Sam Winchester. One of the best prosecuting attorneys the Lawfirm in Lawrence, Kansas has ever seen. The first time the head of the firm saw him was three years ago when he showed up late to his interview which was scheduled on a Monday. At first the head, Marcus Tilfer, believed this scrawny twenty-two year old boy was just there to waste time. Marcus had no intentions of hiring the boy, but after another one of his coworkers began talking about this infamous Sam Winchester, he knew he had to look more into the kid. While looking through Winchester's grades and records and what his teachers had to say about the boy who incredibly was six inches taller than himself, he decided to take a shot with Sam.
The first year Sam worked for the company, Marcus was eerie about Mr. Winchester. The kid always seemed distant, like he was there but his mind else where. When Marcus confronted Sam about it, he immediately got nervous asking if it was interfereing with his work. Miraculously, with the amount of daydreaming Winchester did, his work was always on the head's desk by the time due, and his work always beat the expectation. When Marcus shook his head in response, telling Sam that his spacing out wasn't disrupting the flow of work, the head told him that on a personal level he was concerned. Sam always looked happy and was perfectly friendly with all the workers, but when he was alone at his desk, his pen was always clicking and unclicking and his focus would be somewhere completely different.
"It's like something is always on your mind." After working with the boy for almost a year at the time, Marcus liked to believe the two of them were friends. On a professional level. "Anything wrong?"
Sam smiled sheepishly before he bit down on the back of his pen nervously and shook his head, his shaggy hair that covered his forehead swiping back and forth as he did. "Nah, just... my brother goes hunting a lot and hasn't called since I left for this job's interview. I sometimes get worried, that's all."
Two years go by, and Sam's still the same way. He got better after awhile, the daydreaming only happening maybe once or twice a week, but every so often Marcus would look up from his office to see that same boy, the one he hired three years ago with his shaggy hair and clicking pen. Except now he had longer hair cut around an inch above his shoulders and his features more matured. Sam Winchester was now twenty-five, but looking on him Marcus could still see the nervous boy who had strut late into the interview that one Monday morning. Even so, even with the maturity change and hair grown an inch and a half, Sam still stared into nothing, that same pen which miraculously hasn't gone missing over the course of the years clicking against his desk.
It was a casual Tuesday morning in the office when Sam walked in. He always wore a suit and tie that usually made the women in the office stare a bit longer than a breif glance, but he found the ghetto more repulsing than anything. Not because he didn't think it looked bad or because it was uncomfortable, but mainly because on the last hunt he went on with his older brother more than three years ago he had to wear professional looking outfits and act like FBI agents. Or deputies. Or maybe policemen. It was so long ago, Sam didn't even know. All he knew was that ghettos like the one he wore daily reminded him of his past, and his past included Dean. God, he missed Dean. Was he hunting? Maybe he settled down. No, Dad wouldn't ever let Dean settle down. Sam didn't even think Dean would settle down given the chance.
Their father, John Winchester, made Dean at the age of four grow into an adult. Sam was fortunate enough to practically be raised by Dean who made sure in the best of his power Sam had somewhat of a childhood. He didn't even tell his younger brother about monsters and such until Sam was eight. But Dean, at such a young age, was almost wired to be the good soldier, obidient attack dog, trustworthy companion. Hell, for awhile Sam thought Dean wasn't even his own human anymore. When they were younger, it was different. At least when they were alone, Dad off on a trip. How was Dad? Looking back on it, Sam hadn't spoken to his father in over six years. Maybe Dad was dead. Who knew? With that thought floating around his head, he subconciously clicked his pen on his desk hazily staring out the office's window. Maybe Dean was dead.
This wasn't the first time Sam had thought of it. Over the course of his lifetime, Sam had seen many amazing hunters fall within a second. So what made Dean any different from those other hunters? Afterall, Dean was human. He can hurt, he can feel, and he can get killed. Sometimes though, Sam doubts the first part of that sentence though. He can hurt. The only time that comes to Sam's mind when Dean looked hurt was when Sam drove away from the hotel with his bags heading off to Stanford without even saying goodbye. The younger brother had looked in the rearview mirror to see his big brother staring at the car, his eyebrows pushed together creating frowns in his forehead that made him seem older than he actually was, and that necklace Sam had given Dean so many Christmases ago give off a slight glare as the older Winchester turned his heel and slammed the door shut.
