Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His face felt wet and dirty, and he could feel it lying in something sandy, something soft but not quite comfortable, and it smelled like summer nights and grass and rain. His eyes were too heavy for him to open them, but he didn’t mind. His brain was like a train that had just started to set off, sluggish and slow and… actually, it felt painful to think, so, nevermind, it  was better if he didn’t bother doing so.

His limbs were lying splayed on the floor too. He moved his right hand and felt a sharp pain across his wrist that made him wince. He tried to bend the fingers on his left hand and could now feel them slipping through what obviously was soil, loose and gritty, and felt his hand coming out dirty and dusty. He tried moving his legs, but they probably weighed around one hundred pounds, because they were really heavy. Sam thought that was weird because his legs usually weren’t that heavy. Huh.

Birds were singing somewhere in the distance, and that beautiful sound made Sam feel safe and secure. He tried to open his eyes, but he closed them again immediately after being blinded by the sharp sun rays in front of him. He then felt the nice and hot warmth of the sun and comforted himself with it along with the birds’ songs and the soft ground. It was just comfy, even though there was something at the back of his mind, something in the depths of his tired brain, that was telling him something important, that was trying to… warn him, maybe?

He didn’t know, and he wasn’t very (not at all) concerned about it. The sun felt so nice against his wet skin… He let himself drift again into a very peaceful and motionless sleep…

THREE DAYS BEFORE

“Dean, wake up already, I’ll be late!” Sam yelled for what felt like the hundredth time, annoyed, as he tossed a pillow against his brother’s head, which rested comfortably on the bed, his eyes closed, his face peaceful and calm.

Sam, on the other hand, was not calm. At all.

Dean moaned in his sleep and tossed around in the bed.

“...wha’ is it?” he said, his words muffled by the pillow.

Sam exhaled and threw his hands in frustration as he told, in his best annoyed little brother impression, how he needed to get to school because he had a really important test to do and, honestly, Dean, I don’t understand why you don’t get it, like, it’s my future, it’s my life, and it depends on school and tests, like this one.

Dean probably just heard half of it because he just shushed his brother and didn’t argue giving Sam the usual speech about how his life was not school and about the importance of hunting, explaining that Sam was never going to have a normal life and that of course he was not going to go to college or anything like that, so what did it even matter? However, he did get out of bed and start dressing up, likely because, if he didn’t hear the words his little brother blurted out, maybe he heard the tone in which they were said. That tone only Sam could have, that “quit being a jerk and help me because I’m starting to get really pissed off, and nothing you say is gonna make my too-stubborn personality change my mind” tone.

Less than fifteen minutes later, they were out of the motel and driving in the Impala, Dean yawning, Sam reviewing some of his notes for his “ very important test, Dean ”. They arrived at the school’s entrance in record time, and Sam stepped out of the car as quickly as his still-too-short legs for his age would let him, and Dean could only shake his head as he watched his little brother stumble to the school, his backpack falling from his skinny shoulders, wondering how they could be related. Dean would only run outside of the school, never inside .

“Hey!” he shouted before Sam disappeared inside of the hellmouth. Sam turned around, impatient. “Be careful, Sam. And try to find something out. Don’t forget why we’re here!”

Sam nodded and turned back around, rushing into the school. Dean wasn’t worried, but he did know what kind of things had been happening. After all, they were only in this town because of their dad’s case. A few students had been found dead or had disappeared suddenly. Although whatever the thing that they were hunting was obviously interested in children (between eight and fifteen years had been the victims), all of them had disappeared after going to class. Some of them had been found dead after that, badly beaten up, in a forest near the school.

Dean shuddered at the thought of his brother being in the same condition as the photos his dad had shown him last night while Sam slept. Sam was just fourteen years old; the monster wasn’t going to attack him, but then again, monsters were sometimes unpredictable, weren’t they? No , Dean told himself. Actually, they are not. They follow patterns. And Sam’s not on the list. Period. And with that thought, he headed to the motel again, Black Sabbath playing loudly on the radio.

Sam finished his test and left the pen on the table, exhausted but proud of himself. It had been a long and hard exam, but the good marks were worth it. He got up and headed to the teacher’s table, handing him the test.

“How was it, Sam?” the teacher, a mid-thirty man with curly black hair and gentle grey eyes, asked him.

“Yeah, it went really well, actually. Thanks, Mr. Wellington,” Sam answered with a smile, dimples showing, his eyes glowing.

All he could think about was how this test would help him raise his marks, which would lead him to be considered for scholarships, which would lead him to college, which would lead him to… His smile faded a little as he thought about his family. It wasn’t like he wanted to leave them; they just didn’t understand what he wanted, what he needed . But maybe, maybe they would understand once he got a full ride, once they saw his potential and how far he could go, once they realized there were other things besides hunting. Of course he wanted to help people and save lives, but there were other ways of doing that. Hunting, he believed, was for people who had nothing else left, who were alone and grieving and angry and needed to kill things in order to get vengeance for whatever had happened in their lives that had led them to hunting. But that wasn’t his family. It wasn’t his dad. Okay, he had lost Mary, but he still had his sons. He still could get a job and marry again and have a home and be happy. And Dean. Dean should study something, get a job he liked, get into a relationship that longed for more than two weeks. 

And Sam. Sam wanted to be so many things, he wanted to try everything, he wanted to travel, and not just from state to state, to crappy motel rooms; he wanted to try new things and meet people and study and know random things and discover the world. He knew a lot of stuff that most people didn’t, but he felt like he knew the most horrible and cruel part of the world. What he didn’t know was the good parts of life, he had never met all those beautiful things out there that made the world worth saving. Because what was the point on saving people and a world he would never know, never understand, never get to see? He thought he deserved that, and so did Dean and his father. 

He got out of his thoughts as his shoulder bumped with someone else’s, and he quickly turned around to see who he had stumbled with. It was a girl with red hair, and some of her papers and books had fallen to the floor. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry” he said as he got nearer her, helping reunite all the missing papers, scattered now around the corridor’s floor.

“Don’t worry about it” she mumbled, her hair hiding her face.

Sam looked at her, surprised at her voice. It was soft and sweet, and there was something in it that captured him, something beautiful and touching. He looked at her at the exact time that she got her hair aside of her face, and he instantly felt good. There was something in her eyes, something relaxing that screamed home and safety. Her eyes bored into his, as if trying to see through his soul.

Sam cleared his throat and looked at the  floor with great effort, ashamed. 

“What is your name?” she asked, and her smile seemed to illuminate the whole hallway. Sam wondered how anyone else was looking at her.

“S…Sam” he said, his voice stuttering oddly. He felt like drugged.

“Hey, Sam, nice to meet you. My name’s Betty” she continued, still smiling. 

There was a pause in which Sam just stared at her, amazed by… well, by her. By all of her.

“Um… sorry. I spaced for a moment” he said, shaking his head, trying to sound genuine and not look like a psychopath. “What class do you have now, Betty?” he said, enjoying saying her name. It sounded well in his lips, it sounded like a melody, like it was meant to be sung. 

“Oh, I have maths now.”

“Really??”  he said, a little bit too loud. He cleared his throat again, and felt himself go red from shame. “I mean… I have maths too”

“Oh, then maybe we should go to class together, right?” she said, and her words sounded so right and correct he could only nod in silence, still stunned by her. She started walking towards what he trusted to be the right room, and he followed in silence, without stopping looking at her. He just wasn’t able to not look at her.

“Right” he murmured. 

“Hey” said Dean as he dropped the motel keys into the table his father was sitting at, looking at papers and books, his brow frowned. “Anything new?”

“Well, I talked to some of the victims’ families, but I didn’t get much besides tears and torn faces. The kids that died were really young, and they were found very beaten up… no wonder their parents are wrecked.” 

“So, what do you think? Did you get any look at the wounds?”

“Yeah, but they seem just… random. They have just twisted or broken limbs, bruises everywhere, and usually die of blood loss or a concussion. But there are no tooth bites, no weird marks, no nothing”

“Huh. Weird. So, what do we do?”

John shook his head, and sighed.

“We keep talking to people and investigating, researching. Actually, our best shot at finding out what fugly is doing this, is Sam.”

“You think maybe one of the kids in school might be attacked?”

“Unless the monster took a vacation, yes, he should.”

“So we’re just going to wait till the next victim gets attacked?” Dean said, trying to hide his annoyance in his voice, but failing. John looked at him with rough eyes, although something in his eyes told Dean that John wasn’t happy himself either. 

“Why don’t you get a book and start researching, son?” John finally said, after a tense silence, in a measured tone that made Dean immediately want to shut up and obey. He picked some random book off the table and started reading it, even though he had opened it on a random page and had no context.

“Good” John said, his eyes focusing on his own book once again.

Sam entered the motel with the stupidest smile all over his face, Dean noticed as he frowned. He had been watching TV for the last hour, waiting for Sam, as his father had left to do some more research by himself. The books were still all scattered on the table, and Sam dumping his bag on the floor didn’t help the motel look tidier.

“Look who’s back! What happened to you?” Dean asked, noticing the faraway look in his brother’s eyes. “Dude, I told you not to fall for teachers,” he teased his little brother.

Sam looked at him as if he had just noticed him and smiled wider as he sat on the couch next to Dean.

“No, nothing like that. Just had a good day, that’s all. The test went real good.”

“Of course,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “Only you could look like you just fell in love because of an exam.”

“Actually, I also met a girl,” he said, blushing a little.

Dean looked at him, surprised. His brother actually had blushed.

“Finally, bro! I was starting to think you were an alien or something,” he smirked as Sam blushed more. “So, who is the unfortunate girl?”

“Her name is Betty,” he said, and her face appeared to him as he pronounced her name—her curly, bright red hair, her pink cheeks, her soft hands… “She is really pretty.”

Dean laughed and stared at his brother. He genuinely had thought that maybe Sam would be the kind of guy that would be more interested in personality than looks, but what could he say? Maybe they were brothers after all. And it had been just a matter of time; of course, eventually Sam would feel attraction to someone.

“That’s great, Sam. Are you meeting her today or something?”

“What?” he jumped a little, as if the idea had scared him, as if it had never occurred to him that he had the choice. “No, no, of course not.” There was a small pause. “Do you think I should?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah, bitch, you better do. You don’t go around wastin’ good opportunities, man,” Dean said as he laughed.

Sam suddenly stood up and faced him, his brow furrowed.

“She is not an ‘opportunity,’ Dean! She is really special,” he almost yelled, angry.

“Whoa, whoa, okay. I can see that,” Dean said, surprised. He hadn’t thought his too-smart-for-his-own-good little brother would fall so hard for a girl, and so fast. “So, why don’t you ask her out tomorrow, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, sitting once again, visibly more relaxed now. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll ask her.”

“Okay, just don’t tell Dad. You know how he gets if we’re not focused on the hunt. By the way, did you find out anything at all?”

“Nah, just talked to some of the victims’ friends, but they knew nothing. Also, they were just kids, Dean. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to talk to some of their teachers.” Sam said, now fully in his hunt-action mode.

Dean nodded, agreeing.

“So, you hungry?”

Sam smiled.

“Starving.”

“So, Sam. You hit the lore: look for anything that might have special interest in kids, or something like that.”

John, Dean, and Sam were in the motel room, Sam’s jacket already on, his feet impatiently tapping on the floor, while Dean was sitting at the table, cleaning guns and taking inventory of the weapons.

“Remember that whatever the thing doing this is, it doesn’t leave any evident marks. The victims were found badly injured, with bruises and scratches and… well, it’s pretty gory. But, there is no pattern.”

“Right, sure, Dad. I’ll see what I can find. Can I go now? Library’s closing in just a few hours.”

“Yeah, go. Don’t forget to get the groceries too. And be home by eight! I mean it, Sam.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said as he turned around and started opening the motel’s door, just to be interrupted by his brother’s voice.

“Hey Sammy! Don’t forget the pie!” Sam rolled his eyes as he stepped out of the motel and closed the door behind him.

As he was walking to the library, he started getting more and more pissed. Not only did he have to go do research at the library by himself, walking (not that it was far, but still), and go shopping, but he had to spend all his day doing what his dad ordered him to do. Obeying like a dog. He was supposed to be studying (maths, science, and English, not freaking monsters and kid disappearances), or doing homework, or hanging out with friends or something, which, to be honest, had always been impossible since he never had the chance to stay long enough to make friends. Which was extremely unfair, because…

Wait.

Betty.

Huh. Maybe he had made a friend, after all.

