There have been a lot of awesome tags to 6.14, and thankfully none of him have focused on the creeptastic, murdery mannequins and sex dolls! I've decided to throw my own into the pile. Stick around for shameless, brotherly bonding, lots of angst, and the triumphant return of Sammy's dimples. I really hope you like it as I had a ball writing it. I have a blast reading reviews too, so please let me know what you think.

The Many Faces of Sam

Sam's breath rattled through him like the gentle twinkling of chains. He was limp and still, while Dean was raging, all violent heartbeat and clamoring breath and a blood-curdling scream inside his head.

A minute earlier, Sam had dropped, hit the floor like a boulder, thrashing and convulsing like an epileptic. By the time Dean had shoved his palms under his head to cushion it from the concrete floor, he'd flopped still, like a puppet with severed marionette strings.

But his eyes were open, hazel rimmed in murky blue, unseeing for a long minute and then they rolled back, revealing bloodshot white and finally closing. Dean checked his pulse, pleaded with every deity he could remember for that damn to hold, silently prayed that he wasn't kneeling on the moldering floor of a dessert shack and watching his brother die. He thought about how Sam had saved the world yet he was still being punished.

Sam's shoulders jerked a bit, his fingers moved restlessly, and his eyes drifted open.

His hands were cold as he shook him. "Sammy? Hey. You with me?"

Sam's eyes swam with terror and confusion, and the pathetic excuse for breathing earlier now raced towards hyperventilation. But still, Sam focused on him and nodded jerkily. Every instinct told him that he needed to get Sam out of town as fast as possible. The hunter took over as he heaved Sam to his feet and powered him out to the Impala. He streaked back inside to grab their duffels, and tossed them in the back. He tore out of the lot with a spray of mud and a squeal of tires.

Dean reached blindly in the back and snatched a discarded hoodie and tossed it in Sam's lap. "Cover your eyes with that," he barked. Gruffness masked how distraught he felt. He didn't want Sam catching the glimpse of something familiar and passing out again.

He ran a stop sign with a glance in both directions and merged onto the freeway. Sam groaned, pressing the cotton to his eyes as they fled. Dean seized his arm to let him know he was there and his fingers brushed against hot skin, cold sweat and damp clothes.

Dean gazed worriedly at his brother. He was shuddering almost as violently as he had been before in that God-forsaken house, like he was simultaneously hypothermic and fevered. Cursing, Dean jerked the car to the shoulder. He hurriedly grabbed a blanket and a bottle of water from the trunk. Sam almost fell out of the car when Dean opened the door. He caught him awkwardly and stooped down, sweeping hair out of the younger man's haunted face to catch his eyes. They were bloodshot, flared with fear. He tugged off Sam's puffy jacket. "I need to hear your voice, Sam."

"I'm o-okay," Sam gritted. Pain glinted in every word.

"This is pretty freakin' far from okay. Do you know what happened?"

Dean was both impressed and suspicious at how fast he shut down. Whatever had happened, it had defied explanation. Dean tipped the bottle of water into his mouth, tapping into stores of kindness reserved only for his brother. When Sam had drunk his fill, Dean wrapped him in the blanket and folded his long limbs back in the car. "Cover your eyes again."

Forty miles later and Sam was still raggedly depleted. Sam moaned through clenched teeth, a sign of an indecent amount of pain. "Are you sure you don't need a hospital?"

He shook his head. Dean tore his eyes away; he hated the image of his brother weak, body bowed by the pain of the crumbling wall. He wished he could kick Death's creepy ass for his shoddy craftsmanship, but he knew the blame lied elsewhere. Robo-Sam hadn't wanted this. Castiel hadn't wanted this. Crowley had warned him, too.

Who, soul or no soul, good or evil, would choose this?

Dean scanned the freeway for a decent motel, and tried to block out the ominous question that repeated in his head like the voice of a spirit: Was Sam better off?