But no matter how many times Sam tried to level with himself that there was a possiblity that his older brother, the man he had looked up to since he was four and has studied and idolized is dead, something prevented him from doing so. He'd try to come to terms with it, that way when the call did come that Dean Winchester, his big brother, was dead, he would be able to cope. God only knows how many times he's tried, but something just stopped him. Dean Winchester wasn't just any other hunter. He wasn't just any other amazing hunter.
He was Dean Winchester. That smugged face idiot who saved people for a living without them even knowing, that all-too serious or not serious enough moron who'd give up his bed for his baby brother so he could sleep and or feed him his own meal that way his kid brother didn't go hungry. And whether it was because Sam just thought Dean was a good guy, or maybe that even though Sam was twenty-six years old he still was that little four year old who saw his brother as Batman, an indistructible hero who could do just about anything, Sam couldn't think Dean was dead. Soon lost in an internal fight between whether Dean was dead or not, what may've killed him, and the if's and but's, he hadn't realized that Marcus, his boss, was walking towards him with his next case.
"Winchester! I've got your next case right here." Marcus grinned, plopping the portfolio in his lap in result causing Sam to immediately jump out of his daze.
"Really? That soon?"
"Yup. Right up your alley too. You like takin' sickos to justice, aye? Well, this pyscho is bein' charged on multiple accounts of murder and credit card thefts. Killed over five peoples in the last month, and leaves this gooey, flesh like substance at every crime scene as his signature."
Sam chuckled lightly, "That's messed up."
"Ain't it?"
"And a flesh like substance? That's new."
"Yup. Forensics believe it to be molten human skin. Who even thinks of that?"
"A sicko."
"That's for sure. Court date's on Thursday, don't be late." With that, Marcus was off.
Sam sat on his couch with his collie-mix, Max, curled next to him. At first, Sam thought the gesture was out of pure love, but soon came to realize it was just an act of begging after the dog had noticed the food in his hand. Luckily, the TV was one of the things first unpacked meaning that it was already set up and ready to be watched. Boxes were sprawled around the apartment, things still secured in bubblerap and random objects about, but seeing as he had only moved in a week ago and spent the majority of his day at work, he was quite pleased with his process. The new apartment was a thousand times nicer than the old one with modernized equipment and features along with it looking sturdy and safe.
When Sam first moved back to Lawrence, he had gotten a crappy apartment for a low price, which at the time was all he could afford. It consisted of a small bedroom, a tiny bathroom, a kitchenette, and a livingroom which was about the size of his bathroom in the new apartment. The apartment building itself was ancient and it wasn't a surprise the amount it was sold for was so cheap. The walls looked like they'd crumble into each other any second and the floors screamed and hollered with every step the over six foot man took. Not to mention the ceilings were extremely low which was a bit of a problem for a man who was an inch shorter than a moose.
Some how, he managed in that horrid apartment for two years before he met Max in an alley. The poor dog was only eleven months old, nothing wrong with him more so than his weight issue after he'd been eating scraps for months, and Sam couldn't understand why someone would just abandon such an adorable dog. He took the dog in, nutured it back to health before soon getting told that dogs weren't allowed in his old apartment. Putting Max in an animal shelter wasn't going to happen, but Sam couldn't throw him away either, so took the only other option to move out. Considering the money he made weekly, he was able to afford a much better apartment where Max was allowed, and he couldn't have been happier with the results. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, livingroom, dining room, and foyer. Who could ask for more in an apartment?
After finishing dinner and the wrestling match he had previously taped, Sam headed towards his bedroom, his loyal companion treading behind him before jumping onto the king-sized mattress where the mutt watched his owner sit down in the rolly-chair near his desk. He picked up the portfolio and began leafing through it to the more important stuff in the file. Sure, everything was technically important to the overall prosecution, but something Sam learned from the beginning of his career was that reading the criminal's personal information and details such as eye colour, hair colour, size, name for that matter instantly brought back his past.
