Looking Back

- Author: Sensue
- Summary: Post Asylum. After a serious injury, Sam’s role changes: the protected must now become the protector. H/C.
- Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural: the series or either of the two hot guys in it. Wish I did, especially Jensen Ackles.
- Rating: TV-14
- Pairing: Brotherly love (only): Dean/Sam. Smarm, NOT slash.
- What is Smarm?: Smarm is a loving relationship between two members of the same sex, usually men. It is highly emotional and physical (touching), and completely NON-SEXUAL.
- Author’s Note: This is my third Supernatural Story. This story, at first may sound similar to some of the other stories published at however, trust me, I’m twisting it differently than any one else could imagine, as usual. I hope that everyone enjoys this as much as I’ve loved to write it. This story will be completely written in Sam’s POV (third person), but is about Dean. So, it’s Sam’s thoughts about his brother.

Looking Back

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Sam stared at Dean, silently studying his older brother as he drove. He knew that his scrutiny was being ignored from the way his brother stared ahead, teeth clenched, and body tense. He had been driving for over twelve hours only taking restroom/snack breaks every so often since they had received the phone call from their father.

It infuriated him. They had both been searching for him for months now—all of their calls to John Winchester’s cell phone and voice mail had been ultimately ignored. The only thing that kept Sam from calling the FBI to help search for him was Dean and his complete confidence that they would find him. No matter how many times that he tried to convince Dean that the man had abandoned them, he refused to give up that hope.

Sam ran a shaky hand through his hair, turning his angry face away from his brother to look out the passenger side window beside him, their latest argument still fresh in his mind.

After the ‘events’ that happened at the Roosevelt Asylum, Dean had driven to the nearest motel and then proceeded to ignore everything that had happened there, claiming that he was ‘fine’ and just needed to get some sleep. Sam knew, he KNEW, that his brother was hurt; he’d been shot at point blank range with a gun full of rock salt then flung across the room and through a wall. He’d been unconscious for a few minutes--that he remembered from his psychotically altered mind.

He should have insisted that Dean get some medical help or at the very least let him wake him in case he had a concussion, but the man was so stubborn. And instead of actually getting some rest and letting his body heal from his wounds, they were driving across the country yet again on some mission their father deemed necessary to send his sons on.

“Dean,” Sam had argued, “Just tell him ‘no’. You have a chest wound, and possibly a concussion. You don’t need to be driving across the country just because our father, who hasn’t spoken to us in almost six months, told you to. The damn ghost will still be haunting the place in a couple weeks; we don’t need to leave now.”

Dean fought back and he spoke without mercy, his voice hard and sharp, “Sam, either help me or get the hell out of my way! I need your help, but I’m getting so fucking sick of you and your attitude! Now, I’m going. If you want to come, just shut the fuck up and get in the car. If not, well, maybe one of your old college buddies can come and pick you up.” He didn’t even wait for an answer, just picked up his bag with a grunt, tossed it in the back seat of his car and started the engine, all without once glancing at the passenger seat.

So, twelve hours later, the view hadn’t changed. His brother still wasn’t speaking to him, disregarding every suggestion that he’d made for them to take a break. Finally, Sam stopped trying and just ignored the nearly silent grunts and moans that Dean was unable to mask behind the blaring Metallica rock music that was pounding out from the Impala’s speakers.

The silent treatment, as annoyingly concerning as it was, had also given Sam time to think about the recent events that had so stirred up their lives and, of course, their reactions. Mostly, though, Sam thought about Dean. He looked up to his older brother; he had to, Dean was the only person that he could trust throughout his entire life. No matter how much he screwed up or said the wrong thing, Dean never turned his back on him. Dean took care of him, had taken care of him since he was a little baby. He knew for a fact that Dean would willingly give up his life for him, just as Sam knew that he’d do the same.

But somehow, through the all years they had traveled together, it had taken this moment for Sam to sadly realize that HE was all Dean had. His brother never let anyone into his life—not one single person knew the real Dean Winchester. He had no friends, he’d never fallen in love, hell, his big brother never had a single girlfriend; one night stands aside.

How many times in his life did he hear Dean refer to himself as a ‘freak’? It was always said jokingly, in a sarcastic tone. But he really believes it, Sam thought.

The car door slammed, jarring him from his contemplation. Dean had already got out and walked over to the passenger side window. “You comin’?” He asked quickly, though he didn’t wait for Sam to answer before walking towards the house that he parked in front of.

Sam nodded before climbing out to join him at the Anderson home, their newest ‘clients’. They had reported a string of recent supernatural activity at their newly renovated mansion slash hotel. It seems the family had a resident ghost. It was tearing the place apart in its efforts to get rid of any intruders in its territory. Mr. Michael Anderson placed a call to John Winchester and of course, Sam huffed under his breath, he referred him to Dean’s cell phone.

Now, they were stuck in some middle-of-nowhere small country town researching town history in order to determine the identity of the ghost. Dean knocked on the front door and silently waited for someone to answer the door.

The door opened with an old-house creak and revealed a young girl. “Hello? Can I help you?” The girl asked timidly, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds.

Dean blinked a couple times but then gently kneeled down to her level and spoke softly, “Is your Daddy home?”

The little one bit her nails, but nodded. Sam inserted, “Can you get him for us?” She ran from the door to another room and yelled ‘Daddy’ at the top of her lungs. Sam watched as Dean struggled to rise back to his feet. Biting back his automatic ‘I told you so’, Sam just silently helped him, wrapping his brother’s arm around his shoulder and wrapping the other around his waist to pull him up gently. Sam pretended to ignore the grunt as Dean straightened and pulled away.

“Yes, is there something I can do for you, gentlemen?” A man opened the door, patting the same little girl who’d opened the door on the head to run off and play.

Dean stepped forward, “Mr. Anderson?”

The man looked at them with a questioning gaze, but answered, “Yes, I’m Michael Anderson. And you are?”

Sam answered for them both, “I’m Sam. This is Dean. I believe that you called our father in regards to some strange, um, happenings in your newest real estate purchase.”

The man quickly stepped outside, looking around before shutting the door behind him. “Yes. Thank you both for coming so quickly.” He held out his hand to them both, shaking their hands. “Please, let’s go somewhere a little more private. I’m afraid that my family is in the dark, so to speak on the current situation. I—,” he rubbed his hand over his mouth as he walked them over to a small cottage which was along the side of his house. The small house rested on a small hill which overlooked the larger mansion the man had purchased in order to renovate into a luxury hotel. “I just wanted to keep them safe, so I told them it was dangerous in there, due to architectural instabilities. I’m afraid that I just don’t know what to do about this. That—thing is getting more and more violent. Just last week a man was killed, one of the glass windows shattered and his throat…”

Dean reassured the man with a tight smile. “Well, that’s what we’re here for. Sam and I will take care of it. We’ll get this problem settled and this will be like a horrible nightmare soon.” He shook Anderson’s hand again, then nodded to his brother.

As always, when the job started, the two brothers became an unstoppable force, it was as if they could read each others minds. Sam spoke, completely professional, “Mr. Anderson, what can you tell us about the property? Do you know if anyone that had previously lived there died a violent death? Suicide? Murder? Anything like that?” They walked into the cottage, Anderson flicked the switch filling the small room with a warm bright light.

“It’s Michael, please. And everything that I know about this house is here.” He went over to a locked desk drawer, unlocked it, then handed Sam a large old fashioned leather bound folder. “Those are the legal documents that I acquired after the purchase.”

“Thank you, Michael. This will help us. We’ll, of course, return them to you once we’re done here.” Sam gave him a tight smile, looking over at his brother for the next step.

Dean walked over to his little brother, then gently pushed his shoulder towards the door. “Michael, we need to research this house first, you know, so that we know exactly what we’re getting into before we make any moves, alright?”

The man nodded robotically, as if he had been placed in this situation many times in his life, agreeing to whatever they wanted. “Again, I wanted to say thank you for coming this quickly. You must’ve driven for hours, why don’t you come in for dinner? I’ll just tell my wife that you’re –architects or something—that I hired you to oversee the architect plans for the hotel. So, what do you say?”

Dean jumped in before Sam could think of a response, as usual. “Oh, thank you for the offer, Michael. But Sam and I ate on the road. We really need to get started, okay?” Sam was floored with shock, his brother was not known for turning down free food. “Oh, more quick question, can I ask how you know our father? His—our services are usually from referral.”

“Oh, actually, my brother served under your father in the Unit. Jim, my brother—uh, didn’t make it back, unfortunately. But your father occasionally calls to see how the family is doing. We keep in touch.”

“You haven’t seen him recently, though?” Dean asked, his eyes wide with hope.

Michael answered in the negative, causing the hope to fade fast from both brothers.

Dean nodded, and then using a little bit more force than before, practically shoved Sam out the door. Dean strode back to his car, keeping a tight hold on Sam’s arm the entire time. Once he knew they were both alone, Sam questioned, “Dean, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

Dean licked his lips, not answering him, but just running his fingers through his hair, messing it up. Sam waited patiently, knowing from years of experience that his brother would answer in his own time and that rushing him would only lead to another fight.

“Sam,” Dean started, his tone unsure, “Did you feel anything?”

Sam’s forehead wrinkled up into a frown, leaning against the hood of the car to mirror his brother. “What do you mean, feel anything?”

He watched as Dean gulped, running his tongue over lips as if he was dry, which knowing Dean, he probably was. Sam held his hand up, giving him the universal ‘wait a minute’ sign. Walking over to his side of the car, he rummaged under the seat until he found a half-full bottle of water and then gave it to Dean. For a second, Dean looked surprised before twisting the cap to gulp the lukewarm water. Taking a deep breath, Dean re-capped the bottle then looked up.

“I—that guy Anderson I—Hell, I don’t know. I just thought he felt OFF to me. It just—he made my skin crawl. I can’t explain it; I just wanted to get the hell away from him.” Dean put his hand over his mouth, blowing into his palm. “Did you?”

Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, rubbing it slightly. “I didn’t.” It was all he could say. Dean pulled away from him suddenly, walking over to the drivers’ seat and started the engine. Sam stared at the spot where his brother had been only moments before for a few seconds before walking over to his side of the car to get in.

And like a switch had been flicked, the silence returned and the rift spread a little wider.

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It was 3:00am when Sam opened his eyes. Squinting, he noticed that his brother was in the same place he’d left him; sitting at the table, still researching the Ghost of Anderson Manor. “Dean,” he called out from under his blankets, “Why don’t you just give it a rest? You need to get some sleep.”

Dean flipped another couple pages in the book in front of him, “Don’t tell me what to do, Sam.”

Sam sat up, now angry, as he got out of bed to walk over to where his brother was sitting. Huffing before placing both hands flat against the surface of the table, he wanted to be calm when he confronted his brother. “Dean, listen to me. You haven’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. You look like shit and I know that your chest has got to be hurting. Dean, you can’t keep on like this. You need to rest.”

Dean stood up, no emotion evident on his face beside anger, “No, you listen to me, little brother. We’ve got a job to do and that’s what I’m doing. I’m being a ‘good little soldier’.” The words that Sam had spoken in the fit of rage at the Roosevelt Asylum had been flung back at him, hitting him in the heart.

“Dean!” Sam grabbed his arm, not letting him turn away. He wasn’t prepared when Dean’s fist flung in his face with a quick round-up punch. Landing on the hard ground with a startled yell, he stopped himself from the instinctual urge to attack him physically. He didn’t want to hurt him—not any more than he already had.

Levering himself off the floor, Sam glared at his brother, but left him alone. He returned to his bed, purposefully turning away from the table and throwing his pillow over his face to sleep.

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Next Day

Research complete and plan formed—tersely and without the usual conversation or jokes, Anderson and both brothers entered the Anderson Manor to burn and exorcise the ghost of Madsen Gilmore. In the 1920s, the man had, by accounts of the city records, almost owned the entire town. He was a greedy little pig that built himself a little kingdom, complete with a fortress-like mansion and let the rest of the town rot. The town rebelled, rioting against his tyrant behavior. They threw stones through the stained glass windows and gained entry, supposedly beating the man and then locking him in his own wine cellar to die a slow horrible death. The bastard refused to let go of his house—his prized possession, haunting it to repel any human entry to this day.

It was going to be hard, it was a gut feeling. The ghost wasn’t playing fair, it was out to kill anyone that entered its residence. It was going to be dangerous and Sam wanted nothing more than to tell Dean that he’d handle it on his own. His brother was running on pure adrenaline and will. The lines of pain around his eyes were deeper than they had been the previous day and it was obvious from the way he moved that the bruises were killing him. It was fear that held him back.

Fear that Dean would, yet again, take it the wrong way. Sam knew that the hunt was the only thing that Dean had faith in; it was the only thing that hadn’t let him down. He didn’t want to take it away, question his brother’s ability to do the job. Somehow, Sam knew that would probably be the last straw—the straw that would break him.

Anderson was the guide; he would lead them down to the cellar where Gilmore was supposedly buried after starving to death.

Dean walked ahead of both men, taking point, rock salt rifle at the ready to repel the ghost, at least temporarily. It was deceivingly quiet…the sounds of rats scratching the walls the only sounds that echoed through the mansion. Dean put up a hand, motioning for Sam to watch his back as he made his way down the stairs that Anderson pointed out. Pulling out flashlights, they hooked them onto their belt harnesses, their beams lighting the way through the old mansion.

Sam took the rear, senses tingling as the continued the trek. The feeling that something was wrong grew stronger as they neared the cellar door. Dean reached it first, opening it slowly. Anderson held the EM meter that Dean had rigged. It was quiet, not even a flicker of activity showed on it.

Yet both brothers still felt the wrongness of the situation. “Sam,” Dean whispered, “check it out.” He nodded towards the cellar. Sam nodded, bringing up his own rifle before stepping into the cellar. It was dirty, dusty, and smelled of rat feces. There was nothing. It was quiet.

“Clear.” Sam called out to the two men waiting.

Anderson entered with Dean following behind, his body still tense, waiting for the ghost to spring something out on them. “I don’t understand…where the hell is it?” It was mumbled under his breath.

Anderson looked around at the old bottles of wine, which were covered with spider webs and dust. He handed the EM meter to Sam, before picking up a bottle, studying the old label. Sam put his rifle down on a barrel of wine, before taking a moment to study the non-readings.

Dean walked over to his little brother, whispering to him, “Sam, what the hell is going on here?” Sam could only shrug, his brow furrowing in his confusion, while tapping the meter he held in his hands.

There was no warning—none at all when the bottle of 1921 Palmer Margaux Bordeaux wine that Michael Anderson held was shattered over Dean’s head. Sam reacted immediately to break his fall to the hard concrete. Lifting his head, Sam was forced backwards; the dripping broken glass of the bottle was pressed too close to his face for comfort.

“What the hell are you doing, Anderson?” Sam grounded out angrily, his teeth clenched.

The small town man—father that had greeted them disappeared before Sam’s very eyes, leaving behind the monster before him. “Payback,” he snarled.

Sam glanced down at Dean’s unconscious body, the anger growing. “Payback? Payback! We don’t even know you!”

The bottle was suddenly swung towards his neck, nearly cutting him before Sam whipped himself away. “Your father left my little brother to die in that fucking mess he created. He was in charge of the operation! He should’ve been the one to die, not my brother. The bastard ordered everyone to leave; they left my brother to die alone while they ran! And to top it off, they give him a fucking Metal of Honor. A fucking Metal of Honor for killing my brother. I promised myself that he’d pay one day—that he’d feel the same loss that my family felt knowing you’ll never come home again.”

Sam spit, “How did you know we’d come?”

Anderson laughed, “I knew that he’d send Dean here; that was evident from the voice message on his phone service, but I got a two-for-one deal. I already did all the research on the Estate; I knew about the Gilmore murder. All I had to do was set up the ‘accident’ and you’d come running to save us from the mean old ghosts. John’s obsession with the supernatural is common knowledge; so is the fact that he raised the both of you to follow in his footsteps. I just played on it. And now, you’re both going to die.”

The man backed away, grabbing their rifles before running out of the cellar door. It locked behind him with a metallic grind. Darkness soon filled the corners of the sealed room, the only light coming from the flashlights that remained with them.

Sam stared at the locked door, “FUCK!” He swore before kneeling down to check his brother. He ran a hand over his head, pulling back at the feel of wetness.

Blood covered his fingers, his brother’s blood.

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Sam took a deep breath. Head wounds were known to bleed profusely, so there was no need to panic—much, he thought. Taking off his outer shirt, he bundled it up and pressed it hard against the cut made by the glass bottle, hoping that it would staunch the flow of blood. Dean moaned softly and tried to move his head away from the pain caused by the pressure.

“Dean,” Sam called out, “can you hear me?” There was no response. After checking Dean’s neck and spine, Sam rolled him onto his back, still keeping the make-shape bandage in place. “Dean?” He tried once more to wake him, this time gently slapping his cheek.

Still nothing.

Pulling back Dean’s eyelids, he shined the light into his eyes. Relief flooded his entire body when the pupils reacted normally. Sighing, he mumbled mostly to himself, “Shit, Dean. If Dad were here right now, he’d rip us both a new one for falling for that ass-wipe. I can’t believe that we--.” He cut himself off, it wouldn’t help matters much.

The only thing that mattered was getting them out of the cellar, and doing it quickly, for three reasons. One: Dean was hurt—badly. If he hadn’t had a concussion from being shot and thrown against a wall, then being hit over the head with a full bottle of wine had certainly done it. Two: The longer they stayed in the cellar, the worse it would get. No one knew where they were. They didn’t have any supplies, well, besides a half-eaten bag of Peanut M&M’s that his brother always had in his pocket and their flashlights. And three: That bastard Anderson—he planned his scheme for one reason; to destroy their father. The only problem was—the man didn’t know John Winchester. Oh, he’d be destroyed alright, Sam thought, right after he killed anything in his path that caused his pain. Anderson would wait a couple days, then call their father with the news of their deaths, that was a given. And right after he told John that he had caused their deaths, he’d kill him without a single qualm—and he’d probably kill the rest of his family just for the heck of it. John Winchester’s entire life revolved around vengeance, it wouldn’t take much to push him into revenge.

Scratching noises drew Sam’s attention away from Dean. The noises came from the back corner of the cellar. Sam picked up the flashlight, slowly inching his way to the source. Shining the light into the corner, little beaded eyes lit up, before squeaking and skittering off into a hole they had chewed through. “Rats?” Sam spoke aloud, “If the rats can get into a sealed room, then…”

Rushing over to the corner, he shone the light on the hole, trying to figure out where it led. Surprisingly, the light shone like a beam. “There’s another room.” Standing up, he looked around, then smiled at the cliché. Right above his head was an old fashioned torch that was attached to the wall. Dean will get a kick out of this one, Sam laughed as he pulled the torch. Like a door, the wall opened to reveal a kitchen.

Shooting a look back at where his brother lay on the ground, he wasted no time in getting him out. Bending over him, he lifted Dean onto his shoulder with a fireman’s carry; the extra weight made him grunt. His brother was heavy.

It seemed to take forever, one foot then the other, but he made it to the front door of the damned mansion. His brother was still out of it, luckily—Sam knew that Dean’s ribs would be on fire from the carry, but it was only way that he could get him out. He’d make it up to him later. Closing his eyes, Sam prayed that the Chevy Impala was still where they left it in front of the mansion. He opened them a second later, looking up he thanked the Power-that-Be above.

It was there; right where they left it.

Grabbing hold of Dean’s hips with one hand to make sure that he wouldn’t slip, he reached into the pocket with the other hand to pull out his keys. Pushing himself, he walked the distance from the mansion to the car, all the while keeping an eye on the Anderson home.

Once he got to the car, Sam quickly unlocked the passenger side door and opened it using his hip. With another grunt, he lowered himself and his brother so that he was kneeling on the concrete. Using a pendulum motion he swung his brother’s hips onto the passenger side seat before sliding him off his shoulder and onto the seat cushion. Making sure that Dean’s head was supported, he adjusted him so that his head rested on the seat, then moved his legs into the car and strapping the seatbelt around his waist.

Angrily, in an adolescent move, he flicked off the house. “Bastard,” it was muttered a few times as he strode over to the driver’s side.

Anderson would get his soon enough, Sam swore. As soon as Dean was awake, the both of them would make sure that he’d pay. He got into the drivers’ seat, slamming the door behind him like it was the cause of their troubles. If Dean was awake, he’d be angry—no one slammed his car door.

It made him turn around and look back at his brother. Dean lay deathly still; the only indication of his livelihood was the movement of his chest as he breathed. Dried blood smeared down his face, making him seem even more pale under the yellow glare of the streetlight. He needed to get him to a hospital, knowing that there was nothing that he could do for him—he’d been unconscious for nearly an hour and it worried him. Sam bit his lip—for once, he wished that his father was there. He’d know what to do.

Sam’s eyes widened. “Dad!” It was a gasp. He reached over to his brother, gently pulling the cell phone that he’d carried in his leather jacket out so that he could call their father. Dialing the memorized cell number, he waited for the voice message system to dial through. “Dad, listen. It’s Sam. I really hope that you get this message, but that guy—Michael Anderson, he tried to kill us. He thinks that he succeeded—it was part of his plan to get revenge on you for his brother. I don’t know what the deal with the two of you is, Dad and frankly I don’t care. I’m with Dean—Dad, he’s hurt. I’m taking him to the hospital. If you give a damn, call me back and I’ll give you the directions.” Not wanting to bother with goodbyes, he used his chin to flip the phone into its “off” mode, then threw it in the cup holder. Turning the key, the engine roared to life.

