tight. "You can't do this."

"Why not, Dean? You'll punch me? Will that make you feel better? Or maybe we should go out and find something you can kill—maybe that'll relieve some of your anger." Sam's all aggressive contempt and Dean can't stop himself in time. He swings, connects, and Sam staggers back, hand going to his chin.

The younger man nods. "That's your free one for lying to you. Next time I hit back." He marches around his older brother. "I'll be at the hotel when you're ready to talk like an adult."

Dean spins around to tackle the little bitch, but Sam is already gone, nothing but the door gliding closed to indicate that he was even there. Dean's left alone and he just wants to scream his helplessness to the sky. Because of Castiel's Back to the Future moment, where Dean had had to watch his mom make a deal with fucking Yellow Eyes, he'd been angry and frustrated even before he'd entered the warehouse. Finding Sam like this did not help.

His brother had promised—fucking promised—not to use those effing powers and here he is exorcising demons with his mind… Jesus fucking Christ. And then he'd defended Ruby—Ruby! Who is not only a demon, but a lying manipulative bitch.

Dean has to cool down, has to take a moment before facing Sam because, swear to God, if his brother tries to justify hanging around with Ruby, Dean is going to punch the kid in the face again and that'll do nothing to mend their relationship, which is listing in so much deep, stormy water that Dean can feel it up to his knees. He drives around a bit, finds an empty playground, and pulls the Impala over so he can look at the stars and just… just remember the good things. It's hard, though. He's barely been out of Hell two weeks and everything is going to shit. Angels and Seals and the freaking Apocalypse. And Sam becoming BFF with a lying-ass demon…

It hardly surprises him when he sees the ghost and hears the voice.

"Hey, Dean."

He looks up and sees… himself. Huh, he'd hoped he'd be older when he died. "How long?"

His ghost self makes a considering face. "Four years."

"That's it? I knew this gig was going to be tough but, seriously, four years?"

"We survive the Seals and avert the Apocalypse, if that helps any." His ghost-self flickers just like every other spirit Dean has ever seen.

"So we win?"

Dean isn't surprised when his ghost shrugs. "Not so much, no."

He stares at the remnant of his future self, cataloguing the differences. More lines on his face, but not bad; he hasn't lost an eye or anything hideous. Same taste in clothes, although his boots are steel-toed work boots. Not as cool as not biker boots, but steel-toes actually make sense for a hunter. Iron would be better but Dean doubts anybody makes them: too soft, too heavy. The coat is a lined canvas jacket instead of Dad's old leather. It would've made him look almost respectable if it hadn't been for all the blood and body parts hanging out. He hadn't died in his sleep then.

He looks higher up, notices another big change and frowns, "You're not wearing the medallion."

"Yeah, that's one of the things I need to tell you about." His ghost rolls his lips and Dean recognizes the move as one he makes when he's afraid his suggestion is going to be unwelcome. His stomach tightens and Dean's sure he doesn't want to hear whatever it is his future self has to say. He doesn't want to know why it'll be only four years. Where was Sam? Why didn't his brother have his back? Or, why wouldn't he, in the future?

"If you want to change the future, why come back to now? Why not go back further?" he asks to stall the inevitable. "Maybe keep us out of Hell. I like that idea."

"Tried but the spell is tied to our body and when Cas brought us out he rebuilt it. I mean, completely redone. Like we did to the Impala. The frame's still there and some pieces are original but just about every bit of us, every cell, every atom, was, you know, touched by an angel," Dead Dean says with a smirk and Dean's lips lift in return.

"I imagine it changes a person," he says. He can hear the crickets humming in the field and there's the buzz of the electrical line high overhead. Quiet. Peaceful. Calm. Everything he wants right now.

Four fucking years…

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"Yeah, I understand." And Dean supposes that his ghost probably does understand. "However, it's not like I've got a lot of choice here."

"What if nothing you tell me helps me to change anything?" Because it would be just his fucking luck for this trip to the future to be just as pointless as Castiel's trip to the past.

His ghost laughs, an unhappy sound. "Don't worry. We'll just keep doing it until we get it right." It's more like a threat than a reassurance. "But I've got some ideas of things you can do. Lots of things I've said 'if only' about, so if you can do even a couple of them, things will definitely change."

"What if it makes things worse?" Because that's also a possibility.

