When the prophesied antichrist took the leap that ended the apocalypse, the angels asked the question over and over. How? How could a 'mud monkey' defeat the devil himself when they had no such luck? After years of speculation, they had to find out the true reason. At the very least, know when he bypassed Lucifer's influence. The answer seemed to be between Sam and God; Sam would never give it up and God was nowhere to be found. God probably didn't know; Sam, Cas, and Dean broke destiny; changed the plans. There was only one way- to watch his memories. They'd start at the beginning and let them lead the way.
Memories are an intricate thing. In previous situations that called for a similar approach, a few patterns had emerged. There are different types of memories; reconstructed from stories the person had heard, conversational only, and original are the most common. Usually original memories are from the perspective of person with their attached thoughts and ideas. Conversational are a deep blackness with only spoken conversation; there were no obvious indicators of who was speaking. Occasionally, all memories are prone to skip around, chunks missing. Pieces could be missing for many reasons; not interesting, too long ago, or too painful. Memories are almost always in chronological order, but they can follow any pattern with loose connections. One memory can trigger a similar memory next in order and so on.
Sam's first memory is jumbled at best; formed through Dean's depictions. Bits and pieces were revealed to him over the span of his childhood. Dean would only tell Sam in his own time. Sam could squeeze something out him when Dean was fixing the Impala, when he was trying to get Sam to sleep, and sometimes when Dean was drunk. The memory is bleary at the edges, discolored to represent its age. He's only three months old being cradled in Dean's freckled arms for the first time.
Dean looks nervous as he avoids moving under the scrutiny of their parents. They carefully questioned him if he wanted to do this. It's a leap of faith to let a four year old hold a baby, but he's pretty sure he can handle it. He directs his gaze to the texture of the wall, the manilla carpet, the dirty windows; anything to avoid their concerned onlooking. His arm shifts and Sam lets out a shrill cry of surprise. Oh no he just hurt his brother didn't he? His parents gave him a chance and he ruined it and now Sammy was hurt or could die-Dean freezes when a hand guides his behind his brother's neck.
"Support his head, Dean," John's gentle voice instructs, stepping back and giving a reassuring nod.
He does as he's told and focuses on Sam, still very okay and alive. Sam has wispy hair that he wants to touch, but his parents forbade it the last time he tried with an air of concern he didn't understand. His eyes look too big for his head, like one of stuffed animals they put in his crib. He's in a onesie painted in blue and red with tiny decorative buttons. Maybe his brother is a stuffed animal. Thankfully, his mouth isn't made of stitches and colored string, Dean muses. Unlike toys, his brother consistently leaks from somewhere, but not at the moment.
There are little red patches where Sam scratched himself before Mary could clip his nails. The most concentrated spots are on his legs and arms. Dean pets each spot to soothe Sam, but he's a ticklish baby. Sam giggles and Dean smiles at his accomplishment. He lightly runs his fingers over the pads of Sam's feet; he jostles and his squeals of happiness release a river of drool onto his clothes and Dean's. Mary and John eye him, waiting for a complaint about the slobber on his favorite shirt; it never comes. He's too occupied with this overwhelming joy; he's never seen anyone so content with simple gestures.
"Watch out, he might grab your nose!" Mary chuckles as Sam flails his fat arms.
Dean returns his focus on his brother. They make eye contact-he's pretty sure that Sam is connecting with him. Can babies do that? His hand dangles in front of Sam's face to avoid the spit, ready to move back for support. Innocent coos dampen the air when a small hand moves from its resting position. He can see the tips of his fingers reflect in Sam's eyes. Clumsy fingers tug at Dean's smooth palm and eventually wrap around a finger. Thumbtack sized nails dig into his index finger but Dean pretends it didn't hurt; he might startle Sam. He holds his brother just like that for as long as his parents are comfortable; Sam's fast asleep, fingers still gripping Dean's, when they carry him off to his crib. Dean admires the tiny indents in his finger that remain for hours.