Without a single look behind him, he drove. With a focus that Dean would be proud of, he sped towards the nearest hospital, the only sounds he heard were Dean’s weak moans.

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The gently vibration of the cell phone that was attached to his belt loop jarred John Winchester from his research. The hotel desk was literally covered with his notes as he investigated the monster that had taken away his beloved wife from him and his boys.

Slipping the phone from the hook on his belt, he saw the flashing indicator light turn red. He had a voice message. Pressing the Number One down for a few seconds, the phone automatically dialed the service. Pressing the phone to his ear, he numbed himself.

The last time he had received a message, it was from Dean. From his voice, he could tell that his son—his proud, strong, incredible son was scared to death. His voice was shaking, practically in tears as he begged him, his father, for help. It was with a heavy heart that he hung up the phone. He drove to Lawrence, Kansas like there was a demon behind him. And once he got there, he hid, silently watching them from afar like a coward.

John focused on the call, trying not to involve his emotions in hearing the sound of his estranged son. The last time that he’d hear his voice or spoke to him was the day he’d left for Stanford. He kept himself a stone, forcing himself not to panic—Anderson tried to kill his sons. The man had called him, asked him for help to exorcise a ghost and he’d sent Dean—and Sam right into his hands.

He ran a hand tiredly over his face as he listened to the rest of the message.

‘I’m with Dean—Dad, he’s hurt.’ The panic that he’d squashed earlier returned, this time, he didn’t bother to try to stop it.

Leaving his things in the hotel room, he grabbed his jacket, keys and new journal before turning off the lights and running to his car, cell phone in hand.

Sam might think that he didn’t care about them, but he was wrong. He drove like a mad-man. He’d go see Dean in the hospital and then take care of Anderson.

Nothing would hurt his boys. It was a promise that he made on Mary’s grave and it was one that he swore to keep.

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7:58 PM

Sam shook his head as he stared at the clock for the millionth time the past six hours. On “ER” (at least the first couple seasons), the second a person was taken to the Emergency Room, they were quickly whisked away for professional treatment of ailments from coughs to amputations caused by disasters. Diagnostic tests only took seconds to perform, bloodwork was instantaneous, and the nurses were the kindest, most generous individuals in the entire facility. The doctors, of course, could do no wrong and knew everything.

Unfortunately, this was not Cook Country General and Dean’s doctor was not George Clooney. He’d only seen him for about a minute and a half before the man ran off to check on his pager that hadn’t stopped beeping the entire time he’d been in the room. He left the room, leaving his physician’s assistant to order the tests, administer medications, and instruct the nurses. Dean’s nurse, of course, had to check up on fifteen of her other patients because of the severe short-staffing before coming in to take care of his brother. He’d, literally, been to every floor of the hospital going for a MRI, CT, and EEG of the brain.

The entire situation made him want to scream. Dean had been unconscious for almost seven or eight hours. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t making jokes or laughing; he was moaning in his sleep, as if he was unable to wake from a nightmare.

It was a feeling of helplessness that he hadn’t felt since Jess had died. As he watched her body burning on his ceiling as she screamed for him, unable to do anything but stare at her.

He was tired of it: the hunting, the danger, the pain that came along with it all, but he couldn’t stop. Sam wanted—no needed to find the monster that had killed both his mother and girlfriend. It was an obsession that he shared with his father—it was the only thing they shared now.

He looked at the clock once more.

8:13 PM

Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and began to pace the small room, ignoring the look of his brother’s bloody and beaten roommate as he too waited to be seen by a doctor. Running a hand through his messy hair, he swore under his breath, muttering and grunting his displeasure with the staff.

“Mmmm.”

Dean had moaned loudly, his hands flexing as if he was pushing someone or something away from himself. Sam ran over to his side within a heartbeat. “Dean?” Sam called out to him, gently taking the hand closest to his within his own, and pushing a stray hair from his forehead. “Dean, you waking up?”

Dean moaned again, his head leaning into the touch. He gulped a couple times before trying to speak. “Dad?”

Sam blinked back his surprise before answering his brother. “No, Dean. It’s Sam. Can you open your eyes?”

He didn’t answer, blinking a few times, but unable to complete the seemingly simple request. He called out again, “Dad? Sammy?”

“I’m right here, Dean. Are you with me?” Sam tightened his hold on his brother’s hand before pushing the nurse’s call button.

The intercom system flashed before the nurse at the other end answered. “Is there something wrong?”

Answering for his brother, Sam told her that his brother was waking up. She told him that she’d page his doctor as soon as possible, and then the intercom blinked off.

The door opened as the nurse who had spoken to him walked in, clipboard in hand. The woman started taking vital signs, writing them on the clipboard.

Meanwhile, Sam tried to get his brother to respond. “Hey, Dean. Come on now. Wake up!” It was spoken sharply, meant to be an order.

His brother was nothing if not predictable. His eyes flew open, the light in the room making him wince, while involuntary tears streamed down his cheeks.

Sam smiled, using his thumbs to wipe away the tearstains.

Dean’s eyes widened, jerking away from the touch. A cry flew from his lips, it was practically a scream.

“Dean?” He spoke it softly, gently moving his hand away from Dean’s face. He put his hands out in front of him, trying to calm his brother. “Dean, it’s Sam. It’s alright. You’re okay.”

Sam watched with shock as the tears that he’d wiped away were replaced with others. Dean, the rock, the anti-chick flick moment guy, was sobbing. And through it all, kept calling out for their father.

The doctor had walked into the room; and began to speak. The man had been monotonously saying something about possible brain damage, diagnostic scans, and medical therapies. Sam didn’t even notice him, didn’t hear him or care anymore.

There was something seriously wrong with his brother and not a single person in the room had even looked at him as he cried.

Sam’s patience ran out. “Shut up!” He said it softly, but edged with malice.

Dean jerked at the sound, whimpering softly. He had stopped crying and was now looking at Sam with fear filled eyes.

Sam slowly edged towards the bed, their eyes were locked. He lowered the railing slowly, purposefully. “Dean?” forcing his voice to warm, not to scare the man in front of him. “Dean, do you know who I am?”

He curled up into a ball, wrapping his arms around his legs before resting his chin on his knees. Dean shook his head ‘no’. “Where’s my dad? Where’s Sammy?”

Sam’s heart stopped. He had no idea what to say. He felt like passing out.

The doctor jumped in, using his silence to question his patient. “I’m Dr. Peters. Do you know your name?”

The head bobbed up and down. The doctor smiled tolerantly, “Can you tell me?”

“I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.” He said it quietly, as if he was shy. Sam shook his head internally; Dean was never shy—he was the outgoing flirt, the B.S. King; he could talk about anything and everything.

“Do you know where you are?” The nurse asked this time.

Dean looked around the room, taking it all in. “In a hospital. Where’s my dad? Where’s my little brother?” He asked it again, becoming more and more upset that no one would answer him. “Where’s Sammy?” He was shouting now, pushing his blankets off and trying to get out of bed—most likely to try to find him.

Sam stepped towards him, making him jump back against the headboard to avoid his touch. “Dad—your dad isn’t here, Dean. He’s—um—on a hunting trip.” That was something Dean could understand; their father was always on a hunting trip. He didn’t want to lie to his brother because in that moment, all Sam wanted to do was cry; his brother didn’t recognize him. He didn’t need the doctor to tell him—obviously Dean had suffered some kind of brain damage during the attack. Dean was confused enough without Sam lying to him.

The eyes that stared back at him were filled with suspicion. “Dad went on a hunting trip? Then where’s my little brother?”

Sam swallowed, “He’s safe. He’s with family.” It wasn’t a lie. He was with his brother. Sam smiled, though the smile didn’t reach his soul, “My name is Sam.”

Dean looked at him, the suspicion slowly fading, yet not completely gone yet. “That’s my brother’s name, too. ‘Cept me and my dad call him Sammy.”

“Yeah? I’ll bet you are a great big brother, huh?” Sam just chatted, his mind was reeling. He truly didn’t understand how things had gotten this bad.

The doctor was off to the side of the room, flipping through Dean’s medical reports. “Dean, can I ask you a question?” He waited for the young man to nod. “How old are you?”

Sam closed his eyes; he didn’t want to know. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare in an old tacky motel room with his brother lying in the bed next to him. He wanted to wake up screaming. Dean would wake up and go to him. He’d ask him if he was okay, and as always Sam would lie and tell him he was fine. Dean would make them some coffee, silently agreeing that he’d ignore the current round of nightmares—giving him some time to himself. They’d stay up all night, watch stupid infomercials and laugh about how they could come up with better products. It would be comforting—their idea of normal.

He didn’t want to hear his answer. He didn’t want to lose his brother. Steeling himself, he couldn’t stop the gasp when he’d heard Dean’s answer.

“I’m nine years old.”

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

Later the Next Day

He should’ve seen it coming, Sam thought. Why the hell didn’t he see this coming?

From the moment Dean admitted that he believed that he was nine years old, from the moment his worst fears had been confirmed—his big brother had brain damage—he should’ve done something. He should’ve snapped out of the fugue state he’d entered and just acted on his instincts. Dean would have. Dean would’ve acted the second he discovered the danger they were both in. He wouldn’t have just sat there like Sam had.

“Mr. Winchester?” Dr. Peters called to him. “Are you alright? I know that this is a lot for you to think about, but like Mrs. Jorgen was explaining to you, it’s best to act quickly so that the transition goes smoothly and he doesn’t get attached.”

Sam blinked again, staring at the ugly painting hanging on the wall behind the doctor’s desk. He stared at it until his fury was contained—until he knew that he wouldn’t jump over the desk and strangle the man. The woman sitting next to him stared at him worriedly. She, Mrs. Jorgen, got up out of her chair to pour him a cup of water.

She tried to hand him the cup. When he didn’t take it, she placed it on the desk in front of him. Dr. Peters immediately picked it up and placed it under a marble coaster. Sam felt his control waiver—the bastard was worried about his mahogany finished desk! “Mr. Winchester, I’m sorry for being blunt,” Mrs. Jorgen started, “but, unfortunately, the waiting lists at these types of facilities is miles long. We were lucky to find a permanent care facility with a spot open for your brother. You need to act—and act quickly if you wish to get him proper care.”

Sam turned sharply, his eyes blazing, “Let me get this straight. You want me to put my brother in a Fucking Mental Hospital?”

The woman looked disturbed, shooting a look at the idiot doctor before trying again to convince him of her point. “Please, Mr. Winchester. The Windsong Facility is not a ‘Mental Hospital’ as you so eloquently stated; it’s a permanent care facility. One that is equipped to deal with your brother’s mental deterioration.”

Sam stood, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get the hell out before he killed them. He walked to the door slowly, like a caged animal stalking its prey. He swiveled slightly, making eye contact with both of them before speaking. It was a strategic move taught by his father. Never look down when speaking to your enemies, it was deadly. “Dr. Peters, Dean and I are leaving now. We will no longer require any of the services offered by you or your staff. I will also be reporting this incident to your hospital board and the police. Extorting grieving family members into sending their loved ones to facilities that are filling your pockets is against the law.” He turned slightly, making one last point before walking out. “Oh, didn’t I mention that I was a law student?”

Ignoring their ‘deer-in-the-headlight’ expressions, he let the door slam behind him as he walked out.

Striding through the now familiar corridor, Sam slowed as he neared Dean’s room. They’d had moved him in the middle of the night to a private room due to his currently vulnerable state—treating him with, pardon the expression, kid-gloves.

Dean distrusted everyone—the nurses, the doctors, the aids that came to visit him. He refused to sleep, his body rigid with tension and fear anytime the door opened and someone walked in. Surprisingly, Sam was the only person Dean seemed to relax around. It was enough for Sam to hope. If Dean trusted him, then he had to believe that he hadn’t completely lost his big brother. That perhaps a small piece of him would return.

Sam opened the door slowly, making sure to make enough noise as to not startle Dean. Earlier, Dean had dozed off while Sam left his side to use the restroom facilities. He’d noticed that Dean was sleeping so he quietly snuck back to his side. The results had set them back to the beginning. Dean woke suddenly, forgetting where he was for a moment and seeing a strange man sitting next to him staring at him while he slept, and immediately screamed bloody murder.

It wasn’t an experience that he wanted to repeat, especially since he now had to convince his brother to trust him—trust him enough to leave with a person he didn’t know. To trust him enough to let him take care of him.

He knew Dean. He knew him better than he knew himself or their father. Dean didn’t trust easily. Hell, Sam didn’t know a single person Dean trusted outside of their family. It would be a struggle, one that Sam hoped he was strong enough to win.

At the sound of his door opening, Dean sat up in his bed—he sat stiffly, poised for flight until he recognized the man walking in as the man who’d been with him the entire duration. “Hi, Sam.” Dean called out warmly. “Guess what? There’s a really cool show on called the Power Rangers S.P.D. They’re a group of teenagers who try to rid the world of evil monsters. They know karate and kick butt!”

Sam smiled at him, “Really? That awesome, Dean.” He turned to look at the described show playing on the television, wincing at the karate moves shown. It only served to remind him of the times he and Dean would wrestle; their idea of wrestling involved many different varieties of martial arts and weapons, of course. He sat next to Dean’s bed, thinking.

“Sam, are you okay?” Dean’s question jarred him from his thoughts. The man—boy looked at him with wide concerned eyes.

The smile he gave was forced. “Yeah, Dean. I—We need to talk, alright?” He took a deep breath, rubbing his hand across his eyes before continuing, “Dean, listen, buddy. I need you to trust me for a while.”

“What do you mean?” The voice was anxious. Dean clutched the sheets that were tucked around him tighter.

Sam moved his chair closer, happy to see that Dean didn’t pull back away from him. “Dean, I need you to trust me. To trust that I’m a friend and that I would never do anything to hurt you. Dean, I’m not going to lie to you; things—they aren’t great right now. Your dad is hunting and I can’t reach him. I don’t think he even knows that you’re here. Now, I don’t trust the doctors in this hospital. I told them that we were leaving—and I really need you to let me take you away from this place. Can you trust me?”

Sam reached out his hand to his brother, silently praying for guidance. He had done everything that he could do at this hospital. There was no medical treatment or miracle that would help Dean right now. The doctors didn’t care anymore—they were willing to just pass him off to the loony-bin. They didn’t care that Dean was, right now, a scared child. They didn’t care that Sam had lost the only person who meant more to him than Jessica ever could. Now, Sam just hoped that the decision that he’d made was the right one.

He had to trust himself and that was the hardest part of the whole thing. His brother wasn’t around to protect him from having to make difficult decisions anymore.

Dean slowly extended his hand, placing it on top of his. “I don’t know why, but I trust you. I’ll go with you, Sam.”

Sam smiled warmly. “Thank you, Dean.” It was a whisper. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

-----------

Sam filled out the paperwork the nurses hastily threw at him. They seemed to be too eager to get him and Dean out of their hair. Sam, in his own accord, couldn’t wait to leave, skimming for the X’s and quickly scribbling his signature. He thanked the Powers above for his foresight; Sam had to bribe his brother, but convinced him to sign over a Power of Attorney, in case of emergencies, and signed one over to Dean as well after they had decided to continue the search for the monster who’d taken the only women Sam had loved. Though, never would he have dreamed of actually using it—especially in this way.

Dean sat on the bed, hunched over as he tied his sneakers. For the most part, Dean seemed okay with leaving the hospital. He looked relaxed and happy, chatting away like there was absolutely nothing wrong. If Sam were any other person on earth, he would’ve fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. He would’ve relaxed his guard. Dean was planning something—something mischievous. Sam saw it in his eyes.

“Dean.” Sam called to his brother. Dean lifted his face, a slight smile on his face. “Ready to get out of here?”

“Yeah!” Dean jumped to his feet, full of energy and curiosity. “Sam? Where are we going?”

Sam stopped. For a moment, he honestly didn’t know how to answer that question. He had planned to go to their hotel room to rest for the night, but afterwards—he had no clue. Their situations had changed so drastically that Sam didn’t know where to begin in order to get them settled. Dean was now essentially a child, a Winchester, yet still a child—he would need to be cared for as one.

Dean was staring at him worriedly, forcing him to answer. “We’re going to go to a hotel room for today. We’ll get some sleep and then we can figure out where we want to go in the morning, alright?”

Dean nodded, “Okay.”

Reaching down, Sam grabbed his bag from under the bed then gestured for Dean to walk ahead of him as they left. Stopping by the door of Dean’s hospital room, he stared at the empty room thankful that they were leaving its cold confines.

He dropped the paperwork off at the nurses’ station. The head nurse barely glanced at him as she took the paperwork, signed off on them before wishing the both of them good luck snidely. Obviously, the rumor mill in the hospital was running at full speed; everyone knew that he’d threatened Dr. Peters and the hospital.

It was incredibly awkward for them both as they made their way out of the hospital and towards the car. Sam had no idea what to say for once in his life. Dean just stared at his shoes as he walked quietly to the car.

Sam held his brother’s keys in his hands tightly as if by just holding them they could bring him back; they represented the only thing Sam had left of his big brother. His mint condition black 1967 Chevy Impala. It saddened him to realize that fact; that if Dean had died, that car would be the only thing tangible left behind.

Dean’s stopped short as they walked up to the car, his mouth open in surprise. “Sam, that’s my Dad’s car!” He twisted around to face him, “My Dad gave you his car!”

Sam held up a hand, knowing Dean was angry. As far as he could remember, Dean had always reminded him that Dad had promised him that he could have the car on his sixteenth birthday. Anytime Dean got into trouble, their father would threaten to give it to Sam instead. It was an empty threat. Everyone knew that the car was Dean’s. He had marked and claimed it and would fight to the death anyone who tried to take it from him.

Opening the passenger side door, Sam hoped to delay the conversation, if only for a little while. Dean stomped over to the car, throwing himself on the seat before crossing his arms over his chest to sulk. Sam pulled on the seat belt and moved it towards its latch; Dean snatched it out of his hands to snap it into place himself, all the while muttering under his breath.

Sam pushed the ‘child-lock’ button on the door frame before closing the door softly, Sam walked over to the driver’s side suspiciously wiping at his eyes before opening the door and getting in. Reverently, he placed both hands on the steering wheel, then stared at the man who should’ve been driving.

“Dean.” Sam spoke seriously, waiting for the angry child to face him, “This is your car.”

Dean did a double-take. “It is?” His tone sounded unsure.

Sam just nodded. “I—Dean, I promise you that I will never lie to you. I won’t keep anything from you either. That’s what those idiots in the hospital wanted and I told myself that I would never be like them.” He turned in the seat, putting his leg up as high as he could to rest it on the seat without kicking the steering wheel. “I want you to trust me.” Sam reached for Dean’s hand. The hand under his flinched at the touch, but didn’t pull away. “I know that you’re planning on running away to find your Dad and little brother the second that I turn my back. And I can’t let you do that, Dean. It isn’t safe.”

Dean pulled away in panic, reaching for the door handle. Sam had seen it coming; it was why he had child-locked the door. Dean pressed himself hard against the doorframe, “How did you know that?”

Sam leaned against his doorframe, mirroring his brother’s pose. “Because I know you better than I know myself.”

Dean’s breathing was starting to get heavy—more angry than afraid. “If you know me, then how come I don’t know you from Jack Shit!”

Ah, that’s the big brother I remember, Sam thought to himself. Dean had been acting in the hospital like an innocent sweet child, like their father had taught them, in order to pull the wool over the social workers and child service employees who would question them. He looked him straight in the eye, resting his hands on the raised knee as if he had all the time in the world—completely unconcerned. “Because you have a head injury. You lost your memory. That’s why you were in the hospital. It’s why you have a bandage wrapped around your head.” He was telling him the facts, speaking to him like an adult. It was the way Dean and their father had always spoken with him as a child. There was no ‘babying’ in their family.

Dean reached up to touch the bandage around his head, as if he had just remembered that it was still there. He winced at his own touch, making Sam wince along with him. Sam knew that Dean was hiding his pain, he always did. It just frightened him that his brother learned that habit so early in life. Softly, he asked, “How’s your chest?”

Dean gulped, his chin quivering. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Dean.”

“I’m not lying, Sam.” Dean shot back. “If that’s even really your name.”

Sam rested his head against the cold glass window behind him, staring at him from nearly closed eyelids. “Are you asking me a question? Because I promised you that I would never lie. I was hoping that you would do the same.”

There was a fire burning in his brother’s eyes, a one that he used on bullies and monsters, and never on Sam. “Who are you? And where are my father and brother?”

Sam closed his eyes completely now; things had gotten out of his control. Opening them again, Sam licked his lips then continued, “Dean, you told me in the hospital that you trusted me. Was that a lie?”

“And you promised you wouldn’t lie! Why won’t anyone answer me? Are they—dead?” The word was blurted out; the mere thought of it alone was enough to send him into a panic. His breathing came out in gasps; Dean was hyperventilating.

Sam slid across the seat; there was no more space between them. He rested his hand on the back of his neck, pulling him to rest his head on his shoulder. “Dean, come on. Take a deep breath. They aren’t dead. I swear to you. Just breathe. Everything is going to be okay.”

He rubbed his hand on his back, making small circles until he felt him calm, then stiffen and pull away. His voice became hard, “Just tell me, Sam. Please.”