-SPN-

The case was nothing but a pile of skinless corpses without any idea of what kind of freak-of-the-week to pin it on and a few dead-end leads. Their current one, Wendy, was a gin-soaked trainwreck and another waste of time. Dean could tell after two minutes of slurred answers and chain-smoking, that she actually hadn't seen anything. Her heart-shaped face was pale, save for the two-day-old eyeliner caked and streaked under her eyes. Six cigarettes gone and she'd lit up another, blowing smoke in Sam's face. Dean had blocked out her boozy nattering fifteen minutes ago, and just stared at the ever-growing plume of ash on her cigarette, willing it to fall.

She kept tugging at her sweater, bunching it and twisting it, with a visceral restlessness that made Dean antsy. He wouldn't be surprised if she needed a hit of something, cocaine was his best guess. But Sam listened to her with his unwavering patience. When Wendy finished, finally ashing her cigarette in a greasy glass, Sam stood up. Dean did as well, inching anxiously towards the door of the hovel. People had problems and they couldn't fix them all.

But Sam spoke again, writing on a card. "We'll be in town for a few more days, if you need anything, just call me, okay?" He looked into her eyes and nodded as if they'd shared a secret.

Wendy took it, pressing it against her heart as if it were the most precious thing she'd ever been given.

They walked across the dead grass to the car. Dean turned the engine over but Sam grabbed his arm. "Let's wait awhile."

He gritted his teeth. "Absolutely not. I'll send Lindsay Lohan addresses to a good shrink, but I'm not staying here. She doesn't even know what day it is, let alone who killed Waspy McGee and his other loaded friends."

Sam leveled him with a glare that said he was being an insensitive bastard. Dean had forgotten he wasn't hunting with the Sam-bot. "I'll humor you. Why are we staying in this neighborhood where my car is in more danger than Ke$ha in there is?"

"Were you paying attention? She kept glancing at the door and tugging on her sweater. It slipped down a few times. She had yellowing bruises on her chest and a fresh handprint on her neck. Someone was-"

"Kicking her ass."

"Right. She was showing me on purpose. And she made up better stories than you do to get us out of jams. Because didn't want us to go; she was stalling." Sam said emphatically.

"All right, all right, I'm convinced, but Ike Turner better show up soon."

They waited until well after dark, but no one came home and they still had a case to solve.

A tinny, pathetic version of Mozart tainted the silence and interrupted the Winchesters' much-needed rest two days later. Dean tossed a pillow at Sam for both his geeky ringtone and to make him answer it so he could return his dream, where he had just bought the Playboy mansion and all the bunnies inside. He was just drifting off when he heard, "Lock the doors and call the police, I'm on my way," and the creak of bedsprings.

Dean sat up, instantly awake, as Sam hastily dressed, and dug into the weapons bag while angling his free arm into the sleeve of his flannel.

"We just finished a case, what on earth on are you doing?"

Sam grabbed the bat and stuffed a gun into the back of his pants. "Ike Turner's back."

"I was just getting down to the grotto," he whined as he painstakingly pulled himself out of bed.

There was a hectic drive to a graffitied part of town that made most slums look like Beverly Hills. Sam was out and running across the street, brandishing a baseball bat and outrage, before the car even slowed. By the time Dean had parked and darted across the street, he could hear glass breaking, Wendy sobbing and a stranger cursing. Dean peered in through the broken window to see his brother beating the ever-loving crap out of a burly, tattooed loser with his fists, still unwilling to use the bat. The boyfriend ducked one of Sam's haymakers and charged with a guttural yell of rage. To protect himself, Sam thrust the bat into his abdomen, folding the loser over and finishing him off with a knee to the face.

He straightened, winded and with bloody knuckles. He pried Wendy out of the corner and pulled her over to the guy who clutched his broken, bleeding nose and sobbed for breath on the rubble of a smashed endtable. "Listen up, Ronald! Wendy is a special friend of mine. She will be taking all of your money and leaving you tonight. If you so much as think about her too long, I will find you and I'll have more than just a bat. Do you understand?"