Dean climbs into the crib the next night and anytime he can get away with it; it's the same routine each time. As a precaution, he waits until his parents had gone to bed or are watching late night talk shows. Dean slides the safety wall of the crib down and slides in before returning it to it's regular position. The blanket is small so he covers Sam entirely and sticks his feet underneath, a discarded toy is his pillow. He carefully curls himself around Sam and snuggling up before falling asleep; each night, Sam grips his finger. John and Mary discourage it at first, out of the fear that he is regressing. They finally give up the second week that they'd taken him to his bed in the middle of the night, just to find him back again in the morning. It is advantageous for them; Sam sleeps better than he'd ever has, hardly stirring until morning.
"I don't what you want to know, Sam. Your mother was killed and we were helpless. I watched our house burn down along with our neighbors," John lamented to a young Sam Winchester craving answers for himself and others.
"The crowd that gathered kept staring at you. There were fire trucks and an ambulance going off and people shouting and you didn't make a sound," Dean whispered into Sam's hair during a restless night.
"I swear Mom was on the ceiling or something. It was pretty freaky," he said to shut Sam up so he'd hand him a wrench.
"Don't blame me for her death! How in the hell was I supposed to save her? She was pinned to the ceiling and on fire. I almost didn't make it out that night. You two were almost orphans. Even if I had saved your mother it wouldn't have guaranteed anything. Dean chose for himself and you damn well know it. Just go to bed before you piss me off," John shouted when Sam picked a fight after Dean dropped out of high school.
"The night of the fire, I was on my way to your crib. I could hear you crying. I was in the hallway when Dad handed you to me and rushed me out," Dean revealed after a night at the bars and many pleading looks.
To date, it is the most Dean or Dad ever told him about November 2nd, 1983.
Sam is old enough to know that Dad's gone more often than he's there, missing concerts, teacher meetings, and career day. Thankfully none of the teachers try to do home visits; it'd be difficult to facilitate one considering they don't have a mailbox. Dad can't afford to rent a house and they only stay in towns a few months at a time. They live in motels with two beds and a couch; fake addresses are provided to satiate the schools.
Dean only walks Sam home after school at first, shields him from the disdainful looks from his peers as they scoot into a suburban car with their parents. Not long after he packs lunches because Sam hates the over salted school food and it's cheaper anyways. Finally, Dean picks up where his father lacks at eleven years old. Uneasy glances greet him and Sam to each parent oriented event, but he seems to take it in stride. Despite Sam's apologies, Dean insists that he wants to, says it isn't a chore to give him the attention he deserves. He sits in front proudly during the concerts and mouths the words to the songs, he remembers singing them at that age. He talks to the teachers about Sam's grades during conferences, despite their reluctance. He speaks in front of the class and tells them how their Dad is a mechanic on the side but his real job is saving people, to the awe of teachers and kids alike. He eats up each compliment about his brother- he's the one that has raised this brilliant little kid.
Sam still doesn't know why. Why John goes without an explanation, why he says 'protect Sam,' or why Dean usually nods when Dad's walking out the door; an agreement hanging between them. This exchange between his brother and father is new to him; it began when Sam started school. They were both upset, most notably Sam, about the absence of Uncle Bobby, but their father had been stern. Dean is the new Bobby which entails many things: cooking, helping with homework, enforcing bedtimes, reading to Sam, bandaging his wounds, and helping him through his fears. Sam doesn't fully grasp what Dean gives up for him, but he feels it. It resonates in him when he watches older kids play soccer and have sleep overs and go to the movies-things Dean never does. He shows his gratitude by trying to be as like Dean as possible, to become a hero himself.
