Same Song, Different Singer
K Hanna Korossy

"Here you go, buddy."

Sam's eyes jerked up from his phone to stare at the white-aproned figure, momentarily bewildered, caught up in another time. "Uh, thanks." He grabbed the pair of white plastic bags from the counter and flicked a half-smile at the diner counter guy. As he turned away, he stole one more glance at the picture on his phone before thumbing it off and putting it away. Wasn't like every feature wasn't burned into his brain already.

The sprinkling rain had stopped while he'd been inside, although gray clouds hung dubiously low. Sam glanced both ways before jogging across the slow street and turning to the right. Their motel du jour was already in sight at the end of the block.

Sam's feet slowed again as soon as they hit sidewalk. Not that he wasn't starving—apparently being impaled on a pipe and then resurrected worked up a real appetite, go figure—or that he was avoiding Dean, although his brother kept covertly watching him with eyes haunted by the memory of said impaling. Sam just wasn't in a hurry to return to the claustrophobic little room with an unconscious angel and a traumatized brother.

Not that it was the room that was making him feel so trapped.

Sam sighed. "Suck it up, man," he muttered to himself, channeling his brother, and sped up. Dean would be struggling with the same creeping panic, and he was stuck in the room with an unconscious angel and nothing but harsh memories to distract him. Sam was pretty sure Dean had told him everything Michael had said—threatened—but the tight way Dean had recounted it revealed far more about how much Michael had gotten to him, "Team Free Will" or no.

Sam reached the apron of the parking lot and felt a little of the airlessness in his lungs ease. It was…hard to see the dulling hope in his brother's eyes, the wordless acknowledgment of just how screwed they were. But it was still harder to be away from him, the pull of their crazy-magnet lives stronger than the push. They were seriously in it deep, but they were still together, and for Sam that meant more with every year, with every loss. His free hand dipped into his pocket, rubbing the edge of his phone in unconscious reminder.

He drew back, startled, as his phone buzzed under his touch. Sam stopped a dozen feet from the Impala and pulled it out.

A text message, from Dean. 1-1-9

That had been Dean's idea, another example of his brother's unique logic: if 9-1-1 was a call for help, 1-1-9 was the opposite: stay away, it's not safe. No time for details. Sam stood frozen a few seconds longer, hoping for more but knowing nothing else was coming.

He looked up to study the door that was two rooms down from their car. It was shut, the curtains drawn, just as Sam had left it. No discernible sounds of yelling or fighting. There was no reason to think anything was wrong, except for the three numbers on his phone's screen.

Sam crept forward, stashing the lunch bags behind the back wheel of the Impala, then silently slipping around the car toward the room. He was hunched down to half his height, his hand wrapped around the demon-killing knife tucked inside his jacket. There was still that demonic bounty on Dean's head, not to mention Lucifer's minions searching for Sam…

He tucked himself under the window of their room, then pushed up on the balls of his feet until his hair brushed against the bottom of the high sill. Then he held his breath and listened.

"—for Sam," an unfamiliar flat male voice was just finishing.

"Sam isn't…" Dean's voice fell below intelligible volume, but Sam could still hear the dark intensity of his words. Dean wasn't bantering and baiting; he was furious. "…Michael?"

Sam blinked—what the…? Was Michael here, again?

"Michael is blind to any but his way. Not all of us are." Okay, not Michael then.

"…us, anyway?" Dean again, stalling.

"You are hidden, but Castiel's tainted light is unmistakable."

The monotone, the undercurrent of restrained power, the us and the fact they could find Castiel, all pointed to an angel visitor. And Sam doubted he was there just to say hi. But if he wasn't Castiel's friend and wasn't working for Michael—

"Good for you—you….see, Sam isn't here. So it's been nice…"

The blood drained from Sam's face. The angel wasn't there for Dean. He was after Sam. One of Anna's friends? Maybe there were others in the Host who'd felt the same way?

"Remus will return to Romulus, and Abel to Cain. I will—"

An angry terror pushing outward against his chest wall, Sam set his jaw and crept back to the car.

He couldn't use the angel banishment sigil; it would send Castiel away, too, and who knows what that would do to the angel in his weakened state. No, Sam had to get rid of just the angel that didn't belong, and there was only one way he knew to do that. He eased the Impala's trunk open, grabbed what he needed, then slunk back to the room.