Dead Dean looks sadly down at his bloody torso. "I don't see how it can be any worse than this."

Point to him, but now Dean's even more sure that he doesn't want to hear this. Yet he'd made arrangements for his spirit to travel back in time to give his younger self a message, which means it's important, which means he doesn't really have a choice… as usual. He sighs, unhappy with all the BS, as his ghost flickers. He—it—he doesn't talk, doesn't shift. It seems he'll learn patience in the future. Or maybe that's something he learned in Hell, because even now, he's a lot more willing to just let the world pass on by without his help or interference.

"I can't stick around forever, man. There are rules."

Or maybe he will always be a pushy bastard.

"Okay, lay it on me."

In an instant, the ghost is close enough that he can see his own freckles, see the lines at the corners of his eyes, deeper and longer than they were before, or are now, he supposes. He can also see trails of blood that leaked from nose and ears and eyes. They're faint and slightly smeared as if someone tried to wipe them away. He hadn't died a quick death if someone had tried to clean him up.

"There's a lot to tell you, so it'd be easier if you'd just let me show you." His ghost raises his hands up, palms out, as if inviting his living self to play patty-cake. "Invite me in, Dean."

This was so not a good idea. "Only if you tell me who wins the Superbowl, too."

His ghost smiles, a rueful lift of the lips. "Done." And it was.

As soon as he touches his dead counterpart, images pour into his mind in a bewildering, compressed stream too fast to process. They push into his brain, which is bad enough, except it isn't just images, it's sounds and sensations, emotions, feelings: pain and love, joy and fear, loss and anger, despair and loneliness. Betrayal. Death…

He's hot. He's cold. He'd be numb except this hurts like sandpaper scraping on his bones.

"Dean. Damn it. I can't believe I miscalculated this badly."

When he opens his eyes, he's flat on his back on top of the picnic table and the stars are flashing disco colors and wheeling around the sky in frantic abandon.

"It's all there," Dead Dean says. "Everything you need to know to prevent this." He rubs a hand over the hole in his chest. It makes pain echo in Dean's ribs and he remembers the feeling of claws digging for his heart.

Note to self: silver doesn't work so well on the Alpha Werewolf.

He lifts his hand to cover the non-existent injury as he thinks about what just happened. Dead Dean said he knew everything but Dean doesn't feel like he knows anything. The memories had come at him too big, too fast, too much. His brain feels like soup—the primordial soup where life began: thick, sparky and rather disgusting.

"Take your time, absorb it. You'll figure out pretty quick what needs to be done."

"You can't tell me?" Dean manages to ask.

"I already did, man. It's in there." Dead Dean leans over him anxiously. "You did get the memories, right?"

"Yeah," Dean replies hesitantly. "I think they're just really compacted."

His ghost looks relieved. "You'll get over it," he says. Dead Dean's looking off to the side at something Dean can't see. He takes a step away. "My time's up so, you know, good luck and everything." He takes another step.

"Hey," Dean stops him. "Where… where are you—we—going?"

His ghost is quiet as he thinks about it. Then he shrugs. "As long as it's not Hell, I'm not sure I care anymore."

Dean can understand that. Those memories came through with great clarity and jarred his own, fresher, memories of all the horror they'd both lived through.

"Good-bye, Dean." Dean hardly has time to thank himself before the ghost fades away. He lays there, watching the spinning stars slow and lose their weird colors and waiting for his brain to shrink back to a comfortable size.

He waits a long time.

Sam sits at the table, pretending to read a book, waiting for Dean to come back to the motel. He knows he's going to get blasted, probably punched again, but he's pretty sure he's got his own anger under control this time. Plus he has all his arguments assembled and he's sure, absolutely, positively, that he can make Dean understand. He can make this okay. He knows he can, because one thing Dean understands is that anything that makes the hunt easier is a good thing. So he waits and imagines the confrontation in his head, tries to visualize all of Dean's actions and how he'll respond. He clenches and relaxes his muscles, one body part at a time, trying to keep the tension out. It's a technique they suggested in college to help students survive oral tests and interviews and it's worked for Sam before. It'll work now. He'll be adult and reasonable and Dean will have to listen to him.

Sam tries to believe it, but doesn't really succeed.

But the Dean who walks in two hours later isn't angry or hurt or any of the things Sam had pictured. Actually, his brother looks tired, sad, and a little shell-shocked.