He smiled at the thought of her, of her pretty eyes and smooth hair. He felt himself really looking forward to seeing her tomorrow in school, and his dimples showed even more as he determined himself to talk more to her the next day. Even hanging out with her, as Dean had said. So what if his dad wanted him to do research? That wasn’t his job, it wasn’t even Dean’s job. Hell, it wasn’t even his Dad’s. John just thought he had to hunt these things because he acknowledged them, because he was still hurting after Mary’s death, and his only way of coping, apparently, was to kill some ugly sons of bitches.

But that didn’t have to include Sam or Dean. Why couldn’t he understand that? Why couldn’t his dad get that they deserved a life, too? After all, John had had a life, he once have had a mother and a father, and a house, and had studied and had had the chance to decide what he wanted to study. He had the opportunity to choose what he wanted to spend his life doing, what he wanted to be in life.

But not Sam, no. He was just supposed to do whatever his dad told him to, whatever—

His shoulder bumped into someone as he entered the library. He got out of the mist that were his thoughts as he acknowledged his surroundings. First day in town and his feet already had managed to walk right into the library without his brain leading them. He guessed every town was the same, after all. And all the libraries were laid out the same way. Or maybe he had just gotten lucky.

He stepped into the adult section and started looking through books, deciding which one would be the most useful, but after a moment, he gave up. He had no real clue where to start looking. Hell, he even considered the possibility that this wasn’t a monster at all. Like, come on, beaten kids? Disappearances and deaths? Why did that have to be supernatural? Could be some random psycho, some serial killer.

He sighed. Not that that would make a real difference to his dad. He just wanted to get the bad guys, and sometimes Sam wondered if they were really supposed to be supernatural creatures, or if human murderers were enough for John Winchester. He guessed the latter was the most likely answer.

He turned around and went for the local newspapers, looking for similar cases over the years. He picked up a bunch of newspapers and sat at a table, looking through them. He had been that way —reading and researching— for almost half an hour when a red blur passed by. He turned to see, a weird feeling creeping up his chest, and suddenly he saw her.

Betty.

She was wearing a beautiful green dress that looked amazing with her red hair. She was standing in front of a shelf, trying to get a book that was pretty high for her. Sam quickly forgot about the newspapers and rushed to her. He caught the book and handed it to her, a shy smile on his lips, and her wider smile left him breathless. How could she be so…?

“Thanks, Sam!” she said cheerfully. He could only stare. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, nothing, just, uh… passing by,” he murmured, too fast, too nervous. God, was he stupid. But then again, he felt absolutely stunned by her beauty… “So, um… you like Jules Verne?” he said louder this time, noticing the book he had just grabbed for her.

“Oh, yeah! I’ve read a lot of his books! Do you know him?”

“Of course, he’s actually my favorite author!” he said, her cheerful mood quickly sticking to him, all his previous negative emotions gone in a puff.

“Really? What is your favorite book?”

And just like that, Sam felt like he had never felt before. This girl… she understood him, somehow. Her eyes were like they knew him, and he could only feel grateful for having found her. What chance did he have finding someone like her? So beautiful, so compelling, so polite and nice and friendly and smart and with the same tastes as him…?

“Do you know what time it is?”

“It’s nine, sir.”

“Exactly. At what time did I tell you to come?”

“At eight, sir.”

“Then why the fuck are you here one hour late??” John all but growled.

Sam lowered his head, embarrassed. It wasn’t strange that he wanted to disobey his father, it wasn’t strange that he didn’t follow all his rules, and it surely wasn’t strange for him to argue with his dad, but this time? This time he hadn’t intended it to happen.

He hadn’t even understood it. One moment, he had been talking and laughing with Betty, and the next the librarian had come to say they were closing. That had been at almost nine o’clock. But it had literally felt like five minutes to him. He had rushed home after that, and here he was. He tried to explain it to his father, but of course, his father wouldn’t believe it. He didn’t believe it. Like, what the hell? People don’t just lose track of time like that. For minutes, maybe, but for hours ? That was just weird.

And of course, he hadn’t gotten the groceries either. Or the pie. He felt like shit.

After some more scolding from his father and a meaningful disapproving look from his brother, he went to bed without having dinner. He fell asleep thinking about red hair.

Chapter Text

When he wakes up again, the sun is almost gone, an orange light covering the tall trees of the forest he is in. This time, he feels dizzy, lightheaded, and he knows there has to be something wrong with him, because… why would he be lying on the ground of a forest? Why… why would his body feel so numb? He tries to concentrate on remembering what had happened, but everything is foggy, and the last memory he really has is of his Dad saying something about moving to… Minnesota? Yeah, that had to be it.

But then, how had he gotten there? He tries to move his body, but he is simply not able to feel it. His eyes drift sluggishly around the trees and the dirt, trying to find any clue of where the hell he is. He’s lying face down on the ground in a forest—that much he can gather. It has to be late, because the light is fading by the minute—and actually, how much time has passed since he woke up? It felt like seconds, but he woke up with the last rays of sunlight illuminating the ground, and now, it’s almost in gloom.

His eyes catch a glimpse of something on the ground, somewhere near his right hand, and minutes pass before he realizes what it is. His muzzy brain isn’t helping: it’s a stone, cylindrical in shape, but with a sharp point at the end. It’s semi-transparent, with a mix of brown and black spots on it, though the point is red… wait, red? No, it wasn’t entirely red, but there was red in it, it was…

Sam is having serious trouble concentrating. It’s like a liquid, a red liquid… blood. It has to be blood, right? But what the hell? Why would he be lying in a freaking forest, unable to move or think, with a freaking stone covered in blood? A drop of water splashes onto his forehead, and a few more follow. Suddenly, he feels colder than ever, and his body starts shivering as he becomes more and more soaked. He shuts his eyes once again, trying to think and not feel overwhelmed, but failing. His own panicked breath is the only thing he can hear, besides the rain.

Dean. He needs Dean. Or Dad, for that matter. He needs them to know he’s here, he needs to…

With great effort, he starts to move his right hand, but is met with sharp pain, and a whimper escapes his lips. He thinks he would probably scream if his throat weren’t so tight and sore… what the hell had happened to his hand? He tries moving the left one, and after long and agonizing minutes of struggle, he’s able to lift it to his pocket.

There it is.

He had feared he hadn’t brought it with him, but fortunately, his phone is right there, where it belongs. Thanking internally, he tries to move his head so he can look at his phone. A blinding pain spreads across his skull, leaving him panting, tears streaming down his face. But he can do this. He has to. He just has to call his brother, and everything will be fine. Dean and Dad will make it better, he just has to…

He strenuously dials his brother’s number with shaking fingers, bringing the phone as close to his head as he can. He closes his eyes and listens to the ring of the call, praying for Dean to pick up.

TWO DAYS BEFORE

The next morning, Sam woke up earlier so he could walk to school without being bothered by anyone. He already felt bad and confused about what had happened yesterday, and he didn’t need Dean's disapproving looks and speeches about being Dad’s soldier, or Dad scolding him again about not being focused. He just wanted to be left alone, and see Betty. He had dreamt about her, with her rosy cheeks and beautiful hair, and in the dream, they had talked for hours about books, writers, and music, and—

Well, maybe Dad was right, and he was distracted after all. But he still couldn’t understand how much he had lost track of time the day before. That had just been… odd.

He made it to school in half an hour, and went straight to class, arriving almost first, with just a few students in the room. The teacher, Mr. Wellington, came next, and he smiled at Sam. Sam smiled back, his family’s cold words quickly disappearing from his mind.

Two classes later, he finally saw her again in the hallway. She looked as amazing as always, and once again, he lost his breath. She came to him, and they immediately started talking as if the hours from the last time they had seen each other had never passed.

Dean and John stepped into the white hospital room, a sudden sense of being unmoored washing over them as they crossed the threshold; neither of them could say who hated hospitals more. They came closer to the gurney where a small girl lay, the ugly bruises on her face barely visible against the dark color of her skin—though the white stitches on her forehead stood out in stark contrast. She had to be around ten or eleven years old, and her eyes were firmly closed as she slept peacefully. A woman sat in a chair next to the bed of the poor kid, rubbing the little girl’s hand carefully. She looked up when she saw them enter the room and immediately stood up.

“Good morning, ma’am,” John said, shaking the woman’s trembling hand.

“Good morning,” she said, sniffling. Dean found her eyes and tried to give her what he thought was a comforting smile.

“We work for a nearby town’s newspaper,” John said calmly, his voice soothing to make the woman relax. They needed her to be comfortable with them so she would actually say something to them. “We don’t want to bother you, ma’am, it’s obvious that you and your daughter have already been through a lot,” he said as a sad smile formed on his lips.

The woman nodded and sniffled again. Dean grabbed a tissue from a table nearby and handed it to her, giving her a reassuring look. She took it and dried some silent tears.

“Yes… I still can’t believe it. Who would want to harm a sweet girl like my Ellie? She’s a good girl, she…” she buried her face in her hands after looking at the kid—Ellie.

“I’m really sorry about what happened. We know the cops are already involved, but from what we’ve heard, they aren’t any closer to catching the attacker than they were two weeks ago. Now, ma’am, if you could tell us what happened, maybe we could…”

“I don’t know anything, really. Ellie disappeared two nights ago, and we found her in the forest where all the other… victims… were found. The doctor said she’d probably been beaten just an hour before we arrived. But we didn’t see anyone when we found her. We took her to the hospital immediately,” she finished, and wiped her nose with the tissue.

“What about her injuries? Anything strange?”

“No, she was just… God… It’s like whoever did this used her as a punching bag!” she started crying uncontrollably, and Dean patted her slightly on the arm, trying to reassure her, but feeling disappointed once again. All the people they had been talking to had been just like this: a sobbing mess of grief with no clue about what had happened. Not that he could blame them; finding your little kid almost dead, bruised, and bloody in the middle of a forest probably did that to a person. But still. They weren’t getting any closer to solving the case and saving anyone.

“Has she woken up since she was brought in?” Dean asked, trying not to sound frustrated.

“Just once, and she was really disoriented…”

“Did she say anything at all?”

“Just… I don’t know, something about a fake friend? She wasn’t making any sense,” the woman shook her head. “Also, she wouldn’t let go of her necklace. The doctors had to remove it from her to… Well. She kept saying that the necklace had saved her,” she shook her head again. “As I said to the cops, nothing really useful. She was really out of it.”

Dean and John exchanged a look.

“Can we see the necklace?” Dean asked, and the woman looked at him strangely but went to the nightstand next to Ellie’s bed, picked up a long chain with a semi-transparent small stone hanging from it, and handed it to Dean.

“Thanks,” he said, touching the stone. It was smooth to the touch and seemed pretty normal to him.

“What kind of stone is it?” John asked.

“It’s a smoky quartz. My sister, her aunt, gave it to her as a gift. My sister has always loved precious stones, she’s always been into what she calls ‘magick stones’ and stuff. Ellie liked how the necklace looked, but it wasn’t like she loved it. She just wore it sometimes. I don’t know why she’d suddenly feel so attached to it…”

Dean gave John a meaningful look. Smoky quartz. Huh. That was something, at least.

When Sam’s feet entered the motel room after school, his mind was still with Betty. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. About the time they’d spent together, about the time they would spend together, even about the time they were wasting by not being together. It was stupid, he thought. He should be with her right now, he should've stayed with her. He should’ve accompanied her to her house—what if she got lost? Or someone mugged her?

Where was he, anyway? Where was he that he wasn’t with her ?

“Look who came on time! How was school?”

Oh.

Motel. Dean. Dad. Hunt. Right.

“Hello,” he said, his backpack slipping off his shoulders and falling to the floor with a soft thud.

He sat on a chair, looking at his father and brother… wait, were they…? What were they doing? Honing a… stone?

“Hey, what are you guys doing?” he asked, looking at the semi-transparent stones.

“What does it look like to you, bitch?” Dean said with a cocky smile on his lips. John shook his head and looked at his youngest.

“Here,” he said, and handed him one of the stones, its tip sharpened. “We think this kind of stone might be able to harm whatever creature it is we’re dealing with.”

“So, you know what the creature is?” he said as he picked the stone in his hand. It was small enough to fit in his hoodie’s pocket, so he kept it there.

“No, but one of the victims was really attached to one of these after the attack, so…”

“Well, then we just have to look for creatures that are hurt by… what is this? Some kind of quartz?” Sam said.

“Well, look at the geek here. You know the name of all rocks, Sammy?”

“Shut up, jerk,” Sam said, giving him a bitchface.

“Boys,” John said reprovingly.