Sam wonders if other kids get this much unsupervised time; staying up late and eating junk food isn't a privilege anymore. Last New Years was hardly an effort for him, they stayed up and watched Ghostbusters. Dean kept biting his tongue, making critical faces at the screen as if they were doing everything wrong; the same way he had watched Sam play arcade games. Sam laughed at all his dumb faces and Dean threw popcorn at him. Sam jumped on him and they wrestled on the floor, smashing the popcorn down into the dirty brown carpet. Sam lost in an unsurprising turn of fate, and was made to clean up the mess of kernels.
He smiles at the memory as insomnia takes it's hold. He can no longer sleep peacefully without his Dad there. He's so anxious that he's going to leave them, find a better family. He's afraid that Dad will take Dean while he's asleep and leave him alone. He didn't harbor these fears when they stayed with Uncle Bobby, but Sam knows he would never abandon them. He knows it's irrational, but it burns in the foreground of his mind. Anything could happen-they do live an inconstant life.
His insomnia started out as an attempt to wait up for Dad, but evolved into a terrible plague. He pretends to sleep until Dean is out cold and watches the door until the hazy sunlight flits through the cheap blinds. He gives into exhaustion and nearly gives Dean a heart attack, on the verge of calling for an ambulance. They stay home and Dean hovers and watches him sleep, warding off concerned phone calls from the school.
"Sammy, don't do that to me ever again. What was I supposed to do? What if Dad came home and you were dead?" Dean's voice shakes
"I was waiting for Dad," he startles Dean. He hadn't known Sam was awake.
"You should've told me. Next time, we'll wait together."
That night and each after, Dean climbed into Sam's bed and held his hand to ease him through his anxiety. The nights brought conversations full of laughs, tears, and everything between; but never where Dad was or what he was doing. This was one of those times Dean would tell him about that time he held him as a baby, talked until Sam drifted off cuddled against his big brother; soothed by the body heat exuding off Dean and his voice filled with joy. Sam couldn't help but see an emerging parallel from that story and his life now. They fell into a pattern, taking comfort in each other's presence, finding it harder to sleep alone.
Dad probably would've told Sam to grow out of it so they made it exclusively theirs. On the nights he was home, Dean would wait until he was rocked to sleep by Jack Daniels before joining Sam for the night. Luckily, he slept until late morning, after they'd dressed and left for school. He was usually so hungover they could've had a marching band in the living room without his notice. It was an interesting dance they did around him, even if they weren't doing anything wrong; it felt like it should be a secret. Had they told Dad, he could have slept in Dean's bed rather than the couch, but Sam figured it served him right. His resentment had always seared inside him and steadily grew as he watched Dean lose more of his childhood to be his makeshift mother.
"You can handle this Sam, I promise. Taking care of a ghost is an easy hunt. Dean's got your back," Dad assures Sam as Dean drags him out of the Impala. He hands Sam a loaded sawed-off shotgun. He carries a can of lighter fluid and tucks a lighter into his jeans pocket. They kick up dirt and gravel on the way to the rickety old house and Sam stays behind Dean.
"Come on, don't be a baby. It's just a ghost," Dean's taunt is less effective when his voice cracks in the middle.
Sam picks up the pace and walks next to Dean now, his hand absent mindedly grabs Dean's. Neither of them notice until they're at the previously-a-termite-meal door, Dean pulling away to try the knob. The rust prevents it from turning and Dean sighs.
"So are we breaking down a door or a window?" Dean gestures around them.
"I don't know. Um, the door has more structural weakness," Sam notices.
Dean sets the lighter fluid down, backs up, and slams his shoulder into the door before Sam can say much else. It cracks loudly and dust fills the space around them. Dean coughs and sputters, so Sam takes over, mimicking what Dean just did. The center of the door gives and Sam cries out in pain. He might have broken his shoulder, but they have a task on hand. Dean kicks in the bits of wood splaying out from the hole and crouches in, Sam on his heels.
"Ok Sammy, show me how you shoot that thing," he looks pointedly at the shotgun.