Sam stands up, figuring it's best if he starts the conversation, sets the tone for it. "Let me explain," he begins but Dean holds up his hand.

"Don't bother. You're going to tell me how you're just exorcising demons, how you're saving lives—more than we ever did—how you've got it under control and you're not going to let it go too far."

"I'm not, I wasn't…" But he was. He was going to say all those things, and he can tell by Dean's tone that he's not going to buy any of those reasons. Now Sam's scrambling to jump to the next part of his argument. If he can remember what it was… "You've got to see the other side here."

"What other side?" Dean demands and now his voice holds the anger that Sam expected.

Good, Sam knows what comes next. He looks right at his older brother, looks him right in the eyes. "You were gone. I was here. I had to keep on fighting without you. And what I'm doing… It works."

"And that makes it okay."

It isn't a question, but Sam answers anyway. "It's just a tool. It's an unorthodox one, but how is it different from shotguns loaded with rock salt?"

"If it's so terrific then why'd you lie about it?"

Sam opens his mouth and tries to spit out the explanation he'd put together, but what he wants to say—what he truly feels—is too ugly to voice. He'd lied because this is his. Finally, he had the upper hand, and it wasn't something he'd learned from their Dad, or something Dean did first or better, because It Is His. And that isn't something he can say to his big brother, the guy who'd raised him and always had his back. Who'd gone to friggin' Hell for him.

But he wants to.

"You can't justify it, can you?" Dean says with a sad laugh. "Because, altruistic bullshit aside, you just like feeling that powerful."

It's the laugh, and maybe the too-accurate guess, but Sam snaps. The anger he's worked so hard to control spills over and fury heats his body, fuels his words. "You want to know why I didn't say anything? It's because of crap like this. The way you talk to me, the way you look at me, like I'm a freak. Or even worse, like I'm an idiot! Like I don't know the difference between right and wrong!"

Dean will punch him for sure now, and then he'll get to hit Dean back like he said he would, and maybe this time the fight will be enough for Dean to finally respect him as an adult, as a hunter in his own right. His fists curl in anticipation. He waits for it.

Except, again, Dean goes off script.

"And listening to a demon is on the 'right' side of the page? Really…" Dean rubs his temple as if he has a headache. He stares at Sam as if looking for a way into his brain. "You do know that she lied to you all last year, about just about everything?"

"She didn't lie."

Dean laughs. "She told you she could save me from Hell. She couldn't. Wouldn't have even if she could have."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, Sam, I do actually." Dean scrubs both hands over his face. "Christ, I need a drink for this. Wanna beer?" Dean asks over his shoulder and his tone is so casual, so…ordinary that Sam says yes automatically even as he's still braced for a knock-down-drag-out brawl.

He is completely confused.

Confused and off balance and the X-Files theme is playing through his head because this is all wrong. They aren't fighting and shouting at each other. And they should be, he knows it, but Dean isn't behaving like Dean and it's beginning to freak him out.

Dean hands him an opened beer and takes a seat at the table, face only half-turned toward his baby brother. "I remember what happened to me in the Pit," he says. "I remember… Everything."

Sam's mouth drops and he falls into the other chair. He stares at his brother who doesn't look at him. As a conversation starter that little tidbit sucks.

"You said you didn't remember. You lied—"

"I didn't at first. Remember, I mean—better that way probably—but it's been coming back." He turns the bottle on the table. All his attention is focused on the circles of condensation it leaves behind. "Tonight, I remembered it all." He snorts out a sad little laugh, "In fucking stereo, no less."

Sam realizes that he doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't need to know details to understand that what happened to Dean in Hell was awful. He's heard the nightmares, watched the drinking. He's also seen the changes in his brother. Dean is weaker because of his experiences, more timid, more fearful, and something that could do that to his cocky big brother had to have been major.

He opens his mouth to stop Dean from saying anything, but the ringing of his cell beats him to it. He answers without thinking, "Sam here."

"I'll be damned. I was sure this number would be dead by now. It's Travis Johansen. I don't know if you remember me. I was a friend of your father's back in the day."