Chapter Text

The sound of the ringtone was unbelievably loud for his pounding head. It was really starting to hurt now, and Sam thinks he might have thrown up a little, his left cheek still pressing against the ground. Several minutes (or maybe seconds?) passed, his headache growing every time the high-pitched tone reached his ears, pain somewhere on his numb body starting to become insistent, questions darting around his sluggish mind, fears reaching a breaking point, until...

“Sam!” His brother’s voice was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

“D-...” His voice wouldn't cooperate, and dammit, couldn’t that part of his body work at least?

“Sammy?” His brother sounded... dammit, it didn’t matter how he sounded, he needed to concentrate, he needed his brother to know... wait, to know what...? “Sammy?? Hey, are you there?” Dean’s voice—panicked, it sounded panicked—said, and Sam started to drift off.

No, he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere.

ONE DAY BEFORE

“Dammit, Sam!! Can you fucking concentrate for just one minute??” Dean yelled, angry, and Sam stood up from the chair, making it hit the ground with a loud thump .

“I don’t even know why we’re doing this! We’ve been doing research all day, I’m tired, okay?” he yelled back, though he didn’t know why. People were dying, it was Saturday—of course they had to research. But...

“Excuse me, what? I’m sorry this is not your favorite hobby, princess!! You know what’s tiring? HAVING AN ANNOYING LITTLE BRAT FOR A BROTHER!”

“Shut up!!” God, this was stupid. What a stupid discussion, what a stupid argument he had used. Of course he wanted to help people, he just wasn’t thinking clearly, he couldn’t, he couldn’t stop thinking about...

“What is your problem??” Dean said, and shoved him. Sam staggered back, and he didn’t know—he didn’t know what his problem was. But he was leaving. He looked at Dean’s eyes, turned around, and grabbed his jacket.

“The hell you think you’re going?” Dean said, and Sam noticed his voice sounded different—less angry, more... well, it didn’t really matter. He sounded off, period.

“Out,” he said shortly.

“The girl, huh? I thought you were better than this, Sam,” Dean said, and the poison was back in his tone. Sam turned around and faced him again.

“It doesn’t...” he began.

“OF COURSE it is her!! You think I don’t notice? You’ve been talking about her from the day she came here, you’ve been drifting off with that stupid smile on your face for almost three days now, Sam! Give me a little credit here, I might be stupid, but I’m not blind! You like her, I get it, man, and I’m exactly like that, you know it—but it’s never made me get distracted from the job before!”

Sam wanted to scream. Dean was so right, but he couldn't, he just could not. He had to—he had to go to her, he had to...

“ MAYBE SHE GETS IT!!” he finds himself yelling again “Maybe she is the person I need, maybe she is the only fucking person that understands what it’s like to be different from your family! You and Dad, you love hunting, and I get it Dean, I really do—but I want something different! And you don’t get it, you don’t, you don’t!!” Sam was starting to repeat himself, and his mind entered some kind of weird loop. He had to go to her, he had to get out, he needed her, needed her, her, her, her...

Dean suddenly looked weirdly at him, like... concerned or...? Never mind. Sam stormed out of the motel, hearing Dean yelling something after him, but not listening. He started running toward the address he had memorized perfectly the previous day.

He was going to see her , finally.

What the fuck had that been? Okay, fine, Sam was in love or whatever, he really liked this Betty chick, but...

Dean stood at the doorframe, looking at where Sam had disappeared, running like a madman. After a minute or two, he walked back inside, closed the door, and sat on one of the motel beds, shock setting in.

He knew his brother didn’t like this life—never had. That hadn’t been weird. The weird part had been Sam saying that Dean didn’t get it. Of course he did, and Sam knew that. And Dean completely understood the girl thing. Finding someone who finally sees you the way you need to be seen... he was happy for his little brother for having that with this girl.

But this wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Sam had looked really out of it. He had started trembling—Dean didn’t understand why. Anger, maybe? But why had he gotten so angry? And the drifting, yeah, Dean could get that... although, this was still too much. He had never seen Sam blank like that, that unfocused. But then again, he had never seen Sam fall so hard for anyone before. Hell, Sam hadn’t even acknowledged anyone at all before.

But he knew Sam. He knew how he could spend hours focused on a book, on homework, on research. He knew his eagerness for solving cases, for saving people, even if he had other goals or ambitions. But he also knew that Sam wasn’t just the yelling-discussion type. He argued, sure, he was a stubborn brat, sure, but he didn’t just dump stupid arguments and take off running.

And when Sam had looked at him in the eyes... there had been something off. Like he wasn’t fully there. That cold-staring, like his soul was asleep inside of him.

Seriously, what the fuck had that been?

Maybe he had to go look for him. Something had to be wrong. His brother didn’t just act like that—all moody, all angry. His brother trusted him. Whenever he got sad or furious or happy, he would talk to Dean, he would rely on Dean. 

He got up and went for the door, but stopped dead in his tracks.

Dean shook his head. He was just overreacting. Of course Sam was moody—he was a teenager, and he was falling in love or something. Okay. He could understand that. He was just not going to tolerate it. So no, thanks, he was not going to go out searching for his reckless sibling. He wasn’t going to be on his little brother’s tail the whole time. Nope.

He went back to the messy table, full of newspapers and old books, and continued the research.

Damn stupid little brothers.

Sam made it to her house, but just when he was about to ring the doorbell—his hand still a little shaky from the argument with Dean, but his mind focused on something else—he heard her voice. All of a sudden, his anger dissipated, as well as that voice in his head telling him to worry, saying that that hadn’t been him, that he should go back and apologize to Dean.

“Sam!” she said, and giggled at the sight of him. She was prettier than ever, with a red dress that matched her hair perfectly, and big black military boots that contrasted with her cute and sweet appearance.

“Betty,” he said, and his voice was full of relief.

“It’s good to see you! Why don’t we take a walk?” she asked, and he didn’t need to be told twice.

The weather was warm, even if the sky hinted at a spring storm. The sun still shone bright behind some clouds, the whole afternoon ahead of them. They started walking toward a forest visible in the distance. Even as Sam’s mind was somewhere yelling something at him ( something about victims, and a case, and a dangerous forest—but that wasn’t the life he wanted, nor the life he needed, so he didn’t need to worry, no, no )... he felt peace and happiness, completely oblivious to the fight he had just had with his brother.

After two hours that passed like two minutes, they were deep inside the forest. They sat on an old moss-covered log, and her hand started to slowly press against his.

“Sam…” she started, her voice small and sweet and cute and still sounded gorgeous and strong and—God, what had Sam done to deserve someone as pretty as her? “I really like you.”

Sam stared back at her, unable to pronounce a sound. Oh. Oh . What was happening? Was this real? Was this his imagination, maybe?

“Sam, can I kiss you?” she said, as she already came closer.

He barely nodded, and he knew he had to look stupid—his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide—but she didn’t seem to care as she pressed her sweet red lips against his, her tongue slipping into his mouth, and he gasped.

The birds stopped singing. The wind disappeared. The trees were no longer making sounds. And the only thing Sam could think of, the only thing he acknowledged, was her kiss. Her long, beautiful, strawberry-tasting kiss. He tried to get closer to her, touching her hair, her body, her face...

He lifted his right hand and guided it—eyes still closed—to her red curly hair, but she grabbed his wrist with a painful grip.

And that’s how the dream ended and the nightmare began.

His wrist just snapped. She didn’t even do anything—just held it. One second, she was gentle; the next, his wrist was broken. Sam screamed. He opened his eyes and staggered back, staring at her.

Suddenly, all her beauty was gone.

The flesh was peeling from her face, red and angry marks replacing what had been cute, sweet skin. Her eyes looked almost black, blood-injected. She started walking toward him, even as he stumbled back.

“What the hell are you?” he said, trying to sound firm—not terrified and stupid, stupid, stupid, how had this happened? How had he let this happen?

Her only answer was to lunge at him, her suddenly long and sharp nails directed at his face.

John stepped quickly into the motel, looking stressed. Dean was sitting at the table, still researching, looking exhausted. Hours had passed, and something inside him was starting to worry about Sam, but his hurt pride and ego just pushed it down.

“Hey, Dad. I think I might have found something,” he said.

“Good. I think I found something too,” John grumbled as he sat in the chair next to Dean, rubbing his face. “So, shoot.”

“Okay, turns out there are actually quite a lot of creatures that don’t exactly like quartz—but there’s one that can truly be hurt with the smoky kind. It’s called a Vekk… Vekkalumine—no, a Vikkalamnei… no, no, Vikka…”

“Vekkalymene?” John offered, reading the word Dean was struggling with from a random piece of paper.

“Okay, can we just call it Vekka?”

“Forget the name. Just tell me the lore.”

“So, this thing is supposed to be disguised as a normal person. Apparently, it makes people love it—like, it enhances its victims. They’re usually kids and teenagers, which fits with the profiles. And now I know why they look so badly beaten—apparently, this creature feeds on their pain.”

“So basically, it draws their victims in, beats the hell out of them, and feeds on their agony.” John resumed.

“Well, ‘draws in’ could be an understatement. This creature is actually pretty intense—it appears to its victims as everything they need. It captures them physically and emotionally.”

“Well, that makes sense. I just came from talking to the victims’ families again. At last, they talked. So, they all said the vics had just met a mysterious girl. They’d been really excited about her. Nobody knows anything about her, but they were all pretty insistent that she appeared out of nowhere about three days before the attack. No one else saw her—just the kids.”

Dean’s stomach started to ache. He looked over at his father, suddenly anxious, feeling like throwing up. Could that…?

“Wait. Dad. How does this girl look?” he inquired. Overreacting, Dean. Always overprotecting. No need for that. He can take care of himself.

“Well, the victims described her as a redhead, but the rest of her appearance changed with each victim. For instance, some said she looked ten, others said thirteen, one even seven—it always matched the kid’s age. It’s like everyone had their own version. And they each had a different name for the girl, so I wasn’t sure if it was just coincidence or—Dean?”

Dean’s head was buzzing now. Okay, maybe not overreacting so much. Redhead. Sam wouldn’t stop talking about her—about how gorgeous she was, about her beautiful red hair. God, he was such an idiot. Of course Sam had been acting weird. He wouldn't have changed so much in just three days for a girl… He wouldn’t… Wait. Three days.

Three days.

Shit.

“Oh God,” Dean all but whispered, his face suddenly pale. John looked at him, surprised.

“What?”

“How long did you say the victims knew this girl before they were attacked?” Dean asked, voice tight.

“Three days. All of them,” John stated.

“Oh my God—Sam.” Dean looked at his father, who was now staring back, confused.

“What about him?”

“He… oh no. I… we had an argument…” Dean trailed off, and John grabbed him by the shoulders, catching the sudden concern—and… fear?—in his oldest son's eyes.

“Dean, focus. What happened? Where is Sam?”

Dean looked at him, wide-eyed, terrified.

“He’s with her. Oh God, I let him go with her. He… he just took off! I knew he was acting weird, but I… I didn’t think—Goddammit, I’m such an idiot!” he finally yelled, snapping out of his fear and hiding it behind anger, rubbing his face with his hands in a rough motion. “We gotta find him, Dad. He might be in danger.”

John searched his son’s face for any trace of doubt—but he knew Dean’s instincts were sharper than any evidence. If Dean said Sam might be in danger, then he probably was. God, he hoped not. This creature was lethal. And if Sam was under her influence, he stood almost no chance—no matter how well John had trained him.

Without another word, Dean and John stepped out of the motel, knowing exactly where to go.

Everything hurt. Sam had landed on his back, an old tree log hitting his head—hard. Everything was spinning. Everything was wrong, wrong , wrong. She hit him again. His legs were burning with pain, and his wrist was killing him. He could feel it—broken. She kept hitting him, and he thought he could hear his ribs being shattered, crushed under her huge boots. He tried to get up, but she just hit him again. She wasn’t saying anything—just hitting, hitting—and for a moment, all he knew was pain. Horrible, dreadful pain.

God, he was going to die—here, beaten by a girl he had thought he loved. Wasn’t that just perfect? But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. His family—God, Dean —would kill him (again) if he died.

The girl—creature, he reminded himself—stood over him for a moment and stopped hitting. He gasped for air. He had no chance against her. She was stronger, faster. And he was weak, hurt, in pain.

He tried to move, and felt something slip from the pocket of his hoodie.

The smoky quartz.

He grabbed it—didn’t think, didn’t plan. Just caught it and pushed it into her.

It sank into her flesh, right in her abdomen, and she screamed. Sam forced himself up and tried to stab her again—but she hit him across the face, and he went flying. He hit a tree, and his last thought was that his guardian angel must have found it poetic to let him hit his head in the exact same spot again.

