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Chapter Text

"The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?" (Jeremiah 17:9 KJV)

The detective took a sharp breath in, his hand on the knob of the door, hovering there. He was not looking forwards to this conversation. His partner put her hand on his arm and looked at him with gentle eyes as if to say “It’s okay Mike, I’m here.” He breathed out and opened the door.

Thomas Mikhail Campbell sat in the chair in the interrogation room, his wrists encircled with iron, trapping him, bolting him to the metal table. His body oddly still while his head and eyes darted sharply around. At the sound of the door he looked up at the two officers of the law.

“Can I go home now?” He suddenly asked.

Detective Mike Granger looked at his partner, she turned to the boy and replied, “Not right now Thomas.”

At the name the boy started tugging his hands, the metal slicing into his skin. His body jarring sharply as he tried to slam his head into the metal table.

Granger launched himself across the room and put his hands around his head in an attempt to prevent that while Detective Jane Vernon moved closer to ask, “What’s wrong?”

“My. Name. Is. Sam.” He said with each sudden movement. He repeated it over and over again, as if it was some kind of mantra.

Vernon tried to calm him, “Oh. I’m sorry Sam.” Suddenly the movements stopped, as fast as they’d begun.

“Can I go home now?” He asked again. Blood was now seeping slowly from a laceration where the metal had bitten into his wrist, but he hadn’t even seemed to have noticed. “I want to go home.”

Vernon gently smiled, “Maybe when we’re done here. There’s a Jessica who’s been looking for you.”

The boy squinted, confused, “Who?”

Granger sat down in one of the chairs opposite him and flicked open a Manilla folder as if to check something, “Your fiancée?” He asked quizzically but there was no recognition in his eyes.

“So your name is Sam?” Vernon asked, taking her seat beside Granger.

The boy nodded sharply. “Samuel Winchester.” He gave them a stupid grin as if anticipating a pat on the head or a “good boy” but the two just stared.

Granger readjusted himself in his chair.

“I wanna go home now.”

“Where’s home?” Vernon asked.

The boy seemed lost for a moment before replying, “Dean. Dean Winchester.”

The two detectives looked at each other and remembered their conversation only ten minutes prior...

“Winchester.” Granger breathed, slumping in his chair dramatically. The name conjured only dark images and gory rumours. Even the famous weapon brand couldn’t obscure the bloody legacy of John Winchester.

“The fingerprints don't lie.”

“It’s like his ghost is haunting us.” John Winchester hadn’t spent long in their small hamlet, about a week yet that hadn’t prevented him from killing three people. The absence of those people were still felt and every year on the anniversary of their deaths their families still held a memorial. They hadn’t been forgotten, John Winchester hadn’t been forgotten and now their sons had returned.

"Up until recently Thomas Mikhail Campbell, despite his strange family, seemed to be living a pretty normal life; college, a scholarship, a fiancée, even a dog named Titan. Sure he'd bounced around foster homes as a young kid, but he soon got adopted by a nice couple in Michigan, a Bobby and Ellen Singer who would later have a daughter, Joanna, a sister. It was all apple-pie and ice-cream, so what went wrong. Why did he become a missing person? His fiancée Jessica Moore insisted that he would never have just left without saying something to her, she insisted that something must have happened to him, so what did? What happened in that hotel room? Why is he back and why were the curtains open?”

Vernon almost smiled, “Now that’s the real sixty-four thousand dollar question.”

At 19:32 dispatch received a call from a Miss Teresa Alvarez who is employed as a cleaning woman at the Sleepytime Inn. In her 911 call she was very distressed. Apparently she had been walking past room 12 when she happened to see lots of blood through the window. She explained later that she then proceeded to run away and call 911. When a cruiser responded, Thomas Mikhail Campbell had been found in room 12, at the scene of a crime, covered in blood and viscera. A bloody knife was found in a corner of the room, too drenched in blood for fingerprinting. However despite first impressions it had become rather clear that the man found had not actually committed the murder himself. When the authorities had arrived he was sitting in corner near the window staring into the distance. When questioned he had simply repeated over and over again “Bad.” He had been rather docile if not slightly agitated. After fingerprinting had revealed his name and his status as a missing person, he had turned quickly from a potential witness to a potential victim; after evidence collection, the removal of his clothing and a shower, they had taken him to the police station for interrogation.

