Inspired by the movie Cold Souls. Slight crossover, but not much. Left open, but I won't post another chapter unless someone prompts me to. I'll consider you all satisfied
Introspection
"So," The kind-looking doctor slapped the manila folder back. "Sam has no soul?" He glanced from one man to the other.
The lighter one nodded. "That's right."
"You know. . . this isn't standard." He smiled crookedly at both of them.
"We know that, doctor, but I really think I need help." the dark one, named Sam, pleaded.
"Well you probably heard our business has become taxed as of recent?"
Both nodded somberly.
"It's not gonna be cheap."
"We understand, doc. Jus' please. . ." The lighter, named Dean, gestured to the darker. "Help my brother."
Dr. Flintstein thought both men looked trustworthy, if not a little rough around the edges. But they did in no way scream 'cop'. He smiled one last time at the desperate look on their faces before pressing a button on his desk phone. "Claudia, will you hold my calls please?"
"Certainly, Sir," a pleasant voice answered immediately.
He sighed in pleasure. One of the reasons for hiring Claudia was her pleasant phone voice. The two customers seemed too pressed to appreciate it though, so he dove straight in. "I can do this," Both sighed before he could finish. "But it's going to be quite expensive." He tried to lighten their somber faces with a smile. It didn't work. "Right." He stood from his desk and gestured for the two men to join him. "I have the afternoon free so in theory I could perform the procedure right now?"
They suddenly looked shy. Questioning. The lighter one, Dean, inhaled to speak. "Just so we're clear: This soul won't be Sam's?"
"Well has he ever been treated here before?"
Dean had a real problem with the word 'treatment'. As if they were curing cancer or something and not removing people's souls. "No," Both brothers shook their heads.
"Ah, well then you can simply choose a temporary soul to replace his old one."
"So you just shove another one in there?"
"Well. . ." Dr. Flintstein had a problem with the word 'shove'. "No exactly."
"But it won't be my own soul?" Sam asked quietly and coolly.
"I'm afraid we can't help you in that department, but we can surely offer a lovely replacement until you reacquire your own."
"But will it even. . . Fit?" Dean questioned. He didn't like this. Not at all.
"Yes," The doctor mistook the doubt for curiosity and relished the chance to conform the uninformed masses about his work. "You see the soul is a very tricky thing. You can't judge it by its size or shape. Every borrowed soul will undergo an adjustment period, but can medicate you for that," He looked to Sam.
"Wait, wait. It needs to adjust?" Dean's skepticism was pumping dangerously close to the fault line.
The doctor nodded. "Yes. Some of the more common symptoms are headaches, sweats, trouble sleeping, spontaneous anxiety attacks, depression, mild disorientation and IBS."
"IBS?" Sam parroted in a distinctly arrogant tone. "Spastic colon?"
"Yes, but that's not very common." Dr. Flintstein hastened. "Most people hardly feel any side effects at all. Most just have a little trouble sleeping through the night."
Dean was starting to hate the word 'most' as well.
Dr. Flintstein showed them to his shelf-room where he stored the most prized souls he had collected over the few years he had been removing them.
"But won't whoever's soul Sam gets, miss it?" Dean wasn't sold. At all.
"Oh, hardly," Flintstein smoothed calmly. "All souls donated are done so willingly. And when you're done using it, we'll return it to its rightful owner."
"So you have them catalogued?" Sam asked with humor in his voice. He glanced at Dean. "You think Crowley has all his organized like this?" He gestured to the wall, decorated with glass-jars full of miscellaneous souls.
Dr. Flintstein glanced uneasily at Sam. Who was Crowley? Was he competition? "I assure you, every soul donated has been done freely. And we have a lovely selection." He gestured again to the shelves.
"He gets to choose one of these?" Dean pointed to the wall with ill concealed distaste. The doctor didn't notice.
"Aha, no. These are my private selection."
"Private?" Sam quirked his brow again.
