Reborn as Sam Winchester in Supernatural TV

Somewhere in Kansas -- 1998 (Six Months After the Columbus Hunt)

It's strange, watching them search for answers I already have. For half a year now, hunters have been digging into the Men of Letters, into our family history, finding nothing but dead ends and ghost stories.

I could tell them everything - about the bunker in Lebanon, about Henry's time travel, about the society that was meant to be our legacy. But that knowledge comes with a price too steep to pay right now.

The Impala rumbles down another Kansas backroad. Dean's sword hums from the trunk, its reputation only growing these past months. Three more demons dead - actually dead, not just exorcised. My brother's becoming something of a legend in hunting circles.

"Another bust," Dad mutters, crumpling a map. Six months of chasing leads about Henry Winchester and the Men of Letters, and all we've found are empty buildings and old newspaper articles about disappearances in the '50s.

I keep my face carefully neutral. The truth about our grandfather sits heavy in my mind, but speaking it would raise too many questions. Questions about how I know, about what else I might know.

I'm not ready to go with the explanation of visions until I actually get them. Besides that it would be pointless.

Henry is unreachable, the angels would immediately mind wipe us if they knew we were at a place that is the heart of supernatural world knowledge - and even if that wasn't the case, Abbadon is not something we can handle right now.

The Coalition's network has grown stronger in these months. Their subtle warnings keep us away from certain areas, guide us toward others. They've learned their role perfectly - watching, protecting, but never revealing.

"Maybe we should head to Illinois," Dean suggests from the backseat. "That hunter Marcus mentioned something about an old library..."

Another dead end, I know. I made sure of it. But we'll go anyway, maintain the appearance of searching. Some knowledge has to be earned the right way, at the right time.

My darkness stirs, comfortable in its purpose now. Let them search. Let them wonder.

Some secrets are best kept in silence.

We stop at a diner just outside Topeka. Dean's still talking about the latest demon hunt from last week - another "impossible" kill that's only adding to his growing reputation. Hunters call him "The Sword" now, which makes him grin and me want to roll my eyes.

If they only knew the sword's true purpose, what it was really meant for...

"Sam?" Dad's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "You're quiet."

"Just thinking about the research," I lie smoothly. Years of practice makes it easier each time. "About what that demon said about Grandpa Henry."

The familiar tension crosses Dad's face - part headache, part frustrated memory. The angels' memory wipe still holds, but sometimes I wonder if pieces are trying to break through.

"We'll figure it out," Dean says confidently, his faith in our family never wavering. The sword hums from its wrapped position beside him, like it's agreeing.

I pick at my salad, remembering the real bunker waiting in Lebanon. Remembering the library full of answers they're desperately seeking. But it's too soon to attempt anything even if I could. The wrong knowledge at the wrong time could change everything.

A trucker enters the diner - one of the Coalition's watchers. His nod is imperceptible to anyone else, but I catch his meaning. Demons moving in Nebraska. Time to subtly redirect our path.

"You know," I speak carefully, "maybe we should check Bobby's contacts again. See if anything new came up."

Dad considers this, while I feel the Coalition member's approval. Another potential crisis avoided without obvious intervention.

The game continues, each piece moving exactly as needed.

---------------------------------------

The drive back to Bobby's is filled with Dean's excited chatter about his growing demon kill count. Five now, the hunt in Nebraska being successful. Each one adding to the legend. Hunters call from across the country, begging to see the sword in action.

What they don't notice is the pattern - how each demon we "happen" to find is carefully selected.

Low-ranking ones that won't draw too much attention from Hell's hierarchy. The Coalition's network makes sure of that, steering us clear of anything that might attract Azazel's interest.

"Bobby says there's a whole group of hunters waiting," Dean grins. "Want to see the sword."

"We're not running a circus," Dad grumbles, but I catch his pride. His son, changing the hunting world.

My darkness shifts, comfortable in its purpose. Let Dean have the spotlight. Let his growing power draw all the attention. It makes my own work easier, hidden in his shadow.

A gas station stop gives me a moment alone with my journal - the real one, carved into a hollow Bible. I update it quickly to aid in remembrance through constant writing of it before burning the pages:

Coalition network expanding. Dean's reputation growing as planned. Heaven still silent. Hell watching but cautious. Library in Illinois = dead end, redirect to Bobby's.

Note: Research getting closer to Lebanon. May need contingency.

The familiar guilt surfaces as I burn the evidence. Keeping secrets from my family doesn't get easier, but it's necessary.

Dad returns with coffee, rubbing his temples again. Another headache. They're getting more frequent, especially when he thinks too hard about certain things.

"You okay?" I ask, playing my role of concerned son.

"Fine," he lies, just like I lie. We're a family of secrets now, each carrying our own burdens.

Dean's sword hums from the trunk, sacred energy pulsing with purpose. My brother's destiny, carefully managed and directed. Just like everything else.

Sometimes I wonder what they'd think if they knew. About the bunker, about the Men of Letters, about the future I know and work to prevent.

But those are dangerous thoughts.

For now, the game continues. Each piece moving exactly as needed.

Even if I'm the only one who knows what game we're really playing.