Back in the interrogation room the person calling himself Sam was staring directly at them and Granger got the sudden impression that this kid could see directly into his soul and read his thoughts. He also recognised this feeling as pure nonsense, but it didn’t shake the sickening feeling rising in his stomach.

“Sam? What’s the last thing you remember?” Jane Vernon asked, keenly aware that the person before her was clearly not playing with a full deck.

At first Sam didn’t answer, and she considered rephrasing the question before the word “Dean.” escaped his mouth.

Granger shifted in his metal chair, “Where were you?” He asked, the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach only getting worse.

Sam cocked his head to the side as if really considering the question, “A place with beds.” he mused, his voice seemed smaller somehow, childlike.

“A motel?” Granger asked, Vernon gave him a side eye as she scribbled in her pad. She had reprimanded him many a time about his tendency towards leading questions.

“A motel, The Motel, Motel. Yes, a motel.” was his reply. Right now Sam seemed rather cooperative, if not just a little frustrating in his delivery.

Vernon picked up the line of questioning. “So you were in a motel? Who was there?”

“Dean.”

She tapped her pen, “Anyone else?”

Sam smiled, “The one who screamed a lot.”

The smile made Granger want to puke, he’d arrested killers before but somehow this kid had a way about him that just made his skin crawl.

Unprompted Sam continued, “Silly, silly lady! Screaming makes Dean happy.” The voice was alien, something more like that of a three-year-old than a man in his twenties. Granger realised suddenly that internally he had been calling Sam a child, a kid, a boy but this was a man. This was a grown man sitting in front of him, a prelaw college student with a full ride; not a boy. That fact gave Granger chills. He had only been missing for sixteen months, what the hell had Dean Winchester done to him?

Vernon noticed her partner recoil but ignored it and continued, “What did Dean do?” She asked, anticipating the answer.

“He played the game with her.”

“What game?”

Suddenly tears started to well up in Sam’s eyes as his shackled hands rose up to grip the sides of his head, “I’m sorry.” He sobbed, “I'm sorry I didn’t want to play! Am I being punished? I’m being punished. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry!” His head dropped to the table as he continued to cry into his forearms.

"Sam, why do you think you are here?” Vernon asked, talking over the soft deep sobs.

The man in front of them continued to cry into his arms as he muttered the word, “Punishment.” into his arms.

"Punishment? Why do you think you're being punished?”

He suddenly looked up, deep into Vernon's eyes, “I couldn't play the game. I didn't wanna...wanna...hur...” then he dropped his head in his hands and started to wail softly.

Vernon's voice became tender, “It's okay Sam. You aren't in trouble.”

"I AM I AM! I wanna go home! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” more tears started to form in the wells of his eyes, "I'm sorry I couldn't...couldn't... Dean where are you? I'm sorry!”

Granger once again wondered about the relationship that had clearly formed between the serial killer and the person before him, but he ignored that issue for the moment instead he sat silent as Vernon continued to ask questions, “What are you sorry for? What couldn't you do?”

“I couldn't...”

“You couldn't hurt Michelle?” the name slipped out of the detective's mouth and shot into Sam like a missile. He looked utterly disturbed.

Sam hadn't heard that name in a while and not without some kind of preface like “that bitch” or “that monster". Her name sounded rather soft and ordinary when the detective said it out loud.

"I'm right, aren't I? Did Dean want you to hurt her and you couldn't?”

Sam's eyes darted around as if searching the space for someone who couldn't possibly be hiding in the bright fluorescently lit room, before nodding slowly. His face was filled with shame as he tugged idly on his restraints.

“Sam, tell me what happened in that room.”

Chapter Text

"For if God spared not the angels that sinned, but cast them down to hell, and delivered them into chains of darkness, to be reserved unto judgment." (2 Peter 2:4 KJV)

Sam remembered the car, not from his childhood of course, that was too long ago, but from the day he had met Dean again. That memory seemed hazy and distant, a fog of chloroform obscuring tears and pain. The smell of old leather and body odour tickled Sam’s nostrils as he shifted in the front seat of the 1967 Chevrolet Impala. He had been tied down in the back seat the last time he had been in the car and consequently sitting up front felt strange, it was almost like he had more freedom than he actually possessed. Driving down the highway however felt wonderful and when Dean finally pulled the car into a motel’s parking lot, Sam found that he was actually in a good mood.

