Disclaimer: I wish.
To all of you who have been faithful in reviewing, favoriting, following, and enjoying these stories- thank you! I hope that you can all forgive me for going so long without posting anything.
A lot of you have asked for a story regarding Sam's initial transformation, or a story regarding the events of the first few months after the de-aging, where the brothers try to adjust to their new roles and lives. This story covers all of that. It's something I've been working on for months, and I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Just a warning: it's long. And yes, it's multi-chaptered. I can't say for sure how long yet - because I'm still writing it- but it's substantial in length. Here's to hoping some of you stick around long enough to see the end of it! And remember- reviews (good, bad, and ugly) make me happy!
Chapter One: On the Wingtips of a Dream
It was a gradual decision, one that came to him slowly as he broke out of the haze, the shock of Sam's transformation. One morning in early April he woke up and realized suddenly that he was prepared. He was ready. He could do this. He needed to.
He broached the subject with Bobby a few days later. They were in the garage, working on a truck someone had brought it the week before. Sam was playing in the yard, far enough away that he wouldn't be privy to their conversation and close enough that Dean could still keep an eye on him.
"I gotta do something, Bobby," he said. "We've been researching and studying and looking into every lead we can find, and we've got nothing. I need to go out and look for something. I can't just sit around on my hands and wait for a miracle to drop out of the sky."
Bobby grunted and leaned against the fender of the truck. Through the garage door, Sam was visible, crouched curiously over an ant hill. They watched him silently a moment, then Bobby sighed. "You think you're up for that, boy?" He slid Dean a sideways look; Dean ignored it.
"Yeah. I am." He didn't say what he was really thinking: that he didn't have a choice. There were still demons out there, gunning for Sam's soul. Sitting in one place for too long, with Sam so vulnerable and exposed, made Dean uneasy. More than ever now, Sam depended on him for protection. Dean had to deliver it.
Bobby sighed, ran a hand over his face. "Does the kid know?"
Dean watched Sam poke the anthill with a stick, squeal in fascination. He felt his chest tighten. Sam didn't know anything.
xxxx
The first month after it had happened, Dean moved as if in a fog. He was still fresh from Hell, still reeling from the shock of realizing the full extent of Sam's abilities, still doing battle with his nightmares and his own personal failures. There were demons and now angels warring for his brother's soul, and everything that Dean had ever known – including his faith in Sam- was crumbling into motes of dust at his feet.
And then suddenly- there was this. His brother, his back up, his back bone, his I've-got-your-back kid brother was gone, reduced somehow to an actual kid brother again.
And there was nothing Dean could do about it.
Bobby had taken Dean's frantic four-thirty in the morning phone call in stride, as he had always taken every single one of their calls over the years. He hadn't had anything to offer as a solution besides a place to stay, another pair of eyes to watch over Sammy, who, as far as Dean could tell, was four and a half years old again.
Dean waited two days inside of the motel room for Bobby. Those were the two longest days of his life, he felt- two days compulsively scanning every internet site he could find, two days drinking whiskey dry in the bathroom, two days fending off questions about "Daddy" and channel surfing for Elmo and cutting up pizza into bite size pieces. When Bobby finally arrived, he hadn't slept, changed, or showered since the night before it happened. He opened the door with stogdic despair and practically dragged Bobby inside by his shirt collar, watched him goggle in disbelief at the curly headed moptop sitting on the end of Dean's bed, his knees tucked against his chest, swimming in one of Dean's old band t-shirts. He turned his head and offered Bobby a toothy grin.
"Hey-o, Uncle Bobby!" He slithered off the end of the bed, hopped across the room, tugged on Bobby's hand. "Come'n see this, Uncle Bobby. They got a sponge and he has a fire under water!"
Bobby was led dumbly to the television set. Sam cocked his head at him, then turned and pressed his thumb across the animated colors on the screen. "See? He's got a pet snail too. You wanna watch't with me?"
Bobby shook himself. "Maybe later," he offered gruffly. "I'm gonna talk to your brother, okay, Sam?"
"Okie dokie." Sam plunked down on the floor in front of the set, stuck three fingers into his mouth. Bobby hesitated, then moved away from Sam, plowed through the motel door, pulling Dean with him as they went.