“Alright, but I think we should do this at the hotel. I promise that I’ll tell you, alright? But it’s been a long day and I really think you should lie down. You’re shaking and I know that you haven’t eaten anything in almost two days. What do you want to eat? Your choice.”

Dean looked upset, but settled after a few minutes. Sam thought that Dean was going to give him the silent treatment, but he spoke up after he saw the car approaching a McDonalds. “Can we go to McDonalds?”

Turning his head towards him, he gave a little smile. “Yeah, we can do McDonalds.” The turn signal flashing, he turned into the Drive-Through of the Golden Arches. “What do you want to eat?” He asked this even though he already knew what he wanted. Dean always ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and Pepsi. As a teenager, he switched the Pepsi into a large coffee and doubled the size of the order. Dean gave him his order, precisely as he’d predicted.

Placing his own order, he pulled up to the window where they received their meal quickly in the paper bags. He handed them to Dean, paid for the food, then drove off back to the hotel. They ate on the way to the hotel.

They pulled up to the cheap motel, the lights flickering on the vacancy sign. Getting out of the car, Sam walked over and opened Dean’s side. As he drove, he noticed Dean becoming quieter, while the lines on his forehead got deeper. Sam walked behind him, a hand at the deep of his back in order to stead and lead him to the office.

The clerk at the counter was the same clerk who’d processed their request the last time they had come in. Dean had come in the first night to talk to the man, (he was the same age as Sam) they’d chatted for a little while, Dean getting information about the Anderson Manor. “Hey, Dean. Sam. You’re back. How did the architecture project go? Mr. Anderson hire you?” It must’ve been Dean’s cover story, Sam assumed.

Dean looked at the man strangely. “How did you know—.”

Sam stepped in front of him, cutting him off before he broke their cover. “The project went well, we’re still waiting for Anderson to call us back though, so we figured we’d stay in town until then. We were hoping that you still had a room available.”

Chris, the clerk, nodded. “For you, absolutely.” He stepped around the counter to hand the keys to Dean. “Hey, you two want to go out for a drink? There’s a bar down the street. I could put up the ‘No Vacancy’ while we go find us some real fine ladies to spend quality time with.”

Dean stared at him, “I can’t drink. My dad will kill me. And I don’t like girls.” Sam waved at him, trying to get him to stop.

Chris got offended, arguing, his hands tightening into fists, “Hey, man. I didn’t know you were gay! What the fuck? Were you coming on to me, asshole?”

Dean backed away, his eyes wide. “What?”

Sam pulled Dean until he was behind him, “Chris, man. Back Off! We don’t want to fight, we just needed a room. That’s all.”

Chris stepped closer Sam, getting up into his face, “Wow,” he commented, leaning over Sam’s shoulder to shoot a disgusted look at Dean before looking back at Sam. “Sammy boy, I hope that you know that lover over there is telling everyone that you’re his little brother, while fucking you in the ass.”

Sam heard Dean’s gasp and the sound of metal hitting concrete, but couldn’t risk turning his back. Grabbing the clerk by the front of his shirt, he shoved him into the desk, lifting him slightly off his feet before getting right in his face. “You bastard. You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

Chris just sneered back, “I don’t give a damn what you and your boy toy do. Just do it at another hotel. Give me back the keys and don’t come back.” He was dropped roughly to the ground.

“Bigoted jerk.” It was mumbled under his breath. “Dean, give him the keys. We’ll go somewhere else.”

The keys, which had fallen to the ground, were kicked over to the asshole now crouching on the floor. Dean turned his back, pushing through the door and ran all the way back to the Impala.

Following behind him, Sam waited patiently. “I’m sorry, Dean.” He said it quietly.

When Dean turned back, his face was red. “That guy. He said--.” He didn’t finish.

So, Sam finished it for him. “He said some pretty nasty things. It’s not true. We—Dean, we’re not lovers.”

Dean shook his head, then stopped moving over to the car, where he rested his head. Sam put his hand on his shoulder, rubbing it when he discovered that the shaking from earlier was worse. “No. He said that you were my brother.” He lifted his now bloodshot eyes to stare at him. “You’re Sam? You’re MY Sammy?”

Sam swallowed, feeling tears starting to pool behind his eyes, he could only nod. When he spoke, it was choked, “Yeah, Dean. I’m your little brother. I’m your Sammy. Sam Winchester.”

The blood flew out of Dean’s face so fast that Sam looked down at his feet to see if it had pooled there. Unfortunately, Dean’s body followed his gaze. He fell to his knees before almost slamming into parking lot concrete. Sam’s quick response saved him from another head injury.

Cradling the pale man—boy in his arms, Sam finally released the emotions that he’d been hiding. Tears streamed down his face only to drop on his brothers. The yellow light shining from the lamp posts only made them look paler.

Now, it all hit him.

It wasn’t a game. It was for keeps.

This wasn’t something supernatural. There was no spell, no chant, no cure he could use to reverse it.

And Dean needed protection; from both human and supernatural causes. Chris, the clerk, had proven that case.

Sam rested his head against his brother as he rocked back and forth on the cold ground. Only one thought repeated over and over in his head like a mantra: Dean would know what to do.

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

Sam didn’t know how long he lay holding his brother on the cold concrete parking lot; not until Dean stirred in his arms with a small moan.

“Dean?” He called out softly, placing a hand against his chest lightly and letting his thumb rub soothingly across him.

Dean moaned once more, his eyes flickering rapidly before opening them slightly. “Dad?”

Grasping his brother from under his arms, he lifted him slightly so that he was propped up and Dean’s back rested against his chest. “No, Dean. It’s Sam. How are you feeling?”

He blinked for another couple of minutes, seemingly clearing his head before speaking. “Sammy?” Dean turned his head to look up at Sam. He stared, not speaking, and barely breathing as if he was searching for something that only he could see. With a little breath, he lifted a shaking hand to touch his brother’s face. Sam let him explore his face, watching him as he discovered the truth; Dean, as a nine year old, obviously hadn’t learned how to conceal his emotions like the twenty-seven year old had. It was like watching one of the students that he’d helped tutor learn a difficult concept—finally understanding the meaning of what he’d been teaching them.

“You weren’t lying, were you?” Dean was whispering, letting his hand drop back to his side.

Picking it back up and covering it with both of his, Sam just shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you like that. Are you alright?”

Dean didn’t answer. Sam didn’t think that he knew how to answer that question, at least not yet. “Alright, Dean. We don’t have to talk right now. Let’s just, you know, find a hotel.”

He helped him off the ground, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind and guiding him into the passenger side seat. Dean faced the window, resting his forehead against the cool condensation that had formed on the window, then with his finger drew little swirls in the glass while he hummed ‘Fight Fire With Fire’ by Metallica.

Sam drove, a smirk formed on his lips. Dean literally had been listening to the same band for almost eighteen years.

“Sammy?” He asked a few minutes later. Dean never turned, still facing the window, “Where’s dad?”

Sam swallowed, tightening his grip on the wheel. “He’s—um—on a hunt.”

Dean finally turned his head, his forehead and nose red from where he was pressed against the cold glass. “Looking for the monster who killed mommy?” His voice was full of something that Sam had never heard from his brother; it was fear.

It made Sam uncomfortable. “Yeah.” It was all he could say. “Listen, we can talk about this more tomorrow. We—I think we both need to get some sleep, Dean. I mean, you just got out of the hospital and you just passed out. I don’t want you to get upset.”

He neared another motel, flashing the turn signal to pull into the lot. “Dean, why don’t you just wait in the car? I’ll get us a room and then we’ll get cleaned up, alright?”

Sam waited for Dean to nod, then climbed out of the car to walk up to the desk. The room rental went smoothly, the clerk handing him a key card. Apparently, this motel actually had updated in the last few years. He walked back to the Impala, then slowed as he watched Dean through the window. Dean didn’t notice him as he huddled into a small ball, his knees against his chest as silent sobs racked his body. The passenger side visor was pulled down and the little lighted mirror illuminated the interior.

For a while, he stayed back, hid in the shadows feeling like a voyeur, as he watched his brother wipe his face, before turning back to stare through the window as if nothing had happened. Sam truly didn’t know what to do, but knew he had to do something. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the car and opened Dean’s door. Crouching in front of the door, he waited for Dean to look at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” It was said sadly.

First, Sam grabbed their bags, then returned to Dean. Helping him to his feet, Sam hooked his arm through Dean’s then walked him to their hotel room. He had managed to get them a double bed room. Thank god, he thought. Even though he and Dean had shared a bed before, he truly didn’t know how Dean would react if placed in that position so soon after that asshole’s assault.

Dean sat on the bed, staring at his shoes, while Sam rummaged through his bag for medical supplies. Holding out a roll of gauze, he walked back to Dean. “Dean, I’m going to change your bandage now.” It didn’t seem to phase his brother; he sat quietly as the bandage around his head was removed and the anti-biotic ointment and new gauze was placed on the healing cut.

He kneeled on the carpet, lifting Dean’s feet to help remove his sneakers. “I’ll get you a pair of sweats to wear, if you want to take your clothes off.” Sam watched as Dean struggled to remove his pants, after a few seconds, he took over the task with a professional ease, using the opportunity to give Dean a quick medical look-over without his knowledge. Dean was too sleepy to even notice. He ran his hand lightly down his chest, happy to notice that the damage caused by the rocksalt was healing.

Dean leaned back against the pillows of the bed, sort of flopping down. Sam pulled up the covers, tucking him in before turning to his own bed. Changing into his shorts and T-shirt, Sam lay down on his side, watching his brother as he slept.

What the hell am I going to do? Sam thought. It was a thought that kept him awake for hours before falling into a restless sleep.

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

A bright light from the rip in the curtain shined directly in Sam’s eyes. He threw a pillow over his face, moaning about how things seemed to work against him—even mother nature.

He threw the pillow at the end of his bed, rolling back over to see Dean’s empty bed. For the first few seconds, that fact didn’t phase him—after all, Dean needed his morning coffee and would drive across the country if needed to find the ‘perfect cup’. It was funny, because for a few minutes, Sam forgot. Or most likely, believed it all to be some sort of a horrible nightmare.

Sam wished that it lasted more than a few seconds, because right after that he was filled with nothing other than pure panic.

He shot up out of bed to run into the bathroom, praying that Dean would be in there washing up. He wasn’t, making his heart leap into his throat.

In his shorts and t-shirt, he flung open the front door to run towards the parking lot. The Impala was still there!

He stood there, in the middle of the parking lot, barefoot and practically in his underwear looking around frantically for his brother. He looked everywhere, not spotting him.

He stared at the road ahead of him, searching for any signs of where Dean had gone. There was a bus stop. Sam ran back to the room to get his clothes and the keys to the car. He’d find his brother. He had to.

Throwing on a pair of jeans, Sam dressed as quickly as he could without falling over. He grabbed the keys from the nightstand that was in between the two beds.

Suddenly, Sam felt a presence behind him. Whipping around, he felt the keys fall from his now slackened fingers. Mouth open, Sam gasped out the name of the person he and Dean had been searching for.

“Dad?”

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

The man stood in front of him. The only way to describe his father’s appearance was haggard. He looked completely exhausted; uncombed hair and wrinkled hair presented these facts.

John Winchester walked into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. “Sam,” he said quietly as he stared at the son he hadn’t seen since the young man walked out of his life nearly two and a half years ago. He inched closer to him, his arms raising as if he was going to hug Sam, but dropped to his side suddenly, aborting the gesture.

Surprise was an understatement at that moment in time. Sam was seriously floored. “Dad, are you alright? Where have you been? We’ve been searching for you for six months, Dad! We’ve been leaving messages everywhere.”

John rubbed his face tiredly, before walking away and turning his back. “Sam. I have no time for this. I came to let you and your brother know that I took care of Anderson. He’s not going to be a threat anymore.” He looked around the room as he spoke, taking in the ‘spartan’ look both his boys adopted, mostly due to his training.

Sam swallowed hard, getting upset. “What did you do to him? Is he dead?”

John turned to face him, his face emotionless, but his eyes sad. He scoffed before responding. “Do you really think that I’m a monster, Sam? You really think that I’d kill a human being?”

“I just don’t know what you’re capable of now, Dad. I mean, you disappear on us for months—just giving us damned text messaged coordinates to send us on your damned hunts.” It was honestly stated. Sam truly didn’t know what had gotten into the man he called his father. He never thought that he’d abandon them.

His father straightened, as if in ‘attention’ position. “I did what I had to do, Sam. I don’t need to explain myself to you. I gave you and Dean my orders and I expected you to follow them. Now, where is Dean?”

“Shit, Dean!” Sam smacked his head with his palm before bending over to grab the keys that he’d dropped earlier. “Dad! Dean’s—he got hurt and—god, I don’t know how to explain this—but he’s not himself. He’s run away and I’ve got to find him.”

Rushing past his father, Sam reached the front door of the motel room before an arm stopped his panicked flight towards the parked car. The force sent him spinning against a table, his butt cushioning the collision. “Dad, stop it! I need to find Dean.”

Personal space was invaded purposefully. “Sam. I want to know what’s going on.”

Sam pushed his father, using both hands. “There’s no time, Dad!”

The man pushed back, flinging Sam back against the table. “REPORT!” It was an order, one that Sam knew Dean would automatically answer. The problem was, he wasn’t his brother.

Putting up his hands in the universal ‘surrender’ sign, Sam nodded, hoping that the quicker he explained the situation, the faster he’d be able to search for his injured brother.

Gesturing to the seat across the table, he waited for John Winchester to sit before telling him succinctly what had happened at the Anderson Manor, leaving out the details of their previous disastrous—nearly deadly, hunt at the Roosevelt Asylum. John had sat listening to him, slumping in his seat and playing with his wedding ring when Sam reported Dean’s current mental condition.

“Dad,” the man lifted his chin from his chest to look into his son’s eyes, “We need to find Dean. He’s—Dad, he’s been through so much lately. I mean—he only has nine years of memories. Last night—the reality of EVERYTHING, well, it hit the both of us with a sledgehammer. When Dean runs off, usually it’s to a smoke-filled tavern filled with drunken gamblers. I have no idea where he’d go now.”

John had sat back in his chair, staring at his ring as if he was in a trance. He sat there for a few minutes, just thinking. Sam was practically vibrating in his chair, waiting for him. Finally, it seemed like a million years later, John stood up and spoke, “I’m confused, Sam. Did something else happen last night that you’re not telling me?”

Sam’s head tilted to the side, “What? No.”

“See, Sam, that’s why I’m confused.” He started pacing the room, before turning to face his youngest once again, “Are you sure that Dean’s run away?”

Hitting his palm flat against the table with frustration, Sam started huffing, “Dad! He’s not here! Of course, he’s run away and we’ve got to go find him.”

“No, we don’t, Sam.” It was said matter-of-factly.

Whipping his hand through his short hair, Sam was furious. “Dad, what the hell are you talking about? We have to go!”

John walked up to him, and placed his hand against his shoulder. “Sam, listen to me. I know your brother—Dean would never run away from you. NEVER, Sam. Not even as a child. Sam, Dean would never go anywhere without you. So, just sit down, don’t move and wait for him to get back.”

Sam sat, not because his father had told him, but because he needed to. His father was right. He couldn’t remember a single time throughout their entire childhood in which Dean wasn’t by his side, whether during the day or at night. It was Sam that instigated their separation in his early adolescent years—not wanting to ‘tag-along’ anymore—not Dean. He was tired of being the ‘Baby Sammy’ that followed his big brother, he wanted to be Sam Winchester, not Dean’s shadow.

“Dad, where are you going?” Sam called out. He had been so deep in thought that he didn’t notice his father opening the door to walk out.

With barely a glance behind him, John simple stated what he believed. “Sam, you and Dean don’t need me anymore. I’m tracking the monster that killed your mother—and your girlfriend.” He sighed, “I heard about it, and I’m sorry, Sammy. But I need to leave. I know the both of you will be fine without me.” He looked at his son once more before he left, “I usually tell this to Dean, but Sam, look after your brother.”

Closing his eyes at the sound of the door clicking shut behind him, Sam rested his head against his shaking arms. His head suddenly too heavy for him to lift. It wasn’t fair; their lives were just not fair. And for a moment, Sam imagined that this was what Dean had felt when he’d told him he was leaving him to go to Stanford.

He didn’t know how long he stay resting against the table; it could’ve been minutes or hours. Time had stopped, leaving Sam with nothing other than his own memories and thoughts. It wasn’t a day-dream, those were fun fantasies. This wasn’t a fantasy—there was nothing in his memory that would be considered ‘fun’. It was all duty, discipline and training. Their father’s idea of a ‘fun-family-vacation’ was a camping/hunting trip. It was probably the main reason that the both of them hated camping; it was something that had been forced upon them. A training camp, without the outside reliance of technology. Though, it brought a smile to his face to remember the games that his bored big brother would come up with while they were stuck out alone—‘survival training’—in the middle of the woods.

The door opened slowly. The noise jarred Sam from his thinking, his neck cracked as he rapidly lifted his head from the table. The sight of his brother’s sneakers as he pushed the door with them made Sam jump up and run over to the door. Dean was clutching two brown-paper bags in his arms, they were overflowing. Walking, over to the table, he grunted as he finally had somewhere to lay down the filled heavy bags before they ripped.

Sam watched him set down the bags. He had both hands covering his mouth, not wanting to start screaming at him the moment he walked in. Gulping a couple of times, Sam waited for Dean to turn back to him. “Dean,” he spoke softly, “Where were you?”

Dean looked up with wide eyes, not understanding. “I went to the corner store, Sam. There’s no food here and you’ve got to eat.”

“You were hungry?” Sam pointed to the chair, wanting them both to sit down before staring the serious part of their conversation.

He sat at the appointed chair, rummaging through the bag happily. “No. But I thought that you were. I got you some peanut butter and grape jelly. It’s your favorite.”

Sam put a gentle hand against Dean’s stopping him from his motions. “Dean. Why didn’t you wake me?”

Worry filled his now young looking face, “’Cause you were sleeping, Sammy. I didn’t want to wake you.” Dean put his other hand on top of his brother’s. “Are you mad at me?”

Completing the chain by putting his other hand on top, Sam shook his head ‘no’. “No, Dean. I’m not mad. I was worried about you. I thought that you had—uh—run away or gotten lost or something. Why didn’t you leave a note?” He smiled gently, trying to take the harshness out of the words.

“I was only gone for like an hour, Sam! I thought that I’d be back with breakfast before you even woke up.” He was arguing.

Dean always argued, Sam thought, shaking his head. Holding out a hand, he hoped to prevent it from escalating. “I still need to know where you’re going, Dean. It’s dangerous and I want to know, alright? Next time, I want you to tell me, even if you have to wake me.” He was frustrated, worried, and a little angry—not at Dean, but about the position he was now in.

His brother pulled away from him, turning his body around so that he faced in the other direction. His head drooped down, and he had lifted his legs so that they were pressed against his chest. Sam could see the stress running through his body as it tightened.

Sighing, Sam mentally kicked himself before getting up to kneel in front of his brother’s chair. “Dean? I’m sorry. I know that you were trying to help.”

Hiding his face, Dean mumbled softly, “I’m still your big brother, aren’t I, Sammy?” Lifting his tearstained face, Sam had never seen his brother look so upset.

Immediately, without hesitation, Sam answered, “Of course, you’re my big brother, Dean. Why would you ask that?”

Sniffling, Dean cried, “I’m supposed to take care of you when Dad’s not here, Sammy. He’s not here, so I have to make sure you eat, take a bath, and get to sleep on time. It’s my job. I’m your big brother.” He looked devastated. “But you don’t want me to take care of you anymore because I’m broken.” His lips quivered as more tears filled his eyes. Dean only let one sob escape before jumping out of his chair and running into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

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

Sam worriedly glanced at the closed bathroom door for the millionth time. Dean had run in there almost a half hour ago without any indication of when he was going to come out. He’d turned on all the water faucets full blast, so that the only sound that Sam could hear through the door was the sound of running water.

Pacing the small motel room, a mini-war raged in his mind: one side telling him to be patient and to let Dean have a little privacy, while the other side demanded he run in there to comfort him. Before the decision could be made, the door was slowly opened and Dean walked out. Sam walked over to meet him half way.

Dean’s face was red and blotchy, and he shuffled his bare feet on the carpet, staring at his toes. Ducking his head down in order to meet his shorter brother’s eyes, Sam reached out to him. Grasping his hands, Sam gently pulled Dean to the nearest bed, then pushed him to sit on its edge. He kneeled so that he could look into his downcast eyes. They were bloodshot and surrounded by dark rings under the lids. The hands he was holding trembled minutely. “Dean? Are you alright?”

After a noticeable lag, Dean finally focused on the man kneeling in front of him. He blinked a few times, “I don’t know.” He gulped, dropping his chin to rest on his chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I…” He let the sentence trail off, not knowing how to explain how he was feeling.

Sam spoke softly, “Dean, I promise you that it’ll be okay. I know that it’s overwhelming right now; that you feel out of control. But it’ll get better. I promise you, Dean, it’ll be better.” Dean didn’t respond, and quite frankly Sam didn’t think he had any energy left to. It only served to increase his worry.

Dean kept blinking slowly, as if he was going to fall asleep. He swayed forward, but quickly caught himself before he slipped off the bed. Sam quickly stood up and pushed him down to lay flat on the bed. “Dean? Dean, what’s wrong? How’s your head?” He ran his hand across the bandage; it was dry and didn’t have any blood on it.

His face was pale now, which only served to make the circles under his eyes darker. “I have a headache and it was making me dizzy, sorry.”