Dean got out of the car, signalling for Sam to stay inside, and walked into the motel’s office. Dean paid for a single bedroom, the manager looking at the car and to Sam’s presence therein and looked back; the look sent a small tremor of anger down Dean’s spine, but he shook it off. He had better things to do right now, he assured himself. The manager handed Dean the key and he turned heel and left the small office.

Dean went to the backseat of his car and took out a suitcase. Dean indicated to Sam to get out of the car, he then pressed the suitcase into Sam's arms and pushed him gently towards their motel room. Sam started walking.

Dean opened the truck of the car; it appeared empty with only black carpet visible, that was of course until he reached down and found the recess allowing him to lift the hidden panel to reveal a tied up girl. She moaned into her gag and Dean quickly glanced around before lifting her up to her feet which now dangled slightly above the ground and dragged her into the room as she wiggled and squirmed against him.

Inside Sam had found the bed and was gently resting, tucked up into himself with the curtains drawn. Dean tossed the girl onto the bed, onto the resting Sam. Sam sprung awake, flailing for a moment and falling onto the floor.

Dean chuckled, “There ya go Sammy.”

“What?” he asked, still dazed and confused.

“Can't you see it?” he asked, his face still jovial but slowly becoming serious, “Don't you remember what I told you? This is one of them.”

From the floor the colour drained from Sam's face, “A demon?” he sputtered.

“This little bitch Michelle tried to hide it from me, but I knew.”

“I'm scared Dean.” Sam whispered.

Dean smiled, “It’s just a game Sammy.”

Sam looked away, “No.”

Dean shook his head and put a hand on his shoulder, “There's nothing to be afraid of, we don't fear demons, we hunt them.”

“H-how? How do you know they're demons?”

“I'll tell you later but there are other things I need to teach you first.”

The girl looked up at Dean from the bed, “Grab her.” Dean said.

Sam twitched on the ground.

“I said, grab her.”

Sam's face trembled, but he got up from the floor and put his hands on her shoulders pressing her into the bed.

Dean reached over to his suitcase and opened it revealing a neat collection of metal tools. He picked up a medium-sized hunting knife and stepped forwards, he moved the knife over the plastic zip-ties, cutting them away. The girls hands were now free, she started to struggle, to push her body outwards and Sam found that he had to press harder and harder to keep her in place. Dean grabbed another set of zip-ties from the bag and hooked them up to the bars of the motel bed, soon creating an X-shape with the woman's body. At Dean's command, Sam got off and the two of them stood over the girl, Sam slightly behind his brother.

Dean slipped the hunting knife into Sam's hand as he said, “Remember, this isn't wrong Sam, this is destroying demons.”

“I-I can't do this Dean.” Sam's hand closed harder around the knife.

“Just let go and trust me. It's our job, it's what Dad did, it's what Mom did, it's what we do."

“But I don't want to Dean... I'm scared.” Sam's knife hand began to shake.

“There's nothing to be afraid of, I'm right here little brother.” Dean put his hand back on Sam's shoulder.

Sam's hand shook uncontrollably, he dropped the knife suddenly and dropped to the floor clutching his head screaming, "I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't!!!”

Dean's face fell, "Tsk tsk tsk." He picked up the knife from the floor, “I guess it's back to school for you...”

Chapter Text

As Sam shook on the floor Dean was as motionless as a statue, the knife still in his hand. He watched with hooded eyes as his brother wept. It was almost as if all his work had been for nothing, but he wouldn't let himself succumb to despair. There was still hope for little Sammy, Dean could fix him.

Dean pulled out his silver Zippo lighter, flicked open the cap and ignited it, slowly running the blade of the knife over the flame, "This is for your own good." He said as he pressed the hot blade into the soft skin of Sam's neck.

Sam's eyes seemed to roll back into his head as his crying twisted into howls of pain. He tilted to the left and fell onto his side, desperately clutching at his fresh wound.

"I'm sorry." He wept.

"You say that so often that I think it might have lost all it's meaning. Do you even know what sorry means Sam?"

Sam let out a small shrill noise in response.

Dean craned his neck downwards and to the side to look at him, "Sorry means taking the necessary actions in order to prove that you are sorry, show me how sorry you are Sam." Dean blew on the blade of the knife softly, as if cooling some kind of food "Here comes the air-plane, down the hatch Sammy.", then he turned the knife in his hand so he was now clutching the blade and pointing the handle in Sam's direction "Safety first Sammy, always handover a knife handle out."