Soon after leaving Lawrence really, Sam began realizing a lot of things reminded him of his other life. Even the tiniest things like pie. Not to mention, with his new job as a lawyer, you tend to get a lot of time to think. And even as a young child, Sam was always a very curious mind and curious minds tend to wander hence why he's usually thinking about the what if's and not the what happened's. In college it was a lot easier to avoid and all together banish the guilt sometimes felt when thinking of his brother because in college he had studying, classes, and Jess to keep his mind off of his home life. Comparing his quiet job to his meaningless debates with Jess over the dumbest of things until they both broke into laughter, it was easy to say he was a lot more distracted in college. But, nevertheless, he liked to assume he made the right choice leaving and that his life is better off now than it'd be with Dean on the road hunting down things that wanted to rip his throat out.
Hearing a whine come from Max, he turned around to see that Max was scratching at his ears in disapproval. Soon realizing he was clicking his pen again, he apologized under his breath as if Max could understand and watched the dog's head plop back down onto the bedding. Turning back to the portfolio, he began looking through the victims, trying to see connections like, as much as he'd like not to admit, he did with Dean on their hunts. His job didn't require it, but at times it came in handy to have that bit of info. He then began analyzing the credit cards to then scratch the idea that there could've been a connection between stolen credit cards, and resumed back to try and figure out what pattern there was between the victims. He even looked to the fleshy, gooey stuff that was at every crime scene, thinking that could help, but it never did. It just was... melted skin. He shivered at the thought.
It was Wednesday night, the day before the trial, when Sam had gotten up and taken a break from his thorough research on the evidence, license plates, ID numbers, etc. The night before Sam and his buddies, Tyler, Jason, Vincent, and Andrew had headed out to a bar where they drank each other silly. By the time the five left, they were spewing rubbish and were tripping over their own feet, laughing as they did. When Sam came in the next morning, his head was beating like a bongo drum and the lights seemed far too bright than normal. Everyone was screaming as if in a horrible debate and the simple sounds that he thought were so quiet came out as if they were being done next to a microphone, for one, the sharpening of a pencil.
Clearly seeing he was hungover, Sam spent the majority of the work day contemplating his life choices and how many tablets of Advil it would take to be considered an "overdose". His mates seemed just as bad, if not worse than himself as they all groaned at their desks, rubbing their heads and zoning out at the oddest of times. In conclusion to the lack of work he and his pals had done, Sam, Tyler, Jason, Vincent, and Andrew all stayed late. Tyler was the first to go, then Andrew, soon following Vincent. Jason was still there with Sam, except neither spoke, the only light in the office being shown off from the computer screens in front of the two. Sam was so invested in his work that time flew by in an instant. By the time he finished his report, made sure he had triple checked everything that he could use against this criminal and the criminal's defence lawyer, Sam packed up his stuff and went home.
Max nearly tackled the sasquatch-sized man as he walked through the door. The mutt howled with joy, which was just as common from Max as it was him wagging his tail, and licked his owner's face happily. Sam checked the time after calming the dog down to see it was twelve forty-two AM, sighed, and loosened the tie around his neck as he folded it up and headed towards the bedroom. Max obediently followed, hopping onto the bed as Sam changed into a sleeveless tank and some pajama pants, dragging his feet with exhaustion as he then entered the master-bathroom. Or so he liked to call it seeing as the bathroom was in the master-bedroom.
After finally finishing his routine at night which quickly consisted of brushing his teeth, combing his hair, washing his face, and then drying it, he turned off the bathroom light, shuffling into the bedroom once more. The carpetted rug felt like heaven underneath his feet as he shut off all the lights in the room and climbed into bed. His alarm clock next to him shined a bit of blue light into the room as the numbers that glowed in the darkness were blue themselves, but other than that it was pitch black. And despite the fact he had swore off hunting and demons and ghosts and ghauls, Sam still had the tiniest line of salt on his window sills and he had a pistol underneath his pillow just in case. Y'know, precaution.