Pictures flash in Sam's mind of a day spent fishing off a dock, him and Dean, while Dad and some other dude swapped stories and prepared to hunt something in the wood. Dad's friend had pan-fried the fish they'd caught. Butter and herbs over a wood fire, and it had tasted wonderful. It had been Travis who'd introduced them to s'mores because their dad either hadn't known or hadn't wanted to spend the money.

"Hey, Travis. Yeah, hey," he answers awkwardly, because even s'mores can't make this a good time for a phone call.

Except that it might actually be the perfect time…

"It's good to hear your voice, Sam."

"It's good to hear your voice too. Yeah, um… Look, it's not a really good time right now," he forces himself to say, "It's—"

"Whatever he wants, just tell him no, Sammy," Dean says and Sam fights not to stiffen at the pet name.

"I need your help, Sam—yours and your brother's. I've got a man-eater down here that needs taking care of and only one good arm to do it with. It's important, or I wouldn't have called. You know that."

"Yeah, I know," he doesn't let himself feel relieved; it would almost be a betrayal of Dean. "Just give me the details…"

"I'm telling you, Sam, we don't want to do this one."

Sam barely looks up at Dean. Instead he writes down the information that Travis gives him, concentrating on that and not on the feeling of merciful escape running through his brain. "Carthage, Missouri. Jack Montgomery."

"Jesus fuck," Dean mutters in the background. "Doing it just to spite me." But Dean's a hunter too, so he finishes his beer, tossing the empty into the trash, and moves to the beds to begin packing up their stuff. As usual, it doesn't take long for them to be ready for the road. They've had lots of practice, after all.

Sam's half looking forward to, and half dreading, the drive down to Missouri. He and Dean would be hunting; a good old-fashioned hunt they could maybe use to reconnect and he might even be able to show Dean just how useful his psychic stuff is. On the other hand he's going to be stuck in a car with Dean for hours with no escape from his older brother's know-it-all bad-temperedness.

He braces for the explosion as he sits in the passenger seat, but Dean says nothing. He's tense as Dean starts up the car and they drive away from the motel, but Dean still says nothing. He doesn't relax as they hit the highway, and he can't unclench his jaw even as Dean turns on the stereo and lets guitars fill the space between them. He stares out at the flat November farm lands, waiting, but there's no fight, no verbal digs, no passive-aggressive comments about brother knowing best. Dean should be snarky and bitchy, but he's not. He's quiet and thoughtful and he has that little line between his brows that means what he's thinking isn't happy. And he keeps looking at Sam as if Sam's the weird one… or as if he's judging whether or not he can trust Sam. It's a thought that causes a spear of pain in Sam's chest every time it pops into his brain.

It's all fucking wrong and Sam doesn't know how to fix it.

It isn't until they hit the state line and exhaustion hits him like a freight train that Sam finally lets go. It helps that twenty hours without rest hasn't left him a choice.

"Whatimezit?"

"Nearly nine. You wanna stop for breakfast?" Dean says easily. Sam's stomach growls in answer. "Food it is."

He can sense Sam staring at him like he's a pod person and that's okay. His ghost's memories came at him so fast it was like listening to a cassette on fast-forward. Worse. It had recorded into his brain on fast-forward too so he's had to spend the last five hours examining and organizing all the new shit he's learned—though he's sure he's missing bits. All-in-all, he's kind of feeling like a pod person: a fat, over-ripe pod that only needs one hard push to burst open. Then everything would spew out of him, leaving nothing behind but an ugly husk…which is a horrific image to have in his head when he's just suggested stopping for breakfast.

Still, he has a worse thought squatting in the back of his brain like a cancer: Sammy's going to kill him.

Oh, he won't be holding the knife, won't beat him to death or anything, although he apparently came close a couple times. No, Sam just won't care. He'll have a need for bait and Dean makes good bait. It'll never occur to Sam, like it had occurred to the Dean of the future, that it had been luck that had allowed him to survive the first couple times, rather than skill.

But Sam held the knife when he killed Bobby though.

Or would, because it was the only way his rescued-from-Hell brother could lock out his soul, and Dean—Dead Dean the idiot—stuck by him, hoping that Sam would magically revert to being his old, hyper-emotional, selfless self.

It hasn't happened yet, though, which means Soulless Sam and Dead Dean are just waiting in the future if Dean can't figure something out now. Which he has… probably. Possibly.