"A couple of famous people, some distant family members and such." Dr. Flintstein turned to look at the two men. "All soul donated to us remain anonymous for the comfort of our patients."
Again with the words, Dean thought. 'Patients' were not how he'd describe these people. Soulless? Ghosts of their former selves? Yes. He glanced at Sam who seemed to be taking it all in stride. "So he doesn't get to choose his own soul?"
"'Own' is hardly the word-" Dr. Flintstein lightly chastised.
"Borrowed then,"
". . .but, no. Not so. We have a list compiled of the souls in storage. If you would like to see, I could show you?" He turned them back to his office. There he sat down behind his desk and pulled out the large book of souls, categorized after employment and age of the donors. He flipped it open and turned it the two men could see. "See, here you have their job-title and the age of the person who donated."
"This one says 13," Dean pointed to one. Who the fuck would do this to a child? Or let them do it to themselves?
Dr. Flintstein turned the book around. "Ahh, 'Actor'." He smiled. "I'm afraid I can't disclose the name of the person this soul belonged to."
Dean nodded without dropping his guard. This place gave him the creeps.
"See anything you like?" Dr. Flintstein leaned across the table and smiled at Sam.
He smiled back without showing much feeling. "These are all actors." He commented, flipping on in the book.
"Yes. They're listed alphabetically. The procedure is very popular with actors, artists and such."
Sam kept flipping and had to keep himself from laughing out loud at some of the professions. "Actors, butchers, bankers, CEOs, doctors, dancers, dentists, e-" He huffed. "Exotic dancers?" and shared a quick grin with his brother.
Despite the horribly, soul-wrenching, gutting, back-breaking bad feeling he was getting from this place, he found the idea funny. Guess even strippers sometimes find it morally bankrupt to rip their clothes off in front of strangers. Then it dawned on him. Most of those people are probably prostitutes and just said the next best thing because they had to say something. That killed his buzz in two seconds flat and he went right back to sulking.
Sam wheezed out a laugh and pointed to a title. "Look, Dean, someone put on 'extra'." He didn't notice that Dean didn't share his lighthearted spirits and kept flipping. "Hey, here's one. Firefighter." Sam pointed to a spot on the page and glanced up. "Could work?"
"Are you a firefighter?" Dr. Flintstein asked kindly.
"Not exactly."
"We're more like freelancers," Dean smoothed over.
"Oh? What do you freelance with?" The doctor asked kindly enough, but Dean still felt his skin crawl as he prepared to tell another lie.
"We're like. . ." None was forthcoming.
"Pest-control." Sam fired off without pause for thought. He was getting to be one helluva liar.
"Well I assume you travel a lot then?" Both nodded. "Maybe someone with a more nomadic lifestyle?"
"Yeah. . ." Sam kept flipping and Dean was slowly getting fed up. This wasn't a goddamn Quic-E-Mart! "A lotta Homeopaths and Herbalists on here."
"Yes." Dr. Flintstein chuckled as if remembering an old joke.
"Homemakers too." Sam commented.
Another disturbing doctor-chuckle and Dean felt right about ready to crawl out of his skin if it meant leaving. But Sam's next words stopped him dead.
"Or maybe an Interrogator?" He looked up seriously.
Dean felt alarm bells going off in all corners of his mind. "Hell no,"
"Why not? Might come in handy?"
Dr. Flintstein stayed blissfully quiet, but was staring at Sam and Dean as if trying to comprhend why two pest-controllers would need such a cold and bruised soul.
"No way. I want someone as close to the old Sam as possible. No interrogators. . . and no politicians," Dean added as an afterthought. Sam pouted, but kept leafing through the folder.
"Insurance Agent?"
"NO!" Dean barked to the great dismay of the doctor. He sat back and crossed his arms while Sam smiled softly. No way was he gonna apologize for his outburst, no matter how weird the doctor looked at him.
"I know there's an inventor on the list as well." Dr. Flintstein said pleasantly and tried not to appear scared of Dean's outburst.