The creature screamed again—and ran.

The stone slipped from Sam’s hand, and he felt his eyes close as his face dropped into the muddy ground.

Chapter Text

John and Dean’s boots crunched leaves and muddy ground as they walked quickly through the forest, where all the victims had been found, where they hoped Sam was not, but he hadn't picked up the phone the last almost ten times they had called and of course, that wasn’t a good sign. Hours had slipped like water, and it had been almost six hours already since Sam had left the motel. They had been looking for him for four hours, but the forest was huge and where the hell could he be? Dean stumbled on a branch and cursed, frustrated. God, he just wanted to find his brother. John looked over at him but said nothing.

“SAM!” John shouted once again, as they had been doing all day. Night was already falling.

“SAMMY!!” Dean shouted too, desperate, as he felt the air get wet and heard the sounds of an incoming storm.

Suddenly, his cell phone started ringing. With trembling fingers, he picked it from his back pocket and almost started crying when he saw his brother’s name on the top of the screen.

“Sam!” There was a pause, and Dean could only hear a ragged breath, and it sounded so wrong it made him want to throw up, because that was definitely his brother’s breath, and they were late, they were fucking late and his brother was going to die, or worse, and it was all his fault—

“D-...” Sam’s voice sounded strained, tired, it was a faint whisper that Dean almost couldn’t catch.

“Sammy?” He couldn't stop the concern that filled his voice, even though he knew he had to keep his voice normal for Sam's sake. His father started to say something to him, but he ignored him and started walking faster through the tall trees and into the night, the phone gripped tight in his hand and pressed roughly into his ear. “Sammy?? Hey, are you there?” he said, panicked that all he had heard from his brother so far had been a faint consonant.

“...sleep…”

Panic filled his chest.

“No!” He heard a whimper on the other end of the line, and decided that he didn’t want to hear his brother make that kind of sound ever again. He soothed his voice. “No, don’t sleep, okay? I know you’re tired, but we’re going to find you, yeah? Where are you? Sammy? Can you please tell me where you are?”

“...trees…” Sam's faint voice said, and it was painful to hear how slowly he sounded.

“A forest? Are you in a forest?” Dean urged.

“Y’s…?”

“Okay, I'm in the forest too, and I'm gonna find you. I need you to make a sound, anything, so I can hear you, and find you, and then we’ll patch you up and everything will be fine, yeah? What about that, buddy?”

There was a long pause, and his nervousness rose.

“Okay, Sam, I need you to listen to me very carefully.” There was a tiny sound of agreement, and he continued: “I need you to put the volume of the cell phone all the way up, can you do that?” There were some noises and then Sam made a sound that Dean interpreted as having done what he was told. “Good boy, that’s it. You’re doing so well. Now, I'm going to hang up, and I'm going to call you again. But I need you to NOT pick up, okay? Don’t pick up, Sam. You understand?”

“...dn’t… p’ck…up…” Sam repeated, drowsily.

“Yeah. That’s right. Let it ring, so I can hear the tone and find you soon, yeah?”

The pause now was longer, and Dean wasted no time. He hung up, even though his brain was screaming at him not to leave his brother helpless like that—not even a phone line between them—but he quickly called again and prayed for Sam not to pick up.

John and he stayed still for a minute, listening.

And there it was.

The most faint, small sound, but it was there. Sam’s phone tone, barely heard in the distance, and Dean started running toward the source of it as quickly as he could, John right behind him.

Minutes passed and the music grew louder, until it was almost there, and their flashlights were the only light left in the forest, the sun long past gone. The screen of the phone was the first thing Dean noticed—an incoming call named “Dean” on his brother’s phone. A hand loosely held the object, gripping it like it was the most valuable thing in the world. It probably was.

Dean directed his flashlight until its light met his brother’s body.

His brother’s body.

His brother’s…

 He desperately ran and dropped to his knees beside his sibling, hands touching his body, his hair, hovering over him, trying to assess his injuries, eyes frantically searching for a way to fix that, to fix this battered, broken body that lay in front of him.

“Sammy, Sammy, I’m here, I’m here…” he said as tears began to flow against his will.

Sam’s hoodie was torn into shreds, muddy and soaked from the rain Dean hadn’t noticed was falling so heavy against all three of them. John rolled Sam's limp body onto his back, and Dean saw the awkward angle his brother’s wrist was bent, and he froze when he saw vomit and blood (too much, too much blood) all over Sam's face.

Sam’s body was trembling so badly under his gentle touch that he shrugged off his jacket and put it around Sam's shivering form, accidentally brushing his stomach, and a horrible pained sound escaped his brother’s lips.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Sammy, I’m—” His voice broke as he watched his brother struggle to open his eyes, even as John commanded him to do so, using his sergeant voice, and jeez, couldn't he see that Sam was in pain and struggling? He didn’t deserve that kind of rough treatment, he deserved gentle and soft and sweet, and…

“DEAN! Call 911!! NOW!” John was yelling at him, and he could only think about how bad things had to be for his dad to tell him they had to call emergency services. As he called, he saw his father pick Sam up as if he were a doll, a broken thing (and he was, he is, he is fucking broken and this is all your fault, why did you have to let him leave, why did you have to treat him like that?) and scoop him up, his brother whimpering painfully against his father's chest, and John held him closer, his face crumpled from fear and concern, and Dean thought he saw a tear running down his cheek, but it was probably the water from the rain, yeah, that was probably it, John Winchester never cried anyway.

They started to walk through the forest again, going back—back to the town, back to civilization, back to an ambulance, and the hospital, and safe—and Dean started to whisper soft reassurances to his little brother as he was carried away from all the mess of blood and puke and water and mud he had been lying in.

“Hold on, Sammy, you’re gonna be okay,” he said, and tried to believe it.

He couldn’t.

“...Three broken ribs, that’s why we have to monitor his breathing, just in case there was any pulmonary damage; the hypothermia was moderate, but he will have some trouble feeling warm for some time, he might say he feels constantly cold; his wrist is broken, but we already took care of that: the break was clear so it just needs time and care to heal, no operation will be needed. Of course, he will feel weak and tired for some time.” The doctor finished, and John and Dean waited for the big “but” as they sat on the uncomfortable white plastic chairs, in the white waiting room of the white hospital, and dammit, why did everything have to be so white when all Dean could see was red—red on his brother’s face, red on his hands, on his clothes, on his dad’s clothes; on the jacket that the doctors, so polite, had given back to him, and jeez, why would he want his soaked, bloodied, old jacket back? He wanted his brother. He didn’t give a damn about his jacket.

“However,” the doctor finally said, and Dean got out of his mind as quickly as he had come into it. “We are really concerned about his head injury.”

The doctor started to talk about amnesia, and to say words such as cognitive and frontal lobe , and anterograde amnesia and intracranial pressure and he was going to be sick, because he could not keep the image of his brother out of his head: an image in which Sam was healthy, and clean, and not covered in blood, and fine . A scene in which his brother was reading a book, Dean teasing him, and Sam was defending himself with the most smart and witty things Dean had ever heard, and how, how on earth was this doctor—this doctor who knew nothing about his brother—saying that Sam had a brain injury, that his super clever and funny and ingenious little brother might have permanent damage in the brain that may cause him to forget everything, to be a vegetable, a baby, for the rest of his life?

Next thing Dean knew, he was heaving all over the fucking white hospital floor, his father’s hands grabbing him tight, as if he were the only thing John had left. Maybe he was.

Chapter Text

Sam’s dimples showed as he threw his head back, laughing at his big brother’s joke, tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes. Dean was laughing too. They were sitting on the motel's warm floor. It was hot: the air felt dense, but not horribly so. Sam was only wearing pants, and Dean could see the golden color his brother’s skin was getting from the sun.

“I can’t believe you said that to the poor woman, you’re so dumb!” Sam said, shaking his head in amusement, his shaggy brown hair moving from side to side. Dean ruffled his bangs.

“I told Dad I wasn’t prepared for interviewing a vic’s familiar yet, but he kept saying I could perfectly do it…” Sam’s laugh drowned his words, and he elevated his tone, “...so of course I wasn’t very sensitive! I mean…”

“Dude, you made her cry and kick you out of her house…!” Sam said between chuckles. He laughed so hard he snorted, and Dean and him started to laugh all over again, harder. He pressed his hand to his belly—it hurt so bad, but he couldn’t stop the laughter.

“Well,” Dean said, fighting the impulse to continue chuckling, “you would’ve done the same if—” a sudden pitched sound broke their laughs, and Dean looked around, confused.

“You heard that?” he asked Sam, but his sibling shook his head, his brow furrowed.

The noise came again, and then again. It was like a beep, slow and heavy, but it sounded horribly wrong.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Dean got up from the floor and started to walk toward the source of the sound, which came from outside the motel.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He opened the front door, and a blinding white light came from outside.

And then he woke up.

The high-pitched beep was still there.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Startled, he looked around. Where was he? White ceiling, white walls, white floor, white uncomfortable plastic chair he was slumped into, white hospital bed—

Hospital.

Beep. Beep. Beep. , the heart monitor greeted him once more.

Sam was lying there, limp, wearing nothing but a gurney, tons of blankets surrounding him. Dean looked at his cheeks, but there were no dimples there. His eyes were closed, and the spark that had been there in the Sam of Dean’s dream was nowhere to be seen. Dean sighed and rubbed his face with his hand as he remembered everything that had happened. He looked at the clock. 6:00 a.m. He lifted his hand and gently touched his brother’s pale skin ( no, not gold; white, just like everything else ), slightly rubbing Sam’s shoulder. His brother didn’t move, and Dean’s brow furrowed in concern.

“Come on, Sammy. You’ve slept for six hours now. Maybe you can wake up, chat with me a little? I’m bored, you know me.” Dean felt stupid whispering to his sleepy brother, but doctors had said the earlier he woke up, the better. They said he might be confused when he woke up and had handed Dean a paper of stupid questions for him to ask his brother. Dean had wondered why the doctor himself didn’t do it, but the man had answered that it was better if no doctors or nurses came in when Sam woke up unless there were any physical complications. Doctors would just disorient Sam more, and they didn’t want to upset him. No one knew in which state Sam would be in when he woke up, but it was better if the ambience was calm, and since Dean was the most likely person to calm him down, it was him who was staying.

So, he was doing his best, and if that included talking so Sam's subconscious would wake up or whatever, then that was what Dean was going to do.

“Dad’s not here, he had to leave.” he continued, “Only one person can stay the night here. I guess I'm the lucky one, huh? Anyway, Dad also went to kill the bitch that did this, so don’t worry, Sammy. You’ll be safe now, I promise.” Dean assured, with a confident smile that quickly faded as he took notice of his brother’s bruised face. One of his eyes was swollen and purple. His jaw was almost black, and one of his cheeks had a cut on it that had been stitched but still looked awful. Beneath all that, white skin. So much for the white color. He was really starting to hate it.

Dean sighed. This was all too much, he couldn't do this. He couldn’t just watch his brother like this and do nothing, he should've gone with his father to hunt the monster that had left Sam like a broken doll. But he couldn’t just leave Sam, either. He might wake up, he might…

Dean didn’t let himself go there. He didn’t want to think what condition Sam could be in when he woke up. Doctors had said he would probably have forgotten some of the last events—some days or maybe weeks—but with head injuries, you just never knew until the patient woke up.

Patient

He couldn’t believe himself. Was he really thinking about Sam as a patient, now? Sam wasn’t a patient, Sam was his brother, and he would wake up and be just fine. Determined not to think too hard, Dean took a book from the night table. A random nurse had handed it to him, as if he was going to read it, as if he liked reading at all, as if he was like Sam, who loved words and nerdy literature.

Blinking roughly, he opened the book and tried not to let the tears fall as he read the author’s name—Stephen King, one of Sam’s favorite writers. Damn it, Sammy.

“Just so you know, I’m doing this so you feel drawn to it, even though you’ve probably already read it, and you wake up and finish reading it by yourself. Because this book is freaking huge, man. I mean, this has like… 1,000 pages? What the hell?” Dean said, and looked at Sam expectantly, hoping to hear Sam’s sassy voice, telling him that 1,000 pages is nothing and that this King guy is a genius and more geeky stuff, so Dean could call him bitch and Sam could call him jerk , and everything was normal.

But Sam just continued to lie there, eyes closed, oblivious. Dean cleared his throat and blinked again.