Dean smiled softly, "Make her bleed Sammy, blood is purifying, carve the demon out of her."

"I can't." Sam whispered.

Dean squatted down on the balls of his feet, "It's not hard Sammy. It's really not."

Sam shook his head quickly. He couldn't do this, he couldn't hurt her. He didn't care if there was a demon in there, there was a person in there too. Sam was a person, at least most of the time and he couldn't do it. Sam vaguely remembered that when he was eight he'd stumbled onto a documentary on slaughter houses and he'd sworn he'd never eat meat again. It lasted a week before he missed bacon enough to change his mind but he still did never get the images out of his head. Right now those images were flashing through his brain, rapidly flicking by like picture slides except instead of a cow or a pig he saw Michelle like that; cut up and bloody.

Sam suddenly scrambled backwards until he hit into the bottom of the windowsill.

Dean stood and sighed. Dean wasn't happy but he wasn't allowing it to show, this wasn't going the way he had hoped. Sam hadn't tried to run for a long time, he had learned who loved him but he'd yet to really embrace the family business. It seemed he couldn't wrap his mind around the concept, the mission. It was hard to understand for Dean who'd taken to the life like a fish to water. This was all there was, his one thing; something he was supposed to share with his little brother, his only family left, and he wouldn't let him. It hurt. Dean felt like a barrier of glass was being lowered down between them and it made his chest tighten. Sam was still cowering by the window, the curtains still drawn.

Dean picked up his keys that he had absent-mindedly discarded on the kitchenette counter top, "You and her aren't leaving until you excise that demon." Dean threw the knife down in front of Sam, it stuck up vertically into the floor and made Sam flinch as it hit the ground, "I on the other hand am getting hungry. I want pie." he moved towards the door, "You know what I want you to do Sam. Make me happy."

Dean opened the door and locked it behind him, it would be easy for Sam to unlock it from inside but he knew he wouldn't. He sauntered to his car and got in, turning on the engine and driving off in search of a diner they had passed on their drive here.

There had been a point in his life when being left alone like this would have made him scream, bang on the door, pull out his own hair but maybe he was past that phase or maybe he was just too tired for it right now. Sam was sorry but he couldn't do it.

The girl on the bed made a noise and it struck him suddenly that she'd been strangely quiet the entire time Dean had been in the room. Sam slowly got to his feet and took a few steps towards her. She made another sound and Sam took an uncertain step back before taking the next few short steps towards her. He realised he hadn't really looked at her before, too distracted by what he was supposed to do to her to look at her. She was pretty Dean liked them pretty with black shoulder length hair and bright green eyes but her black hair now was stuck to her face, slick with sweat. Sam found his hand reaching out to pull the hair away from her face. The girl tried to pull away but was caught in place by the zip-ties.

"I'm sorry." Sam whispered.

She tried to mumble something but it was impossible to understand.

"I'm sorry I can't help you. I'm sorry I can't get the demon out of you, I just can't."

Her eyes widened as she began to thrash at her restraints.

"Stop that." Sam said but she didn't comply. "You'll hurt yourself." Sam got up and pressed his body into hers, trying to hold her in place and prevent her from pulling at her bonds. She continued for a moment before stopping.

She looked him in the eye and Sam caught himself and pulled back, "I'm sorry...Can I...can I take off your gag without you screaming? I hate screaming."

She eyed him for a moment before slowly nodding. Sam reached over and slipped the piece of knotted fabric down her chin.

She breathed sharply and coughed before clearing her throat, "Michelle. My name is Michelle."

Her voice was hoarse but soft, it didn't sound like the voice of a demon but Sam knew that demons could be deceiving. "I know. Dean said."

It was Michelle's turn now to have a good look at one of her captors, the one she heard the other call "Sammy". He was tall, a good head taller than the other one, but gaunt; a man with pale withering skin who stared deep but absently into her eyes like a puppy dog. She remembered the hands of the other one, strong and inescapable, this one on the other hand looked fragile as if he could shatter into a thousand pieces if only a strong enough wind somehow blew through the room. It was clear to her which one was in charge but she hoped against hope that she could make this one bend just enough to let her go.

"Are you okay? You were crying."

Sam wiped his face, suddenly aware of the wet liquid still lingering on his skin. It had mostly dried but he still followed through on the action, the farce of it all.