Outside in a snowstorm in Michigan was not exactly where Dean wanted to have this conversation, but there was no option. Bobby was staggered, running shaking hands through his beard, blinking rapidly at Dean. Dean sagged against the cold vinyl siding of the motel room and watched him charge through a hundred different emotions a minute.
"Dean, boy- what the hell?"
Dean shrugged. "I don't- Bobby, I have no fucking idea."
"I mean, how does- how does this even happen?" Bobby paced away, took his ballcap off, crushed the brim of it between his hands. "Jesus, Dean, that's really- that's really Sam in there."
Dean closed his eyes. His chest was cold and heavy. "I know."
"What does he remember?"
"Nothing. He- he's still talking about Dad, Bobby." Dean ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. Bobby was silent. Then there was a hand, warm and calloused, familiar, on his shoulder. He felt himself shake from the contact.
"Boy, when's the last time you slept?"
Dean forced his eyes open, forced his head up. "What?"
"You look shot to shit." Bobby chuckled, but it was dry, mirthless. Inside, Sammy was singing along to the television. "Tell you what we're gonna do, Dean. You're gonna get inside, get yourself in a shower, get yourself in bed. I'm going to take Sam for a little, okay?"
Dean shook his head. "Bobby- there isn't time. We have to fix this-"
"And how are we going to do that?" Bobby asked harshly. He shook his head. "You're no good to anyone dead on your feet, Dean. We don't have any goddamned idea where we should start looking for a fix for this, so in the meantime, you and I are going to do the best we can with what we got. That means taking care of yourself as well as Sam."
Dean sagged. Bobby was right, he knew. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Bobby, he-"
"Boy, don't you dare insult me by trying to tell me how to take care of that kid in there." Bobby's smile was wry. "I did okay the first time, didn't I?"
xxxx
The shower was nice, Dean had to admit. He stood under the spray for a solid hour, until the water ran cold and weak. He forwent a shave, swallowed back another fifth of whiskey, and fell into bed without any sort of grace or dignity at all.
Sleep was blissfully black and empty. He woke once and the motel room was empty. The television was off and the t-shirt that Sam had been wearing for two days was tossed in a heap at the foot of the other bed. He rolled back over and went back to sleep without preamble.
When he woke again it was bright out. There was noise- a dull crackle from the crappy television set, plates clattering. Bobby's voice, admonishing someone. Pressure on his legs, traveling up his thighs, over his stomach, to settle solidly on his chest. Tiny, chubby hands poked at his cheek. "Bobby, he might be dead."
"Sam, I already told you to leave your brother alone-"
Dean forced his eyes open. Sam's face swam before his. He was so close that his curls brushed the tip of Dean's nose. Dean grunted, discombobulated, and sat up, pushing Sam backwards. "Personal space, dude."
Sam laughed and rolled off of the bed, hitting the floor with a solid thump. He was dressed, Dean saw blearily, not in the AC/DC shirt that had been his staple, but jeans that fit, a hooded sweatshirt with some sort of animated car on it. Bright red Converse sneakers. He poked his head over the side of the bed and crowed:
"Bobby- he's alive!"
Dean watched foggily as Sam scrambled backwards, towards the kitchenette where, Dean saw with some surprise, Bobby was cooking. Honest to God cooking, no aluminum cans or microwave dinner platters in sight. He hadn't seen Bobby do that since- well, since they were kids.
"I thought I told you to leave him alone," Bobby reprimanded Sam, who answered with a roll of his eyes.
"But he has t'eat, Bobby." He pivoted towards Dean. "Dean, you slept for eighteen hours. I counted."
Dean blinked. "Eighteen?" He scrambled to untangle himself from the blankets. "What time is it?"
"It's twelve-oh-six, Dean." Sam stepped forward, placed a hand on Dean's knee. He started at the contact. "Bobby showed me how t'read a clock, Dean."
Dean pushed Sam's hand away, stood. He was still only in his boxers. As he cast about for a shirt and pants, he called over his shoulder, "Any luck, Bobby?"
When Bobby didn't answer, he turned back around. Bobby was glaring at him, some sort of reproach in his eyes, and Sam was meekly climbing into a chair at the table, his head down. Dean tugged a shirt over his head, dug a pair of jeans out of his duffel. Bobby was laying plates on the table, his shoulders taut. Dean wondered what the hell he had done.