Sam anxiously assumes the position he's seen his father do what seems a million times. He tenderly squeezes the trigger to no avail; he pulls back harder begrudgingly. Smoke takes over the air before he hears a loud boom and shattering. As he brings the gun back to his side he realises he can't feel his shoulder at all. He's afraid to hear what Dean has to say about his shot or his shoulder injury.
"Could use some more practice. No one is gonna care about a broken window here though," his face is paler than usual, but he doesn't indicate any direct concern. He probably doesn't want to scare Sam. "Alright we gotta find the body quick and burn it."
The house was a good size with two floors, an attic, and a basement. The basement is the last resort-more than a few hunting-gone-wrong stories ended there. They begin a walk around for anything unusual, a term that was often appended in this lifestyle. The first several rooms contain only veiled furniture and dusty novels; nothing to keep someone bound here. The kitchen is made entirely of rust and mold; the bathroom shares a similar fate.
They split up; Sam in the attic, Dean in the basement-neither particularly excited. Sam makes it up the first flight of crooked stairs and passes the bedrooms with intent. The way to the attic is a pull down ladder that is helpfully already down. It's stained but he tries not to look too close, he needs to get the job done. Five rungs from the top his foot slips and his heart pounds-he wasn't really coordinated. Another step up and he feels it, a gust of musty air or something, and he's falling backward. He hears the whooshing past his ears and pretends he's not really falling, it's a nightmare. He slams onto the wood floor a few feet from the top of the ladder and the air is launched out his lungs in a surprised cry. He sees the ghost, a woman in flower patterned clothes with a gaping head injury that makes him cringe.
"They said I was a manic woman that up and left her home!"
"I, uh, I'm sorry?" Sam wheezes while he tries to regain his footing.
Her face is directly in front of his now. She speaks softer this time, "Will you tell them what happened to me?"
"Who? What?"
"My husband pushed me off that ladder and then buried me."
"Where did he bury you? In the yard?"
"No, he put me behind a wall. No one ever thought anything of my disappearance."
"Sam, you ok?" Dean huffs wide-eyed.
"Yeah I just fell and-"
"Hey lady, you get away from him. I know how you ghosts are, bent on revenge or whatever, but you're not taking it out on him."
"No, Dean it's o-" Sam's explanation is cut off by a loud noise. Dean shoots the woman's ghost with the rifle Sam is supposed to be manning; he dropped it unknowingly on his dive. She disappears, but it's temporary. She appears again after Dean has helped Sam up, fierce anger slanders her face. She lunges at Dean and passes through him purposefully; he's frozen in pain.
"He didn't mean it! Just leave us alone, we'll leave!" Sam cries out of desperation. She chooses to ignore him and try to get near Dean again; he's still immobile.
"Come on Dean we gotta go!" He grabs Dean's free hand (the other one is grasping the shotgun) and drags toward the stairs; he's holding on for dear life and Dean is squeezing back. She isn't letting up, forcing the lights to flicker now and opening a few windows. Sam's afraid she has the energy to move objects to throw at them.
Half way down the stairs Sam pleads with Dean, "You have to stop Dean! I can't carry you or anything!" He shakes his older brother until he's back in action and they run in unison down the rest of the stairs. The basement door swings open and shut a few times in some horrible morse code. Sam's pretty sure it translates to 'Get out.'
"I didn't find a body, did you?" Dean prompts.
"Uh, no but she's buried behind a wall."
"Where?" Dean's voice is more frantic; the door is slamming louder than before.
"I don't know! You shot her before she could tell me!"
"Crap. Well I guess we're burning the place down then," he looks around for the lighter fluid and finds none. "Shit. I'm gonna have to run out and get the lighter fluid," he says over the door slamming. He lets go of Sam's hand and sprints for the front door; he crawls through the opening with care.