The guy spat on the floor, just missing Sam's shoes, and scowled hatefully at him. He wasn't getting the message. Sam knelt down beside him and spoke in a chilling whisper. "You have no idea what kind of evil I can unleash upon you. There are things about this big, big world we live in that you don't know about, that would make your piss yourself in fear. So, if you want to don't want to wake up without a tongue or with some thing feasting on your liver, you will leave Wendy alone and never lay a hand on another woman again. Nod if you understand."

Horrified, Ronald did so with enthusiasm. Sam stood sentry while Wendy gathered her things, emptied Ronald's wallet and kicked him a few times, landing a harsh one to the groin that Dean swore he felt. Wendy went to a rehab facility at the county hospital. Sam stood outside with her as she clung to him, shellshocked. He didn't feed her clichés or false promises, because he knew of addiction and bad choices. He told her about redemption and self-worth and how good life could be. Somewhere in the dawn, Dean had stopped seeing Wendy as a pitiable lost-cause and saw the soul underneath the bruises and the drugs, who had long red hair and delicate hands, who had hopped on the first chance out of an abusive relationship, who hugged him with teary-eyed gratitude even though he hadn't helped and had wrote her off, who held her head up high as she walked into rehab. And he realized with breathless awe that it was what Sam had seen all along.

-SPN-

The rickety bed dipped with the unignorable weight of his 240-pound little brother bouncing on it. Dean tore his eyes away from the television to glower at a grinning Sam. He'd never tell anyone how much he missed those ridiculously deep dimples.

"Okay, dude, it's been six hours since you last ate. I know you're starving. Up you get, lazy ass." Sam hopped off the bed and into the bathroom. "We're going out!"

Dean cracked his back as he rolled to his feet with a groan. He ran his fingers through his shorn hair, and stepped into his boots. "So, we hittin' the dinner down the street or the vendin' machine around the corner?" He asked, smelling his armpits.

Dean frowned at Sam as he emerged from the bathroom in a dress shirt and pants. He had product in his hair. "I know we're in Kentucky, but please tell me you didn't get gussied up for dinner with your brother?"

"It's a surprise. Get dressed and not in that." Sam gestured at Dean blood-stained jeans and faded flannel.

"I don't want to be surprised, Queer Eye. Pretty as I am, I'm not a girl and I'm not down for any kind of bromance no matter what those freaky fans of Chuck write."

Sam grinned again, but the gleam in his eye clearly told Dean he would not be moved. Uneasily he headed toward the bathroom.

"If you present me with a corsage like I'm a blushing prom date, I will beat your ass."

He winked at him. "It's in the car. Hope you like orchids. Now, go put on your dress, Carrie."

Dean showered and dressed at Sam's insistence. He let him drive the car, although he made good on his threat, kicking wildly at his shins when Sam jokingly held the car door open for him. "BITCH!"

"I believe you're the bitch," Sam said as he drove away.

After thirty minutes of playfully bickering, they parked in front of an upscale steakhouse. They were whisked to a table. It was one of those fancy places with tablecloths and waiters in bowties. Dean was intimidated at first by the number of forks on the table and the leather-bound wine list, but Sam merely pointed out the impressive amount of foreign beers on tap and that Dean got to pick his own steak before they cooked it, and he was elated.

As he finished the best steak he ever had and sipping on a dark Irish brew, Sam placed a sleek wooden box on the table. It was embossed with a silver seal, and the casual presentation that usually came with Sam's gifts. Sam blotted his mouth with his napkin, using manners Dean knew he'd learned from time at the country club with Jessica's family. He smiled softly, "it's not a corsage," he whispered, still not looking at him.

Dean scratched his cheek and took another bite of his Kobe steak in a vain attempt to stall the Lifetime-movie moment he knew was fast approaching. Curiosity won, of course, and he lifted the lid, pulled back the velvet sash to reveal a pair of ceramic knives—one large, one small—complete with ergonomic handles and leather sheaths. It meant Dean could pass through metal detectors somewhat armed. "Wow, Sam…these are…awesome. I didn't…did I miss something? It's not my birthday or anything. And the steak was more than enough. I mean, I'm sure they tortured that poor Japanese cow, but it was really friggin' delicious."