There were only two chairs at the table. Two chairs and three of them. Dean stood uncertainly a moment, watching Bobby ladle out scrambled eggs and breakfast sausage. Sam sat with his chin tucked against his chest, then cast an uncertain look up at Dean. "You can have my chair if you want, Dean," he offered quietly, and Dean realized suddenly what he had done. He coughed, cleared his throat.
"I thought we could just share, Sammy," he replied, and Sam grinned up at him, his face glowing.
"Okay, Dean," he agreed happily, and Bobby smirked at Dean from his spot across the table. When Sam didn't move, Dean raised an eyebrow.
"What, you want me to sit on your lap, is that it?" Sam laughed and slid off the chair, waited impatiently while Dean took his place. He had barely settled in before Sam was hauling himself up Dean's legs, pulling at his arms. Dean hoisted him up, balanced him on one knee. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to sit. He felt stiff and out of joint. Sam, on the other hand, melded into Dean like he was meant to, like it hadn't been twenty one years since he had last sat on his brother's lap. He was oblivious to Dean's discomfort as he plowed through his scrambled eggs and sausage. He spilled his orange juice on the table and dropped his fork. Dean ate one-handed, one arm hovering in case Sam took a sudden dive or something.
Sam dominated the conversation. Him and Bobby had gone shopping, he told Dean, and they had gone to McDonalds, and he had lost his Happy meal toy at the playground, and did Dean want to see his new shirts and did Dean want to watch some Spongebob with him and –
"Did you find anything?" Dean asked Bobby pointedly, and Bobby shook his head no.
Dean showered again after lunch. He took the time to shave, to brush his teeth and re-dress his wounds from the previous hunt. The whiskey was gone from its hiding place underneath the sink. He hoped vaguely that it was Bobby who had gotten to it and not Sam.
He stepped back out into the motel room and was surprised by the silence. Sam was curled over on Dean's bed, fingers in mouth, sleeping. Dean watched him a moment- watched the soft up and down of his chest, the tiny flutters of his eyelashes, the pale blue veins tracing the soft folds of his eyelids. His little brother was little, and the thought of it made Dean want to cry.
He turned and found Bobby at the kitchenette table, hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of coffee, eyes on Dean. He was unreadable. Dean eased himself into the chair across from him, took the cup that Bobby passed him. He drank the cup dry, soaking in the bitter bite of the black coffee.
"Dean, he doesn't remember anything."
Dean closed his eyes. "I know."
"I mean- he's not fazed by you, he's not fazed by me, but he barely remembers John. He asked about your daddy a couple times, but it wasn't like he was really bothered by it." Bobby scrubbed a hand over his face. "Dean- I have no idea what to do."
Dean looked at the cup in his hands, focused on the trembling of his fingers. "He can't stay like this, Bobby. We got Lilith to worry about, and that bitch Ruby is going to come poking around sooner or later, and Jesus- this Apocalypse shit, and the angels-" Dean gasped, struggled for words. "Bobby, how am I supposed to take care of all of that and him?"
Bobby was silent. On the bed, Sam coughed in his sleep, rolled over onto his side. His hair flopped across his forehead; Dean had the sudden, weird urge to go over there and touch it.
"Dean, don't take this wrong way, okay?"
Dean almost groaned aloud. Bobby starting off a conversation with that opener almost always meant a fight was in the works somewhere. He got up out of the chair and poured himself another cup of coffee from the outdated percolator on the motel countertop. "What is it, Bobby?"
Bobby hesitated, then said, "Boy, this Apocalypse has to take a back seat, okay? You're right. You can't worry about that crap and Sam at the same time. You've got to pick and I'm telling you- your brother needs you a lot more right now than those damn angels do."
Dean leaned against the counter, sipped at his coffee. It didn't taste as good this time around. "Bobby…we're talking the end of the world here. That doesn't just take a back seat."
"So what, your brother does?"
It was a low blow. Dean knew Bobby's opinion of John, of his parenting ideology. "Hunt first, family later," Bobby had once snorted in John's face. Dean remembered that fight all too well. He remembered storming out behind his father, dragging Sammy with him. He remembered the feeling wrenching his stomach- the feeling that Bobby was right, and his father, his hero, was in the wrong.