“Anyway, here we go. The terror, which would not end for another twenty-eight years—if it ever did end—began, so far as I know or can tell, with a boat made from a sheet of newspaper floating down a gutter swollen with rain. The boat bobbed, listed, righted itself again, dived bravely through treacherous (the hell is that…?) whirlpools, and continued on its way do— ”

“...D’n?” a soft voice whispered, and Dean’s heart all but jumped. The book flew out of his hands and onto the floor. He went over to Sam, who was struggling to open his eyes.

“Sammy? Hey, hey, I’m right here. Hey, buddy.” Dean rubbed his arm comfortingly, as he combed his hair with his fingers, avoiding his head injury stitches. “Can you open your eyes for me, Sam?”

Sam’s eyes finally fluttered open after some effort, and he watched through glassy eyes his brother’s concerned face. Dean tried to smile encouragingly at him. Sam looked around, confused, and his brow furrowed. His hand touched the cast against his wrist and he tried to get up, only to be gently pushed onto the bed by Dean.

“Hey, no, you gotta stay in bed, okay?” Dean said, but Sam’s disoriented eyes blinked slowly at him, not understanding.

“...the hell?” Sam murmured, and tried to get up again.

“Sam, stop, you’re hurt, okay?” Dean cupped Sam’s face so his brother would look at him, and talked to him slowly and clearly. “Stay in bed, okay? You understand?”

Sam looked at him, and Dean’s heart broke all over again as he watched his brother struggle to understand what was happening. He looked really lost.

“Sam, do you understand me?”

Sam slowly nodded, still looking freaked out.

“Wha’ happened?” he asked, and Dean cringed at how weak and rough his voice sounded, as though his vocal cords had been scratched with sandpaper.

“I’ll fill you in in no time, but first you have to answer some questions, yeah?” Dean said as he got the paper the doctor had given him, and did as the nurses had warned him to do: act calm, and Sam would be just fine.

But the heart monitor’s beep was going faster by the minute, and Sam’s eyes were starting to dart everywhere as he woke up more and more. Sam looked scared, and Dean looked at him, concerned. Okay, it was normal to freak out a little, but Sam had been in hospitals before. He was a tough kid, a Winchester after all, and besides, Dean was here with him. So why did he look so… lost?

“Sam. Can you say your whole name?” Sam’s head turned back to him, and he grimaced.

“What…?”

“I know it’s dumb, just humour me,” Dean said, and smiled. Sure his brother was fine. He was just disoriented, and that was completely normal given the circumstances.

“Oh, jeez… Samuel Winchester,” Sam murmured, and even though his voice sounded tiny, it also sounded annoyed. “What is all this about? What happened to me? I was just in…” Sam trailed off, and the annoyed tone became weaker and turned into a scared one. His eyes darted again over the room, as if he had just realized he was there. Once again, they landed on Dean, and he whispered in a childish tone, “Dean? What is happening?”

Dean swallowed. Sam had looked just fine, and now he was like a scared child. He looked down at the paper again.

“Sammy, can you tell what day it is?”

Sam looked at him, confused again.

“It’s… it’s Wednesday, I think” he said in that kiddish tone that startled Dean a little. Why was he talking like that? Was he really that scared? Sam usually tried to act like he was older, not younger.

“Yeah… yeah, buddy, but I mean, the date.”

“Umm… September the 13th?” Sam said, and Dean’s heart flipped again. September…?

“Of what year, Sam?” he inquired, and though he had intended his voice to be calm, it sounded strained, because that was not a normal question. That was not the kind of question you have to ask your little brother, the kid you have lived with since forever.

Sam looked at him. 

Please say 1997, please say 1997, please say…

“1994.”

Dean’s mouth hung open.

He might have forgotten the past few days, maybe weeks , the doctor’s words resounded in his brain like a bad-taste joke.

“Oh, Sammy…”

Chapter Text

The bell rings and Sam covers his ears, the sudden noise annoying him—voices all over the school talking and yelling, people walking by, stumbling into each other. Sam gripped his books tighter, fearing someone would accidentally hit him and his things would fall. He continued to walk through the school corridors, looking everywhere, trying to memorize this new place. They probably wouldn’t be here long anyway. This was the third school they went to in one month, and even though he was more than used to it, he couldn’t help the sigh that escaped his lips. He wished he had some more time to make friends—and to actually keep some of them. Eleven years old was a good age to make friends, right? He should definitely have some friends. Dean didn’t really have friends, but he dated girls. Apparently, “at fifteen you’re already a grown-up, Sammy.” Sam wasn’t so sure about that. Dean was still really immature in some ways, but who was he to question his big brother?

He sometimes wished he was more like Dean, actually. He was so big and strong, he was awesome at fighting, he could gank any ghost with his eyes closed. Sam looked up to him—he always had. He also tried to be useful by himself, but even though he did his best at sparring and tried really hard to be stronger, faster, tougher… he was short and skinny, and the only thing he was really useful for was learning exorcisms and Latin spells.

He entered the class while rubbing his arms, sudden cold biting into his skin, and sat on the chair nearest to the teacher’s table. He opened his maths book and waited for the class to start. The background noise of kids was starting to cease, and Sam moved in his chair, making himself comfortable. The teacher entered, and everything stayed silent. Sam smiled to himself: finally some peace, some time to focus and learn. He had always enjoyed that—that’s why Dean always said he was a nerd. He used to act annoyed when he was called that, but internally, he liked it. He felt useful and secure in that term, like it was something just for him.

He looked around, a little surprised at the prolonged silence: he couldn’t even hear the breaths of the rest of the kids. The cold still lingered in him, and he rubbed himself again. He looked at the teacher once more and noticed his lips moving, but no sound was coming out. His heart skipped a beat. Was he deaf now, or what? He tried to talk, but his throat felt filled with mud and dirt, dry. His ears started to ring, and his heartbeat increased. His sweaty hands flew into the air and he waved them, trying to get the teacher’s attention, but he wasn’t looking at Sam; no one was looking at Sam. The ringing in Sam’s ears turned into an annoying and steady beep, each one piercing into his brain and making him flinch.

What was happening?

The beeps turned louder and louder, and Sam held his head between his hands in pain, suddenly getting up from the chair, pushing it aside and making it fall, and Sam startled, even though there was no sound when it hit the floor. Sam rushed out of the class, not looking back, and as soon as he was in the hallway he started running. White spots were appearing in his vision as he ran. The cold was intense—he felt like he was going to freeze—but he couldn't stop running, even with his legs feeling like jelly and his head pounding hard. He tripped over his own feet at some point, and he fell, but never hit the ground.

Instead, he could feel a comfortable and soft bed under him, blankets covering him.

Okay, what the hell was going on?

The beeping sound was still going on and on, but his head didn’t feel so painful now. It actually felt kind of… numb? However, he could feel no warmth coming out of his body, and he shivered. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt like… like what? He was starting to feel unable to focus on his own thoughts. His entire body felt like it was underwater, including his brain. Actually, his brain felt more like it had passed through a blender.

A murmur started to make its way through the mush that was his brain, and he finally felt warmth: his brother’s voice was saying something, his brother was here, Dean was here, Dean would help him, he was safe, he would be fine, everything was just fine.

“... whirlpools, and continued on its way do— ”

“...Dean?” he tried to say, but the name didn’t come out completely. His voice was so weak and low he himself almost didn’t catch it. Dean though—he did.

“Sammy?” 

Wow, okay. 

Dean sounded… scared? Wait, what? Was he even able to have that feeling? 

“Hey, hey, I’m r—” Dean’s words got lost in Sam's brain, it was like trying to hear words during a strong wind—they just vanished. God, what was wrong with him…?

“...open your eyes for me, Sam?” he heard, and tried to open them. It took a while, but finally the concerned ( why concerned? ) face of his brother was right over him. Dean’s lips moved upwards in what Sam was sure was trying to be a comforting smile, but it just confused Sam even more. What was wrong?

He moved his head, trying to look around, and failing to see anything besides the whiteness that filled the apparent room they were in. He blinked hard, trying to convince his eyes to handle the too-much light of the room.

He looked at himself and saw a big, white cast covering his wrist. What the hell? Sudden frustration built its way inside Sam. He started to scratch at the cast—he wasn’t understanding anything. Where the hell was he, what was going on? Why did he have a cast? What had happened to him? Why was Dean so concerned, and why did he look… weird? Like, somehow, older?

Not wanting to think too hard about it, Sam avoided looking at his brother, trying instead to get out of the bed, only to be gently ( but it hurt anyway, it felt like he weighed a thousand tons and had been run over by a truck, and, okay, this was not funny anymore, what the hell was happening ) pushed onto the bed again by Dean, who was saying something to Sam, but the words were too fast for Sam’s brain to get, and he just lay there, more disoriented than ever.

Finally, his vocal cords started to work ( more like half work ), and he only had the strength to ask what the HELL was happening, but it didn’t sound as strong and shocked and mandatory as he had wanted it to. Dean didn’t respond, and the pressure on his chest grew heavier. He tried to get out of the bed once more, but Dean just pushed him down again.

“...am…” Dean was saying, but his words were underwater and Sam couldn’t understand them, couldn’t Dean see that? “...okay?” Dean finished, and Sam continued to look around, his eyes once again begging to shut. Dean’s warm ( thank you, he felt so damn cold ) hands cupped his face with a softness Sam didn’t think his brother could have. Sam looked at his sibling’s pleading green eyes, and tried not to look at the rest of his face, because it somehow looked different.

“Stay in bed, okay?” Dean said, and at last Sam was able to get all the words clearly, “You understand?”

Sam looked at him, trying— really trying—to comprehend. Why did he have to stay in bed, why was he in bed for starters? He was just in school!

“Sam, do you understand me?” Dean repeated, and Sam nodded as best as he could.

“What happened?” he asked, but his voice sounded awful. It hurt, as if he had been screaming for hours. He wanted to cry. He didn’t understand anything—he just wanted to know what the hell had happened, why Dean looked so scared, so tired, so old.

“I’ll fill you in in no time, but first you have to answer some questions, yeah?” Dean said, and oh, no, you have to be kidding, Dean. Sam was the one that had to answer questions? Dean got a piece of paper from… from wherever, and prepared to read it out loud. Sam looked around again, trying to figure out where he was, at least. Was this a… a hospital? Why would he be in a hospital? The only time he had to go to a hospital was when Dean went on a hunt and got hurt, but he had been on a hunt. Sam had not been on a hunt. He had never been on a hunt.

“Sam,” Dean said, trying to get his attention, and he glued his eyes to his brother’s, trying to search for some kind of explanation, but Dean had managed to just look calm, and jeez, Dean, how can you look calm??

“Can you say your whole name?” Dean asked, and Sam looked at him, unable to decide whether to laugh or yell at his brother. What kind of question was that??

“I know it’s dumb—just humor me,” Dean said, with a somehow cocky smile on his lips, and Sam suddenly felt a lot like punching his brother. But, apparently, Dean was serious.

“Oh, jeez… Samuel Winchester. What is this all about?” he said, not wasting the sudden little amount of strength he had gained, and using it to ask some of the multiple questions that were running inside his still scrambled brain. “What happened to me? I was just in…” in school, right? He had just been in math class. He had woken up that morning, Dean had made him some eggs for breakfast and teased him, Dad had still been out on a hunt, and then Dean and he had gone walking to the school. Dean went to his class (or maybe to hook up with some girl) and Sam had gone to history class, in which he learned that the ancient Greeks used a secret voting method with broken pottery shards called ostraka to exile dangerous politicians… wait, he should not be thinking about that. He should be focusing on… what should he be focusing on…? Oh, right. He looked around. Where…?

“Dean?” he said, and looked at him, relief washing over him after checking his big brother was just there at his side. “What is happening?” Why did he keep getting confused? Why couldn’t he understand what was happening? Why did he feel so weak? Why…?

“Sammy, can you tell me what day it is?” Dean asked, and Sam frowned. Why was his brother asking him that?

“It’s… it’s Wednesday, I think,” he said, remembering that Wednesdays were the days he had history first hour.

“Yeah… yeah, buddy, but I mean, the date,” Dean said, his voice soft, and that made Sam feel even worse. Why was Dean being so tender with him…?

“Umm… September the 13th?” he tried, not really sure. He knew it was September because the classes had recently started, he just wasn’t sure about the exact day—and judging by Dean’s face, he had failed to say the right day. But then again, why would Dean need to…?

“Of what year, Sam?” Dean asked, and Sam started to really freak out right there. What the hell, what the hell, what the hell.

“1994.”

Dean didn’t look very pleased.

Sam felt bad. His brother looked sad. Or worried. Or maybe scared. Yes, he looked scared. Why would he be scared? Dean didn’t get scared. Was he scared of Sam? Or was he scared for Sam?