Sam pursed his lips as his blue eyes locked on his. "I missed a year and a half of your life, a birthday and a Christmas. We're not really big on holidays, but I figured I needed to really thank you for getting my soul back, and Hallmark just doesn't make a card for that."

-SPN-

Dean felt as nauseous as Sam looked, because the mother insisted on insisted on showing them her missing twins' nursery. Her horrified grief had transformed into the urgency for someone to find her babies to proving that she was a good mother, and that meant showing them that she'd child-proofed everything from the toilets to the stove and herding Dean and Sam into the nursery. If a mother's love could be quantified in arts and crafts and bedazzling expertise, Dean knew that this woman loved her babies more than life itself. The walls were painted in vibrant, colorful stripes. There were handmade quilts—one green with pink letters, one pink with green letters—spelling out the little girls' names, stuffed animals piled ontop of dressers and artfully netted in the far corner, even the rug was a child-friendly, rainbow-hued shag. The love was palpable.

Sam studied the closet, picking up a plume of indigo tulle and ribbons. It was a tutu for a one-year-old. He sniffled as reverently held the tiny costume.

"Sammy?" Dean ventured.

He dragged a hand across his face, and licked traces of tears off lips. "I…we have to find them, Dean. I'm not stopping until we find them."

It was always harder with kids and gut-wrenching with babies. Dean stood close for a minute while Sam composed himself. "I know you won't. Let's go bag a baby-snatcher."

It was that impassioned determination that led them a small abandoned warehouse eighteen grueling hours later. The twins had been kidnapped by harpies, hideous women with leather, bat-like wings and a nasty tendency to pluck treasures from unsuspecting victims. For some, it was their prize coin collections or others, it was their children. Dean fended off the winged uglies with blessed fire, as the lore stated, while Sam retrieved the twins, who were red-faced and hollering.

Dean was guiding them out when it descended into chaos.

The harpies squawked in a shrill supersonic wail that made Dean's brain melt, the repelling fire was snuffed out from a tornadoing wind created by the flapping of battish wings. The desensitizing darkness was filled with nothing but the scraping of claws and the flutter of wings, even the babies had stopped crying.

Tucking his gun under his arm, Dean began the incantations to create the blessed fire again. He was methodical, making sure he didn't fumble the lanky on his tongue that was clumsy with fear at being exposed and Sam being weaponless in the dark. He re-lit the torch in time to illuminate viscous black eyes and fetid, matted hair mere inches from his own. Dean whacked the harpy with the business end of the torch and shot it as it went up in white flames.

It took an arduous stretch of time for him to burn and shoot his way through the nest of harpies and even longer to find Sam, who had tried to find another way out as planned. When he finally did, Dean had sprinted into an image he'd never forget: his stubborn, bleeding heart little brother had tucked the babies into a large cabinet and blocked the opening with the only weapon he had—his body. His shirts were shredded by talons and his back had been flayed by them too. "Jesus, Sammy." Dean hissed.

"'I know how bad it is. Check 'em first," Sam croaked, writhing and bleeding. "Harper's in the yellow; Harlow's in the…purple."

Dean ducked into the compartment and smiled at the twin girls who responded to their names. He checked them out as thoroughly as he could and was astonished that they were perfectly fine, just starving and in need of a serious diaper change. "Sam, they're okay. A little smelly, but they're good."

Shock was overpowering him, and Dean was already calling an ambulance was when Sam slumped over in a dead faint.

-SPN-

Dean trudged into the motel room, covered in slush and snow. The precipitation extravaganza may have gotten the local weathermen all hot and bothered, but for Dean, it meant that the Impala was at risk for rust and driving in the lovely combination of ice, sleet and heavy snow was murder on the suspension. Consequently, Sam and Dean were stuck in Nowhere, Minnesota until the roads cleared. He angrily peeled off his wet shoes, socks and coat, tiptoed into the motel room and stopped dead in mid-stride. Sam lay on the bed in a lazy sprawl, comfortable in socked feet and his faded Stanford sweats. The remote hung from his fingertips and his obscenely girly hair was fluffed from brushing against the pillow. It was Sam at rest, Sam relaxed, Sam ignoring all pretense and enjoying bad TV. He'd seen it a million times before, but not in the last year and a half.