He stuck out his jaw. "That's not-"
"Don't try to justify yourself to me, Dean," Bobby snapped. "This is your brother we're talking about. He needs you. Don't you dare think that you can bench him like your father did and look me in the eye ever again. You're a better man than your father ever was, boy. You make the right decision, right now, or so help me God, you won't ever see that little boy again."
Dean felt sick. He closed his eyes, slumped his head into his hands. The tears that he had held at bay for three days now burned underneath his eyelids. "Bobby- what the hell am I supposed to do?"
Bobby shifted. "Dean- take Sam and come home with me. There's no telling how long he's gonna be like this. It will be safer there."
That was Dean's job, wasn't it? Look out for your brother; keep an eye on your brother; don't let your brother out of your sight. Sam's safety depended on him, now more than it ever had. He realized suddenly how very much he stood to lose.
He sighed. The cup of coffee was cold in his hands. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the empty bottle of whiskey in the trash can. "Okay, Bobby," he said.
xxxx
They left that night, under the cover of darkness. Sam was groggy and fighting sleep; Dean bundled him into the back seat of the Impala, wrapping him into a couple of blankets, nestling him on top of the stolen motel bed pillows.
"It's not comfy back here," Sam whined, and Dean bent over him, made sure he was safely pressed into the crease of blankets and leather seats.
"You'll be okay," he said gruffly. "We're going to Bobby's, okay? Just try to sleep."
"It's not comfy, Dean."
He ignored Sam's protests and slid himself behind the wheel of the Impala while Bobby did one final sweep of the motel room before nodding to Dean and getting into his own car. Dean followed him out of the parking lot, onto the highway. It was snowing lightly; Dean turned on the heater, cranked it as high as it would go. "You okay back there?" He called over his shoulder and received no answer. Sam was out like a light.
They made poor time through Michigan. The roads were deserted but the snow hampered their progress. It was a little after one when the skies cleared and they pressed onward, spurred into making up lost time.
Sam woke up at four demanding a bathroom break, and then again at six, and then at eight for breakfast. They got sandwiches and coffee at a McDonalds just over the Indiana line; Sam ate pancakes and Dean had to wash syrup out of his hair afterwards.
An all day drive with a four year old in the backseat was not something that Dean was looking forward to, and apparently, neither was Sam. He was good for an hour, playing with the toy Dean had bought him at McDonalds, and then he was doing things like trying to climb over the back of the seat and kicking his heels against the window and complaining that the music was too loud, the music was boring, the car was boring, Dean was boring-
When they stopped for lunch at the Illinois line, Dean watched Bobby watch him with some amusement as he struggled to get Sam's shoes back on, fought Sam about putting his coat on, argued with Sam about why he couldn't have ice cream for lunch. After they had eaten, when they were stepping back outside into the light snowfall and Sam was crying because Dean wouldn't let him lick the icicle hanging on the door handle, Bobby took Sam's hand from his and offered glibly, "Sam- how do you feel about riding with me for a little?"
Sam cheered; Dean nearly kissed him.
The following six hours were troublingly blissful. Dean cruised down the highway behind Bobby, careful to never let more than one car between him. He watched Sam's head bob through the back window; watched Bobby's constant mirror checks. Dean bleached his knuckles against the steering wheel, kept his gun in plain sight on the seat beside him. If something was following them – and he was pretty sure there was nothing- then he would be ready for it. There was no way in hell he was letting anything even sniff at his little brother.
Bobby called him around five. "Town up ahead," he said by way of greeting. Dean could hear Sammy laughing in the background. Dean wondered dismissively why Bobby got the happy Sam and he got the grouchy one. "Welk, Illinois. I thought we could put up there for the night."
Dean was exhausted. His shoulders hurt, his eyes hurt, his head hurt. He moaned. "Bobby, that's the best idea you've ever had."
They found a little motel off the side of the highway. Dean checked them in while Bobby manhandled Sam out of a snowdrift. The room was small and cold: two twin beds with scratchy yellow blankets, a bathroom that smelled faintly of urine and chlorine, a kitchenette with a red Formica table and a microwave. The thermostat wouldn't budge when Dean tried to crank it. "We'll have to bring in the blankets from the car," he told Bobby, who frowned.
They ordered Chinese from a menu they found in the motel office. Bobby showered while they waited for it to arrive; Dean turned on the television, found that stupid yellow sponge, and plopped Sam down in front of it. "Think you can handle this for awhile?" He asked, and Sam rolled his eyes.