Sam had stopped leafing. "Might work?" He glanced at Dean.
"Well was he a nice inventor?" Dean posed the question as obnoxiously and childishly as he possibly could and glared at the doctor.
"I don't remember that particular case, but I believe it was from a woman."
"Moving on. . ." Sam said without so much as a 'sorry' to the feminine population of the world. But he remembered well enough that he had been host to a female entity once before and had no desire to relive the experience. "Lawyer?" He glanced at his brother, not entirely trusting his own judgment any longer.
Dean just shook his head without taking his eyes off the doctor. It seemed the two were having a staring match.
It took about an hour, but they had finally narrowed it down to three suspects. "So. . ." Sam sighed and ran a hand down his face. It wasn't really that he was tired or numb. The movement just felt so familiar. "We have a choice between Librarian, Cop or Travelling Salesman."
"I think the traveling salesman might suit your requirements nicely." Dr. Flintstein said in his ever-pleasant voice.
Sam was doubtful he'd get much out of a soul as one from a salesman. "Dean? Whatta you think?"
Dean growled.
He nodded and smirked, having made his own choice. "Right. Cop it is." He slapped the book closed and smirked at Dr. Flintstein.
"Wise choice," he accepted the ledger from the young man. "If you'd like we could perform the procedure right now and schedule your first follow-up visit?"
"Sounds fine."
Dean had stopped talking and blinking all together. He had crossed his arms and fixed his eyes on a spot on the doctor's desk. He only moved when Sam hissed at him from the door. He got up with the greatest effort and a face full of thunderclouds. They were led into another white room, hosting a large machine. "It looks like a CAT scanner." Dean commented darkly.
Dr. Flintstein chuckled and pressed the 'on'-button. "Yes. Indeed it does. It was developed from one, but has little of the same functions. It's much more advanced." Some lights came on and a deep sucking sound emitted from the man-sized hole in the middle. "Sam, if you please?" He gestured to the stretcher and left the room.
"Where's he going?" Dean was instantly suspicious.
Sam's jeans made a loud slapping sound when he thumped onto the narrow bed. "Will you relax? Dean, this is what we wanted- More even! This was like a frickin' neon sign from above."
"A little too convenient," Dean growled and took a seat on one of the visitor chairs. "And why the hell is he acting so weird, huh?" He gestured to the storage room where Dr. Flintstein had vanished into.
Sam shrugged. "Probably had his own soul removed as well."
Dean looked jolted beyond pain or fright. Pure shock was written in bold caps all over his face. "How the hell you figure that?"
"Just what I would do if I had to convince people to sell their souls all day. I'd probably go insane if I didn't."
Dean swallowed down his initial horror and thought about it, pointedly ignoring the frightening level of insight Sam suddenly displayed towards this man and his trade. "Makes sense I guess. He must've had ethics at some point in his life."
"Exactly," Sam praised, really sounding like he hadn't heard a word his brother had said.
Dean glared, hating the world a little more each second.
"Here we are!" Dr. Flintstein returned in victory with his prize held carefully in both hands.
"Why does it look like dirt?" Dean was feeling more suspicious than ever before. More and more likely to burn a clip in the doc just to release some stress.
"Don't judge it by its looks, M- Dean." Dr. Flintstein realized he didn't know their last names. They had asked to remain anonymous which suited the doctor fine since under-the-table soul-trading wasn't exactly something to brag about. "Most souls resemble dirt or. . ." He examined the jar lovingly. "Clear gel of some kind. If you look I think you'll find this looks more like tar," He held out the jar, but Dean declined with a raised hand.
He couldn't look at it. It seemed beyond unnatural that he was looking a soul someone had ripped out of themselves. Why would anyone DO that?
"Sam, if you'll lie down we can get you ready." Sam lay down obediently. "Would you like the introspective glasses?"
Sam shook his head without much thought and got comfortable.
The doctor looked a little taken back. "Are you sure? It'll help the soul bond with you if you wear them."