Max whined at the lack of attention he had received in the day and crawled to the front of the bed where Sam's head laid lazily against the pillow, him turned to his side and his arm that was squished to the bed being placed underneath the pillow he wasn't using. His other arm that was nicely against the softness of his blankets was brought to his chest, leaving just enough space for Max to squeeze into his owner's position and curl up next to him. Max laid his head on Sam's arm which rested underneath the pillow, the dog's back being faced towards Sam as Max yawned, his mouth opening extremely widely before the collie soon closed his eyes and dozed. Sam let his free arm gently pet the side of his dog which he, in return, received the soft padding of a tail against his legs as Max wagged slightly with happiness. With that simple pat pat of Max's tail, Sam closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.
Sam fixed the collar of his tie as he quietly spoke with the others that sat on his side of the room, mainly the people from his office including Marcus and a few other head guys. On the other side, Polina Regylds sat condescendingly as she folded her hands in her lap, back turned to the others that sat with her which Sam assumed was her boss and other executives, and her head lifted upwards confidently. Sheesh. The jury had already headed in and had taken a seat, a few of the women taking second takes when they saw Sam, and some of the men staring in awe at Polina as she fixed the bobby-pins that kept her complicated, twisted updo of red hair together. The judge, Jamie Kenders, sat patiently in the front of the courtroom with his head raised high as the people in the audience, or as Sam referred to it as they really didn't have a role here, waited as well.
Sam watched someone quickly run up to the judge, him quickly tilt his head back to listen to the flimsy boy who had previously just darted up there, and then watched the judge nod. He hit his gavel once, than twice to get everyone's attention and then cleared his throat.
"The criminal who's being set on trial for multiple accounts of brutal murders and credit card thefts is entering momentarily."
Everyone began to chatter as Sam fixed up his papers and documents, his back towards the door and audience to tune them out as he replayed how this trial would go, over and over in his head. Or at least how he hoped it'd go. He was so focused on what he was doing that he hadn't even realized that the man being accused had already began to walk towards the front of the courtroom, being practically dragged along by police officers who held him by his cuffs. It was only when Marcus tapped Sam on the shoulder that Sam turned around to look, and it was only then when all the plans of what would happen in this trial flew directly out the window.
Walking towards the front of the room, still fully dressed in his orange jail jumpsuit, the criminal who, looked to be twenty-three but based off of the case file and Sam's knowledge was actually twenty-nine, looked around as if taking into account the surroundings . His hair was cropped shortly and his face was bruised and cut, his knuckles glazing with a purple tint as well and that shit-eating grin he was known to wear plastered on his face like this entire thing was a joke. He strutted towards his attorney, Polina, who sat in her professional black dress and bright green eyes slightly tinted with amusement. Sam wanted to turn to his coworkers, wanted to see how the jury was acting and what the audience's opinions were, but he couldn't. The man hadn't seen Sam yet, his attention turned to his attorney who he was more than aware was checking him out as that grin on his face only got bigger.
He managed to the front of the room in a breeze and it was only when Andrew, one of his mates, tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he was alright when Sam was able to finally move. Sam nodded, but it was clear that he was far from alright. His face had gone pale and his eyes went a bit watery as his breathing was caught in his throat. He sat down for a moment, taking a brief glance at the jury who's girls stared in awe at the handsome inmate that sat impatiently on his side of the room. His eyes wandered towards the criminal who was talking with Polina, his stomach beginning to do flips. It all felt so bizarre and unnatural, and even fake. Maybe he just looked similar that's all. What really clarified that though was when the judge spoke clearly, his voice silencing all the rest.
"Mr. Winchester, please rise."
And it was in that moment that Sam really knew who the criminal was without even looking into the personal info on the case, and why he was being held accountable, and what that gooey, flesh like stuff was at the crime scenes. No, it wasn't melted skin, it was shedded skin. And no, the criminal wasn't guilty, he was innocent.
And Sam knew that, no, he wasn't any stranger that looked like him, he was him. And he knew this when after the judge had asked, "Mr. Winchester, please rise," and both Sam and the criminal rose.