"I'm not a baby, Dean," he said petulantly. Dean rolled his eyes back and set about arranging the extra blankets on the bed. After a second's hesitation, he pulled a blue knitted afghan out of the pile and, crouching, draped it around Sam. Sam pulled away. "Dean-"
"It's cold in here, Sammy." Dean pushed Sam's hands down, situated the blanket over his tiny shoulders. "Just humor me, okay?"
Sam watched him a moment. "Okie dokie, Dean-o," he said finally, and someone knocked on the door.
It was the delivery boy with their Chinese. Dean paid him and set the paper bag on the table just as Bobby emerged from the bathroom, capless and dressed in what Dean guessed passed as pajamas for him: sweatpants and a grey t-shirt that had seen better days. "Food here?" he asked, and Dean handed him a pair of chop sticks with a wry grin before calling:
"Sammy, come eat."
Sam straggled over from the television, the blue blanket trailing after him. He stopped at Dean's elbow and sniffed derisively at the assortment on the table. "That's not pizza, Dean."
"I never said we were getting pizza, Sam." Dean took his brother under the arms and hoisted him into the chair. He was feather light, he realized; before Sam had been the size of a small barn, he had been the smallest kid Dean knew.
Despite his initial misgivings, Sam ate ravenously. He refused the plastic fork that Dean offered and insisted on stabbing his chicken with the chop sticks. When he got tired of that, he used his hands. Dean was too tired to care.
Bobby went to bed almost immediately after eating. Dean washed Sam's face and hands, then tucked him into the other bed. He realized with dread that he had a long night of sharp elbows and kicking legs ahead of him. He covered Sam to his chin with a layer of blankets and went in to shower. When he came back out, over half an hour later, Sam was sitting up on the end of Bobby's bed, watching the local news and sucking his fingers. He started when Dean came out; Dean felt his pulse spike behind his eyes.
"Sam."
"I wanted t'wait for you." Sam scrambled off of the bed and hurried back into his own bed, into the spot Dean had tucked him forty five minutes ago. "I just wanted t'wait for you, Dean."
Dean rubbed his eyes. Sam watched him apprehensively from the bed, his curls spilling like a dark puddle across the pillow. With a sigh, Dean turned out the bathroom light and slid into the bed next to his brother. He was startled when Sam immediately latched onto him, throwing a leg over his stomach and nestling his head in the crook of Dean's neck.
"G'night, Dean-o," he said happily, and Dean coughed.
"Night, Sammy."
For a long time, he lay stiffly in the bed and listened to the sounds of the night: Bobby snoring across the room from them, the drone of cars along the highway outside, the rhythmic whispers of breath from Sam. He felt the weight of the burden he carried, watched it move slowly in the dim yellow light cast through the motel room window. Sam slept soundly on his chest, his curls ticking Dean's chin, his little fingers wrapped in the collar of Dean's t-shirt. It took him back years, to other winter nights spent in a similar fashion: huddled under blankets in cold motel rooms, waiting on their father's return, secure in the knowledge that they had each other, that they would be fine.
It had been a long time, Dean thought bitterly, since he had had that sort of reassurance from his brother. He wondered, as Sam sniffled against his chest, dug a knee into his ribs, if he ever would again.
xxxx
The next morning broke clear and freezing. They ate leftover Chinese for breakfast and left before the sun was even all of the way up. Sam fell asleep in the back of the Impala, and Dean inwardly cheered when they flew past the Iowa state line sign.
Sam was awake again before long, demanding a bathroom break and a snack. They pulled over at a gas station, where Dean took Sam to the bathroom and bought him a small bag of Cheetos.
"Can I sit up front, Dean?" Sam asked when they came back outside, and Dean had enough presence of mind to deny him that request.
"It's bad enough you don't have a car seat. No." He pulled open the back door, waited. Sam glared at him from where he stood, his bag of Cheetos crushed to his chest.
"I'm not a baby, Dean."
Dean ground his teeth together. Bobby was watching from the other car, he knew. Without replying, he swept Sam off of his feet, trundled him into the back of the car, and listened with ringing ears to Sam's ensuing meltdown for twenty minutes.