Sam raised his head from the stretcher. "What will I see?" And then Dean realized, with a sucking sensation, what Sam was afraid of. He was afraid he'd look inside and see hell.
"You'll get glimpses of your new soul. We suggest it for all our patients to help with the merging."
They had gone over it in the office, but Dean still felt a nagging sense of unease. "So you're saying that the part of Sam's soul that's still inside him will bond more easily with his new one?"
Dr. Flintstein had explained that 5 percent of Sam's natural soul still remained within him. Often times the new souls merged effortlessly with the remainder of the old, but a little introspection could never hurt. "Yes."
"But won't that make it that much harder to rip out once he gets his own back?"
"Oh, no." Dr. Flintstein looked blankly from one man to the other. "It shouldn't."
"Uhuh." Dean was about ready to jump ship when Sam accepted the glasses with shivering hands. Was he nervous? CAN he even BE nervous? Dean dismissed it. The stretcher slid in and the doctor pushed the soul-in-the-jar into a little, fitted hole.
"Here we go." He then pushed a button with a smile and stood next to Dean, who had also arisen. The machine made an odd humming sound that drowned out the sound of the wall clock. Then it made a series of clinks and clanks before, what sounded like a fan, turned on somewhere inside it. Dean flinched at every little sound and had his eyes glued to the machine. Despite the intense dislike for the place and everything they did there, he was anxious to see if he'd get his little brother back.
The slide opened and Sam was pushed out. He was on his back, panting slightly, with the goggles still on. "Sammy?" He flinched at the sound of his name, but didn't move to take off the goggles. "Sam?" Dean was over him in a second while Dr. Flintstein nervously turned all buttons and switches to 'off'. Dean slid the goggles from his little brother's head and wasn't particularly happy with what he saw.
Sam was staring straight into space with quiet tears whetting his eyes. Besides the tears he even seemed calm. No shaking or twitching the likes of which Dean was doing at that moment. "What the hell! I thought this was supposed to be safe?" He snapped at the doctor.
To his praise, the man had the decency to look chastised. "I- I don't know what happened. . ."
"Sammy! Can you hear me?" Dean slapped his face softly and got a blink for his trouble. "That's it, kiddo. Come back. C'mon." Another slap roused his brother a bit more. Sam blinked and the calm mask slipped off.
"D-Dean?"
It was said in such a way Dean hadn't heard in ages. With such emotion he thought he might cry right there on the spot. "Hey, kiddo." True to form tears now lined his own eyes as he gazed into his little brother's.
"What happened?"
He rubbed Sam's cheek like he hadn't done in decades. "You got a soul, bud." He couldn't bring himself to say 'your soul'. Even though it burned in him to speak those exact words he couldn't yet.
"Why can't I remember anything?"
"Ah, disorientation." Dr. Flintstein declared with a nervous smile a few feet back.
Dean snarled and helped his brother sit.
Flintstein handed them some aspirin and a bottle of other pills, designed the smooth over the binding process between body and soul. Sam sat as if in a daze through all of it, but he finally looked alive. Not the plastic doll version of himself from just a few moments before.
"And I'll see you next Wednesday." Dr. Flintstein gladly declared whilst walking both brothers out past Claudia.
"Drive safe," The redhead receptionist chirped and Dean could've strangled her.
He pushed his long-awaited little brother into the passenger seat and slid in behind the wheel. Sam hadn't said a word besides his initial queries. That nagging feeling from before was creeping back in Dean as he watched the youngest Winchester sleep. He started the engine and reached over to run a hand down his brother's face. He felt right. Like Sam again. He sighed and turned on the radio at low volume. Motörhead came on with Ace of Spades, but Dean didn't change. He figured his brother could finally enjoy it again; despite the low volume.
He glanced over as he pulled out of the parking lot. Sam's face was relaxed save for one thing. A, little, lurking frown between his eyes. The one that always indicated the beginning of a nightmare. He just wondered if those would get worse now Sam was finally able to sleep again?