He began to sob, "I'm sorry."

At this point she was concerned that 'sorry' was all that he could say, "You don't have to apologise for crying."

Sam dropped to his knees, kneeling beside her and the bed.

Michelle eyed him cautiously, "Are you gonna hurt me, Sam?'

Sam shook his head, "I don't want to."

"But he's expecting you to..." Michelle's eyes leapt to the knife sticking out of the floor, "But you have a knife. Can't we, can't we just escape?"

Sam's eyes went wild, "I can't leave him. He's my brother. He loves me."

A pit grew in Michelle's stomach filled with pity, "How long have you been with him?"

Sam's voice was small, "I don't remember."

"I'm sorry Sam." Michelle took a sharp breath in, "He hurts you, doesn't he?"

"When he feels like he should, yes." Sam rubbed the fresh burn on his neck absent-mindedly.

Michelle was desperately grasping for straws, how could she convince him to let her go? "If you...if you want to...I'll, do anything you want."

Sam shook his head, "I don't want anything. This isn't about that."

"Then...then what is it about?"

"I guess it's about you, Dean says you're a demon."

Michelle smiled despite herself, "I'm not a demon Sam."

"That's what a demon would say."

"I'll give you whatever you want."

"I don't want anything. I just wanna go home."

"Where's home Sam?" Michelle asked, twisting her neck to try and look at Sam kindly in the eye.

"Dean." Sam replied simply.

Michelle was getting worried. This wasn't going anywhere productive, she didn't know how to turn him to her side, she feared she wasn't getting out of this place alive.

"My arms hurt Sam. Could you help me?" she asked, smiling gently.

Sam shook his head again, "I shouldn't, Dean wouldn't be happy."

"I promise I won't do anything."

Sam looked at her with child-like suspicious eyes, as if Michelle was promising to give him a cookie and he doubted she would follow through.

Sam stood up and walked over to the knife sticking out of the floor, he pulled it up and it slipped out of the carpet and wood easily enough. He took the few steps over to Michelle and went to cut one of the zip-ties before stopping mid motion.

"Do you promise you won't be bad?" Sam asked.

"I promise."

Sam ran the knife over the zip-ties, one by one, until Michelle was free of her restraints.

Slowly Michelle unfolded herself, rubbing her marked wrists. She took a sharp breath in.

Suddenly Michelle jumped up, pushing Sam away and bolting for the door as fast as she could; this was her one chance and she wasn't letting it escape her!

A panicked and surprisingly strong Sam instinctually pushed out at Michelle in response and she fell backwards onto the bed with a bounce. He twisted forwards, the knife still in his hand as he plunged the blade into the soft flesh of her torso. Again and again, the crimson red blood splashing onto his face, the walls and pooling on the cheap motel sheets. A cascade of sanguine liquid threw up into the air and painted the white walls like a Jackson Pollock.

Sam stopped just as suddenly as he'd begun and stared, horrified, at what he'd done. By that time he found he'd sliced through her flesh hard enough to penetrate her lithe body and enter the faded mattress on the other side. Sam stared at the knife in his hand, slick with blood and screamed, throwing it across the room.

He threw himself backwards from her body and onto the floor, scrambling as far away as he could which ended up being underneath the window frame by the door. He twisted in on himself, curling some of the curtain around his body and pulling it away, revealing the scene to anyone who cared to look that way. He wiped at the blood on his face, smearing the splatter into an unrecognisable mess as he began to weep.

Chapter Text

Smoke went up from His nostrils and devouring fire from His mouth... (2 Samuel 22:9 NKJV)

Detective Jane Vernon stared across the table at him and asked, "Sam, tell me what happened in that room."

Sam's eyes darted around, desperately trying to find anything to look at besides meeting the eyes of the female detective. He tugged on his restraints rhythmically, feeling the comforting pain cut into his wrists.

"Sam." she spoke again.

His eyes suddenly met hers with a fiery intensity and his lips opened to whisper the word, "Dean."

"Dean?" Detective Granger asked now, his eyes floating over his hunched posture and gaunt body.