Sam closed his eyes. He wasn’t used to this—Dean was indestructible. Even after being shot through a wall, Dean never complained, never once confessed that he was physically hurt. Sam used to think that Dean would rather die than admit that he was in pain. It was a far cry than the brother in front of him now.

The brother in front of him had no memories of the last eighteen years. He was incredibly emotional—mostly sad and afraid the majority of the time. To top it off, the only thing that made sense to the boy was to take care of his little brother.

Unfortunately, it was becoming clear to Sam that Dean wasn’t even ready to take care of himself, never-the-less his twenty-two year old brother.

Gently, Sam checked his pulse, resting his fingers against the inside of the wrist. The rate was normal. “Dean, do you still feel dizzy when you’re lying down? Or do you feel better?”

He nodded slowly, licking his lips before answering. “Yeah. It’s better now. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

Sam rested his arm on his brother’s chest, moving his hand so that his forefinger and thumb raised his chin. “You don’t have to apologize to me, Dean. I’m your brother.” He swallowed hard before continuing, “Dean, I know that you’re used to taking care of me—you’ve been doing it since Mom died. But—what if it’s my turn now?”

Dean’s face filled with panic. He tried to sit up and pull away but Sam wouldn’t let him. He could feel Dean’s heart pounding against his arm. “No,” it was a cry.

“Dean, please, listen.” Sam was begging now. He leaned in closer bringing his head to rest on his brother’s shoulder like he used to as the little brother that Dean remembered, lying next to him on the bed. “You always take care of me—always. There is not a single time in my entire life that I don’t remember you being there when I needed you. But now, I want to do the same for you. I want to be the person that you count on and trust. I just don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to let me. Why, Dean?” As he spoke, the trembling only increased, the skin under his hands started to get cool and clammy, with light beads of sweat beading on his upper lip.

His reaction scared Sam. Dean looked as if he was going into shock. He threw a blanket over his now shivering form and began rubbing his hands across his body to warm him. “Dean?”

Dean’s teeth started to chatter softly, “Sorry, Sammy. I’ll be better, okay. Please, don’t leave.” He grabbed a hold of Sam’s arm with a fierce grip, bringing it close to his chest.

Sam gently pulled his arm away, “I’m not leaving you, Dean. I’m just going to get another blanket.” Sam got up and as quickly as he could, snatched the comforter from the other bed and covered his brother with it before lying down in his previous position.

“You’re not going to tell dad, are you Sammy? Please don’t tell him. I’m not a baby, I swear.” Dean looked at him, trying not to cry.

Sam ran his fingers across Dean’s cheek and forehead, trying to gauge his temperature. He was still cold and clammy. “I’m not going to tell dad. And I know that you’re not a baby. Why would you think that?”

His eyes seemed to fade, and he pulled himself into a tighter ball. “Dad says that only babies cry, Sammy. I’m not a baby. I’m not, I swear it. Don’t leave.”

Suddenly, Sam knew exactly why Dean was so terrified.

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

“Shit.” Sam murmured to himself after Dean had finally fallen asleep. His original fears about their close proximity caused by the clerk’s narrow-minded and bigoted outburst was apparently one-sided, because Dean refused to go to sleep unless Sam was lying next to him. Sam sighed softly, as a five year old little boy, he’d run into his brother’s bed almost every night, somehow knowing that his big brother would protect him from the monsters that hid under the bed and in the closets. It was comforting; Dean had never turned him away, just rolling over to let him snuggle against him for both warmth and safety. As that little boy, he’d never thought that Dean had needed his presence in the same way. It was funny what having your big brother revert back into a nine year old because of a severe head injury could do to perspective.

Staring at the sleeping innocent face, Sam whispered. Dean had forgotten so much, eighteen years of memories and experiences. “So, why the hell couldn’t you have forgotten that.”

Sam slowly slid off the bed, letting Dean settle before sitting himself down on his own bed. The memories came to him, unbidden. Ones that even now, nearly two decades later, made him squirm uncomfortably.

He could remember it so clearly, as if it had just happened, even though he’d only been five years old—it was ingrained; a well-taught, planned-out lesson from their father that neither boy could ever forget. Sam had been at home with a babysitter while Dean had been in school; their school system gave the kindergarteners half-days—letting the youngsters go home at noon. It was a gradual way to get the smaller children accustomed to the educational, social/peer, and physical requirements that they would need as they aged. For Sam, it was a wonderful freedom; a world without monsters, demons, and supernatural hunts. To him, it was fun. He couldn’t wait until he was like Dean—until he could go to school all day too.

The details of it were slightly vague to Sam. For example, he didn’t remember what the babysitter’s name was, nor what he or she had been doing before the front door to their apartment was flung open unexpectedly. All he could remember was that Dean had come running in at least three hours before he was supposed to come home. And that he had run in, sobbing.

Fear flooded Sam, as he’d watched his older brother rock back and forth, his breathing ragged. He remembered running to him—afraid that something had happened, that something had hurt his brother—and trying to bury himself in his brother’s embrace. Dean’s pain was his at that moment—Sam could remember crying along with him. The babysitter had immediately called their father, after trying unsuccessfully to coax the older boy into telling her what was wrong.

The loud bang of the front door opening frightened them both, making Dean jump and lift his tearstained face towards the door. John Winchester didn’t stop his stride until he reached them. He quickly dismissed the babysitter—though she looked as if she couldn’t get away fast enough, and waited until he heard the front door close behind her before lifting Dean up by the shoulders in order to shake him.

A cry flew from both of their lips in fear, their father looked furious. “Dean, what the hell is the matter with you? I got a call from the school telling me that you ran away! Why would you do something so stupid? Don’t you know that your teachers will call social services to check up on you? Do you want them to take your brother away?”

Dean’s teeth chattered and his voice shook, “No. I—I just-t had to go h--home.” Sam had been whimpering next to him, taking in the scene with large fearful eyes.

“Why?” John had roared, shaking him once more before letting go to pace the room. “Dean, you have one damn minute to answer me! I just let a poltergeist escape to get here. It’ll probably kill another person in its rampage because of you.”

The stricken look on Dean’s face was something that Sam didn’t think he’d ever forget. It had taken him more than a minute to answer and in that minute, something in their father had snapped. Their gentle protector was gone, leaving behind someone neither of them recognized outside of a bar.

He grabbed his oldest by the chin roughly, bringing them face to face, “Dean, report!”

It was exactly what it sounded like—an order. One that, since their mother’s death, they both had been trained to follow.

Sam shook his head at the memory, he’d honestly forgotten that Dean used to stutter as a child when he was upset. Dean had been so afraid; Sam didn’t know how his brother got the words out. From what he remembered, a group of older boys at Dean’s school had called him names and pushed him around. He’d refused to tell their father what the bullies had said and it only infuriated their father even more.

“You ran away because a couple of boys were ‘making fun’ of you? You left school, put our family in jeopardy, and came home crying like a little sissy baby because you couldn’t handle a couple of bullies?” The words were caustic and scathing hitting them both like a whirlwind. “I can’t believe that I wasted my time with this crap.”

Their father didn’t bother to even look back as he left them—left Dean on the ground where he’d dropped him forcefully. Dean crawled to his knees, before falling back on his butt. He looked completely shell-shocked, staring at the door blankly. Sam watched as the realization hit his brother—the realization that their father had left them both home alone, without protection, without a kiss goodbye or a ‘I’ll be right back, boys.’

His body started shaking as Dean started screaming for their father. “I-I’m Ssssorry,” he had cried, “I W-won’t do it ag-again. Please, don’t leave us. Please, daddy. Daddy, come back!”

Dean had cried all night for him, not moving an inch, not even when Sam crawled into his lap for comfort; not until John had returned the next afternoon.

Sam never knew what the bullies did or said to Dean to upset him as much as they did; they never spoke of the incident again. But neither boy slept alone for nearly a year afterwards.

Looking at his brother, he swore softly at their father. How could the man leave them? He had to have known Dean’s fear of being abandoned, especially after their mother’s death. John had constantly told them that they were the only ones left and that all they had was each other.

It was a struggle now. It was so hard that he honestly didn’t know what to do or how his father had done it. How did he raise them? How did he protect them and teach them things that they now took for granted? It was something that Sam wished he’d paid more attention to, instead of the anger he’d felt at their father for taking away the sense of normalcy.

Now, Sam had to raise Dean. He had to protect him, care and comfort him. Once again, their father had left when they needed him the most.

The sound of Dean’s moans shook Sam free of his angst-filled thoughts. Quickly, he walked back to his side before sitting on the edge. Placing his hand on his brother’s cheek, he softly called out to him. “Dean, wake up. It’s Sam.”

“Mmm.” He moaned once more, bringing up his hand to his head. Dean’s eyes fluttered before opening slightly. “Sammy?” He gave a slight cry, then quickly shut his eyes.

“Yeah, Dean. It’s Sam.” Concern made his voice sharper than he wanted. “What’s wrong?”

“My head…” it came out in a moan. “It hurts, Sammy.” Sam watched as Dean swallowed a couple times, his face turning a milky white color. “I’m gonna be sick.” Dean breathed. As he spoke, he quickly rolled off the bed to run into the bathroom.

Sam waited only a few seconds before following him to the small room, grabbing a cup of water for him to drink after he finished vomiting. The sounds of his brother’s sickness made Sam turn slightly green. After Dean had emptied out the contents of his stomach, Sam handed him the cup. He’d barely drank a slip before the nausea returned making him dry heave into the porcelain bowl.

Rubbing his back, he waited until Dean got his breath back. “You okay?”

His brother shook his head ‘no’. “It’s too bright in here, Sammy. It’s making my head hurt.”

Sam rested his hand on his brow, using it to comfort him and to check for a fever. He was okay, well, not okay, but he didn’t have a fever. It worried him. “Where does it hurt?”

He touched his temples and eyes. “Here. Make it stop, Sammy. Please.” He gulped a couple more times.

The pleading made Sam’s heart stop. He wished with all of his heart that he could take away the pain from his brother—to wave a magical wand and heal him, but it wasn’t within his power. The only thing he could do was to comfort him. Sam moved so that his back was resting against the bathtub and then pulled Dean to him so that his back was resting against his chest. Dean’s head was limp, so Sam adjusted it comfortably to his shoulder. As he moved him, he whispered softly, “It’s okay, Dean. Just breathe, okay? I’m here and I’m not going to leave you.”

Placing his hand gently against Dean’s belly, he rubbed little circles until he felt the muscles under his fingers relax. Soon, the rest of his body followed, allowing him to doze in his little brother’s arms.

He knew that Dean wasn’t sleeping, and couldn’t help but think back to his earlier thoughts. Finally, the temptation was too fierce for Sam to resist anymore. It was something that he’d never ask the twenty-seven year old, knowing that Dean would quickly change the subject. “Dean?” He waited for him to respond.

“Hmm?” Dean hummed.

Sam let his hand move over Dean’s heart, letting the heartbeat against his palm sooth his turbulent emotions. “Dean, do you remember the day that you ran home from school?”

“Yeah.” The answer was softly spoken.

“What did those boys say to you?”

He didn’t answer at first. Sam was afraid that he’d pushed too hard, too fast—suddenly knowing how critical their relationship and trust was.

His thoughts were in so much turmoil that he nearly missed Dean’s response.

“They—They said I was a fr—freak.” In his stressed out state, the stutter returned, “That y—you and I were mm-mother-less fr-freakss.”

Sam bit his lip, trying to keep himself from becoming angry—after all it had been eighteen years ago. “Do you know why they said that, Dean?”

Dean shook his head, before pressing his cheek against Sam’s neck. Sam squeezed Dean’s shoulder gently. “Well, I bet you and your friends at school got those guys back, huh?”

He felt Dean shift, surprised to find him looking up at him. “What’s the matter, Dean?”

“I—I don’t have any friends, Sammy.” Dean looked at the designs in the tiles, tracing them with his fingertips. It was as if he didn’t want to disappoint his little brother.

Sam moved so that they were facing each other, he held his chin—gently, unlike their father had done—until their eyes met. “What do you mean, Dean? I mean, who did eat lunch with or walk to class with?”

“Nobody.”

It was hard for Sam to understand. There was no way that Dean had ‘nobody’. There was no way that he’d gotten through school without a single friend. Gulping, he thought back to his childhood—he couldn’t remember a single ‘friend’ of Dean’s. “No one? Who did you talk to about school or your day?”

Dean looked upset, “You. And Dad. You’re my friend, Sammy. We’re best friends.”

Sam had to smile, “Yeah, definitely best friends.” Dean smiled back, before wincing at his head. “Your head still hurting?”

“A little bit.”

Sam took a breath, standing up before pulling Dean to stand with him. He tried to get him up as slowly and smoothly as he could, not wanting to make him dizzy. “Come on. Let’s get out of this bathroom.”

He walked behind Dean, a hand against his back to guide him back into the bed. It seemed that ever since they’d left the hospital, all Dean could do was sleep. That was—excluding his little trip to the corner store. Sam could just hope that he’d be okay after a good night sleep.

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

Sam blinked and wiped at his eyes with frustration. There was a saying, don’t trust everything you read on the internet. The saying had never been more appropriate.

After six hours of non-stop searching on their laptop, Sam had miraculously come up with nothing, not one single thing that would help him take care of his brother. There were literally 19,100,000 websites that had ‘parenting tips’ and none (zero) had any practical advice that fit his current situation. Hell, not a single ‘expert’ child psychologist agreed with the other. One doctor claimed that structure and creating a routine was the best way to make a child feel safe and secure, while the other claimed that it was unrealistic in this day and age and that it would ‘cripple’ the child emotionally and cause them to fear any unexpected deviation of the so-called ‘routine.’

He laughed softly at himself, huffing slightly. A routine. Their routine centered on Dean and how bad his headache was that day. It was, as far as Sam knew, almost constant. He couldn’t remember a single moment of the day when Dean didn’t squint at the bright lights or touch his head when he thought Sam wasn’t looking. On good days, Sam would take Dean outside for lunch and they would play basketball at the park or go shopping for junk food. On the so-so days, Sam would have to watch Dean and then force him to sit in a shaded area to take break when he stared to waver. The other days, however, the days in which Dean couldn’t even get out of bed—couldn’t open his eyes or even move without crying in pain—those were the days that even the thought of creating a routine seemed ridiculous.

But most of all, it was hard to see his strong, know-it-all big brother afraid. Dean tried so hard to pretend that he was alright; that he understood the things that were happening to him and around him that the only time Sam knew that something was wrong was after Dean had worked himself up into a frenzy of worry and fear.

Sam’s face turned a shade of red as he thought about the ‘talk’ he’d had with Dean regarding his body and it’s reactions to certain situations. He had to explain why the young waitress at the bar leaned over to brush up against him as she took his order and why his body reacted to her advances. Dean sat on the bed staring at him with wide eyes as Sam explained human reproduction and their society’s rules regarding sexuality, though he probably wouldn’t forget it after the same waitress slapped him across the face after he inadvertently alerted her to his subconscious interest.

Of course, Sam had patterned his little speech similar to the one Dean himself had given him on his twelfth birthday. Dean, however, hadn’t been nervous or uncomfortable. He spoke confidently, making jokes about not having to hide his playboy magazines anymore as he talked to his little brother about sex. Sam remembered how embarrassed he’d felt, a little bit grossed-out by the entire thing, but most of all remembered how Dean, in complete seriousness, had told him to come to him if he had any questions or problems.

There was a time in his life, mainly when he was with Jessica, that he imagined getting married, having a baby and becoming a father. Sam had thought those dreams, the ones in which he would be responsible for the growth, protection and care of a child, had died along with her. But now, the thing he feared most was making a mistake with Dean.

The sex issue was the least of his worries. Dean had this—aura of sexuality—for lack of a better term that Sam had gotten used to. Women had always seemed to flock to him. Since his accident, that aura dissipated beneath the insecurity, fear and pain. Sam blamed it on women’s intuition, but the come-ons were less frequent now, in some cases, women purposefully ignored his brother and now focused on him instead. It was as if they somehow knew that Dean was an innocent child.

Money was starting to get tight. The motel room they shared for three weeks was starting to become a rather large expense; they really didn’t have eighty dollars a night to waste. The credit limit on “Samuel Parker’s” card was only $2000. With a little more than $1600 already spent on just their room, never mind food, water, and clothing, it wouldn’t be long until the manager kicked them out.

Dean was the ‘money-maker’ and despite the fact that he earned it in not-so honest ways, he definitely provided for them both for the duration of their journey. Sam promised himself, he’d never ever again make fun of Dean’s hustling abilities—though his thoughts grew despondent once again as he realized that Dean had forgotten that skill, like so many of his others.

He’d taken his big brother for granted and now, all he wanted was Dean—the man he was—to reappear.

Sam stood suddenly, running his hands through his messy hair. They both needed a haircut that was for sure. Dean was starting to look scruffy. He would’ve hated that—Dean was usually obsessed with keeping his hair currently fashionable, despite his 80’s taste in clothing and music.

What he needed was a job.

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

A week later

Walking around the stacks, Sam ducked his head and made sure Dean was still sitting at the table where he’d left him. Smiling, he laughed to himself as he watched Dean bob his head up and down to the music blaring out of the old cassette tape headphones he’d bought from the Salvation Army. (The electronic stores didn’t even sell them anymore.)

Picking up another stack of books left on the table from the group of students who’d come to the library to study for their literature exam, he promised himself to ALWAYS put his books away where he found them. He’d applied to work at the small university’s library and had assumed that they’d assign him the check out desk; Sam never realized how much a librarian had to do throughout the day. The stacks of books he had to re-stock on the shelves were endless, as soon as he put one away, ten more would be lying around.

It was a perfect job otherwise. Dean could stay with him the entire time as long as he was quiet, of course. And the head librarian understood that he might have to leave if his brother wasn’t feeling well. He was paid about nine dollars an hour to stack books and clean up. He was the only man working there—it was a plus in his case. The elderly and middle-aged women who worked with him treated him and his brother with a motherly fashion. Everyday, fresh cookies would be brought in for them as well as ‘toys’ for Dean. They regarded it as their jobs to make sure both of them ate and were taken care of. Sam felt his face flush as he remembered the kind gift that had been left for him in his locker. Someone, though he’d guessed it was ALL of them, had left an envelope with two hundred dollars for them as a gift.

The money was a god-send. It saved them from having to sleep in the car one more night. It saved them from having to find a shelter from the cold nights.

Sam stared at the clock, then returned to check on Dean. He walked over, making sure to stand in front of him, not behind as to not startle him. “Hey, Dean. Ready to get out of here?”

Dean pulled the headphones away from his ears, smiling. “Yes! I was getting bored, Sammy.”

“Well, you look as if you were having fun listening to your tapes.” He commented matter-of-factly as he handed Dean his jacket.

Dean slipped the leather jacket on, “I love that song. Metallica Rocks!” He started walking towards the door, but was stopped by Marcia, the head librarian.

“Dean! Hold it right there, young man.” Her deep voice echoed through the quiet building.

With an about-face, Dean flung himself around to stare at her. “Yes, Miss Marcia?” He fidgeted.

She walked over to him, a covered paper plate in her hands. She set it on the table before pulling him by the jacket and zippering it up to his neck. “It’s cold out there and you don’t want to catch a cold! And where’s the hat I made for you?” Sam covered his mouth to keep from smiling at the scene. Dean looked guilty, but pulled out the multi-colored hand-knitted hat, complete with ‘flare’. She took it from his resisting grasp, then pulled it over his ears. “I made you both some chicken and vegetables. I expect you to eat it right up and get some meat on your bones.”

Marcia finished with Dean, before turning towards Sam. She waggled her wrinkled fingers at him, “I expect you both to get a good night sleep now, you hear? Alright, Sam, I’ll see you tomorrow. Stay out of trouble until then.” She said this with a glint in her eyes.

Sam leaned over and kissed the sweet old woman on the cheek, “We will, Miss Marcia. Have a good night and thank you.”

He took the offered plate and walked out with Dean. Dean kept staring back at the door, waiting until Miss Marcia was out of sight before ripping of the offending hat. “I HATE this hat, Sammy! Why does she make me wear it?”

This was the same argument they had every night. “Because she cares about you and doesn’t want you to get sick, so just be nice and wear the hat.”

Dean stared at the hat with dread, but put it back on. “Fine, I’ll wear the dumb hat—but if you—.”

His words were cut short by Sam’s cell phone. Sam pulled it from his pocket and answered it. “Hello?”

“Sam—need you—get out—here—mission is in jeopardy.” The jumbled message was cutting in and out.

Sam’s heart jumped into his throat. “Dad?” Dean’s eyes widened. “Dad, you’re cutting out. Where are you?”

“Sam, come home—demon kill—.” The line cut off with a buzzing, leaving Sam with a deep feeling of dread.

Turning away from Dean; he couldn’t face the questioning glances right now. ‘Shit,’ he thought, ‘what the hell is happening now? And why do we have to go back home—again?’

Dean walked around him so that he could look at his face. “Sammy? What’s wrong with dad? Is he okay?”

Sam put his arm around Dean’s shoulders, rubbing them slightly. “Yeah, Dean. Dad’s okay, but he needs my help. We’re going to have to leave.”

Dean nodded, understanding. “When?” It was asked quietly, his eyes downcast.

Cupping his brother’s jaw to lift his face, Sam gave him a sad smile. “As soon as we can, Dean. Tonight, if you’re feeling up to it. How’ s your head?” He ran his hand over his head, giving him a small reassuring pat.