The woman uses this opportunity to prey on Sam's obvious fear. She whispers in his ear what sounds like angry gibberish as he tries to huddle in a corner. An ancient grandfather clock tips over a few feet from him and he's lost it. He's in full panic mode now, she's strong and going to kill him and Dean and Dad will go on like he never existed. Hot tears run down his cheeks as he hears more furniture crash around him; he can't see it because he doesn't want to, his eyes are covered.
"Stop please! I'm just trying to help! I don't want to die!" he shrieks at the house collectively.
A palm is on his cheek now, soothing, "It's ok, Sammy. I need your help or we can't finish this. Please." Sam wipes the tears from his eyes and stands facing Dean.
"Ok, I need you to run around and pour this all over the house," he holds up the rectangular can; it boasts it's contents containing thirty-three percent more than usual. "If I see her I'll shoot, I'm not gonna let her touch you."
Sam takes the flammable liquid reluctantly, but a hand lingers to rest on Dean's. He nods and they break apart, Sam begins a mad dash around the entire first floor. Once he's satisfied, he jogs up the stairs; he can feel a round rush past him and keeps going. He douses the ladder and comes back down, frantically avoiding the bullets flying around him. He forces his way to the top of the basement stairs between slams and dumps the rest down rather than risk a trip into the unknown.
Dean tosses him the gun while he lights the destructive trail; Sam fires three or four times and he feels the backlash rattle his shoulder. He's sure he'll be in pain when the adrenaline wears down. The room is suddenly very bright and turning toxic; they need to leave now. When Sam turns to go with Dean, he can see Dean's legs slipping through the damaged door. He catches up, but the fire is gaining and the door is on fire on the edges. He throws the sawed-off through the opening and tries to throw himself out in a similar fashion. In his hesitation, the fire spreads further or the outer rim of the self-made exit. He pushes through and feels some heat before landing on the porch. Dean has the gun under his arm and takes Sam's hand. Sam can't walk or even run behind Dean because he's going so fast, he's just pulling Sam to the Impala like dead weight. They slide into the car and don't say a word until they're home; on the way over Sam looks himself over and sees the singes in Dean's old shirt he's wearing and on the fray of his jeans.
Dean waits until Dad is asleep to break out the modified first aid kit. He takes a meticulous tally; Sam racks up a broken shoulder, some open graze wounds (caused by the fleeting bullets), a few second degree burns, and a mild concussion. Sam is sitting backwards on a rickety kitchen chair to brace for the pain, almost numb to his injuries but it could be the concussion. He tastes the stale vomit in his mouth from earlier, but it's the least of his problems.
Dean motions for Sam to remove the t-shirt and rolls Sam's jeans up for him. In absence of whiskey, Dean soaks a washcloth in hydrogen peroxide. He hands Sam a bag of frozen peas to hold on the burns accumulated on his torso. Sam hisses when it makes contact with the blisters but pushes through to avoid worse.
"Ok, I'm gonna disinfect your wounds. It's gonna burn. You gotta hold still for me ok?"
Sam nods and then regrets it when ringing sets in his ears.
Sam clenches his jaw at the first sting and tries to tune out the sickly bubbling sound. Dean's hardly running the rag over the cuts, skimming over the pale flesh of Sam's back. It's stained with black smears of old blood; the disinfectant is slowly erasing the blemishes. He makes several passes, Sam hunching more forward each time, before dappling on a & d cream. He secures a few big bandages and gauze with medical tape.
"Sam! Sam! Wake up!"
Sam stirs, a hot hand on his forehead.
"Christ Sammy, don't scare me like that. You dizzy?" Dean squeezes Sam's hand as an anchor to confirm he's awake.
"Y-yeah," Sam coughs around a dry heave. His free hand is hanging loose, bag of peas heaping on the floor, his blisters chafing the chair. His next cough pushes him against the chair; his entire face is scrunched, tears staining his paled cheeks.