Sam leaned in closer, his cuffs pulled taught, "Dean wanted me to kill the demon but I couldn't." Sam let out a strange sigh, a clearing of spindly thoughts that curled around his mind, "He told me he'd leave me with her, he told me he'd leave. Told me, told me told me." The words spilled out of his mouth like water, he felt like he was vomiting, "But then he didn't. He put the knife in, in her, she was evil he said, a monster, a demon, evil evil evil. Maybe she, I think she was, a demon. He put the knife in and he took the demon out. Dean says blood is purifying. I don't know, I don't know what that means. Do you?"

He turned to look at Mike Granger and he shivered. The eyes were so strange, like pools of innocence and confusion mixed up with a deep crazy. They didn't look like the eyes of a man at all. 

"Sam." Vernon began again, trying to steer the conversation back to the important topic, "After he killed Michelle, what did Dean do next?"

Sam blinked, his mind turning as if it was filled with gears, "He left."

"Why? Where did he go?"

"Pie." Sam said simply, "Dean loves pie."

Vernon turned to Granger and asked, "Do you smell smoke?" 

Suddenly the door burst open, the lock shattering and clanging to the ground as a shotgun filled Vernon's vision. Granger fumbled with his holster trying to free his pistol from it's confines before a single shot rang out, deafening, the noise echoing around the small space. Vernon looked to her partner and watched as the red started to burst out from his wound and seep into his shirt. She rushed to his side and pressed her hands over the hole, the hot liquid slipping between her fingers.

"Hang in there Mike." she almost sobbed, she turned to look at their assailant and her eyes narrowed. She'd recognize those features anywhere. 

Dean Winchester stared them down with a smirk on his face, his sawn-off shotgun still pointed squarely at the two officers.

"Hello little brother." he said, his eyes finding Sam's.

Sam breathed, "Dean." 

Dean looked back at the two officers, "A little help for my brother? Keys."

Vernon didn't move as she still kept her hands over her partner's chest.

"Oh baby I highly doubt that buddy of yours is gonna live much longer, you sweetie on the other hand have a choice to make." he shifted the shotgun in his hand menacingly, "So get up and free my little brother."

Vernon glanced at her partner again who was already out cold and back up at the man with the shotgun, she stood, wiping her bloody hands on her jeans; she took out her keys and unlocked the man chained to the table. When her task was done she went back to her charge and once again tried to stem the blood flow. If he was still alive he had a chance and she wouldn't let go of it. She remembered the time Mike had asked her out for dinner and how she'd declined, how she'd cited conflict and interoffice dating policies but right now, holding him together with her bare hands, she had to be honest that she was scared; she was scared that she might love him and loving someone meant the possibility of losing them so she'd decided it was better to never love anyone.

Dean pulled his brother behind himself and smiled, "Thanks. But now I don't need you." he rose the shot gun up and pointed it at Vernon, his finger hovering over the trigger but as he squeezed he found his legs gripped by a strong force that pulled the barrel up and away, firing harmlessly at the ceiling. He looked down and found

Granger curled around his body. With Dean's twin barrels empty he instead shoved the butt of the gun down to smash the detective's face and have him tumble to the ground.

Dean laughed, "Awe how cute? The sow has a bo. I can't break up true love now can I?" he picked up the keys Vernon had discarded on the table and turned to leave, locking the door behind him and the two detective's inside the interrogation room.

Jane went and clutched at her partner, "Why did you do that?"

"Because Jane..." he coughed, "He was going to shoot you."

"But you had a chance."

"Not without you."

Mike's eyes began to flutter as Jane held him tighter, her eyes on the pellet holes in the ceiling, "I...I think I...I think I want to go on that date." but when she looked back at her partner he was already gone. Tears began to well up in her eyes. It was too late, it was always too late.

Dean pulled his brother along as they walked through the police precinct, scattered papers on the floor and blood pooling around the bodies of various officers. There had been a fight here and small fires were scattered around as well. Smoke filtered around their feet and Sam thought he smelt something spicy, tear gas his broken mind helpfully provided.

"Little brother, you almost disappointed me." Dean said as he continued to drag Sam through the wreckage. 

Sam's eyes fluttered around the scene, "I'm sorry Dean."

But then Dean smiled, "Almost. You did good work there with that bitch Michelle. You'll learn the family business well I think."

But Sam didn't understand, couldn't understand; to him Dean had killed Michelle, had to have killed Michelle because Sam knew he was a good person and good people don't kill, unlike Dean; still it was praise from Dean so he smiled back at his brother and nodded, it was good to be praised.

The two walked through the station door, the smoke curling out of it, around their feet and out into the world before them.