The motel was cheap, the walls crap, but Sam was pretty sure an irate angel's voice would carry even though a fortress's barriers. "—try my patience, or you will share your brother's fate!"

Typical Dean, Sam smiled grimly, making friends wherever he went. And then he was booting the door in.

He only needed a half-second to take in the scene: Cas sitting up on the bed but still looking weak and exhausted, Dean hovering an arm's length away, strung tight with tension. And facing them stood what looked like a middle-aged man in a white shirt and navy suit. At Sam's explosive entrance, he'd turned and lifted a hand up, presumably preparing to smite.

Neither of them had dispatched an angel before. For that matter, only angels were supposed to be able to kill each other, as little sense as that made to Sam. But Castiel had given them an angel blade the day before to use on Anna, and there wouldn't have been much point to that if they couldn't wield it. Sam guessed the weapon was an equalizer. Was betting their lives on that, in fact.

It hit right on target, dead center of mass. The angel's eyes opened wide, then started flashing, the wound in his chest accentuating the brilliance of the angel's grace as it began streaming out of him.

Sam shied away, an arm shielding his face, sensing Dean do the same on the other side of the dying being.

The roar sped up, crescendoed, then was gone. When Sam tentatively lowered his arm, all that was left behind was one dead vessel and a flashburned pair of wings spreading along the floor and up the walls of the motel room.

Sam lifted his gaze to meet Dean's equally stunned one.

"Huh. I guess it doesn't take an angel to waste an angel," Dean finally mused as he eyed the bloody blade, still sounding shaken. "Good to know."

Sam's eyes darted to the still-living angel in the room.

Cas remained seated, his eyes on the spot where his lifeless comrade—brother?—lay. His expression, as usual, was completely unreadable.

"Castiel, I'm-I'm…M' sorry," Sam stumbled through the words. Holy crap, he'd just killed an angel.

"You got nothing to be sorry for," Dean said firmly. "He was gonna gank you, same as Anna. Ten bucks says he was the one who let her out of celestial Sing-Sing." He shifted forward a step, drawing Sam's focus back to his brother in time to see Dean's face darken in anger. "No, I take it back, you definitely should be sorry—you forget what 1-1-9 means, dude? If that blade hadn't worked, you could have walked headfirst into a smiting, you moron."

Sam felt himself flush even as Cas spoke up. "I was about to—"

"Shut up, Cas. Sam—"

"Yeah, 'cause it sounded like he would've just left you two alone if I didn't come back," Sam retorted. His hands were clenched so tightly, his nails cut into his palms.

"He would not have," Cas said wearily.

"He didn't want us," Dean argued. "I'm supposed to be a weapon for their side, remember? I got nothin' to be afraid of."

"Unless he doesn't care about Michael which, oh, right, he didn't," Sam said flatly. "Not to mention that every demon this side of dirt is gunning for you. At least if anyone touches me, Lucifer's gonna put me back together."

"So, what, you're indestructible now?" Dean scoffed, hands rising and falling.

"I…" Sam faltered. Was he? Did he even want to be? For a moment, just a second after Castiel had told them about Anna's intentions, Sam had felt a flash of…relief. He wasn't doomed to be Lucifer's puppet, the weapon that destroyed the world; there was another way. And even if it meant his death, so what? He would have given his life for a lot less. Not to mention, he'd been the one to start this ball rolling in the first place. It seemed only fair.

The anger bled out of Dean's eyes, replaced by a horror that wasn't at all better. "Sam—"

"I need to go," Cas spoke again. "Stephen was right—as long as I remain with you, I will give your location away." He struggled to his feet.

With effort, they peeled their eyes away from each other to frown at the swaying angel.

"Cas, you sure you're good to go?" Dean asked doubtfully, free hand hovering halfway between them.

"I can recover elsewhere. Sam, I…" Castiel's brow was drawn as he clearly sought words that weren't coming. "You shouldn't blame yourself. You did what you had to."

Because he'd destroyed an angel. Despite their attempts at Lucifer, the magnitude of an actual kill wasn't diminishing for Sam.

"Thanks, Cast—" Before Sam could finish, there was a flutter and only he and Dean remained.

Sam looked at the rumpled bed. The dead angel on the floor. The dripping sword sticking out of it. A Bible was sitting open next to it, and Sam tried distantly to remember if it'd been there when he'd left.

"Sam."

"I left the food outside. I should—" He turned back to the door.

"Sammy, give me your phone."