Dean glanced over at the other man who had stood as well, huffed with amusement and then let his eyes wander back to the judge. Polina knew he was innocent. He knew he was innocent. Even all the people sitting next to him knew he was innocent, not because they believed Dean or he paid them tons upon tons of money, but because they saw the thing that had killed and had left the shedded skin. It was nothing more than a hunt at first to Dean, however he soon came to realize there wasn't just a shapeshifter, but multiple. Working together. Like a pack. One unfortunately had copied Dean's identity and was strolling around town killing people, stealing credit cards, robbing stores, and basically doing whatever the hell he wanted to.
The judge shared a quick glance with the opposing attorney of Dean's, the one who was against him, before the judge's eyes slowly wandered towards the older brother.
"Mr. Winchester, and Mr. Winchester?" The judge scoffed, "Are you two related?"
Dean just tipped his head a bit higher with acknowledgement towards his question, but didn't respond. He didn't look over to the opposite lawyer and he didn't look to his own attorney. Instead, he stared head onto the judge.
"I..." The lawyer trailed off.
From what Dean could see from his peripheral vision, the other Winchester was tall, easily over six foot and was wearing a nice tux suit. It had breifly passed his mind that another Winchester meant his father, but Dad was somewhere, the only clue to his location being the coordinates that were in his journal which Dean was still on his way too. Sam, oddly enough, was next in line but he was God knows where at some fancy lawfirm probably making thousands of dollars while Dean was stuck here.
"I do believe we are, your honour. May I have a word with the accused alone please?"
The judge thought for a second before there was a loud screech and everyone's attention turned to Polina who stood abruptly, her eyes narrowing like a cat's. "You're not going anywhere near Mr. Winchester without me aro-"
Dean cut her off with a careless wave of his hand, his own eyes narrowing in confusion at the man across the way. Winchester, tall, longer hair. He swallowed. He couldn't necessarily see who the lawyer was, but he was awfully sure who he thought it was. And good God, if it was him...
"Yes. An hour alone to speak."
Polina opened her mouth to protest but the judge slammed his gavel down with a scoff. Instantly, two police officers took Dean by both arms and led him out of the courtroom, Sam following behind at a reasonable distance, assuming the criminal was Dean. Assuming.
The door closed behind Dean and he was greeted with the own reflection of himself, but it was quite obvious it was a one way mirror. Fortunately, the judge had said alone and unless he was making side conversations with others to come watch and observe, it was practically forbiddened for people to come near the room. The door opened again and Dean turned, all his features easing as the tall lawyer stopped in his tracks, taking in what was in front of him.
"Sammy, long time no see." Dean grinned.
Sam practically jumped at him, his arms instantly looping around his big brother as he dug his head into his brother's neck. Luckily, Dean's cuffs had come off, the officer stating the only reason being was because Dean was well behaved, except for the occasional fights when one of the big guys brought up his little brother, and because the guards would be outside the door at all times. Dean was a bit startled at first at how tightly Sam was holding on but quickly exchanged the gesture and wrapped his own arms around his baby brother, closing his eyes for a moment to just take it in.
True, Dean didn't think he'd see Sam again, but he swore the day that Sam ditched that if he ever came in contact with Sam, he'd completely disown the boy. But now? Now all Dean could see was the little boy so many years ago clinging onto his big brother, on the verge of tears as he tightened his grip as if to never let go. Three years. The two of them hadn't even communicated in three years. The thought made Dean hug a bit tighter. Sam finally let go after another few seconds before grinning like his usual happy self, a new sense of refreshing joy surging through the younger brother as he took in what was his older one. Dean stood maybe two or two and a half inches shorter than Sammy with his usual crewcut style and his goofy grin.
"Dean, I-"
Dean pointed his finger, "No chic-flick moments, Sammy. Remember?"
"I know but I just-"
The older brother turned his back and waved his hand carelessly once more, "We need some sort of plan for me to get out of here."
"Dude, I'm trying to-"
"I know what you're trying to do and I'm telling you to shut your pie-hole, Sam." Dean growled, moving to a crouching position as he began going through the desk and file cabinets.