“I’m okay, Sammy.” He stared at the old building, “What about Miss Marcia and Miss Betty and Miss Anne?”

Sam sighed, dropping his hands and mirroring Dean’s pose. It was the part he hated the most, leaving behind friends he’d made. “Well, I’m going to call Miss Marcia tomorrow morning and tell her that I won’t be coming into work. And maybe, once we’re done we can come back and visit, huh?”

“Okay, Sammy.” Dean put his cold hands in his pocket, then went over to the passenger side of the car and climbed in.

It took Sam a few seconds longer to get himself to move. Typical, the minute he’d created a safe environment for them both, their father disrupted it.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, he started the engine, putting aside all of his doubts. Their father needed HIM—and he’d help, no matter how he felt.

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

“Are we there yet?”

Sam huffed, biting his lip to keep from screaming out with frustration and annoyance. Dean had asked the same whining question every few minutes for the last hour and a half. Taking a deep breath, Sam strived to remain calm and collected. “No, not yet, Dean. We’ve still got another five or six hours depending on traffic. Okay?”

Dean was wriggling in his seat uncomfortably, making small noises. “Okay, Sammy.” He answered quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Sam turned in his seat slightly, taking his eyes off the seemingly unending highway to look at his brother. Taking a few seconds to study him, it was fairly clear by the tension in his body—the way he squeezed his eyes shut and was taking in short gasping breaths and swallowing –that Dean wasn’t feeling well.

Guilt flooded his body; he’d been so focused on reaching their father that he hadn’t noticed Dean’s decline. “Dean...” The passing sign indicated that it was twenty miles to the next exit. “If you can hold on for about twenty more minutes, we’ll stop and take a break. Okay?” He moved one of his hands from the wheel to take one of Dean’s. Squeezing it slightly to gain his attention, he looked into his squinting eyes. “And don’t ever be sorry, alright? I should’ve noticed…”

Dean shook his head, “It’s my fault.”

Looking at him with confusion, Sam questioned his last statement. “What do you mean? What’s your fault?”

For a minute, Sam didn’t think that Dean was going to answer him. He just sat back in his seat, staring out of his window, watching as the trees, posts, signs, and road passed them by. When he actually answered, his voice was so soft that Sam almost missed the spoken word.

“Everything.”

For not the first time in his life, Sam wondered exactly what was in his big brother’s head. Scrubbing his hand over his mouth, he decided to pull over to the shoulder of the highway and give Dean his complete attention. “Dean?”

For a few minutes, the only sounds that could be heard in the car were the sounds of the passing vehicles. Twisting in his seat, Sam waited his brother out, knowing that if he pushed him right now, he’d only bottle up his emotions and pretend that he was okay.

Dean sat slumped against the seat, biting his knuckles. Sam watched as tears pooled in eyes, before furiously scrubbing them away with the back of his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was harsh from the attempt at holding his emotions at bay. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“Sorry? What for, Dean?” As far as Sam knew, Dean hadn’t done anything wrong. Hell, remembering all the times Dean got in trouble as a child, he’d considered his good behavior as a mixed blessing. Even though he was easier to care for when he listened and followed the rules that Sam set for him, it meant that Dean was afraid to break the rules; that Dean was afraid of what would happen if he did.

“I’m sorry that you have to take care of me. You shouldn’t have to be burdened with a retard…” Dean’s lips started to quiver as he tried to continue. “You should’ve just left me at the hospital.”

Time stopped, the world slowed down, and even the rush of the cars speeding past them had no more meaning. With a hard gulp, Sam tried to force down the heart that was now beating rapidly in his throat. His next response was fueled with panic and anger; Roughly, he grabbed Dean by the shoulders, pulling him straight and looking him in the eyes. “Dean! Why would you even think that? How could you ever believe that I’d just leave you! I’m your brother, Dean. Did someone tell you that? I mean, why would you think that, Dean?”

The shoulders under his grasp were shaking as Dean’s breaths started to come out in small gasps. “Th-the kids at the p—park ssaidd I wass a re-retard. And Billy’s m-mom said that—she said that y-you—that I wass a b-bu-burden to you. That I should be—in a fac-ity.”

Sam’s face turned pale white as he thought of how hurt Dean must’ve been hearing that. “Oh, Dean. No…that woman, she’s wrong.” Loosening his grip, Sam wiped at the free-flowing tears streaming down his brother’s face. With a tenderness he hadn’t felt towards anyone since Jessica, he gently kissed his forehead. “Dean, listen to me.” He waited until he felt Dean’s attention on him, “I love you, okay? You’re my brother; My ONLY brother. I’d never leave you like that. You are exactly where you belong, alright? You’re by my side, where you’re supposed to be.”

Dean leaned his head against Sam’s shoulder, a difficult task in the small car until they both left the world right itself again—the world that encompassed just the two of them.

For a moment, Sam forgot that they were parked on the shoulder of a busy highway. The sound of a police car’s siren pulling up behind them made Sam swear softly. “Shit.”

He gently, but quickly pushed Dean to his side of the car and motioned him to wipe his face and put on a fake smile. The officer walked over to his side of the car and motioned him to open the window.

Sam sighed, but opened the window. “Afternoon, officer.”

The elderly gentleman stared at the both of them with suspicion. “Son, is there a reason why you’re parked in an emergency only stop zone?”

Sam gave a small smile, “I’m sorry, officer, but my brother was feeling car sick, so I pulled over—you know, just in case. I didn’t want the car to get messed up.”

The officer patted the car softly with a gloved hand, “Yeah, I know what you mean. When I was about you boys age, I had myself a little beauty like this one.—I’ll let you off with a warning this time.” He looked past Sam to look at Dean. Shaking a finger at him, he warned, “And you, young man, I hope that you’ve learned your lesson about drinking. At least you had enough sense not to drive… You two get going now. And drive safe!”

Sam gave the man a sloppy salute, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” With that, he started the car and continued their trek.

---------

Sam was practically vibrating with frustration and anxiety. He rubbed his forehead and ran his hand over his mouth for the millionth time since he’d pulled up to the rest area, as he waited for Dean to complete his business. What was supposed to be a six hour drive to Lawrence, Kansas had turned into two days from hell.

After about four hours in the car, Dean had finally had enough. He pulled on his brother’s sleeve, whispered that he didn’t feel very well, and then proceeded to throw up all over himself and the car. Dean was completely mortified, ignoring any and all of Sam’s attempts to cheer him up after he spent three hours cleaning up both Dean and the car. Unfortunately, the sick smell permeated the seats, and knowing that Dean (the older Dean) would’ve had a heart attack; at the end, Sam pulled into a Kissmart and paid the auto-cleaners thirty bucks to deodorize and disinfect his brother’s most prized possession. Meanwhile, he took Dean across the street to a Wal-Mart to buy him some new clothes.

An angry laugh escaped him; the fates had shown him Jessica’s death days before it had happened. He wished for that kind of foresight when it came to Dean. He slapped his forehead, gritting his teeth—he should’ve remembered that harsh fluorescent lights (the kind of lights department stores use) could trigger a migraine in certain people. The fact that Dean had already had a headache from the car ride should’ve been his first clue that Dean wasn’t up to a store filled with loud obnoxious customers, flickering lights, claustrophobic aisles, and smelly perfumes.

Of course, Dean wouldn’t let him know about it; of course not, this was Dean! He just clamped up, tight lipped until finally, the pain broke through his stubborn determination and he’d practically collapsed at the registers.

The sixteen year old girl who was ringing them out, screeched and immediately called her manager. The manager, a middle aged man wearing a mustard stained shirt ran up to them; smiling at them condescendingly, trying to make sure that his store was in no way at fault for Dean’s collapse. It had taken all of Sam’s skills to get the man to back off; they didn’t need an ambulance—the mere mention of a hospital had sent his brother into a panic, afraid that Sam was ‘getting sick’ of taking care of him and wanted to send him back.

The manager reassured him that their purchase, a t-shirt and jeans, would be taken care of by the company and hurriedly sent them on their way.

Dean was as pale as a corpse, and that wasn’t an exaggeration. The latest migraine attack lasted nearly seventeen hours—the only relief for him was lying in a dark quiet room, not moving, not speaking for fear of sending another wave of agony to stab at his brain.

Sam gritted his teeth as he watched his big brother writhe in pain once again; there was nothing, absolutely nothing that he could do to help him. He just watched and prayed to all of the healing entities that he knew for Dean to finally fall into a healing slumber.

Whispering a quiet ‘thank you’ as Dean’s breath evened out and he slept relatively soundly throughout the rest of the night. Unfortunately, sleep didn’t find him as easily.

Staring at the silver cell phone, he willed it to ring—willed their father to send them stupid co-ordinates or a short voice message to sent them to anywhere, Hell, he’d even go to Smallville, Kansas! if he would only just call!

There was a small war brewing inside of him. One side wanted to rush to help their father—if he’d found the monster that had murdered his mother and girlfriend… The other side wanted to do nothing but stay in a quiet town, safe and comfortable, while he raised his brother in a life without the supernatural craziness that always had surrounded it.

Sam promised himself, as he watched Dean in the hospital—he would become his number one priority. Everything from that point on was for Dean’s sake—to protect him, to raise him, and to make him safe. So, it was hard for him to discover that in the end, their father always won. It was his way—even without his presence, he was still an influence.

So, as soon as Dean was mobile, he packed them up and started on the road back home.

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

Lawrence, Kansas

Sam pulled up to the front of their childhood home with a heavy heart. He watched as Jenny’s children played in the front yard. Her daughter, Sari laughed as she and her two little friends drove their Barbie dolls around in their toy car. Sari’s little brother seemed content in his playpen, sucking his bottle and staring up at the clouds.

As he climbed out of the car, he couldn’t help but imagine how things might have been different if their mother hadn’t died. How he and Dean could’ve played in the yard as their mother laughed on the phone, keeping an eye on them from the living room window. Their father would come home for lunch, his clothing smelling like grease from the garage that he owned. They would run up to him for a hug, while he spun them around with a huge smile on his face. Mom would run out of the kitchen, wearing an apron to kiss her husband and rush him to wash up in time for a home-made lunch.

It could’ve all been so—normal.

Shaking his head—there was no point to wishing for something that could never be—he took a breath, then walked over to Dean’s side to open the door for him, child lock still in place. Dean crawled out, his eyes wide as he stared at the white house that had been their home.

Sari saw them, smiled, and then ran over. “Dean. Sam. Hi.” She threw herself at Dean’s legs, giving him a quick hug before doing the same to Sam. “Mom’s inside. Come on.” Grabbing hold of Dean’s hand, she pulled him towards the front door.

Sari stopped short as Dean pulled his hand roughly from hers, backing up; his breathing harsh, coming out in gasps as quickly as he paled.

“No, please.” Absolute fear saturated the nearly silent plea.

Sam quickly kneeled in front of the little girl, giving her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sari, honey, why don’t you go and play with your friend. We’ll come inside in a few minutes, alright?”

Once the child had run off, nothing prevented him from going to Dean. He was shaking.

“Dean?” Sam spoke gently, afraid of scaring him further. He stepped in front of him, blocking the house from his view. Dean didn’t speak, he just whimpered.

Ignoring Jenny’s approach, Sam cupped Dean’s face, pulling his eyes away from the house. “Dean, listen to me. It’s alright.”

“Dean, Sam. What a surprise!” Jenny’s voice rang out from behind Sam. When neither of them answered her, she picked up the baby before walking closer. “Is everything alright? God, Dean. You look as you’ve seen a ghost!”

Sam spoke, not turning to look at her, “Jenny, could you please just give us a few minutes?” She nodded, then turned away, motioning for the girls to follow her inside for cookies.

“Dean?” He asked again and wasn’t surprised by the lack of answer. Instead, put his arm around his shoulders, pulling him back to the car. He opened the passenger side door, then forced him down into the seat, facing him opposite the house.

His color seemed to be coming back slowly, as Dean blinked back to awareness. “Sammy,” he gasped, “please, please don –don’t make me…don’t make me go in there.”

The words Dean had spoke in the hotel room the first time they had gone home now echoed in Sam’s mind. ‘First you tell me you’ve got the shining…then you tell me I’ve got to back home. Especially… when I swore to myself I’d never go back there.’ Sam had never truly understood why he had said that. Nothing seemed different, and Dean had never told him how afraid he been to come back home. A tear came to his eye as he suddenly realized how brave his big brother truly was; Dean must’ve been terrified, but he never let it shake him, not even when both of their lives were in danger.

He took hold of his hands, rubbing them to get his attention as he kneeled by the door. “We don’t have to go in. Alright?”

Relief flooded his body, making the older boy sag against the seat. “Okay."

“Dean?” he asked once Dean’s breathing slowed back down to its normal rate, “why don’t you want to go inside?”

“We can’t go inside because there’s a monster. It killed mommy.” It was whispered, as if he was telling a secret.

Sam gaped at him. “Dean! Do you know what it is? The monster? Did you see it?”

Dean shrunk in on himself, wrapping his arms around his head. “I don’t wanna’ go in there, please.”

“Dean, I told you…You don’t have to go in.” Sam took another look at the house that was the root of their tragedy. “Listen, I’m going to talk to Jenny and I’ll be right back.”

“NO!” Dean’s hand was lightening, grabbing Sam’s before he could stand. It almost toppled him over, but he was able to maintain his balance. “Don’t go! Don’t leave me, please. Please, Sammy. Don’t go inside. It’ll hurt you.”

The memory of the electric cord wrapping around his neck, strangling him made Sam shiver slightly. He looked into Dean’s eyes; Did Dean remember the poltergeist—their mother’s sacrifice to save them? Or was the memory of watching their childhood home burn, of having to carry out his baby brother from the grips of red hot flames still vivid in the nine year old?

Sam let his hands slid across the trembling shoulders, pulling him to his chest and then wrapped his arms tightly across him in his attempt to calm him.

As he held his brother, his mind could not stop questioning this new information. Did Dean remember something?

There was only one person who could answer that question. And he could only hope that Dean remembered her.

---------

“Hey, guys. I thought you might like some cookies before my little cookie monsters eat them all,” Jenny’s voice startled both of them. Sam whipped around quickly, tensing momentarily before relaxing to smile back at the young mother holding out a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

Ritchie was literally attached to his mother’s leg, as he stared up at the two boys, his eyes wide. His big sister was sitting near the tree with her friends, resuming their earlier doll party.

“Thanks, Jenny. They look great.” Sam thanked her, faking a smile. He knew that he’d never be able to eat a chocolate chip cookie ever again; the taste and smell of Jessica’s ‘missed you, love you’ gift was forever entangled in his mind with the sight of her burning body above his bed. To be polite, he took a cookie and handed it to Dean. Dean looked surprised, hesitantly taking a small bite of the cookie. “I hope that things are going better for you now…in the house, I mean.”

Jenny reached down to pull her wiggling son into her arms, “Oh, it’s wonderful Sam. Thank you. So, I hope that you don’t mind my asking, but what are you two doing back here?”

Sam grimaced, “Uh, my dad called us—told us to come home; something about a demon. Though, honestly, I’m not sure—.” Dean grabbed his shirt sleeve, drawing his attention. He turned to Dean, mentally slapping his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Dean. Um, this is Jenny. She, uh, she lives in our old house.” He pointed to the little girl giggling, “That’s her daughter, Sari and this,” nodding to the baby, “is Ritchie.”

“Hi.” Dean waved, then shrunk back behind his brother.

Taking a deep breath, Sam explained to the confused woman in front of him. “Dean—he has a head injury and doesn’t remember you –or much of anything to be honest.”

She gasped, “Oh, my god. I’m sorry, Dean. Is—Is there anything I can do for you? I mean, if you need to look around your childhood home or anything like that…”

“No!” Dean jerked away, the cookie he’d been nibbling falling to the ground. “No, I don’t wanna go. Sammy, you promised.” He was poised to run, fight or flight instincts overruling reason.

Reacting quickly, Sam grabbed him around the waist before he could run out into the traffic. “Easy, Dean.” He leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Its okay. We’re not going inside. We won’t go inside. Aright?”

It took a few minutes for Dean to calm down, “Okay,” he breathed.

Jenny looked on, a worried frown on her face as she held the baby closer to her. “I didn’t mean to upset you Dean. I’m sorry.”

Sam reassured her, “It’s alright, Jenny.” Then turning to Dean, “Dean, why don’t you go and see what the girls are doing?” He gave a tight smile, motioning towards the group of kids playing under the tree.

Dean looked upset, but did as he was told, walking slowly towards the little girls before kneeling down next to them. They looked happy to have another playmate, immediately giving him the “Ken” doll and proclaiming him “Barbie’s boyfriend.” Dean glared at them, pouting, but gave in – only agreeing to play if he could ‘drive’ the car.

Sam laughed under his hand as he watched them a little while. It was funny how Dean let the little girls have their own way, only rolling his eyes at their ‘bossiness’. Jenny stood beside him, rocking the baby to sleep in her arms as he leaned his head against his mother’s shoulder. “Oh, Sam,” she breathed, “what happened?”

The laugh became a cry before Sam could mask it. Dean’s eyes, even from across the yard, found his immediately, concerned. He jumped to his heels, ready to run over if Sam needed him. ‘I’m okay,’ he mouthed to his brother, smiling warmly at him for the first time since they’d arrived when Dean sat back down to make crashing noises as the Barbie convertible collided roughly with the Barbie jeep. The girls started hitting him, taking the Barbie dolls away from the ‘dumb boy’.

“Dean! Don’t crash their cars!” Sam hollered, before motioning Jenny to walk with him towards the back yard, further away from the playing children, so that they were out of their field of view.

He had to bite his lip to keep from crying in front of Jenny. “There was—an attack and Dean got hit on the head three times in less than a week. The last time, it caused some—damage. Yeah, um, Dean—he’s, ah, well, he only has nine years of memories. So, essentially, he’s a nine year old boy. He doesn’t remember anything from the past eighteen years.”

Jenny stopped in her tracks, a hand flying to her mouth. She had tears in her eyes. “Oh, Sam. I’m so sorry.” She adjusted her hold on Ritchie, moving him so that she could free an arm. Jenny reached out and pulled the twenty two year old against her other shoulder, hugging him tightly—comforting him.

It was that comfort, that feeling that someone else cared about the well-being of his brother that finally broke Sam’s defenses. It was as if a flood gate had opened as he sobbed quietly on the kind woman’s shoulder. She just held him, rubbing his hair, making soothing noises until he felt better. Lifting his head, he wasn’t surprised to see the tears streaming down her cheeks as well. He wiped at his dripping face with the corner of his shirt sleeve. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to – to do that. I just—no one else really cared, you know—about Dean, I mean. The lives we live—there aren’t many people who really know us, know what we do, so—so, thank you—for caring about him.”

“Sam, you and Dean saved our lives. You saved my children—my family, when you could’ve just walked away from us like—like my husband did. But you and your brother didn’t. You stayed—you protected us from that—that monster that had taken over my house. Not many people would’ve done that for us. But the both of you did—and that makes you my friends—my family. Trust me, Sam; I care about what happens to my family.” She spoke with such sincerity that it nearly brought Sam to tears again. “Is there anything that—.”

“No,” Sam interrupted, his voice still choked up. “There’s not. But thank you. Truly.”

She smiled faintly, re-adjusting the baby again. “You’re welcome, Sam.” She wiped her face, breathing harshly once, before walking back over towards the front yard just in time to watch Sari and her friends jumping on Dean to tickle him.

Sam laughed—Dean was rolling on the grass laughing, trying to gently fight off the attacking little girls. “I’m sorry,” he laughed hysterically; “I’ll put it back on. Okay? Okay? I’ll put it back on!”

Jenny shook her head, handing Ritchie to Sam before running over to pull the girls off. “Sari!”

The little girl instantly stood up, indignant. “Mom! Dean ripped off Ken’s head!”

She had to squint at that one, rotating to give Dean the ‘mom’ glare. “Dean… did you rip off Ken’s head?”

Dean guiltily looked at the grass in front of him, before looking up at the frowning mother. His mouth formed a half-smile that Sam recognized as the ‘I’m completely innocent’ look, “It was an accident. I’m sorry.” He picked up the doll’s head and its body, the doll made a small popping noise as the head was inserted back into the socket. He handed the doll back to Sari, before standing up to go back to his brother’s side.

Sam shook his head at his brother’s antics, handing the baby back to Jenny when she held out her arms. “Dean, tell the girls that you’re sorry, and wait in the car—we’ll be leaving in a couple minutes.”

Dean nodded, the hurriedly apologized before running over to the car. He picked up his cassette player, slipping the head-phones over his ears as if he’d never been so bored in his life than playing with the little girls.

Huffing at his brother, Sam turned towards the family, “Jenny. Again, thank you. We’re going to stop over at Missouri’s for a little while… we’ve still got a lot of work to do—find our dad…” he took a deep breath, before smiling at Sari. “Sari, it was good to see you again. Play safe and take care of your mom and little brother, okay?”

Sari jumped up and down, hugging Sam’s legs with a giggle before running back over to play with her friends. “Bye, Sam. Bye, Dean.” She called out over her shoulder.

“Bye, Sari.”

He held out his hand to Jenny, holding it for a moment, letting her lend him her strength. Everything was going to be okay—it might not be perfect, or even normal, but it’d be okay.

