Meg nodded once at the Winchester rundown, though the idea of an eleven year old Sam was even less comforting than a full grown one. If Dean was going to see his brother through nostalgia goggles, having a puppy sized version of him running around certainly wasn’t going to help matters. The one she’d spoken to hadn’t ratted out her attempted interference yet, so that was a small blessing. But how was she supposed to keep him away from two versions of his brother without it royally biting her in the ass?
“You were helping the Winchesters?” Meg asked incredulously. What in the name of Hell had happened in this version of things that would have put them on the same team? She supposed, if the end game was killing Crowley, she could see it. Enemy of my enemy and all that. Still, if Dean was anything other than what he was now, she’d have stayed as far away from him as she could get. “At least you got in one good shot,” she said condescendingly. Clearly, of the two versions of her life, she was the superior version. A second though came hard on the heels of the first. There was a third ally? She didn’t recognize the name.