"You don't want me to apologize?" Sam scoffed, confused and a bit annoyed with the outburst of aggression.
"No, I don't."
"Why?"
"Why?" Dean echoed, standing up and turning around. "Because you ditched and that's not my problem. You don't get to apologize. Just leave it alone."
Sam was shocked at how quickly things changed, but in a way deep down he knew a fight was going to happen. He knew it for three years that when the time came and he saw Dean again, there'd be a fight, but now that it was happening, he wasn't sure he was so confident the way he thought he'd be when he thought about the fight.
"Woah," Sam snorted, "I didn't ditch anything, you and I both know the reason I left was because-"
"You craved normalcy. All your life you were the new kid, the freak, and you hated Dad and you hated the family business, so you ditched."
"What was I supposed to do, Dean?!" Sam snapped, "Dad barked orders left and right which you obeyed like the soldier he programmed you to be and screamed at me when I questioned them! And you're right! I did crave normalcy because I didn't want to be the freak at school! I didn't want to hunt monsters and ghosts and I didn't want to have to keep a pistol underneath my pillow every damn time I went to sleep! So, tell me, Dean, what was I supposed to do?"
"Suck it up." Dean growled, fists cleanched, "Do you even have the slightest idea what Dad did to me when you left. He was so mad he started screaming and even punched a wall, and you know what the best part is about that? If the old man wasn't as wasted as he was, he would've actually hit what he was aiming for and not have been an inch off. He would've hit me." Dean's eyes narrowed, "Dad was so angry, he almost punched me, Sam. His own solider. So, what you should've done was suck it the hell up because I was willing to do anything for you, Sammy, and you left. You and I, we were supposed to stay together." He eased his hands a bit tearing his gaze from his brother's which had softened, "That is why you aren't allowed to apologize. And forget it, I'll worry about myself. Call out sick or something."
With that Dean, walked towards the door and opened it rather agitatedly.
"Dean," Sam called but Dean didn't turn back. He simply allowed the guards to put the cuffs back on and as the door slowly shut, Sam watching as his brother turned his heel and walked away, just like Sam had the night he left for Stanford.
"Mr. Winchester," the judge called once Dean was seated. He didn't have his goofy grin anymore and he slouched in his seat, obviously not caring how the hell this trial went anymore. "Where's... Mr. Winchester?"
Dean shrugged. Polina watched as the judge rose a skeptical brow, his eyes narrowing clearly not in the mood for shenanigans. Sensing he wasn't pleased with the answer, Polina gave Dean a simple elbow to his arm which caused him to look over at her with annoyance before sighing heavily and sitting a bit taller looking back to the judge. "He got sick all over the place and I think is going home. How the hel-" After receiving another hit to his side by Polina, he rephrased, "I'm not sure, Your Honour."
"Very well. We'll allow Mr. Tilfer to take Mr. Winchester's spot in this trial."
A few hours later, and Dean had already decided his fate. Matter of fact, he was planning ahead of that actually. How to bust out of prison for one. This trial was seriously not looking good. Not only was the shapeshifter wearing his mug, but was also caught on film doing it, and it's pretty difficult to explain to a court how something supernatural could've done this. Dean kept receiving angered looks and disgusted glances from the jury, but he said nothing and allowed the lawyers to battle it out. The judge even seemed to have come to a conclusion, but he too stayed quiet.
It was rounding the end of the trial when there was a loud slam from behind. Everyone's attention, including Dean's, darted behind them and there stood Sam, his suit dirtied up and his face cut and bruised with another Dean who was also beaten, just a lot worse. The fake Dean was dragged to the front by Sam who threw the imposter at the foot of the podium.
"He's your murderer. Not that man."
"What is the meaning of this?" The judge growled.
"You want justice? Here it is." Sam turned towards the jury, "I screwed up real' bad, and I'm pretty sure destroyed the only relationship I had with my brother, but I refuse to watch him get sentenced to life in prison or executed for that matter for crap he didn't commit." Sam then looked to the judge, eyes narrowed. "I know my brother better than anyone on this planet, and I'm telling you, that man, " he pointed behind to Dean, not breaking eye-contact with the judge, "he's innocent. This guy," Sam scoffed, "this is who you're looking for."