“Oh, Sammy…”

“What? Did I do something wrong?” Sam asked, suddenly feeling guilty. He didn’t know why, but he felt like his brother’s distress was his fault. Had he said something bad? Had he done something?

“No, buddy, of course not,” Dean said quickly—too quickly—as he sat next to Sam on the bed. “How old are you, Sam?”

“Dean,” Sam said, and tears started to fill his eyes. The heart monitor started to beep faster, and the pressure on Sam’s chest tightened. “Why are you ask-asking me all these questions? You know how old I am, you know I am eleven, I d-don’t understand what is happening, where are we, Dean? Where are we? W-what happened to my wrist? What—what happened? And, and why do I feel so cold? What…?”

“Sammy, Sammy, hey, whoa, you have to breathe, okay? You have to breathe. Everything’s fine, everything’s alright, okay? You did nothing wrong. You just… you had an accident, okay?” Dean said, rubbing Sam’s arms, tightening the blanket around his little brother’s cold body.

“Like a… a car accident? Is the Impala okay?” Sam said, worried. Dean and Dad loved that car!

“No, no, just… it was another car, okay? It hit you and it hurt you, but then we found you and you’re in the hospital, and everything’s gonna be fine, yeah?” Dean repeated, and Sam thought that Dean sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more than Sam.

However, Sam’s eyes were once again struggling to keep open, Sam’s brain was struggling to keep up with the conversation, and Sam’s body was struggling not to surrender to sleep.

“Okay, Dean,” he says, because he believes his brother, he wants to believe his brother, and because he is so tired… Why is he so tired…? Oh, right, car accident. Not the Impala, though…

“Hey, Sammy, get some sleep, okay? I’ll stay right here. Close your eyes, little brother.”

Sam looks at him sluggishly, and wonders for the third time what is wrong with his brother’s face.

“Why does your face look weird, Dean?” he finally manages to ask, and Dean smiles a little.

“What do you mean, weird?”

“Like… grown.”

Dean’s smile falters, and he rubs Sam’s back carefully.

“Dude, did you just call me old?”

“No, I just…” Sam’s words are stopped by a yawn, and Dean grips him tighter next to his chest, slightly rocking him.

“Go to sleep, Sammy.”

Sam obeyed.

No. 

No, no, no, no, this was not happening. Definitely not happening. Sam would wake up and he would be fourteen and just fine, and he would say that it was all a bad joke and Dean would hit him in the shoulder and they would tease each other as always, and then Dad would come and tell them to stop, and Dean would call Sam “bitch” and Sam would answer “jerk” and everything would be just fine .

Sam’s head lolled against his shoulder, and his hand unconsciously went to his brother’s hair and started stroking it, avoiding touching the stitches over his forehead, the stitches that hid the injury that… God…

A nurse knocked on the door and entered, smiling at the sight of the two brothers. Dean didn’t return the smile. He had nothing to smile for.

“Hey, Dean. Has he woken up yet?”

He stares at her.

“No. An eleven-year-old Sam has, though,” he says, suddenly angry, as he gets out of the bed, gently letting Sam’s injured head fall onto the pillow, careful again ( careful, really careful ) with the stitches.

“What… what do you mean, sweety?” the nurse asks, and Dean wants to hit her.

“He just woke up, and I asked him those stupid questions, and he fucking thinks we’re in 1994!” Dean is half-whispering, half-shouting, not wanting to wake his brother, but far too angry ( scared, frustrated, sad, desolate, battered ) to remain calm.

“Okay, Dean, I need you to calm down, yeah?” the nurse mumbles, in a comforting tone, and everything just feels so wrong that for a second all Dean sees is red.

“I’ll go get the doctor, he’ll be here in a minute,” she finishes, and rushes out of the room.

Dean looks at Sam again, and the anger melts into raw fear.

He gets his cell phone from his back pocket and dials his father’s number, only to close the phone and put it back into his pocket again, just before pressing the ‘call’ button. He didn’t have to call Dad. There was nothing to tell him. Everything was fine. Everything would be fine.

Everything would be just fine .

Chapter Text

Dean was once again lying next to his brother in the hospital bed, gently stroking Sam’s hair, when the nurse returned with the doctor at her side. Dean looked up at him and immediately got up from the bed, careful not to move his brother.

“Doc, he just woke up. But… he thought he was in 1994,” Dean quickly filled him in, distress in his voice. “I didn’t know what to… he fell asleep again,” he concluded, anxiously eyeing the doctor as he checked Sam’s machines.

“I’m sure you did good, Dean. It’s okay. We’ll try to wake him up again, okay?” the doctor said, looking Dean straight in the eye. He sat in the chair next to Sam’s bed and gestured to the nurse to close the room’s door. She did, and Dean tried to soothe himself, attempting to match the doctor’s calm appearance.

“I’ll do a quick test on your brother,” the doctor continued, “however, it is important that you don’t interfere. If he thinks he’s doing something wrong, he might feel stress—and that’s something we definitely want to avoid. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean answered, unblinking. “So, if he still thinks he is…” he cleared his throat, “...eleven… we just act like that’s normal?”

“Until he gets better, yes. We’ll keep it simple—try not to confuse him, yeah?”

Dean nodded, and the doctor started to gently shake Sam’s shoulders until Sam’s eyes began to flutter. He moaned slightly and tried to get away from the hands, but his body was weak and he had nowhere to go. After a few seconds, he opened his heavy eyes.

“Sam? You with us?” Dean bit his tongue in order not to say anything. Don’t interfere, don’t interfere, don’t…

“Dean…?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, Sammy, I’m right here,” he quickly answered his very-distressed-looking brother, and he earned a shutting glance from the doctor.

“Sorry,” he murmured and stepped back as the doctor tried to make eye contact with Sam.

“Hey there, Sam. Do you know where you are?” the doctor asked, his voice soft.

Sam looked confused again, but not as much as before. He actually looked kind of exhausted—and a little scared. His eyes darted around the room until they found Dean. The older brother tried to smile, and Sam visibly relaxed.

“H’spital. Car acc’d’nt,” he slurred, still looking at Dean, but the doctor seemed satisfied.

“Very good, Sam. Now, can you say your whole name?”

Sam made a face that Dean quickly translated as an attempt at an eye roll, even though it had obviously failed.

“Sam… Samuel Winchester,” he said, this time looking the doctor in the eyes. His voice was growing stronger, but it still sounded as if he had been screaming his guts out ( which he probably had , Dean reminded himself guiltily).

“You’re doing really good, Sam. What about the date? Do you know what day it is?”

At this, Sam stopped and looked over at Dean again. He looked unsure, probably remembering that Dean hadn’t looked thrilled at his previous answer, but Dean just nodded, smiling again.

“Um… I think it is Wednesday, 13th September, 1994?” he said, and it sounded just right to him. The doctor pressed his lips together and made a note in the notebook he had in his hands, and Sam suddenly felt his stomach tie into knots. He looked over at Dean, who was still smiling encouragingly at him. The nurse was smiling too, and he felt himself relax a little.

“Okay, Sam, last question. Who is this at your side?” the doctor asked, pointing at Dean. Sam frowned. He was starting to grow worried about the lack of difficulty in the questions. What did that mean…?

“Sammy? Do you know who I am?” Dean said, his voice sounding as anguished as ever. Sam looked into his green eyes, and disappointment filled his owns. How could he forget about Dean, how could he not recognize his own brother? How could Dean think that could happen?

“Dean, my brother,” he finally whispered, his voice heartbroken—but Dean looked utterly pleased and smiled, his eyes looking brighter than before.

“Very good, Sam,” the doctor repeated, and Sam felt dumb. “Now, I’d like to check some things, if you don’t mind, okay? Here, just squeeze my fingers as tight as you can,” he said and offered his hand to Sam.

Okay, now Sam felt dumb.

It was as if his hand was challenging him. He tried to make it move, but he could barely feel it. He frowned again and tried not to look as distressed as he felt. He avoided the looks of everyone in the room as he flushed, embarrassed at himself. He tried to make it move, move, just move, dammit , until his hand finally twisted a bit. After that, he tried to lift it.

When he finally reached the doctor’s hand and wrapped his small fingers around his, he was drenched in sweat and panting. Several minutes had passed, and he was still avoiding looking at anyone. He didn’t want to see the disappointment there. He felt absolutely useless.

“Okay, Sam, that’s enough,” the doctor said, even though Sam hadn’t even started to squeeze anything at all. Sam’s hand gave up and fell limp, heavy, onto the mattress.

“You did really well, Sam. You’ll get better in no time, don’t worry. For now, just rest, okay?” the doctor said, and in a matter of seconds, he and the nurse were gone.

Dean looked at Sam and sat at his side in the chair the doctor had been on. Sam tried to look away, not wanting to see his brother’s face—not wanting to face the disappointment there, the rage, or whatever Dean was feeling for having a dumb, useless brother. He couldn’t even remember what had happened. A car accident, hadn’t it been? God, his head felt like it was going to explode each time he tried to concentrate or searched for information or memories in his muddled brain. He felt exhausted just from the four shitty things he had just been asked to do—how was he going to manage to do anything at all ?

Dean moved at his side, and Sam glued his eyes to his lap.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, tears already threatening to appear.

“What?” Dean sounded dumbfounded, and Sam risked a quick look at him. Dean was eyeing him, brow furrowed, and his voice sounded cautious, as if he were trying to hide something. “What are you sorry for?”

“For… for all of this. I should’ve been more careful, if—if I had been more, more careful, the car… the car would’ve never…”

“Whoa, hey,” Dean said, immediately noticing the way Sam was repeating the words, trying to make them sound more stable—hiding his actual trembling voice, caused by tears. “Sammy, this ain’t your fault, okay?”

“But… but I’m useless now! How am I going to become a hunter and help you and Dad out? Or go to school? Or…?” Sam said, finally looking at Dean, and his eyes started to get slightly damp. He started blinking frantically.

“You’re not useless, bitch.” Dean said, trying not to make a big deal out of it ( which it was, it was a big fucking deal ) 

“You’re just a little banged up, but you’ll be better in no time. It’s not your fault that that bitch—er, I mean, the girl who was driving the car—stepped into you. It’s her fault, not yours. And probably mine, for not being there.”

Sam shook his head.

“Not your fault, Dean! How would’ve you known? Besides, I’m old enough to cross the street by myself,” he said, rolling his eyes.

A tense silence filled the space between the two brothers, until Sam broke it, his voice smaller than before.

“Where’s Dad?”

Dean looked at him and felt bad. God, why couldn’t Sam remember? Why did this injury have to mess with his brain and his body? And why couldn’t Dad be here? Why had he to be alone?

“He’s, uh… he’s trying to make the cops get the girl that ran into you,” he replied, an easy smile on his lips.

“Oh. Okay.”

There was another silence, and then Dean suddenly got up.

“I’m gonna get a coffee.”

Sam snorted, and Dean turned to look at him, surprised.

“What?”

“Since when do you drink coffee?”

Crap.

“Since yesterday, apparently. It’s not as bad as it seems,” Dean said in a cocky tone, but Sam rolled his eyes.

“Right. You tried drinking coffee a few days ago, and you almost threw up. You hate coffee, jerk.”

“Well, what was I supposed to drink while you were asleep, dumbass? There’s no hot cocoa in here,” Dean said, and even as his stomach twisted into knots, he rolled his eyes to sell the act.

He remembered the day Sam was talking about. Even though Sam said it was a few days ago, Dean remembered it as if an eternity had passed since then. Sam and he had been more bonded then. However, since Sam had turned 13, they had grown more separated. They were still pretty close, but they argued more. Just like the fight they’d had before… Dean shivered. He didn’t want to think about it.

Instead, he brought up the memory Sam had referred to. Dad had been gone for some days, and Dean and Sam had found an old and rusty moka pot. They’d tried to make some coffee, and after seeing Dean’s disgusted face after tasting it, Sam had decided not to give it a shot. Dean remembered how bitter it had been; the idea of adding sugar or milk had never occurred to them.

Dean shook his head, amused at the memory, wondering how the hell it hadn’t occurred to him to put some sugar on it—after all the times he had watched his father make coffee—at the age of fifteen.

Dean left Sam’s room and went to the vending machine. As he selected the coffee, his thoughts drifted to Sam again. Maybe he would wake up tomorrow and be normal again. Or the day after tomorrow. Or... maybe it was better this way. Maybe this way, Dean would do things right and not fight with him so much, look after him better. But jeez, Sam was right, how was he going to go to school? And how was Dad going to take having an eleven-year-old in the house again? Sam’s body hadn’t changed that much, but it would definitely be a shock when he saw himself in a mirror.