The oddness of the request did what the softness of the words couldn't, bleeding away the thin resistance Sam had mustered. Shoulders collapsing, he half looked back.

Dean had his hand out expectantly, shook it a little and snapped his fingers.

With a frown, Sam slowly slid his hand into his pocket, then out again, phone in hand. A few seconds' hesitation, and he passed it over.

Dean flicked it on, found immediately what he was looking for—not difficult considering it was the picture Sam had been looking at just minutes before—and turned the phone toward Sam.

Mary Winchester, in every contradiction of space and time, was caught in pensive profile. She hadn't even known when Sam had snapped the picture, a stolen moment before the attack at the cabin. She'd probably have smiled and posed for him if he'd asked, but he hadn't wanted that, had wanted this to be all his own, the way he would now remember the mother he'd only seen tiny twisted fragments of before. He glanced up at Dean in confusion.

Dean snorted. "You think I didn't see you taking peeks at this since we came back?" He stepped over the body, holding the phone so close that Sam had to look at it. "She loved you, man. She was proud of you. Not baby-you—gigantic, messed-up adult-you. And you wanna know why, Sam? Because she could see how bad you wanted to do the right thing. Even if we were only together a couple of hours, she could see that."

Sam stared at the image until it blurred, then he stared at Dean's hand. It was shaking, just a little bit, adrenaline still draining. Hell of a few days. He'd traveled back in time, met his dead mom and dad, been killed and brought back to life, and slain an angel. And Dean had watched him die.

Sam nodded, sniffing discreetly. "Okay. Next time an angel comes after you looking for me, I'll just take off and let you handle it."

"Damn straight," Dean said with a sharp nod.

Sam rolled his eyes. "But if I can't pull the Lucifer card, you're not pulling the Michael one."

Dean was a little slower to respond to that, doubts flickering in his eyes that hadn't been there before their parents and Michael, before Ellen and Jo. He'd always been able to pull off belief in Sam that he hadn't had in himself. And when he finally nodded, tossing out a "Deal," Sam didn't believe him the way hewould have a few months before.

Oddly, his brother's faltering made Sam grow a few inches. Under Ruby's influence, Dean's stumbles had just seemed like weaknesses that Sam could smugly overcome with power and clearer vision. Sadder but wiser, he got now that it was in leaning on each other that they were strongest. And if Dean needed him to play crutch right now, Sam would stand as tall as needed to fill the role.

Dean shut off Sam's phone and held it out. "So. You didn't dump the food, right?"

Sam huffed as he took the device, fingertips warm as they brushed Dean's. For all he hadn't wanted to be in this room before, now he was reluctant to leave. "Your pie's fine, just…" He made a half motion at the body on the floor.

Dean shrugged, dismissive. Wasn't like they hadn't spent half their lives around dead bodies. "I'm hungry," he argued.

Sam shook his head, then put up a finger and darted back out of the room.

Belatedly, he wondered about the yelling not having drawn attention to them, but there was nobody else in the lot, and few enough cars. They'd been lucky. They were lucky. Sam grabbed the bags from behind the car and hurried back to the room.

"I got some Gatorade and soup for Cas, but I guess, uh…" Sam shrugged.

"I'll take the Gatorade. Is it red?" Dean craned to see into the bags Sam was unloading.

"Of course." Sam handed it over, then pulled out his own chicken and dumplings. As he set it down, his eyes caught on the Bible again, and he noticed this time that one of the verses was underlined: It was revealed to them that they were not serving themselves, but you… Even the angels long to look into these things.

Huh. So much for the Bible getting more wrong than right. And maybe they weren't as alone in this fight as they thought.

"That mine?" Dean's impatient voice jolted him back. He was pointing at Sam's chicken.

"Nope. Got you meatloaf and…here." Sam took out a covered plastic bowl and passed it over.

Dean pulled a face. "Dude, you can have Cas's soup."

"I got this for you. It's tomato and rice," Sam said quietly, peering up at him.

He saw it then, the longing and the grief Dean had buried since the visit with their parents. For Sam it had been a first in many ways, but for Dean it had been revived bittersweet memories.

Then it was gone, Dean locking it away to only be taken out and examined in the dead of night, or on a long car trip while Sam slept, or maybe never. But Sam had seen it. And Dean knew it.

His brother cleared his throat. "Thanks, Sammy."

"You're welcome." And for the first time in months, Sam was surprised by the hope that maybe they could still win this one.

The End