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

Closing his eyes for a second, Sam took a deep breath and stepped inside the front “office” of Psychic Missouri Mosley with Dean following closely behind him. Motioning for his brother to sit on the bench, he kneeled in front of him. “Dean?” he waited until Dean had stopped looking around with his wide eyes to pay attention to him, “Dean, do you remember this place?”

Dean was unsure for a minute, but then stood up to walk over to the window near the bench. A ghost of a smile appeared as pushed the potted plant sitting on the sill over and traced his hand over something apparently written there. Sam moved to look over his shoulder. A childish scrawl carved the name “Dean” on the corner.

“I was bored, and you were still sleeping. I found a nail on the floor…so I wrote my name—like Mommy had showed me. Daddy was mad at me, but she wasn’t. She just laughed and told Daddy that it was one of the ways that I’d...” His voice trailed off as the sound of footsteps alerted them both to another presence. They both turned to see the kind-hearted woman leaning against the doorway to look at the both of them, a fond expression on her face.

“Leave a mark on the world.” She finished the sentence; then paused, a glint forming in her eyes. “Boy, don’t you dare even think of writing your brother’s name next to yours. I don’t got a pot big enough to cover that!” Walking over, she made her point by moving the pot over Dean’s ‘artwork’.

“Now, you boys come on inside. Your father’s been waiting for you.” She motioned them to follow her.

“Daddy’s here?” “Dad’s here?” Both boys immediately asked.

Missouri nodded, “What am I talking to the wall? Yes, your father’s here.” She stopped in front of the stairs, reaching out to take Dean’s hands. “Dean, sweetheart”—the words made Sam blanche; the last time they’d met her, her attitude towards Dean was mischievous to say the least— “why don’t you go into the kitchen for some lunch why I talk to your brother. The table is fixed for helpings.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue. “Boy! Don’t you fuss now! Go make yourself a sandwich—and don’t touch those cookies until after. Now, shoo!” She motioned ‘shoo’ with her hand.

Once Dean was out of hearing range, Missouri’s face was one of sympathy. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. Your father told me about Dean.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Sam refrained from commenting about their father and how ‘sorry’ wasn’t helping him take care of his brother. It wouldn’t bring back Jess or his mother. “Missouri, please. Where’s dad? Where the hell has he been? He called…he sounded like he was hurt. Is he alright?” The questions flew from his lips, frantic for answers.

She didn’t answer, instead she walked over to the kitchen, happy to see Dean putting together a sandwich from the pile of lunch meats, breads, and vegetables she’d laid out for them. Once he’d completed the task, he sat at the table and started munching. Missouri smiled at him, pulling out a jug of milk from the fridge and then poured two glasses. She pushed one to Dean before picking up the other and placing it on a tray that was already filled with a sandwich, soup, and cup of tea.

“Dean, stay here and finish that sandwich, alright? I don’t want to see a crumb left on that plate of yours.” Dean nodded, his mouth full.

Picking up the tray of food, she walked towards the staircase.

“Sam, follow me.”

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

Sam barely heard what Missouri was saying as she placed the tray on the end table, his heart pounded in his ears, making him feel as if he was suddenly under water—drowning in his own fear. His father had always been an indestructible force—a man to be reckoned with, a hunter who hunted evil without fear. To see him lying on a flowered bedspread, pale, (from blood loss, he assumed as he stared at the bloodied bandages wrapping his father’s leg and chest) covered with a cold sweat, and breathing harshly, made Sam’s heart jump to his throat.

“Dad?” He called out softly, afraid that he wouldn’t answer.

To his relief, his father opened his eyes, then just as softly, spoke his name. “Sammy? Oh, God. Thank god you’re alright.”

The hesitation was now gone, Sam flew to his side, kneeling beside the bed, while Missouri shut the door softly behind her. “Dad? What happened? Are you alright?” He risked having his hand slapped away by pealing back the bandages to see the damage underneath. Swallowing reflexively, Sam put his hand over his mouth as he saw his father’s chest nearly ripped to shreds—the claw mark so deep that they hadn’t stopped bleeding. Glancing down at his leg, he could only imagine how badly he’d been mangled. “Oh, god.”

“Sammy,” John gulped, “It’ll be okay. Where’s your brother? Sammy, where’s Dean?” His voice became harsh, commanding him to answer. It was a voice that Sam realized that his father only took when he was afraid.

Concerned, Sam laid his hand on his father’s shoulder, hoping to give him a bit of comfort, “Dad, don’t worry. He’s safe. He’s downstairs with Missouri.” He tried once more, staring directly into his eyes, “Dad, what happened?”

There were a million emotions in his father’s eyes and there were none as well. It astonished him that he really didn’t know him at all—his father was a mystery, even to him. Hell, there probably wasn’t anyone in the world who knew John Winchester.

Not anymore.

Then, there was a determined glint in his eye, one that Dean always had right before a hunt… “It’s after us, Sammy. The demon that killed your mother—your girlfriend. It knows that I’m after it. It knows how close I am to killing it, so it’s organized an offensive attack on us. Hell, it sent Shadow Demons after me. They—well, they got me good. Almost killed me, but I got out, then sent the message to you as a warning. I was afraid that they’d come after you and Dean. And with Dean’s memory problem…He’d be the perfect target.”

Sam felt himself pale at the thought. “A target? A target for what, dad? The demon?”

A moan flew from John’s lips as he struggled to sit up, “The demon…among others. It’s not just the demon we have to worry about now, Sam. It’s the demon’s targets.” Sam went over behind him and fixed the cushion as he continued, “Sam. There are certain things that—God Damnit!” He stopped, put a hand over his mouth, then continued once he’d gotten control. “There are certain things that I wish that I could erase. Things that I’ve found out—that I wish weren’t true or that I could ask her.”

He hit the pillow next to him as hard as he could with his fist. “WHY?” He roared, before crumbling. Covering his face with both of his hands, John Winchester cried.

For a long time, Sam just sat there, next to his father…watching as he struggled to tell him the truth.

Watching him, he’d never been so scared in his life. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good. Whatever the ‘truth’ that they’d all been searching for was, Sam had feeling that it’d destroy everything he believed in.

Standing up, he placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, patting it lightly. “Dad? Whatever it is, just tell me.”

John’s face was now ashen, “Are you sure that you want to know, Sammy?”

“Yes.” There was no other answer. None at all. His entire life revolved around the demon, why it’d killed his mother—why it’d killed Jess.

Nodding gravely, John agreed. “Alright, Sam. But we both need a drink first. Go and ask Missouri if she has anything strong…we’re going to need.” Sam stood, moving towards the door to do as he was told. His father’s voice stopped him, “Sammy. Make sure Dean’s alright. Don’t bring him up here—I don’t want him to hear this just yet. He won’t understand anyway. Hell, I don’t understand it myself.”

He paused, his tone lower, softer and gentle. “Sam.” He stared into his son’s eyes—the same eyes as his beloved Mary. “I know about Dean. About his migraines…about how sick he can get. I—I checked on the both of you a few weeks ago and I saw how you handled it. I know that you’ve taken care of him since the accident and I know that you think that I’m not there for you boys. And I’m sorry that I’m not the father you want me to be.”

“Dad—.” Sam started, but was cut off.

“But, you can’t keep babying him Sam!” The words were said with a harsh finality.

Sam was incredulous and a bit stunned, “WHAT? Dad, he’s hurt!”

You’d think that a man lying in a bed, practically bleeding to death wouldn’t have any fight left in him. But then again, he wasn’t just a man—he was a Winchester. And like the other members of the family, the stubborn streak was a mile long. He glared at his youngest, “Sam! Shut up! Listen to me! You need to re-train your brother. He needs to learn how to fight, how to shoot, how to hunt, and how to kill. I can’t do that right now—and trust me; he’s going to need those skills. You can’t coddle him anymore.”

Frustration made Sam start to pace the small room. “Dad, tell me why! I deserve an explanation—you said that you knew why the demon was after us. You said that we were its targets. Why? I don’t understand and what does it have to do with Dean?”

John turned away—well, as best as he could. “Just go get us a drink.”

He was dismissed.

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

Staring out the window, Sam was surprised to see the sunset. They’d been driving for so long, the day had gotten away from them. The colors were bright, shining for only a few minutes, painting the sky with it pink, purple, blue, and red tones; it was a big tease, Sam thought, because when the sun went down, only darkness remained.

“Sammy?” Dean voice was behind him. He sounded worried. “Is dad okay? Why won’t you let me see him?”

Shaking off the foreboding feelings, Sam went to his brother. “I’m sorry, Dean. I just want to talk to him first. You can see him right afterwards, alright? I’m just going to see if Missouri’s got something to drink first.”

Missouri—a true psychic—walked up to him and handed him a golden flask. He didn’t bother to ask what was in it; he just opened it up and took a big gulp before screwing the cap back on and swallowing the burning fluid with a hiss. She took Dean by the hand and pulled him to the fenced backyard, giving him a coloring book and crayons to play with before shutting the screen door behind him.

Then she walked over to him, placed her hand on his shoulder and gave him a tight reassuring smile. “You’re strong, Sam Winchester. Just remember that.”

A minute later, he felt ready. It was time for the truth.

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

Sam listened. Listened as his father—drunk on whiskey and grief—spoke. It was terrifying, grotesque, and oh so captivating. It was a scary story—one that had all of the hairs on your body stand-up. It made you shiver and gasp at the correct places.

And like most stories, it started off as a love story—between a boy and girl—then it mutated, cancer-like, eating away all sense of reason. And at the end, even their love couldn’t survive that kind of evil.

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

“I never told you how I met your mother, did I Sammy?” John started, barely the hint of smile across his face as he remembered his wife. “She’d been in a fender bender with an old woman and the kid who usually drove the tow truck at the shop was out sick that day—I think. Well, anyway, Guenther was knee deep in repairing this RV that’d come in that morning, so I told him I’d take care of it. Drove all the way there in a foul mood—I hated that rig. So, I got there a few minutes later and there she was, sitting on the curve crying. First thing I noticed was that—even when she was crying, she was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen. I went up to her, and well—you know me—I’m not good at that kind of thing. I ended up messing the whole ‘comfort’ thing up and she—oh, Sam—she laughed at me. I saw her smile and that was it. I knew that I’d marry her.” He laughed slightly, twirling the ring around his finger.

“Before she had you boys, she was a teacher—taught history at a private all-girl school. She used to say that those who would repeat the past should control the teachings of history…I never really understood what she meant by that. But she always said things like that—loved to talk about philosophy and such.” John stopped, taking a deep breath, then placed his hand on his heart as if it could prevent it from breaking.

“Now, you hear about meeting the in-laws, huh? Well, you ain’t never met Mary’s parents. Now, I’d met fathers before and I figured if I got her old man to like me, I’d be home free. Hell, I was wrong. It wasn’t Mike I had to worry about, it was Kate. She tried everything to stop us from marrying. She was a fanatic about religion. I remember the night before our wedding; Mary’d called me, crying that her mother threatened to disown her if she didn’t go to church with her that night. The night of my bachelor party was hell, Sam. I didn’t know if we’d actually be getting married in the morning or not. Then by some freaking miracle, her mother just did a one-eighty—all of a sudden, she couldn’t wait for us to get married and she couldn’t stop going on and on about having a grand-daughter. I just figured that the priest just talked to her.”

He bit his nails the same way Sam did when he was upset, Sam noticed. “Mary and I had been married less than year when we got pregnant. Mary, oh, she sparkled at the thought of a baby. The day we found out, she went out and bought this little baby blanket. Now, me—I really didn’t care if it was boy or a girl—I’d be happy as long as it was healthy. Mary, she was the same way. But her mother—she kept pushing her to find out. Scared her—told her that there might be some genetic flaw if she delivered a son. So, we went to the doctor and they ran tests on the amino fluid… just in case. The doctors told us that we were going to have a healthy baby boy.” He gave Sam a large smile, “I named your brother that same day. Hell, I don’t think I’d ever been happier in my life until they put him in my arms.”

John stared out the window for several minutes, then turned back to his story. “Sam, if I’d known…I’da killed that bitch. But your mom, she didn’t tell me what had happened. Didn’t tell me that her mother pushed her to abort the both of you because you were boys. I found out from Kate—after Mary died. It’s one of the reasons I took you and your brother away with me. At the time, I figured the woman was just crazy with grief—her daughter had died. She was shouting that Mary should’ve known better—that she should’ve never had boys. Said that she’d begged Mary to ‘get rid them.’ Her ‘sisters’ from the church shut her up pretty quick though. One of them—the Reverend Mother, I think—told her that ‘in a universe of chaos, adaptation was the key to survival.’ Then the group of them left. I can’t believe that I didn’t remember that, though to be honest, I was in a fucking dream world for days. I couldn’t believe that my Mary was gone—didn’t believe a thing I’d seen…the way she died. I thought I was losing my mind, until I met Missouri.”

His body shuddered as if he was cold, so Sam stood and pulled the blanket up further to cover his chest, not speaking because he was afraid his father would stop. Even though he wished that he would…

“I didn’t know any better, Sammy. Since the house had been on fire, we’d been staying with Mike and Kate. From time to time, I just left you and your brother with your grandparents—I was just trying to find out what happened the night your mother died. If I would’ve known that Kate would try to butt me out of your lives, I would’ve never left you with them for a second. It was weird, you know. Your brother—Dean—he refused to leave your side for a minute. One night, I woke up in a mad panic thinking that he’d been kidnapped only to find him sleeping with you in your crib. It was like, somehow, he knew you were in danger and he was trying to protect you from something. I just—I never figured out what it was.”

John’s face became stone, his voice taking on a dark tone.

“But now I have. And I wish to god that I didn’t.”

For a short while, the only sound in the room was the both of them breathing. John looked exhausted, “I think I understood what your mother meant about reliving the past now, son.” He licked his lips, motioning for Sam to get him the cup of water beside the bed. Sam handed the glass to him. He sipped at the now lukewarm liquid, gathering his strength to finish the rest.

“It’s taken me twenty years—but I know what they are now. I’ve figured out half the story. I figured out why it went after your mother. I know why it went after your girlfriend.”

Sam sat up straight, his body felt as if it was strung up—tight and tense as he waited for the truth. There was a part of him that wanted to shake it out of his father—to make him get to the point. To tell him what had killed the only women who love him. And there was another part, deep inside, that wanted to climb into his lap and cry. To forget that he was supposed to be a man for a moment, just to be held and comforted by the man who raised him and cared for him… ‘Daddy’, not John Winchester.

“Your grandmother, Kate was apart of a secret sisterhood called the Bene Gesserit, I guess you’d call it a cult now. It’s an old one that’s been around since the start of civilization and one so secret that no one, besides its members, knows about its existence. And they kept it that way by ‘controlling history.’ Women, of course, were the teachers—it was regarded as ‘woman’s work’; their ideas and views shape the lives of countless children. And from the moment they are born, the women are trained to condition their minds and bodies in order to, I don’t know, access areas of the brain that normal people don’t know about. Some of the stuff they can do, it’s like magic—supernatural in the purest form. They ensnared the power of the mind, Sam. If caught, they were usually burned at the stake as witches, willingly dying in some cases, in order to protect their secret. But what scares me the most about them is that they are breeders. They knew all about genetics—dominant and recessive traits—before man had figured out how to light a fire. It was all a manipulation—they’d manipulate everything with a subtle seduction that man would never see coming.”

“From what we know about genetics now—women are carriers of certain types of recessive traits and diseases. Hemophilia, for example. The majority of people who have that genetic disease are men—their mothers had unknowingly passed it along to them with no sign or symptom themselves. It’s one of the reasons that members only gave birth to females because to them, men cannot be trusted with magic. They feared man would corrupt it and that evil would win. The bloodlines are regarded sacred to them. In some cases, the women never discovered the true identity of their father.”

John bit his lip hard, his eyes welling up into tears that he refused to shed in front of his youngest. “Your mother was an unwilling part of it. She was a daughter of the Bene Gesserit. (I know that now) Mary was the smartest, sweetest woman you ever met, but there was a stubborn streak in her that would make me seem like a push-over. She fought tooth and nail with her mother—she went against everything she was trained to do in order to be with me. But now, Sammy, I can’t help but wonder. I wonder if those women didn’t plan the entire damn thing. Subtly, remember—that’s their specialty. Maybe the accident was planned— I don’t know, Sam. I can’t even think like that. Maybe they knew that we had the right ‘chemistry’ or something like that. Maybe they knew that if they tried to keep us apart, it’d only serve to make us fight harder to be together. Unfortunately, the one thing they couldn’t control was Mary. She wanted to give me sons.”

He looked directly into Sam’s eyes, “She wanted to give me you and Dean—no matter what her mother and the rest of those—bitches wanted.” He looked down, stared at his hands, “I think that she scared them. It’s like I said, every member is the result of centuries of breeding—and she betrayed them by giving birth to sons, instead of daughters.”

Sam’s heart pounded in his chest, feeling as if he could faint at any moment. He stared at his father, then for the first time since he’d walked in, spoke. “If a woman carried a recessive trait and that trait becomes dominant in males, then we--.” Sam put his hand on his mouth, not able to complete the sentence, or the thought. “Oh, my god. The nightmares…” He trailed off, the image of Jess’s burning body on the ceiling flashed in his mind’s eye along with the ghost of his mother whispering that she was sorry. She was sorry. “So, the demon--.”

John continued for him, “The demon was going after you, Sammy. Mary—she must’ve sensed it and stopped it from hurting you. And it killed your girlfriend—because she… God, I’m so sorry, Sammy.”

Sam stood up, tears trailing down his face unable to stop them. He grabbed the nearest object—a vase and launched it as hard as he could against the wall barely waiting for it to shatter before throwing the end table across the room. He hit his fists against the wall and screamed as loud as he could. “Fucking shit! Oh, god. It killed Jess because she was pregnant, wasn’t she? God, she never told me.” He slid down the wall and started sobbing.

John’s voice cut through his misery. “Sam! Stop crying. This isn’t over. It isn’t over by a long shot. The demon is targeting the children of the Bene Gesserit, Sam. It’s targeting you. And it’s targeting Dean.”

“Why Dean? I don’t understand. Dean’s…normal.” Sam was truly confused. He was tired and confused and he wanted this nightmare to end.

John looked at his youngest, his brow wrinkled with amazement and shock. “Normal? Dean? Please don’t tell me that you’ve never noticed? He’s your brother, Sam!”

Tilting his head to the side, Sam struggled to understand exactly what his father was trying to tell him. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about, Dad?”

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

John looked at Sam, a knowing look in his eye. When he spoke, it was soft and understanding. “That’s alright, Sammy. I never noticed anything about our family either-- until I found out about Mary and the Bene Gesserit. Its strange how love blinds you…”

Sam opened his mouth, a million questions flooding his brain, but before a single word was uttered, the bedroom door was flung open.

“Sammy! There was a crash and Missouri told me not to come in, but I had to!” Dean screamed, launching himself at his brother and then wrapped his arms around his waist. He seemed in a panic, looking at the room as if something was about to jump out at them. It was then he noticed their father, lying on the bed, wrapped in bandages and bleeding. Sam watched as Dean struggled to piece together the obvious conclusion—that age had caught up to their father as well. “Daddy?” He called out timidly, taking a couple steps closer to the bed, dragging Sam with him because he had yet to release him.

“Hi, Sport.”

It was all the invitation Dean needed. He let go of Sam in order to run towards the bed. He was about to fling himself into his arms when Sam’s strong grip on his shoulders stopped him. “Dean, no. Dad’s hurt, so you can sit by him, but you can’t hug him. Alright?”

Dean stopped to consider his brother’s words and then, nodding, did as he was told. He edged towards the bed, then sat by his father’s legs. “What happened? What was that noise, daddy?”

Sam made a face, wincing, “Sorry, Dean. That was me. I was upset and I threw a vase against the wall. Missouri’s going to be mad at me.”

A voice from the hall answered, “You bet your white butt I am!” Sam laughed silently as she continued down the stairs, judging it safe to leave the ‘young’ one with John and Sam.

Turning on the bed, Dean looked up at Sam. “Why were you upset? Did I do something?” His eyes were wide with a little bit of fear.

John frowned at Dean’s tone. “Dean!” His voice was sharp, “You didn’t do anything. I know that your head hurts, but you need to suck it up and stop acting like a baby! Be a man!” Dean was so startled that if it wasn’t for Sam, he would’ve fallen off the bed. His momentary panic and fear was covered quickly by a mask of indifference. Sam recognized it—the perfect little soldier.

“Dad!” Sam shouted, his hands tightening up into fists before he even realized it. All of his hard work—making sure that his brother felt safe and confident enough not to hide his feelings around him—gone with one harsh command. It made him want to punch something—preferably his father.

“I already told you to shut up once, Sam! Don’t make me tell you again! We CANNOT have Dean behave this way. It’s too dangerous and it’ll end up getting us all killed.” John yelled, bracing himself up so that he was no longer leaning against the pillows. It made him seem like a formidably opponent. Ignoring Sam, he spoke to Dean. “Dean, listen to me. I know that you’re stronger than this. Now, I need you to try to remember the things that I’ve taught you. There’s a demon coming after you and your brother—.”

Dean jumped up from the bed, crying out, “No! I won’t let it hurt Sammy!”

Staring directly into his son’s eyes, there was no doubt of his seriousness. “Then don’t let it.”

Sam stood, feeling somehow left out of their silent conversation. He butted in, not feeling the slightest bit guilty. “Dad, is that all you know? About the demon or the Bene Gesserit, I mean? Do you know what the demon is or what it wants…besides us? I just don’t understand, what does it exactly want with us?”