Dean tried to remember Sam from three years ago. He now had more muscle, even though he was still skinny. He had grown a few inches, but was still short for his age. His hair was slightly longer now, but the rest of him wasn’t very obvious—his face looked less childish, nothing else.

Dean, however… he really wondered how Sam hadn’t said anything else about Dean’s appearance. His only guess was that Sam still felt drowsy, and he hadn’t really looked at Dean that much. He had been worried about other things.

But Dean had changed. At 18, he had a bit of a stubble already on his face, something he had been looking forward to in order to look more like his father. His voice sounded deeper, and he was taller than he was at fifteen—even though he had already been tall at that age. He had gotten stronger, and his face looked different: more defined jawline, and… well, he simply looked older .

He hoped Sam would just let it pass. He would probably freak out if he discovered the truth. Of course, they couldn’t hide it forever—Dean just had to wait until Sam came back to normalcy.

He entered the hospital room once again, the coffee steaming in his hand. He closed the door behind him and sat at his brother’s side, in the plastic chair next to the bed.

“Okay, so I discovered that if you put some sugar on it…” Dean stopped all of a sudden when he looked at his brother.

Sam was paler than he had been before, and his eyes looked… wrong. His breaths were fast, his chest heaving rapidly with each of them. The heart monitor was beeping way too fast, and the kid’s body was trembling.

In Sam’s hand, lying on his lap, was Dean’s cell phone.

The screen showed a bunch of numbers.

5/24/1997

Shit .

Dean’s breath hitched.

“Sammy, hey. Sam, breathe, buddy. Hey, look at me,” he said, cupping Sam’s unresponsive face in his hands and making him look at Dean. “Sam, you gotta breathe. The phone must be broken, the date must be wrong…” He trailed off as he saw a newspaper at the other side of Sam’s bed, lying innocently, the date ( May 24th, 1997 ) in a small corner, written in black letters, like a sentence for how screwed up they were, and where the fuck had that newspaper come from?

“Okay, Sammy, listen to me” Dean murmured, shaking Sam a little, grabbing him closer to his chest. “We’re gonna take long breaths, yeah? Just imitate me, c’mon. Get some air… now let go. Inhale… exhale… very good, yes… inhale… exhale… doing awesome, bud… inhale…”

Eventually, Sam’s heart and breaths went back to normal, and his body lay limp and exhausted on the bed.

“Dean…” he whispered, and it broke Dean’s heart all over again when Sam looked at him, a desperate look in his young eyes. “I don’t understand, what is happening?”

Dean sighed. Seemed like a good time to just be honest… at least he should deliver the most important matters of the issue, if not all of them.

“Okay, Sam… the accident you had… the car accident… you hit your head pretty bad, and…” Dean took a big breath before continuing. “Sam, you forgot everything that has happened in the last three years.” Jeez , don’t sugarcoat it, dumbass .

Sam’s face crumbled, and his eyes were damp.

“But,” Dean added quickly, “you’ll probably remember soon. Doc said so. Anytime now, Sammy. I bet you’ll wake up tomorrow feeling like 14 again, huh?”

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, because Sam’s face made this funny twist and suddenly he was full-on sobbing.

“I- I-” Sam hiccuped, and Dean got his limp body in his arms and hugged him as gently as he could, his heart breaking ( again ) as he stroked his little brother’s hair. “I- I’m f-four-fourt-een-n?” he asked between sobs, his voice muffled by Dean’s shirt.

“Well… no, Sam, not right now, okay?” Dean said, but Sam didn’t hear him.

“I- I’m fo-fourt-t-een… shou-d- shouldn't-t b-be c-c-cr-cryin-n-g,” he finished, and sobbed even harder.

“C’mon, that’s what you’re worried about? Sammy, you… God…” Nothing Dean could say would make Sam listen, not right now. But he had to try, didn’t he? “Sam, c’mon, breathe, okay? Just like we did before. You’re not 14, okay? You’re 11, you’re 11.” He repeated it, like some sort of mantra.

“N-n-no, am n-not-t,” Sam said, but he tried to control his breaths.

“Do you remember being 12, or 13? No, right? Then you’re 11,” Dean said firmly, rocking Sam slowly.

When Sam had calmed again, Dean carefully laid him back on the bed, against the multiple pillows that protected his head and body.

“We’ll figure it out, little brother. Don’t you worry.”

Chapter Text

John Winchester entered the hospital doors, his boots hitting hard against the floor as he stepped into the waiting room and toward the front desk, where a young man in scrubs was filling out some papers. The man looked up as he sensed John approaching and smiled, trying not to feel intimidated by his furious gaze.

“Good day, sir, how may I help y—?”

“Sam Winchester. Where is he?” John all but grumbled.

“Sorry, sir, but I can’t give you that information until I see some credentials. Are you his father…?”

“Yes, I am his goddamn father,” he said, shoving his ID forward—proof that he was, in fact, John Winchester. “There. You’ve got your fucking ID. Now where’s my son?”

Less than five minutes later, John was already storming through the corridors, aiming for room 103. Weak breathing sounds came through the door, along with a soft lullaby being gently sung. John smiled at the recognition: Mary used to sing that same song to Dean when he was little. He had never been a fan of the Beatles—his style was more Guns N’ Roses—but he couldn’t deny that Hey Jude was the perfect lullaby.

Gently, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The warmth of the memory and the song was crushed by the image before his eyes, and he had to repress the impulse to turn around and run out of the room—and away from the reality it represented.

Dean was in the hospital bed, curled protectively around Sam in a hug. The youngest looked as small as ever. The kid’s wrist was in a cast, lying limply at his side. Actually, his whole body was a limp mass, just lying there. That was the first thing that seemed really wrong to John. Sam didn’t do limp . He didn’t do stillness—he was always moving, twitching in his sleep, turning and shifting.

Not anymore. Not this version of his son. This version looked sick. Haunted.

He was so pale it scared him. John had seen enough corpses to know the color of death, and Sam’s skin was dangerously close to that exact shade. Warm, heavy blankets covered him, and yet he shivered slightly, as if the cold had sunk its claws into him and wasn’t planning on letting go.

He knew pain. He had lived with pain all his life. He knew anguish, too. He knew desperation, anger, frustration, fear. Boy, did he know fear.

But he had never felt this lost before.

He knew his big brother was trying to make everything better—that much he knew. But what if this time Dean couldn’t fix it?

Sam felt bad and guilty as he overheard the harsh conversation between his dad and his older brother. Much older brother now, he guessed. He tried not to move ( not that he could move much, even if he wanted to ) or make any sound other than his soft breaths. The high-pitched beep of the heart monitor was different, though, and he didn’t know how to slow his heart down on his own.

He tried to remain calm even as his father’s words cut through the air like knives, carving into his mind.

“Dean, I can’t… you do understand that I can’t just deal with this right now, right?”

John’s words weren’t said in the same angry, whisper-yell tone he had been using through most of the conversation. No, this time his voice was defeated and oh-so-tired—and it made Sam’s stomach twist into knots.

“What the hell do you mean by ‘deal,’ Dad?” Dean answered, speaking more quietly for Sam’s sake, but his tone was pure anger and indignation. “He’s your son . And this is our fault!”

“How is this our fault, Dean? He knew what he was doing when he went with that stupid girl!”

What were they talking about? Sam was feeling more and more lost by the minute.

There was a silence in which Sam could almost picture his brother turning away and running his hands through his hair in frustration.

“I can’t believe you, Dad. She was a fucking monster! He wasn’t—Sam was not—God, talking to you is like talking to a fucking wall!” Dean finally burst out, unable to find the words he really wanted.

“Doesn’t matter what happened, son.” John’s voice softened a little, but still came out harsh. “The point is that Sam is… we don’t know how he’s going to be, okay? The doctor said he might remember some things, but his memory could start failing too—the future memory, the ability to make new mem—”

“That’s bullshit and you know it!” Dean snapped, instantly regretting it when Sam’s heart monitor began beeping louder and quicker. He immediately spun around to look at his little brother.

Hazel eyes opened slowly, focusing on Dean’s—tired, and…

“Crap, Sammy, how much did you hear?” Dean asked, moving quickly to his brother’s side. He knew that look on the kid’s face: not only confused and scared, but guilty.

“Sammy,” John said softly, relief flooding his tone as he looked at him fearfully.

Sam tried to answer, to say something. Anything. To ask if Dean had lied to him—if it really had been a car accident. Or if this was all a joke, and he was just in the hospital after a bad hunt, and he was , in fact, eleven years old. He wanted to say his brother’s name, to soothe him, to tell him everything would be alright so that guilty, concerned look would disappear from Dean’s face. He wanted to cry and yell at his dad, to ask him if he was just a burden now—more than he had always felt.

But none of it would come out of his mouth.

Instead, the beeping increased, filling the room with its distressed sound.

Sam suddenly felt so, so tired. He leaned further back into the giant pillow propping him up.

“Sam, I’m sorry you had to hear all that… I promise I’ll explain, okay? I’m sorry I lied to you, but—”

“Look, son, I’m sorry all this is happening, but you gotta understand that—”

Dad and Dean’s voices blended together, slurring in his ears. Sam wanted to ask what was wrong with them, but his voice was nowhere to be found. He tried to move, but his body felt just so tired. Distressed by his inability to move or speak, he turned his eyes toward his brother—who abruptly stopped talking.

“S’mmy?” Dean’s words sounded slurred. Or maybe they weren’t. Maybe Sam’s hearing was just wrong. Maybe…

Sam frowned, trying to make sense of the sounds as his brother’s face flickered in and out of focus.

“S’m? Y’kay? S’m?”

Dean saw his little brother’s expression shift from emotionally hurt to physically distressed in a single second. His body went limp, and he started blinking frantically.

“Sammy? Sam? Are you okay? Sam? What’s wrong, buddy?” Dean said, crouching beside him and gently touching his shoulders. Sam just stared at him, as if he couldn’t understand anything, as if he didn’t even have the strength to try.

“Sam, son, can you hear us?” his dad asked, trying to get a glimpse of his boy’s face under the mop of hair.

“Sam, talk to us, are you—” Dean trailed off as Sam’s body suddenly went rigid and his eyes rolled back.

And just like that, Sam started seizing.

His limbs flailed uncontrollably on the bed, one arm smacking into Dean, his head jerking violently against the pillow, mouth gaping like he couldn’t get air.

“Oh, God,” John muttered beside him, just before sprinting out of the room. “Doctor! We need a doctor!”

“Sammy, Sammy,” Dean kept saying over and over as he watched his little brother seize again and again—the body that had seemed totally drained hours ago now thrashing wildly on its own. “C’mon, kiddo, snap out of it, please, just—oh God.” Dean’s face lost all color as he saw a red trail appear under Sam’s nose, thick blood sliding down to his upper lip.

“SAM! Where’s the fucking doctor?!” he yelled into the empty room just as the door burst open and the doctor rushed in, followed by two nurses—and their father.

Twenty-two hours had passed, and Sam was still sleeping. Which was actually fine by Dean, since the doctor had said it was a good thing—that it gave Sam’s brain the chance to heal more.

Which, honestly, was more than fine. Dean did not want to see his brother like that again. He had never witnessed a seizure before, and watching Sam’s body convulse had been one of the most awful things he had ever seen.

Now Sam lay peacefully in the bed, no trace of what had happened hours ago. The doctor had warned them it could happen again, since both seizures and nosebleeds were common after concussions—especially one as bad as Sam’s.

Dean rubbed his hands down his face. God, how had they come to this? Not three days ago, he’d been teasing his brother about his too-big-for-his-own-good brain.

His brain.

God, would he ever be the same?

And then there was Dad. He was already talking about CPS being on their backs, wanting to leave as soon as Sam was coherent enough.

Meaning—not seizing, not bleeding, not unconscious. Right .

His little brother had the concussion of his life, was more sensitive to cold thanks to hypothermia, could barely move with his broken ribs. He was on so many pain meds that the real reason he didn’t remember things was probably the drugs. But yeah—John Winchester thought it was a good idea to just leave the hospital . Great. Dean sighed. He didn’t want cops or CPS involved either, but still…

Sam started to wake slowly. First, he felt a constant vibration where his body lay. Then he smelled leather, and somewhere near him rock music was being hummed. Warm blankets covered him, though something inside still felt cold.

His eyes were too heavy to open.

He tried to think, to understand, but nothing made sense. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know where he was supposed to be. He couldn’t remember what he needed, even though he felt something missing.

Probably memories, since his mind was so… blank.

That scared him more than anything.