He's got a point to start with, thanks to Dead Dean, and the beginnings of a plan. It's maybe not a good plan, probably still not going to give him a happily-ever-after ending, and Sam'll be pissed, but it'll be better than sitting with his thumb up his ass, or beating his head over his brother's stubbornness. One thing five hours of thought has reminded him: once Sam makes up his mind it's damn near impossible to get him to change it. It's how his brother got to Palo Alto, after all. He just made up his mind and damn everything and everyone that got in his way. This looks to be the same kind of situation. Except, in his own way, Dean's just as stubborn as his baby brother. He's got a job to do—fix things—and a starting point—save Sam—and failure's not an option.

He wishes that thought was more comforting.

First step: Make his brother see reason about the skeevy, lying-ass, witch demon. Yippee.

"Why do you trust Ruby so much?" he says in what he hopes is a neutral voice. "I mean, you were barely okay with her last year, but I come back and she's your new BFF. How'd that happen?"

"I told you," Sam replies. "You were gone and she was here. She's helping me go after Lilith."

Dean rolls his eyes, "Thanks for the thumbnail, Sam. Real vivid. You want to fill in a little detail?"

"I already explained it," Sam grinds out and Dean knows he doesn't want to tell him, doesn't want Dean to know how deep he's already slid.

"I'm not trying to pick a fight here," he says, keeping his tone even and reasonable. "I really want to understand, but I need to know more. I mean, why the about-face?" He falls silent and waits. Sam wants him to understand, to approve even, he always does, and he'll realize that Dean can't do that if he doesn't explain, so… all Dean needs to do is wait.

One mile… three… ten… He fucking hates waiting. Finally, Sam sighs.

"Because… she saved my life." Sam starts, and for the next twenty minutes Sam tells him about drinking too much, fighting too much. About going to a crossroads and trying to make a deal of his own only to be refused. About coming back to his hotel room, still drunk, and being ambushed by demons one of whom was Ruby, and how Ruby stabbed the other demon with her knife and saved him.

"It was a set-up." Dean says it before he can stop himself, breaking their fragile truce.

"What?" Sam looks at him in shock.

Dean wants to smack himself. He'd been doing so well at keeping his mouth shut and just listening. However, now that he's said part of it, he might as well go whole hog. "Ruby killing the demon with her," Dean repeats. "It was a set-up. He was sacrificed so that you'd trust her. It was the only way you would let her back into your life and they knew that."

Sam huffs. "Ruby's not part of any demon plot, Dean."

He nearly rolls his eyes because, seriously? Sam may have been to college, but he's still so friggin' naive at times, it's scary.

"How did she get out of Hell then?" Dean asks. "She doesn't have the muscle to get out on her own. I mean, Meg could kick her ass to Antarctica without breaking a sweat. And back in New Harmony? Lilith could've obliterated her with a thought but she didn't. Therefore, Ruby was protected and the only reason they'd do that is if she was right where they wanted her to be."

"You're wrong."

Dean waits for more, waits for his law school brother to provide additional arguments and evidence to back up his statement. There aren't any.

"That's it? Just a flat 'you're wrong' and nothing?" He pauses, waits for something… anything. Sam just stares out the window. Dean sighs. This is going so well…

"She's poison, Sam. You gotta know that." Still nothing. "You're lying to yourself if you thi—"

"God! Stop bossing me around Dean. Stop telling me what to think!" Sam finally explodes, staring at him and leaning forward aggressively. "Look. My whole life, you take the wheel, you call the shots, and I trust you because you're my brother. Now I'm asking you, for once, trust me."

Dean looks at his brother, so full of passion just as he's always been. Still wanting the happy ending that life hasn't given him yet. He smiles because… Well, just because. "I wish I could, little brother," he responds. "But I can't as long as you're taking advice from Ruby. She's kind of a deal-breaker."

Sam frowns, sitting back once again. "What the hell does that mean?" he demands.

"It means that one day you'll have to choose between me and her, Sammy," Dean answers. "And then we'll all have to live with the consequences." Some of us not for long, though, he thinks. Only four years…

Sam's glowering at him and Dean can't blame him. If he'd been given an ultimatum like the one he'd just given Sam, he'd be angry and resentful too.

He can't help it; he smiles because, yeah, nothing like monster killing mixed with familial angst to make him feel right at home. "You still think this hunt is a good idea?"

And Sam has to smile back because he gets it too.