The judge, still looking confused as to how there were two Dean Winchesters shook his head abruptly and swallowed, "And how do I know if your telling the truth."
Sam bit his lip, looking down to the shapeshifter who grinned. He then growled and looked back up, "The melted skin you've found at every crime-scene. It belongs to this guy. Check the DNA yourself. This man and his skin-cells will exactly match to the skin found at every other crime-scene."
The judge nodded to someone near by who quickly ran out of the room, returning real quick to take the imposter (along with four bodyguards), and went to see if what Sam said was true. While the room waited, people began to talk, leaving Dean to stare in shock at his younger brother who took a few deep breaths and wobbled over to his older brother, clearly hurt and not okay. Dean immediately got out of his seat when Sam got next to him, and allowed Sam to lean against him as he cradled his wrist to his body.
"What are you doing here, Sammy? I told you to cal-"
"-call out sick o-or something." Sam finished for him, his adrenaline high obviously gone down meaning Sam was feeling all the pain from the fight Dean assumed he had had. "I couldn't just ditch you again though, Dean. Like y-you said. You and me," he smiled weakly, "w-we stay together."
Dean grinned, his arms about to encircle his brother before he looked down to Sam's wrist which was swollen and puffy and blue with green tints, "Jesus, Sam, what the hell?"
"It got a good throw at me with a brick, that's all."
"That's all? Sam, that's a broken wrist." Dean said with shock before turning to the exit where the shapeshifter had left and growled, "I'll rip his lungs out."
"Dean-"
"No, I'm serious! That sonuva bitch broke your wrist, Sam! That's not jus-"
He paused when he felt his cuffs unclick. He quickly looked behind him to see that one of the officers had unlocked them and his attention then turned to the shapeshifter that stood in his own pair of cuffs, staring guiltly down at the ground. The judge smacked his gavel down again and again on the desk until everyone quieted down and cleared his throat before speaking.
"The jury and I have come to the conclusion that Dean Winchester is here by pronounced innocent and Robert Philips here by pronounced guilty and serving a life-sentence in prison."
Dean wandered around the house, his gold necklace still in tact, just like Sam remembered it, and his usual leather jacket with a flannel and then a shirt ghetto all fit into place. Sam's collie-mix ran out of his bedroom, tail wagging as he howled with joy, running up towards Sam before quickly up to Dean and sniffing him urgently.
Dean looked at Sam with surprise, "You got a dog?"
Max weaved himself between Dean's legs, his entire body wiggling left and right as he picked his head back up and howled again.
"I did." Sam grinned, "But now my buddy, Jason is gonna watch after him." Sam bent down and kissed the top of Max's head as he licked the side of Sam's face. The younger brother chuckled quietly picking up the small bag of things he wanted to take with him, knowing on the road you can't have that many belongings, and turning to his brother.
"Sam, you sure about this?"
He thought it over once, than twice, and than three times before nodding. He liked this life, don't get him wrong, and he did like the normalcy in it, but it was... too normal. He guessed it may've had something to do with how he was raised (in such a bizarre way with monsters and hunting and... you get the point), and maybe it just took him a few years for him to finally realize on the road with Dean, his big, badass Batman brother was where he was meant to be.
"So Dad's at the coordinates?" Sam asked as Dean jammed out to his music. The two had just come from defeating the group of shapeshifters Dean had originally came here to do, so the two of them were pretty tired and beaten up. Sam had a sling for his arm which turned out to be, indeed, broken with some fractured fingers.
"I'd think so. Bobby told me to hit a few hunts on the way there, if your up for it." Dean grinned looking over at his brother, happy to see someone finally occupying the shotgun seat, "Maybe your hunting skills are rusty."
"Well, I guess we'll find out won't we." Sam sarcastically responded causing Dean to chuckle. Sam, now taking in his surroundings looked towards his brother with confusion-drawn eyebrows and a smile toying at his lips, "Is this Metallica?"
"Yeah, what about it?"
Sam laughed, "Dude, you should seriously update your music."
"House rules, Sammy. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."