Dean looked confused, but was quiet as his father answered Sam. “You know everything that I know Sam. I—I’m going to be down for a while, until my wounds heal up. Now it’s up to you and Dean to figure out the rest—to use what I’ve taught you to avenge your mother and your girlfriend. This ends now.”

Sam took a deep breath, biting his lip as he considered the next step. ‘We’ve got to chill out, that’s all,’ Dean’s voice was suddenly in Sam’s mind, ‘if this was any other job…what would we do?’ It was the question Dean had asked him during the investigation of their family home. The answer was the same then as it was now. ‘We’d try to figure out what we were dealing with—dig into the history…’

Suddenly, Sam knew exactly what he had to do.

It was time to meet his Grandmother Kate—the Bene Gesserit witch.

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

Dean clutched Sam’s jacket, literally in his shadow as he pressed the doorbell to their grandparents’ house. Not for the first time, he wished that Dean would’ve stayed with his father and Missouri. But both his brother and father refused to let him go alone—his father demanded that Dean, even in his current condition, stay with him. And Dean…well, he was near breakdown after he discovered there was a demon out to hurt his little brother. There was not a single chance in hell that Dean was going to let him out of his sights now; he knew that for a fact. A nine year old Dean was just as stubborn as the twenty-seven year old.

The house itself was simple, a one-story ranch house that seemed ideal for an elderly couple. A small wooden fence lined the tulips that were planted along side a perfectly maintained green grass lawn. It all looked so—normal that it was hard for Sam to believe his father’s story. Was it truly possible that the elderly woman inside was capable of such a cunning deception?

His thoughts were pushed aside as the door opened to reveal an elegant white haired woman, without a doubt, their grandmother. Mary Winchester mostly certainly took after her mother in her looks. Taking a breath, Sam covertly motioned his brother to remain quiet as he took the lead, “Hello, I’m--.”

“Samuel Winchester.” She interrupted. She opened the screen door further and glanced behind Sam, staring at his brother. “And you’re Dean. I know why you’re both here. Come in.”

Blinking back surprise, Sam led Dean inside following behind her. The inside of the house was as elegant as their grandmother. There were tasteful furnishings, beautiful paintings, and tiffany lamps in the living room area—much like Sam imagined that their own home had been. Dean stared at the photo frames that lined the fireplace. Pictures of their mother at various ages nearly brought Sam to tears. It was hard for him to think of her as anything but a mother that he’d never known—but the evidence that she had more than twenty years of life without children and John Winchester was laid out right in front of them both. Picking up the last photograph on the shelf, Sam gulped, fighting with his own emotions. Their father had held a three year old Dean up in the air as their mother—obviously pregnant with him laughed at the scene. He placed it back on the shelf gently, knowing that he’d never see his father experience that kind of joy shown in the captured image.

He turned to face Kate Noble, for once not knowing what to say or how to start a conversation. With a note of harsh reality, that’s when Sam realized that Dean usually jumped in. This time, Dean just fidgeted anxiously. He glanced nervously at Sam before speaking.

“I remember you,” Sam heard Dean whisper. “You’re my grandmother.”

“Yes. I am, Dean.”

Dean searched the room, before asking, “Where’s grandpa?”

Kate smiled gently, taking Dean’s hand in hers. “I’m sorry, Dean. Your grandfather died five years ago. I had no way to contact your father to inform the both of you about the tragedy and to be honest; I didn’t think that you would even remember him. It’s been more than twenty years and you were a small child…”

Suddenly, the atmosphere of the room changed and the woman in front of them suddenly transformed from a sweet old woman into a seasoned interrogator. Even the tone of her voice changed, captivating Sam in a way that, until now, only his charismatic brother was able to.

“What do you remember, boy?”

Dean wavered in his seat, tensing up at the Voice. “I remember you,” he answered, almost mechanically. “I remember Grandpa. And the other ladies. You used to come to the house with them, when Daddy was at work. Mommy would tell me to go play in Sammy’s room until you left.” He paused, thinking. “You didn’t like us.”

Sam waited for her to argue about the last statement. And when she didn’t, he couldn’t help but feel incredibly disappointed. She was the only family besides Dean and their father that he had…To know that she didn’t even care about them was like a hard punch in the gut.

Kate leaned back in her chair as if it were a royal throne. “The both of you were never supposed to be born. It was something that your mother never understood. She was too stubborn to see that she nearly put us all at risk.”

“There’s a monster after us now.” Dean spoke matter-of-factly, making Sam panic. They were taught to never speak about the supernatural from an early age.

Sam jumped in to contain the damage that may have been caused, “He means that he thinks that we may be in danger. A guy--”

Their grandmother turned her head, attention on Sam now. “I know what he meant—It’s coming after you now. It wants to eliminate the blood lines. The only reason it doesn’t come after me is because it know that I am unable to carry a child this late in life. But it will try to stop you and the others like you before you are able to conceive. It fears that above everything else.”

Confusion colored Dean’s face, but he remained silent, trusting that Sammy would explain it to him later. “What is ‘it’?” He asked instead.

Sam shifted in the seat, moving forward to hear the soft spoken answer. The ‘sweet grandmother’ was back. “IT was a mistake, like you, it should’ve never been born.” She took a deep breath, before deciding to start at the beginning. “I am part of an organization—The Bene Gesserit, a religious order—a sisterhood that is bonded together generation to generation. The strongest of us are able to access the memories of the women who have come before us. We have gained, from our blood lines, gifts. And it is with our breeding that our abilities are strengthened. It is a strict practice and it is done with precision, so that we may one day deliver the Kwisatz Haderach—a male who can be many places at once, who can access all memory, male or female. He would have the ultimate power.”

Licking his lips, Sam struggled to wrap his mind around the new information. “And this thing—it thinks that we’re this ultimate power?”

Kate gave a snort, as if the thought were too ridiculous for her to even consider. “Of course not! You are not the Kwisatz Haderach!” She stopped laughing, as she continued, “There is another group—the Bene Tleilax. They are genetic manipulators who attempt to create their own Kwisatz Haderach with biological products with horrendous results. Nearly all of the males they have created commit suicide. It is one of the reasons why our blood lines have survived for centuries. We have training to prevent the other memories from destroying the mind—from Abomination.”

“This thing that has come to destroy us—it was created by them! They created it in a laboratory.” She spoke with disgust in her voice. “A pre-born designed with the memories of the male line. It was preposterous and it should’ve been destroyed immediately—but the Bene Tleilax allowed it to survive. The boy soon was corrupted, became an abomination. It developed abilities—pyrokinetics and telekinesis, among others. It became a monster—a demon of pure evil bent on preventing the birth of the only being to challenge its power, the Kwisatz Haderach. That is why it is after the both of you. You will continue our line.”

‘You will continue our line’—it was stated as an order. And it was that order that made Sam see red. He could feel the anger boiling in his veins and was unable to prevent its release. “Our line? The demon killed our mother! It killed my girlfriend—the child she was carrying! My child! You, yourself, have told us that we should’ve never been born! What give you the right to order us around?”

She jumped up out of the chair as if she was fifty years younger, moving so quickly Sam believed her to be possessed. She grabbed him by the throat, pressing him against the chair. “If you would’ve been female, you would’ve had all of your mother’s abilities—all of my abilities. You would’ve been Bene Gessertit!” she snarled. Dean jumped up and tried to pull her from his little brother, and just as quickly, she put him down—knocking his unconscious with a swift kick to the head.

“Dean!” Sam screamed. ‘Oh, god,’ he thought, ‘not again.’ He was unable to go to him; Kate still had him by the throat. “Please,” he was able to gasp, “Let me go to him.”

She let him go gradually, staring into his eyes as if she was trying to see into his soul. She watched as he ran to Dean’s side and tried to wake him, gently cradling him as he waited for him to stir. “He is the other half…Your other half. Isn’t he?”

“You have the sight—foreshadow, as well as access to some of the other memories, while your brother’s talents lie in Truthsaying (knowing when someone is lying to you), petit perception (noticing small details that other may miss—within both people and the environment around them), and the art of (sexual) seduction. You both lack the training of the Weirding Way (a form of martial arts)—it is a shame your father took you away from us.”

She was shaking her head at them and it took all of Sam’s energy not to attack her. The only thing that stopped him was his brother, who lay still in his arms.

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

Sam snarled at the woman, tightening his hold on Dean as he spoke, “My father was right to keep us away from you! You’re insane!”

She tilted her head to the side, considering his ill-spoken words. “You call me insane because I speak the truth?”

“The truth?” Sam was incredulous, shaking his head in disbelief. “No, I think you’re insane because I do believe you! I believe every word that you said and that’s why I think that you and the rest of your sisters are out of your minds! You’re manipulating people’s lives! And now—this abomination, as you call it, wants to kill us because of it and that doesn’t seem to phase you in the slightest.”

Her eyes darkened, giving her an even more dangerous appearance. “I have been trained in the ancient ways. I do not give into emotion! And our ways, which may seem atrocious to you are crucial—we do not seek power; the manipulation that you speak of—it is to preserve our beliefs and our bloodlines. It is the most singularly important objective that the Bene Gesserit maintains. I thought that your mother understood that! She was—stubborn and refused to birth daughters as we ordered! By refusing us, she’s tainted the bloodlines.”

Sam slammed his fist down on the coffee table next to him. The centerpieces and tea set rattled and turned over. “What the hell did you do to us?”

She glared at him, “Me? What did I do? The question you should ask yourself is what did your mother do to you?”

Sam ran a hand across his brother’s forehead, wishing that he’d wake up and help him. Swallowing hard, he looked back up at his grandmother, “Alright, then; what did she do to us?”

He watched as Kate Noble walked back over to the fireplace. She picked up a photo of her daughter, her fingers trailing the edges of the picture. “She endangered us and prevented the Kwisatz Haderach’s existence in this time. Mary was the product of thousands of years of breeding. The lack of a daughter will set us back a hundred years or more.” She looked back at Sam, then at the body lying in his arms. Kate pointed at his brother. “As a woman, the first born was to have had all of the powers of the Bene Gesserit. In time, with training, she would’ve been a Reverend Mother. She would’ve birthed the Kwisatz Haderach. The line was secure. I had hoped that after she delivered a son that she would listen to reason—the second child was supposed to be our only hope! She betrayed us and her training by, again, birthing a second son—.” Her voice cracked slightly, unable to maintain her emotional control as she stared into the image of her daughter. “She split the line between you and your brother. Your abilities are by-product. A genetic gift,” she laughed, with a hysterical undertone, “curtsey of the Bene Gesserit you detest.”

“Our abilities? What abilities? Truthsaying? What the hell is that? What the hell is any of it? You blame my mother for having ‘males’? I figured since you do all of that breeding that you would have figured out by now that it’s the male sperm that passes either an X or Y chromosome, not the female egg. It’s ridiculous to blame her for a 50/50 shot.” Anger was now becoming a being on its own design.

“The Bene Gesserit have been trained since childhood in the ways of internal organic control. A Bene Gesserit can control which of the man’s seed penetrates the egg. If she chose, your mother could’ve destroyed the male seed within her body. So, yes, I do blame her! Fortunately, all was not lost. The abilities that have been passed from generation to generation were split between the both of you.”

“Your brother has most of the abilities; the voice, truthsaying, seduction, and petit perception—if he was trained, he would be most powerful (even more powerful than you, Samuel.) He is the post-cognitive; he retains the memories of the past with crystal clarity.” He gave her a startled look. She laughed, “You don’t understand, do you? You don’t even see your brother’s abilities? In your eyes, he’s just your brother—nothing special about him at all; nothing you haven’t seen him do a million times and now it doesn’t even phase you, as you so eloquently stated before, to see him do the extraordinary. You’ve never noticed that people will listen to him above all others; with merely a whisper, he will gather the attention of everyone in the room. His allure captures those around him and they are unable resist him. A seduction—a magnetism… Truthsaying, on the other hand, is one of his most valuable tools. Haven’t you ever noticed that your brother always knows when you are lying to him? Haven’t you ever noticed that he always knows when anyone is lying to him? And yes—my dear, Samuel—your brother does know you better than anyone else. He always seems to know—without words, without a single hint—he knows there’s something wrong. That is petit perception.”

“You on the other hand—you are precognitive, a seer. You can harness the powers of the mind—but you don’t know how. You have neither the experience or the control to do so. You also have the Voice and perhaps, one day, you will develop the others. You—however—are a carrier. Your daughter would one day continue our work—she would be Bene Gesserit.”

Sam opened his mouth to respond angrily, but was stopped when Dean jerked under his hand. He was regaining consciousness. Dean moaned painfully, his eyelashes fluttering as he tried to wake. All of Sam’s attention returned to his brother, placing a hand against his face and calling his name. “Dean? Can you hear me?”

Kate sat back down on the couch, watching them. “He will wake soon. I wouldn’t fret.”

Sam’s head shot up, growling at her. “Stay away from us! I’m serious, my brother and I don’t want anything to do with you or the damn Bene Gesserit! We’re leaving now and you better stay out of our lives.”

“But the abomination?”

“Don’t worry, grandmother. We’ll clean up your mess.” Ignoring her presence, he reached under his brother’s arms, grunted, and then lifted the older man into a fireman’s carry. Moving as quickly as the added weight would allow, he walked out of the normal looking house with the normal looking yard, not once looking back at the woman he once would’ve loved to call grandmother.

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

“I’m sorry.”

Those were the only words his mother ever spoke to him. His mother, a ghost that he’d only known from his brother’s four year old memories. Of course, and his father’s never-ending quest to kill the thing that had taken her away from him.

Sam laughed to himself and really couldn’t help it when the laugh became slightly hysterical.

“What’s so funny?” It was said incredibly calm and steady for someone who’d been unconscious a couple of seconds earlier.

Taking his eyes off the road, Sam stared into his brother’s concerned gaze. Swallowing, he turned his attention back to the road for a minute, not saying a single word. He signaled, and then turned the car off to the side of the road, roughly putting the car into park. “You okay, Dean?”

“Yeah,” he answered quietly, “You?”

Sam wanted to smile, to comfort the man—boy sitting beside him, but his rage filled mind had other ideas. He slapped his hands down hard on the steering wheel. The horn let out an angry blast of noise; out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean jump slightly—surprised at his outburst. Sam laughed again, “She said she was ‘sorry’, Dean. Our mother told me she was sorry. Do you know how long I’ve thought about what she could’ve meant? Maybe she was sorry for leaving us? Sorry for letting us get raised by our drill-sergeant of a father? Sorry for Jess’s death? Oh, Dean I thought up a million reason’s why those would be her only words to me. Except, of course, the real reason. I’d never thought that she’d be sorry that I was ever born.” Sam bit his lip, feeling it tremble and his eyes begin to water. Burying himself in his arms, he struggled to stay strong—struggled not to just break down and cry. It’d only scare Dean.

A warm, strong hand wrapped around Sam’s shoulders, rubbing his back gently. Dean spoke softly, taking on a tone that Sam had never really heard before. “Oh, Sammy,” he whispered, “that’s not why she was sorry.” Sam blinked, lifting up his head to face his brother, wondering at the almost—feminine tone of voice. It had wrapped him up, making him feel safe—almost like how he’d imagined a mother’s voice would to her baby. “Sam, she was sorry that she wasn’t around to see what a wonderful, smart, and brave man you’d become. She was sorry that she didn’t get a chance to tell you the truth herself…tell you how special you are. And how proud she was of you. She loved you and she would’ve never given you up. No matter what those bitches wanted. She wanted YOU, Sam Winchester, a son. And she wanted me. If you’d known her, you’d know that she loved you every second of every day.”

Sam stared at him, his mouth falling open at the implications of what his brother was saying. This was NOT the nine year old boy’s speech pattern. “Dean?” It came out in a muted gasp.

Dean’s hand moved from his back to his neck, giving his a small squeeze before flashing what Sam thought of as his ‘million-dollar-grin’. “Hey, little brother. Miss me?”

Sam gaped at him for a few seconds before flinging himself into Dean’s arms. “Oh, god, Dean.” His voice broke, but he thought that he’d done a wonderful job at masking it by tightening his hold around his waist.

“Sammy, listen to me. I’m alright now.” Dean spoke softly, rubbing Sam’s tense back until he calmed, still murmuring that it was alright.

Gulping, Sam slowly released his hold and backed away. “You alright, Sam?”

There was a lump in his throat, so he just nodded. Dean, his big brother, smiled nervously at him, shuffling his feet where he stood. Sam looked at him in concern, but waited until Dean started to speak for fear of it all being a dream. “You know, Sammy. I’ll probably never have the guts to tell you this ever again—but you would’ve made a great father. I’m, uh, I’m sorry about Jessica and –the baby.” Sam eyes bulged slightly and he made a small squeaking noise. “Yeah, Sammy. I remember, everything…” Dean’s eyes became glazed as he became –introspective. Blinking, he returned to his original train of thought, “Just, uh, thanks, you know… I know that it was difficult to take care of me when I was like that. It probably would’ve been easier to –uh, do what the social worker and that doctor suggested. So, I just wanted to tell you that I’ll, uh, I’ll never forget that, Sam. Thank you.” Dean held out his hand, grasping Sam’s hand in his own before moving to embrace him—completely from his own accord.

Dean was the one to pull away this time, straightening his jack. “So, a genetically engineered freak murdered our mother and your—family and now it thinks that it’s coming after us. I say, let’s bust its ass and make that bastard wish he’d never messed with the Winchesters.” A small pause. “And you better not have scratched my car—or I’ll kill you myself, weird ass superpowers or not.”

Sam smiled at that—yeah, his brother wouldn’t let a ‘chick flick moment’ pass without ruining it with some inane comment.

“Actually, Sam—you can keep driving. I’ve got a killer headache, man.” He placed his fingers on the bridge of his nose, pinching it.

Immediately, Sam moved to cup Dean’s face. “Dean, open your eyes.” Worry made it seem like practically an order. Once Dean’s eyes opened, Sam went about examining them with a professional medical intensity. Placing his own hands on top of his brother’s, Dean smirked at him. “Well, doc? What’s the diagnosis? Am I going to live? ‘Cause if you get any closer, you’re going to have to grow a pair of tits for me to stare at.”

“Haha, Dean. Just making sure that your brains don’t leak out of your ears; though you’re probably right. Your skull’s so thick that I really shouldn’t worry.” Sam stopped joking around, fear creeping up and making him serious again. “Seriously, Dean. I was really scared—the doctors—they said that it was a serious injury; that it was incredibly unlikely that you’d ever recover…”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said matter-of-factly, “they obviously don’t know me.”

Sam put the car back into gear and started to pull back into traffic. “We’re going back to Missouri’s—we need to tell Dad what we learned. Just—try not to sleep, alright?” There was a huge chance that Dean’s headache was a sign that the concussion had been aggravated. Sam was afraid it’d turn into a serious migraine before long.

“Okay, Sam.” Dean let him be the boss, for now, knowing instinctively that Sam needed to feel like he was in control of something—anything. Their world had been shaken so hard that not even the ground they stood on was solid anymore. Dean would assume control when he needed to—it was the big brother prerogative.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice called out, “You know, we’re gonna have to talk about it—all of it, with Dad.”

Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, Sam breathed, “Yeah, I know…” He let Dean continue.

“It’s sorta weird, you know, Sammy. ‘Cause just last week, Miss Marcia was teaching me about the library coding system and making us cookies. I didn’t remember anything but the first nine years of my life—but I’d never felt as safe as I did with you. I really thought that you were a stranger—a guy with just a resemblance to my father. And when I found out who you were—who I was—even with all the pain—I knew that you’d never hurt me and that you’d take care of me. God, Sam, I remember every detail as if I was that little kid standing outside a window—looking in; looking backwards in time. And I’m afraid…I’m afraid because that little kid’s still there, Sammy.” Sam whipped around, fear filling him. Was there a chance that he’d lose his brother again? “He’s there in the back of my mind, like the little voice that tells you right from wrong.” Dean laughed, “You know, it’s weird, because I used to listen to mom; of course, it wasn’t really Mom, but like the idea that she was, you know, up there, watching us. I’d pretend that she was an angel on my shoulder—she’d whisper to me, help me, sometimes. Especially, when I needed someone to talk to…” Dean wiped at his eyes, “Yeah, so, like I said, the little kid’s whispering to me now, too.”

“That’s not so weird, Dean. I do that too sometimes…you know, with mom…” Sam thought quickly, “The little Dean—um—he’s not going to make a reappearance, is he?”

Dean gave him a look of annoyance, “So that you can be the big brother that’s never wrong? I don’t think so! Anyway, everything is different now. Sammy, things that I thought were just plain talent—like my hustling—I now find out are genetic traits passed to us by our mother. And the fact that she was apart of a secret ‘sisterhood’, boggles the mind. It blows me away.”

“I know how you feel, Dean. It’s enough to make me sick to my stomach.”

“I’m already there, little brother. Arg… My head.” Dean clutched his head in his hands, groaning.

“Dean?” Sam pressed the gas harder; they were only two blocks away from Missouri’s.

“I’m going to be sick, Sam.”

“Can you hold on just a bit longer? We’re almost there. Literally, just one more minute and you can rest in peace and quiet.”

“I’ll try—just hurry.” Dean shut his eyes, clenching them tightly to block the light from entering.

Biting his lip, Sam drove as fast as he dared in the suburban neighborhood.

