A/N: So, here we go: My very first, brand new, shiny Supernatural-fic! I'm excited and nervous as ever, so cross your fingers that I do well. XD This right here is just a short prologue, so the next chapter will be longer. And I must tell you, I'm not an SPN-geek, so I've only seen the second season, during which this fic takes place, once, (gasp, I know!) so it's not going to be super-canon. In fact, I'll probably just follow the storyline when I feel like it. XD No, but it takes place when Sam is in that phase where he feels like the demon-part of him is taking over. There are going to be some elements from actual episodes, some elements of my twisted mind, and I hope you like it!

Dedication: So, this fic is for Sarah… Because she said that if I dedicated this fic to her, she'd write another Wincest-fic. Come on, darling… I've kept up my end of the bargain. ;)


Prologue: The Silent, Brooding Type

When Sam and Dean were younger, Sam went through a phase where everything seemed interesting. And he was never the kind of kid that could just observe something and think about it to himself, he had to verbalize it.

"Look. Dean, look," tugging on Dean's arm. "That tree over there, it looks a bit like a witch! See that, with the bend and the twigs there that look like fingers? Dean! Look!"

And Dean would roll his eyes, because he'd reached the age and the maturity of a hunter that knew that witches didn't look like they did in the storybooks, they looked like ordinary people, just with that something in their eyes. And he rolled his eyes because that was what he was supposed to do, as the cocky older brother, because that was what he was trained to do. His cynicism started at an early age. No wonder he is the way he is now…

Sam used to tell Dean whatever was on his mind. He'd probably tell anyone who wanted to hear, but that didn't cover a lot of people, and in his teens, as he started to realize that, he turned into that quietly solemn, gangly boy he was when he went to college. And then when he came back, it took some work, but after a while, Dean felt the way he used to around him. Like he was the only one who had access to Sam's head. The one place he really felt was home.

That's why he's not sure how to handle this. If this is the way Sam's going to be now, he'd prefer the chatty nine year-old, because seriously, aren't they supposed to have grown out of this? Isn't now when they're supposed to be able to communicate, even if it's in their own not-so-functioning way?

"Hey," Dean says and glances at Sam at the corner of his eye. "You okay? Or, I mean… What's with the emo-phase?"

Sam doesn't look up, even though Dean knows he's listening. His gaze jumps from his fingernails to out the window to the road in front of them.

"I'm fine," he mumbles.

Dean waits.

"Until the next time I get possessed by something that can sense the demon blood in me, that is."

Dean rolls his eyes, tries to dismiss this as another one of Sam's stupid, obsessive thoughts, even though he feels his grip on the wheel tightening.

"Sam, let it go. I don't know how many times I'm going to have to tell you that you're not evil, and I'm not going to let any yellow-eyed son of a bitch turn you into some kind of demon soldier, but if I have to pound it into your head, I will."

Sam glares halfheartedly at him before looking out the window again. He doesn't talk back, but he's not convinced, either. Probably because it's harder for Dean to sound convincing when he doesn't believe it himself.

He knows that this is hard for Sam. Finding out about the plans the yellow-eyed demon has for him is like getting everything confirmed, everything Dean knows he's been afraid of all his life: You're a freak, you're a monster, you don't belong.

Dean's had those thoughts, too, but embraced them rather than escaping from them. Sam's never been able to do that. It's part of the good boy-complex, probably, and as useful as that complex is during hunts, Dean wishes Sam could just… Tone it down a bit on his free time.

Or at least talk about it. Like he usually does.

Because Dean has no idea how to act with Sam when he's like this.

"You're a good person, Sam," Dean says, and Sam gives him one of those glares again. "A lot better than I will ever be, in fact."

He means it. Truth is, he can't remember he was this sincere about something he told Sam. But Dean can't sound like he means it, because that's just another thing that Sam is good at, that he isn't. He can bring his emotions out enough to actually express concern for other people, he can reach out to those who need it. That's him. That's not Dean.

Sam doesn't answer him for a while. And when he speaks up, he sounds a lot more like he's talking to himself than to Dean.

"He said he had plans for me," he mumbles, for the millionth time, looking down at his nails again. "For me, and children like me."

Dean looks at him. Only a second, which is enough to see the pain in his little brother's features. But then he looks forward again, his grip on the wheel tightening even further, and doesn't even try to think of something to say. Tries to think that who cares if Sam wants to be all grumpy, as long as he can keep a straight face during the next hunt.

Sam used to be the one who talked. He used to be the one of the Winchester brothers who shared, let the other one in, because he trusted him, because their relationship was solid, and whatever was on his mind, if it were something bad, Dean would protect him from it. Simple as that.

Now, after finally starting to be brothers again, Sam has taken over the part Dean used to play. The one that shoulders blame, the one that hates himself for mistakes that were beyond his control and refuses to listen to anyone who tells him that it's not his fault.

He's become everything that Dean's tried to keep him from being. And Dean can't handle that.

So instead of coaxing, trying to bring something out of Sam, or at least do it the hard way and talk non-stop about what a good person Sam is until they get to the destination of their hunt, Dean doesn't say a word. He turns the music up, lets the electric guitars drown the uneasy feeling in his gut and tries to think that if Sam wants to be an idiot, that's his damn problem.