Dean's hand gives a final squeeze before he raids their kit frantically. He pulls out two large bottles that sound half full when he tips them. Sam closes his eyes and tries to focus on the sounds other than the buzzing in his head. He hears Dean's bare feet squeak on the kitchen tile- he must be sweating nervously- and then the tap runs. Cupboards opening and closing, and a hollow plastic sound; the hollow plastic is filled with water which is in front of Sam's face a few moments later.
Dean's outstretched hand contains four blue capsules and two white tablets that he transfers to Sam's palm. Sam quickly shoves them in his mouth and Dean tips the glass at a shallow angle to allow Sam to pace himself. Dean backs off when his brother huffs around the lip of the cup.
"Ok, now I just gotta cover your burns and then you can go to bed," Dean assures while tucking away the pain killers. He reaches again for the cream and smears some on a couple fingers and has gauze ready in the other hand. "You gotta lean back."
Sam pulls back, sticking his chest out for easy access, to the best of his ability. He hopes he can keep steady like that only holding on with one hand. He bites his tongue at the dull throb of fire on his chest as he's doctored up. When the gauze is secured, he pools his weight forward.
"I'm gonna clean this up and then help you to bed, ok? You awake?"
"Yeah, m'kay."
Each part of the safety kit is put back in it's place, the frozen peas are returned to the sputtering freezer, and the cup is drying on a towel. He picks up the discarded shirt and offers it to Sam. He shakes his head 'no' and tries to push himself off the chair. He falters at the jerky pain in his slack shoulder and returns to his previous position. Dean holds out his hand as a demand rather than an offer, one Sam can't refuse unless he wants to wake up on a stiff chair. He tugs gently and use his other hand to help guide the other half of Sam's torso up. They make the short trip to their room with Dean leading him by hand and Sam collapses onto Dean's queen mattress. Dean climbs in and tilts Sam onto his good side and pulls the sheets over them.
"Night Sammy," Dean whispers and receives a grunt back.
They took Sam to the doctor the next day with the tales of football practice on their lips to ensure his shoulder would be taken care of. It had been pretty hard to convince the teachers that no his Dad didn't beat him, he's just really clumsy. The wounds looked a lot more incriminating before Dean had tended to them, his eyes brimming with distress; they would have called child services had they seen the before.
John had hardly acknowledged the awful trip from then on, probably out of guilt. Sam was in charge of doing all the research until he was twelve; his first assignment was learning the proper way to break down a door.
Sam stirs when a flicker of sun lands on his eyes; his nose catches the scent of eggs and burnt toast. Recognition floods him- each May 2nd starts this way. He lazily removes the covers and walks to the kitchen, greeted by breakfast. He feels awkward being boxer clad while his brother is dressed to kill.
"It's almost noon, sleeping beauty," Dean snarks as he breaks off a bit of toast.
"Good thing I'm not going to school, huh?" Sam stirs his eggs with a bent fork. When he was younger he'd attend class on his birthdays without incident. It meant birthday crowns, songs, and attention in elementary school. After that no one gave a shit- a few insincere 'happy birthdays' and homework were in store. "Dad home?" he bits into the soggy eggs so he won't have to respond to the resounding 'no.'
"Said he'd try to be here by the end of the week." Dad seemed to make a habit of missing each of his birthdays and this was no exception. He was kind of jealous that Dad obviously had been there for Deans first four birthdays, not that he could remember them.
"Hey, Dean, why do you make me breakfast every year?"
"Well," he started, setting a dirtied napkin on his plate, "it's family tradition. I remember Mom did, at least for my fourth birthday. And if Dad was around after that, he would."
"Whatever, go put some clothes on so you can be seen in public," Dean shoos Sam as he clears the table and sets dishes in the rusty sink. Sam lingers a little longer to watch Dean when he thinks he's alone, washing dishes. He notices how the sun accents the almond hair and high cheekbones and strong jaw. It isn't the first time he takes the time to appreciate Dean's beauty and it won't be the last.