Please God, he thought, please let it just be one of his migraines.

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

Sam parked the car in the driveway, quickly shutting the car off before turning to look at his brother. Dean was leaning his head against the glass, his eyes tightly clenched against the harshness of the sunlight outside. Sam studied him, fear making it difficult to concentrate. He placed his fingertips against the inside of Dean’s wrist, if only to make sure that his brother was aware and conscious of him.

Dean turned his head away from the glass, a small moan escaping his lips. “Sam?”

Sam nodded, even though Dean couldn’t see him. “I’m right here, Dean. How are you feeling? Should I take you to the hospital?”

“No…No, hospital. Just a headache. It’s like all of the others…you always took care of me.” It was spoken with barely a whisper, as if the sound of his own voice brought him great pain.

“Are you sure, Dean?” Sam placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, Sam, I’m sure. Just help me inside, alright?”

“Okay.” Sam climbed out of the driver’s side and quickly strode over to the passenger door. He gently eased the door open, mindful of the fact that his brother’s body leaned heavily against the door. Once the door was open, Dean maneuvered himself up slowly with Sam’s help. Dean’s eyes were still closed, as Sam walked him to the front of the house and up the three steps.

Sam positioned Dean against the bricks, leaning him back against the solid wall, before struggling to open the screen door. He reached over to turn the door knob and was surprised to see Missouri standing in front of him.

“Oh, you poor boys,” she crooned. “Come in, I’ve already made up some tea that might help that migraine of yours, Dean. Then you can tell your father what you learned.”

“Thanks,” Dean whispered.

Sam led him to the couch, helping him to rest against the cushions. Once Dean was sitting, Sam kneeled in front of him, again assessing his condition. His face was pale, sweat beading his forehead, and his breath was coming out in small hitches. Yes, Dean looked horrible, but the symptoms were nothing new.

“Dean, why don’t you lie down? I’ll get you a couple pain killers and a cold compress for your head.” Dean mumbled something then started a sideways slump towards a small pillow Missouri had in the corner.

Sam groaned softly as he got off of his knees, moving towards the kitchen where he knew that Missouri kept the medical supplies.

“Missouri?” Sam called out softly, “Can I please bother you for a couple of ibuprofen for Dean? Honestly, thanks for the tea, but I have a feeling if you give it to him now, it’ll make a quick reappearance.”

Missouri came out from behind him, cupping his hand before handing him the pills he’d asked from her only a second ago. “Why don’t you give him those and then let him get some sleep? Your father’s been asking about you.”

Sam stared at the woman, his expression becoming serious. “How’s Dad doing?”

She gave him a small smile, “Oh, that man can surely grumble when he’s hurt. But he’s doing much better.”

Running a hand over his face, Sam could only nod. “Good, that’s good.”

“It’s been a long day for the both of you, hasn’t it? You look as tired as your brother.” Missouri mentioned. She pushed him towards the living area, tapping his hand in reminder.

With a small smile, Sam walked away from her to go back to Dean. Placing a hand on his forehead, he stroked him slowly until he was aware of his presence. “Dean, I’ve got you a couple of ibuprofen. If it doesn’t kick in after a half hour, then I’ll give you something stronger. I just—you hated those pills, they used to knock you out for a day or so afterwards. You said you felt like--.”

“A space cadet.” Dean finished for him.

“Yeah.” Sam shook his head, aware that he was, as Missouri claimed, just as tired as his brother. “Here.” He held out the pills, helping raise Dean’s head enough for him to swallow them.

“You gonna be okay for a while? I’m going to go upstairs and tell Dad, you know…”

“Yeah. I know.” Dean laughed, “Go.”

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

Sam awkwardly stood in front of his father’s room, fidgeting from one foot to the other. He huffed under his breath, “What the hell am I going to tell him? God, this sucks big time.”

Sucking it up, he ran his knuckles down the door, knowing his father would know it was him prior to his entry. “Dad?” He called out.

“Sammy. You’re back, thank god. Where’s Dean?” John struggled to sit up, but using his stubborn determination, did it without help, just as Sam knew he would. The man was nothing if not tenacious.

Walking over to the bed, Sam grabbed the chair and sat backwards in it, using it to slump into a more comfortable spot. “Dean’s here. He had one of his migraines; it’s knocked him out, so he’s resting on the couch downstairs. Dad, Dean—he’s, uh, he’s back.”

John blinked up at him, not understanding. “He’s back…I know, that’s what you said—he’s on the couch.”

Sam shook his head, “No, Dad. I mean, Dean is back. That woman, Kate, our grandmother—she kicked him in the head. He lost consciousness for a while and when he woke, he was back to normal.” With a short laugh, he continued, “If I knew that all it’d take was another kick in the head, I’da hit him a long time ago. As it was, I was afraid another blow to the head would just kill him…” He watched his father’s eyes, watched as the fearful look disappeared and became relief.

“But he’s alright?”

“Yeah, he seems alright, Dad.”

“Good. Just—do the routine wakeup every hour, okay? Keep an eye on him.”

“I will, Dad. Don’t worry, Dean’s gonna be okay.”

“Okay. Now tell me, Sammy. What did you find out?”

Sitting up straight, Sam told him everything—everything that Kate had told them.

His father could only nod as he listened. Leaning his head against his arms, Sam watched his father piece together the information he’d given him.

“So, this is all some kind of genetic experiment? You’re telling me that there’s some kind of genetic anomaly killing people who have the same genetic code as it does?”

“Yeah, Dad. It’s trying to prevent the birth of something called a ‘Kwisatz Haderach.’ She tried to explain it to me—but I just don’t understand. Somehow, by Mom giving birth to, well, Dean and I—it prevented its existence. This entire thing is so fucked up. I have no idea what to do. This is something that I—hell, none of us—have experience with.”

“And these visions of yours—it’s apart of it?”

“Yeah. And Dean, hell, I don’t know—he’s got more ‘gifts’ than I do, but they aren’t as obvious. I mean, I never noticed anything ‘different’ about him and I’ve known him my entire life. Did you?”

John smiled, “You and your brother have always been special to me, Sam. As far as I know, you are the most unique children that I know.”

Rolling his eyes, he knew where Dean got his sense of humor. “Yeah, Dad. Dean and I were the only kids you know.”

The sense of dread he’d been feeling hadn’t gone away, and he couldn’t get it out of his mind. “Dad, what do we do now? It’s coming after us and we don’t know how to stop it.”

His father straightened further in the bed, “We do what we always do, Sam. We research, we hunt, and then we kill this son-of-a-bitch.”

Sam bit his lip, running his hands through his hair, “I don’t think it’s that easy, Dad.”

“We’ll make it that easy, Sammy. I won’t let this damn thing destroy our family.”

“Okay. First we research, find out everything about the Bene Gesserit, the Bene Tleilax, this Abomination and where it came from… then we hunt it down and kill it.”

“No, Sam. We need to do more than kill it.” A voice from behind them answered. “We need to make sure that no one creates another one of these—freaks again. We have to go to the source. We need to kill anyone involved—destroy everything: the genetic codes, the computers, the records, the studies, and tests—everything. And then, Sam, and only then, will it be finally over.”

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

About a Year Later…

“No, Sam. We need to do more than kill it.”

The words echoed in Sam’s brain as he watched the smoldering flames ripple like a raging wave of water across the facility. Dean and their father stood next to him, watching…waiting for it to finally end.

“We need to make sure that no one creates another one of these—freaks again.”

The flames roared like an animal – his imagination filling in the sounds of screams. The screams of thousands of monsters, unborn, un-alive, but there—real, ready and waiting to hatch and slowly over take the world.

“We have to go to the source.”

For a place that housed so much mystery, so much darkness, it looked so normal. Sam gasped at that realization. His entire life, all he wanted was normal. The two parent, two point five kids and a dog normal life. A life that wasn’t surrounded in supernatural, fear, and death.

After all it’d taken for them to find this place, all of the research, the hunting, the clues, bribes, and frustration… it was a Planned Parenthood clinic. The rooms were cozy and warm, blankets draped over the chairs for those who were chilled from the cold world around them. Pictures and photographs covered the walls; it was inviting.

The receptionists who worked at the desk were nothing special…all smiling and behaving like normal women. The nurses wore the same scrubs seen at every other hospital they’d been to. The doctors with their god-like condescending attitudes.

No one would ever believe that the place was a secret genetics laboratory. That the doctors, nurses, hell—even the janitors were part of a secret organization bent on creating, at least in their eyes, the perfect being—one with the memory of all those who came before him.

To Sam, Dean, and John, the being was anything but perfect. The only thing that seemed perfect about it was its ability to destroy the lives around it.

Sam closed his eyes, he was so tired…

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

“We need to kill anyone involved—destroy everything: the genetic codes, the computers, the records, the studies, and tests—everything.”

It’d had taken over a year; a year of non-stop research, searching for any clues that tied the past and the future together. It’d taken nearly that long to get Dean back into shape—for the debilitating migraines to lessen their hold on him. The memories of holding his older brother in his arms as he tried not to cry out in pain, trying to avoid their father’s glare: the one that said, ‘suck it up, Dean. Take it like a man.’ It had taken everything in him not to duke it out with him; Dean pleading with him to ‘just do what Dad says.’

For Dean, he had. John finally got what he always wanted: good little soldiers. Dean hardly spoke anymore, except for ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir.’ Sam watched his brother slowly deteriorate into a machine. He also couldn’t deny the changes he’d seen in himself. The man in the mirror was a stranger now. The truth of his lineage, the abilities he’d inherited—well, there was no way normal would ever be an option again. Inside, he cried for the loss—wanting nothing more than to leave their father—run away from everything and everyone. But he couldn’t—not when the truth of their existence held their lives in a vice.

Inside them, inside the very building blocks of their DNA was the capacity to transform into a psychotic un-human being—An Abomination.

Just the thought of it—Sam swallowed hard, remembering the look on the man’s face. Lowering his eyes to the ground, he laughed silently, the man—he’d actually called it a man. Well, to his own defense, it’d once been human. It had a name: Maxwell Miller. Once it’d had a father, step-mother and uncle…once upon a time…before he murdered them using his ‘gifts’. The voices—a man/woman with yellow eyes—he claimed made him do it. They’d called out his name constantly. Max, Max, Max, Max. The ‘other memories’ had completely overtaken him –leaving behind a mind incapable of human compassion and without a conscience. The Bene Gesserit ability to slow the aging process left him with the body of a twenty year old man, but that was the only thing human about him.

The Abomination once known as Miller wielded an incredible power. The ability to move things with only the power of thought (telekinesis) made him one of the most frightening beings they had hunted. Demons, witches, werewolves—those things could be killed easily with an exorcism—a silver bullet, etc. But the Abomination—it’d know what you’d planned before you even planned it. Anything shot or thrown at it would be immediately stopped, and flung back with barely a blink of an eye.

Dangerous was an understatement.

The only way to kill this being was to get up close and personal. It had been, after all, human once. It could still bleed, could still die—if one was strong enough to fight it. If you could get close enough to it without it killing you.

After months of research, John swallowed what was left of his pride and begged his once mother-in-law for help, thinking the Bene Gesserit had inside knowledge of the monster that had murdered his love.

The Bene Gesserit and all of their training, their Weirding Way, their so-called self-control—with all of their knowledge, the past life memories—were completely impotent when it came right down to it. They had no way to stop it.

Instead they seemed to focus on his brother, constantly attempting to pry him away from the hunt to train with them, promising him that they would teach him everything he would need to know about his abilities, if he would only share his ‘seed’. They’d even been so bold to send seductresses to him at night, secretly following him to bars and accidentally bumping into him. Of course, they’d play hard-to-get; they knew that much about him, but it completely astounded Sam that Dean would immediately know their game as soon as they walked into the room. He’d smile coyly and send them on their way, back to the Bene Gesserit in shame of their failure.

He’d asked Dean, ‘How did you know that she was Bene Gesserit?’ And Dean would merely grin, taking a sip of his beer before shrugging his shoulders in mild amusement. ‘I just know what women want—a woman like that, Sammy… She just wants one thing, and it isn’t my mind or body.’

They’d all figured out fairly quickly that Kate had obviously told her ‘sisters’ about Dean’s abilities. To them, he was the better half—the one with the most ability and the one they believed would be easier to seduce. They wanted a child. They wanted to continue their quest for their Messiah. John was disgusted with them, and in his usual form, threatened to kill them if they ever showed their faces again.

They were on their own. And that thought, it put a chill down Sam’s spine.

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

In the end, it was the Abomination who would be the key to their undoing.

Maxwell Miller, once a human being, and now nothing but a demon created from the haunted memories of all those before him fought to escape the never ending droning of the voices in his head.

They’d tracked him down, finally, to the place in which he’d been created. A clinic, a god-damned medical clinic. It wasn’t clandestine…hell, people were standing in front of it waving their fucking anti-abortion signs at the women sneaking inside, trying to hide their faces and ignore the sermons of those trying to stop them.

He’d walked in like a normal person, everyone who’d seen him assumed he worked there or was supporting someone inside—perhaps a father trying to beg for the life of his unborn child.

No one knew—not a single person even assumed that he was a monster. Or that he was out to destroy those who’d worked their entire lives to create him.

Dean, swiping the lab coats from a hospital supply room, quickly entered the building followed by Sam and their father.

Drawing their weapons, (it was a useless, but ingrained, gesture) they followed it quietly into the basement. It had known all along that they were following him, and it allowed it. To it, they would be witness to end of the doomed Kwisatz Haderach bloodline.

It spoke, ‘I would rather die, then lose myself to the Voices again. It has to be stopped. This can never happen again.’ It smiled at Dean, then at Sam, before nodding to John, its eyes downcast, as if apologetic.

‘Get out!’ It screamed! And in that moment, a vision flashed through Sam’s eyes.

An explosion.

Pain.

Fear.

Death.

Then, nothing.

A sense of calm. Of finality.

He’d opened his eyes, cradled in his brother’s arms as John stood guard, weapons ready to fire at the monster.

Pushing past the pain that still resided in his head; he struggled to stand, using his brother as a support. Once he was upright, he gently laid his hand on his father’s arm. Not for a second, did he peel his eyes away from lost soul in front of him…

‘Dad. We need to leave. Now!’ He gripped Dean’s hand, which held his waist to keep him steady on his feet.

John twisted sharply, ‘We can’t leave now, Sam!’ He shouted, angry. ‘We have to finish this! No one else is going to die because of this son-a-bitch. It ends now!’

Dean understood, because Dean had always understood… ‘Sam’s right, Dad. We need to get out of here.’ He stared at him, willing him to listen, ‘Trust me, Dad. It’s over.’

‘No, Dean! It’s not over yet! It’s still alive! That Fucking Freak killed your mother! And it’s still walking. There’s no way in hell that I’m leaving.’

Thinking back, Sam realized that there was no way to describe what happened next… it was…there were just no words.

Dean stood back, and in the strangest, most calm voice Sam ever heard commanded their father to follow them out of the building.

And to his absolute horror, he did, without a single argument or hesitation.

It was only days after they had stood back watching the building explode in front of them, did the reality of what had actually happened hit Sam.

His brother—his best friend—had the power of persuasion.

Sam kept his thoughts to himself—or at least that’s what he wanted to believe—for another four days before he finally couldn’t take it anymore…he had to know.

So, he and his brother sat down in a loud and obnoxious nightclub, nursing their celebratory beers just staring at each other from across the table. It was a comfortable silence—one that two brothers wouldn’t shy away from.

Sam sipped at his beer, thinking.

“Go ahead and ask, Sammy.”

He lifted his head, blinking. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you read my mind…”

Dean laughed, “That only works if you have a brain for me to read, little brother.”

“Ha ha, Dean. You’re so funny.” Sam rolled his eyes.

His brother stopped laughing, “Go ahead,” he repeated, softly.

“How long, Dean?” Sam lifted his eyes and stared directly into Dean’s.

“How long, what?” Dean took another sip of his beer.

Sam turned away, staring at the bodies dancing, in beat with the music and strobe lights. He took a deep breath in, forcing himself to remain calm. It wouldn’t help matters if he became defensive.

“How long have you had your abilities? I mean, I told you about my visions, or whatever the hell they are... They started about a month before Jess—So, what about you? Did they start about the same time?”

Dean didn’t even blink. “No. They didn’t, Sam. I’ve had them for a while.” He sat there, now silent, just waiting for his little brother’s response.

“What’s a while, Dean? A couple months before me? A year? What?”

Dean huffed, now squirming under Sam’s stare. “A while, Sam. Like—I don’t know. I’ve had them for a long time, since I can remember. I just—god, Sam, Don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what, Dean?” Sam argued, now becoming angry. “What am I looking at you like? I can’t believe you! You reamed me out for weeks about keeping the visions from you!”

Dean put the beer bottle down; Sam noticed his hands shaking and stopped his attack abruptly. “Wait. I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to… It’s alright.”

“No. It’s not, Sam. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you!” Dean started rubbing his hands over his face…the way he did when he felt his emotions start to spiral out of his control, when he was upset over something.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked this gently, not wanting to upset him any further. It was hard enough to get his brother to open up, to risk him clamming up again.

“The way you’ve been looking at me—the past few days. Like I’m a freak.”

Sam shook his head, denying the claim. “Dean, I haven’t been looking at you that way. Anyway,” he said this with a small smile, “Don’t you remember—you already are a freak, but so am I. I’m right there with you, brother.”

Dean lowered his head, closing his eyes in what could only be relief. Sam waited patiently for him to lift his head back up, to continue their conversation.

“So, you persuaded Dad to leave that building. You’ve definitely got big balls.”

Dean grinned at that. He sniffed indigently, “Hey, someone had to do it. The building was going to explode, dude!”

“Yeah, I know. I saw it, right before it happened, remember?”

“Yeah. I remember, I was the one carrying your ass out the door.”

Sam blinked, the memories of his brother confessing that he’d carried him out of their burning childhood home colliding with the recent ones. “Thanks, Dean.”

“Huh? For what?”

“For carrying me out of the fire.”

Dean looked thoughtful for a second, “You’re welcome, but why do I get the feeling that you’re not talking about the clinic fire?”

Sam didn’t answer, just took another sip of his beer. Dean did the same.

“There is just one more thing that I want to ask you, Dean.”

“What’s that, Sammy?”

“I know that you can use your abilities on me. Hell, I think you take my so-called ‘puppy-dog’ look and multiply it by a thousand.”

“Sam, I never—.”

“I know, Dean.” Sam interrupted him, holding his hand palm out. “That’s my point. You’ve never used them against me. Even when I left for Stanford…”

Dean shuddered slightly, his breath quickening, and Sam’s heart shot in his throat. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say…

“Forget it…it’s not important.”

“No. You asked, so it’s important to you. You’re my brother, Sam. There’s no way in hell that I’m going to use my ‘powers’ or whatever on you.” Dean swallowed, “I’ve—ahh—I’ve never told you this, but I was really proud of you, when you stood up against Dad. You—ahh—were a stubborn bastard, more stubborn than the old man. And you fought for what you wanted. I wish—sometimes, I wish that I was like you.”

“Really?” Sam questioned.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded.

“Huh,” Sam mumbled.

“What?”

Sam shook his head, “I just—it’s just strange. Because my entire life, I wanted to be like you.” He smiled at him.

Smiling back, Dean tipped the beers together in a silent toast. “Yeah, I don’t blame you. I got the car, the looks, the chicks. I’m damn hot. You should want to be me, dude!”

The laughter from the table was heard even through the noisy crowds and blaring music.

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

Epilogue

A black car drove up to the wreckage of the clinic, watching from the blackened windows. The camera crew reporting the bombing of a Planned Parenthood clinic was packing away their equipment.

An anti-abortion leader had claimed responsibility for the attack. The police and FBI counted it as a lucky break—a signed confession and a warrant later captured everyone involved. They were so incredibly pleased that they could return to their families in time for dinner, that they missed a few small details.

Like the fact that the ‘leader’ hadn’t been in the city during the attack. That the evidence had been planted inside a small barn on the outskirts of town where the terrorists resided. And the fact that the entire episode had been quickly covered up by other—more worthy—scandals.

Inside the car, the phone rang. The man quickly answered, “Sandeman.”

“No, sir.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, the bloodline is still intact. The Winchesters.”

“Yes, sir. It might take a little longer than expected, but we will produce the Kwisatz Haderach.”

“Samuel Winchester’s daughter is being raised by the Reverend Mother herself. She will be trained in the ways of the Bene Gesserit.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m surprised. The Reverend Mother named her ‘Jessica’. That’s a kind of sentimentality I didn’t expect from her.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I will.”

“Goodbye.”

Closing the cell phone, he continued to stare out the window for a few more minutes, before calling out to his driver to continue on their way.

He reached down and pulled a brown non-descript file from his briefcase. He looked over the pictures of Jessica Moore. Flipping past the pages of her school records, he reread her medical history. The last doctor’s appointment she had was most interesting.

Planned Parenthood – Stanford University Branch.

Patient recently setup appointment for pregnancy test/first prenatal visit.
Tests were confirmed. + for pregnancy.
Diagnosed - approximately three weeks along.
Patient has family history of hemophilia in men. Genetics testing recommended.
Pt will schedule after informing significant other of pregnancy.

IN SEPARATE (HIDDEN) FILE
Date: 11/2/06
Fetus has been successfully removed and implanted into host.
Pt has no memory of procedure.
Pt scheduled for termination.

“And then, Sam, and only then, will it be finally over.”

THE END

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