And then, realizing that blankness, his body jolted upright. Pain tore through him instantly, and he cried out, shocked, when every muscle screamed.

“Dammit, Sammy, stay still,” someone murmured, and finally his eyes opened.

Nothing in the freckled face or green eyes in front of him was familiar. Ignoring his body’s protests, Sam scrambled to get away from the teenager.

“Whoa, buddy, what are you doing?” the boy said, hands raised in surrender, watching as Sam struggled to put distance between them, green eyes flickering with concern.

“G–get… a–away… from m–me,” Sam stammered. He’d meant to yell, but his voice came out weak. Panic rising, he darted his eyes around.

The backseat of a car.

A man driving, glancing back with a worried—yet exasperated—expression. The teenager leaning closer, trying to reassure him with words Sam’s brain was too slow to process. Fear gripped tighter, and Sam shoved himself backward, his spine slamming against the car door.

“Sam, stop, please. You’re hurting yourself,” the boy said, trying to reach him carefully.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Sam yelled, his voice finally strong enough to make the boy jerk back in alarm.

“Kiddo, I’m not gonna hurt you!” the boy said, sounding wounded.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Sam cried, his voice loud and shaky. He couldn’t remember a single thing about… anything. He couldn’t even recall his—

“Um… Sam, we’re going home, remember?”

“Who’s Sam?” he demanded, impatience cutting through his panic. This boy looked like he had answers. And the driver—why wasn’t he saying anything? He just kept pulling the car over slowly, cautiously.

The green eyes staring at him went impossibly wide. His features filled with concern—and fear.

“Who’s Sam!” he shouted again, tears streaking down his face as his skull throbbed with a sudden, vicious pain. He clutched his head, never breaking eye contact with the boy.

“It’s you! You’re Sam, you’re Sam!” the teenager cried, his own voice breaking. “Come on, buddy, you’re just confused… you’ll remember in no time…” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

“I don’t… ughhh,” Sam groaned, the pain in his skull intensifying. “Why… why does my… my head… hurt so… so much?” he gasped between sobs.

“Oh, jeez. Okay, hey, I have something for that, yeah? Why don’t you just relax and I’ll give you some nice pills and—”

“You want to drug me?” Sam whispered, freezing. Was that it? Had he been kidnapped? Drugged? Was that why he couldn’t remember?

“What? No! It’s not like that! C’mon, Sammy, I’m your big brother—don’t you remember?” the boy said, sounding desperate.

Sam was about to spit back an insult—tell him where he could shove his lies and his drugs—when a stabbing pain ripped through his head. He clutched it tighter, eyes shutting against the agony, whimpering. Hands moved him, laid him down. He tried to fight them, but his body was just exhausted, and his only focus was the intense pain in his skull. Voices tangled in his ears, but a buzzing drowned them out.

A gentle hand covered his mouth. Words came in a soothing, urgent tone.

Then—water. Bitter, awful-tasting water. Tasted like medicine. He choked, tried to spit it out, but the hand held firm.

Panicked, Sam opened his eyes—only to see green ones above him, brimming with worry and love.

He swallowed. The hand released, only to cup his face.

“…that’s it, you’re doing great. Fuck, Sammy, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…” the boy murmured, tears streaking his face. The words didn’t match his lips, and it looked so unnatural—like this wasn’t how the world was supposed to be.

But the pain eased. His thoughts cleared.

Leather.

A flash of memory.

He was lying against someone’s chest now, being rocked gently, breath hitching as he tried to understand.

Something sharp dug into his neck. A necklace. With horns and—

“De…Dean?” he heard himself whisper, dreamlike.

“Oh, God. Sammy, yeah. Yes, it’s me.” Dean rocked him tighter.

“I’m sorry…” Sam said, though he meant so much more. He felt weak, tired. Cold.

“No, no, no. You don’t have to apologize, okay? It’s okay now, I got you. It’s gonna be okay.” A shiver ran through Sam, and Dean tightened his grip. “You cold?”

Sam nodded weakly. Dean grabbed the blanket from the Impala’s floor—where it had landed when Sam had started thrashing—and wrapped it around him. He rubbed his back and arms, rocking him again.

“I couldn’t remember anything ,” Sam whispered, voice small, like a terrified four-year-old. Dean hugged him tighter.

“I know, buddy. It’s okay now.”

There was a pause. Sam glanced toward the driver’s seat. Empty.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered, “how old are you?”

Sam thought. He remembered waking in the hospital. The accident—no, not an accident. A hunt. The last days had been a blur of pain and confusion, mostly sleep. Then… Dad wanting to leave as soon as possible. Dean explaining.

But nothing from the last three years.

“E… eleven?” Sam whispered, timid.

“Yeah, okay, buddy. Don’t be embarrassed, okay? There’s no wrong answer—we talked about that.” And they had. Every time Sam woke in confusion, Dean asked. And the answer was always the same.

“C’mon, squirt, why don’t you go to sleep, huh?” Dean offered.

Sam hesitated, then let the warmth of the blankets and Dean’s body sink into his forever-cold frame. The shivers faded.

“I… I’m scared, Dean,” he admitted softly. “What if I forget again?”

Dean smiled sadly, brushing away his tears.

“Then I’ll remind you.”

Sam studied him, uncertain—then looked at the necklace again and nodded.

“‘Kay, De. Thanks,” he murmured, lying against his big brother’s chest and closing his eyes.

“Rest, Sammy. I’ll be right here.”

Dean sighed, the air leaving his lips making his little brother’s hair fly in every direction, as his cheek rested against Sam’s crown. The kid was lying against his chest, sleeping for almost four hours now. Dean looked over at the driver’s seat.

“Dad?” he asked in a whisper, careful not to wake his brother.

“Yeah?” John looked at his son through the rearview mirror, gaze focused, with a trace of worriedness that had been there for days now and hadn’t disappeared once—if anything, it had only intensified.

“How long till we get to the motel? I think Sammy should rest in a proper bed…” As if to prove it, Sam whimpered in that same instant, his head bumping against Dean’s chest (which was the softest thing Dean could think of for his brother’s damaged head—though far from what a good mattress and pillow could offer) just after the car jolted slightly over a pothole.

John sighed too, his brow furrowing even more as he glanced at his youngest son.

“Yeah, you’re right. I think we’re far enough for CPS to find us… we’ll stop at the very next motel I see, okay, Dean?”

“Yeah, okay. Just… be careful with the potholes.”

Silence stretched between the two oldest Winchesters, both their minds filling with thoughts they were avoiding.

“Dad…” Dean’s voice came from the backseat, small and insecure. John was surprised—Dean could sound frustrated, angry, even sad, but never insecure . “He’s gonna be okay, right?” he finally asked.

“Yeah, son. Doc said it’d be normal for him to forget certain things.”

“ Certain th —Dad, he forgot who he was. Who we were! That can’t be normal!”

“But he remembered, didn’t he? It’ll get better. He just needs rest and some stability… we’re gonna stay in the new motel for as long as he needs, okay?” John said softly.

“Yeah… sounds good,” Dean murmured, pressing Sam’s head a little closer against his chest as he sensed another pothole on the road.

Fifteen minutes later, the Impala was parked under a huge red sign that read Sunset Pines Motel . John got out and headed to reception, leaving Dean alone with his brother.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, gently moving Sam into a sitting position while still keeping him against his chest. “Hey. Wake up, bud.”

Sam eventually stirred, peeking at his big brother through half-closed eyelids. Dean sighed in relief at the flicker of recognition there.

“Hey,” Sam rasped. “Where… we?” Dean chuckled, noticing his groggy speech was thanks to the pain meds.

“Motel. How about we get you into a comfy bed, huh? Then you can sleep as long as you want.”

Sam nodded clumsily, and with Dean’s help they managed to get him inside. Soon Sam was lying in the bed farthest from the door, cocooned in blankets and motel-standard pillows (as comfortable as cheap roadside ones could be). Dean made some soup and gently offered it. Sam reluctantly accepted and ate slowly.

Dad came back at some point, but left again soon after, saying he was going to get medicine for Sam.

But Dean knew better. It was too late for any grocery store or pharmacy to be open, and besides, they had already taken everything Sam needed from the hospital before leaving.

John just didn’t want to deal with Sam right now.

Dean sighed, studying his weakened, troubled little brother. Sam’s expression looked innocent, but there was something in his eyes that told Dean he wasn’t okay—and not just physically.

Sam was really weak after everything, barely able to move until two days ago. Now he could at least stand, feed himself, and talk a little. But still, he was drained.

No, Dean was more concerned about his mental and emotional state. Sam hadn’t spoken much in the last few days. At first, Dean assumed it was just because he’d been too tired and weak. But now, even as strength was coming back—slowly but surely—Sam remained silent.

“So… how are you doin’?” Dean asked casually, stretching his limbs on the couch next to the bed.

Sam shrugged and kept eating without meeting his eyes. Dean bit his lip, thoughtful.

“Wanna watch some TV?” he offered, switching on the small set. It flickered twice before Robin Williams filled the screen. “Look, Jumanji ! You love this movie,” Dean said cheerfully, glancing at his little brother through that mop of hair.

Sam’s face scrunched in confusion as he watched.

“Is it?” he asked.

“Yeah, man, you love this movie, don’t you rememb…? Oh.” Dean faltered. The movie had come out in 1995. Of course Sam didn’t remember it. Stupid.

“Well, nevermind,” he said quickly, changing the channel. “There—this better?” Scooby-Doo cartoons replaced the movie.

“Dean, you can put the movie back,” Sam mumbled, tired.

“Nah, dude, I like this.” Truth was, Dean didn’t give a damn about the TV. His baby brother had just spent a week in the hospital. The only thing he cared about was Sam being okay.

They sat in silence through two whole episodes. During a commercial break, Dean was about to say something lighthearted—anything to cheer his brother—when Sam’s voice broke the quiet.

“You think it’ll ever be normal again?”

Dean blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Sam said slowly, finally looking at him. “Will I ever get my memories back?”

“Sammy, the doctor said that—” Dean cut himself off when he saw his brother sniff, tears filling his eyes. “Whoa, hey—what—?”

“I don’t think I belong here, Dean,” Sam whispered, like he was confessing something forbidden.

Dean froze. What? Sam was his kid brother—for God’s sake, it was them against the world. How could he think…?

“Dad doesn’t want to be around me. And when he is, he won’t even look at me,” Sam continued, gaze dropping to his lap, voice so faint Dean had to strain to hear. “And you seem so uncomfortable. And both of you treat me like I’m this b- broken thing. And I can’t even do an- anything by myself because I’m so w- weak and tired all the time, and, and I can’t even remember why, and, and you won’t tell me, and everything is just so c- confusing, and I k- keep forgetting where I- I am or why I’m here, and, and you’ve grown, and I think you miss the way I was before… before the accident. And Dad too. And I miss my Dean—the younger one. And, and…”

Sam took a shaky breath, words finally subsiding after his long, stuttered outpour—the most he’d spoken all week.

Dean moved quickly, kneeling in front of him so their eyes met, gripping his shoulders. He felt horrified. He hadn’t realized Sam felt like that around him—like an outsider . But how could he not? Three years of his life had just disappeared . Dean and John might technically be the same people, but they weren’t. They had changed, grown. Subtly, yes, but still—they were the same, and yet… not. Experiences Sam didn’t know about ( or didn’t remember) , things that had happened… They weren’t exactly the same as three years back.

“Hey, hey, Sammy,” Dean soothed, though his own concern bled through. What could he even say? Sam wasn’t wrong. Not completely. “Hey. I do miss you, okay? I miss your 14-year-old self. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you . And I want you here. I’m not uncomfortable. I’m just… concerned, okay? So is Dad. We just want you to be okay. You really scared us, kiddo. You were real bad back in the hospital. Or today, when you couldn’t remember anything…” Dean shuddered at the memory.

Sam nodded knowingly.

“But Dad does want you around. He’s just worried—he’s afraid he’ll say the wrong thing and you’ll—”

“I’m fine, Dean!” Sam snapped suddenly. “I’m fine! I’m tired and weak, but you two can’t be worried all the time about what you say—that’s insane! I can handle it.”

“We know you can, Sammy, we just… you’ve been through a lot. We just want you to feel better, you understand?”

Sam reluctantly nodded.

“And it’s okay if you get confused, okay? Just tell me, and I’ll remind you of whatever you need. Deal?”

“You won’t make fun of me?” Sam asked. “Even if I ask something stupid?”

Dean smirked.

“No, of course not, squirt,” he promised.

“Okay,” Sam said finally, smiling—dimples and all.

“Okay, then. Any questions?”

“Yeah. Since when do you drive?”