The return of something so intensely Sam assaulted him with the swiftness of a punch to the gut, except it felt miraculous and perfect. Dean stood there, lump in his throat, a buzzing wetness in his eyes and savored it. His brother was back, a little confused and hurt by Dean's deception, but fully redeemed and savior of the world.

"Dude, we hit the jackpot," Sam almost giggled. "'Bad Girls Club' Marathon. Jade's gonna throw a panini press at Flo for eating her Pop Tarts."

Dean tossed Sam's food on his bed and placed the cooler of beer between the beds, wanting nothing more than to watch television with his brother.

-SPN-

The rush of post-soul memories distracted Dean from Sam's collapse and sluggish rebound, reminded him how drastically and completely Sam had changed. It had been hours and Sam was just now beginning to come back to himself. He'd stopped the frenetic trembling and his fever had dissipated. Dean felt that they had put enough distance between Sam and anything that might trigger an attack. Without a motel for the next one hundred miles, Dean steered the Impala towards a gas station to fill up. He helped Sam into the truck-stop bathroom. Sam flinched at the flickering fluorescent lights and the rank odor of exhaust and gassy truckers. "You gonna puke?"

Sam reached for the faucets, jerkily bent down to splash his face. "I wasn't before, but I might now. God it reeks in here."

"We got about two more hours on the road and then we can get you horizontal."

Sam grunted in disagreement as he wearily changed shirts. "We don't have to stop. I'm all right, and I sleep better in the car these days."

Dean couldn't help to smile at that admission yet it did nothing to untangle the knot of remorse coiled in his chest. There was essentially a kill switch in Sammy's head and Dean now understood that anything could set it off—a familiar expression or gesture, a landmark, a favorite food. He'd put his head down and charged for the soul goal, like he always did, but it meant that he didn't see the blaring alarm bells and impending danger. Sam was suffering, possibly dying, because of his selfishness.

"Dude, I can hear your guilt from here. Stop it. Don't kick the wall, lesson learned. Times a million."

Dean was reassured when Sam straightened to full height—not the pale-faced hunch and shuffle he'd adapted the last few hours—and exited the bathroom under his own power. It was Sam's favorite kind of night, brisk and clear, moonlit with silver drifts of snow turning a simple parking lot into a maze of black and white. Sam didn't get back in the car, but leaned against the hood and canted his head upwards, searching out constellations. Dean knew he could name every one.

"After everything we've been through, you should know I'm not afraid to die. I know where I'm going when I do," Sam said as simply as if they were talking about the stars or the snow.

"If you're trying to make me feel better, you're doing a crap-ass job."

"I'm out of practice, right?" he joked. "You've been beating yourself up for two hundred miles and this is not your fault." Sam huffed. "If I'm gonna go, man, I want to go as me, soul in place. I feel…better than I have in years. I did what I set out to do…and I know you're okay. I know that Lucifer didn't kill you or Cas or Bobby, and that he's back in his cage. That's more than I could ask for."

Dean couldn't process any of this. He'd gotten so used to Soulless Sam, and before that a Sam that was desperate with the need to right his wrongs, and before that there was grief-twisted, blood-addicted Sam. So digesting the notion that his little brother had the elusive peace he'd fought and suffered and died for was like trying to absorb the wonder of the Grand Canyon in a single second or attempting to explain the complexities of the universe in a single sentence. Sam deserved this and much more; and Dean deserved to be with his brother now, because he was a man who saw the beauty in a disaster; who reminded Dean that he was worthy of nice things; would put himself in front of the razor-sharp clutches of evil to protect the innocence of children; who could find pleasure in the mundane.

Sam gazed up at the stars again, his face painted in moonlight and wonderment and humbling gratitude.

Dean was pretty sure his was too.