He had forgotten what it was like to travel with a kid over long distances. Of course, he had been a kid then too, so it had been different. He didn't remember nearly this many bathroom breaks, this many whining jags, this many questions, this much noise. Only six days ago he had been cruising along with Sam at his side, bickering over the fastest route, arguing over the music. He missed it suddenly, so much that he could barely breathe. He fought through it, gasping, and in the back seat, Sam turned huge, alarmed eyes on him.
"Dean-o?" He asked, and it was that voice, that nickname, that dragged him back from that hole, that yawning gulf of self-pity and despair. He steeled himself against the memories, sought out Sam's eyes in the rearview.
"I'm okay, Sammy," he said gruffly, and Sam sniffled, wiped at his nose with his hand. His face was smeared orange with Cheetos dust.
"Okay, Dean-o."
He was fine. He had to be. His brother needed him to be.
xxxx
South Dakota was made after nightfall, and after a quick dinner, they agreed to push on. Eleven forty five saw them turning off of the highway into Sioux Falls; twelve-oh-three and they were pulling through the gates at Singer's Salvage.
Dean had never before felt so relieved at the sight of the ramshackle old farmhouse. He parked the Impala alongside the side of the house. Sam, sleeping in the back, stirred but didn't wake. Dean opted to leave him that way. He slung his duffels over his shoulders and slid Sam, wrapped like a burrito in that blue afghan, across the leather of the back seat and into his arms. Sam murmured in his sleep, turned his face into the crook of Dean's arm. He didn't wake when Dean mounted the steps to the porch and followed Bobby into the hallway of the musty old house. Bobby stopped to fiddle with the thermostat, turning sagging blue eyes on Dean.
"I'm about beat," he said, and Dean chuckled weakly.
"That's an understatement."
Bobby shook his head, yawned. "Take him up to the spare bedroom, okay? You boys take that. I'm just gonna check in, lock up, and I'm turning in too."
Dean nodded. He hitched Sammy higher in his arms, started up the steps. He stopped on the third or fourth one. "Bobby?"
Bobby glanced over his shoulder at him. "Yeah?"
Dean swallowed. "Thanks."
It was an all-encompassing thanks. He didn't have to say what for; Bobby knew. He watched as Bobby's face softened, smiled. "Anytime, boy."
Dean nodded again and went up the stairs. In the spare bedroom, he unwrapped Sam from his cocoon of blue yarn, wrestled his sneakers and jacket off of him, and laid him on the pillow on the far side of the bed. His eyes fluttered open once; he whimpered and reached up imploring hands, fisted his fingers against Dean's jaw. "D'n."
"I'm right here, Sammy."
Dean shucked off his own boots and jeans, tossed his jacket on the bedpost. He turned off the light and climbed into the bed, into the sweetness of a familiar mattress and blankets that didn't smell like someone else's night sweats. Sam rolled over immediately, folded himself into Dean's side without any hesitation, and this time, Dean didn't mind. He followed the soft lullaby of his brother's heartbeat into oblivion.
xxxx
Sleep, even when exhausted, was a rarity. Dean couldn't think of one night in the last five months that hadn't been ruined by nightmares or concerns about Sam. Tonight was no exception.
The clock on his cell phone read 4 am when he was pulled from sleep by the querulous tugging of his younger brother. He blinked back to reality, gasping for consciousness. The small hand on his shirtfront was relentless.
"Dean. Dean, I gotta pee."
Dean used one hand to feel in the dark for Sam, the other hand to wipe away the blinking lights from his vision. Sam's face swam into focus. He groaned. "Sam, go to sleep."
"I gotta pee, Dean."
Dean closed his eyes, but Sam was on his chest, crouched over him, plying him with too small fingers, stage whispering in a too small voice. "Dean, I really gotta pee."
Dean tore himself away from the stirring temptation of sleep and pulled himself upright. Sam scuttled backwards. The moonlight framed him silver and blue. "Dean, I don't know where to pee. I don't remember."
That was the problem, wasn't it? Sam didn't remember anything. Dean groaned again, rubbed the grogginess from his face, and stood. The floor was cold beneath his feet. Sam slid off the bed after him, slipping his hand into Dean's- trustingly, obediently. This was a Sam that Dean barely remembered.
"Dean, where are we?"
Dean opened the bedroom door. The hallway outside was dark. Bobby's snoring traveled down the hall, bouncing off of the walls. Dean led Sam out, careful to step quietly.
"We're at Bobby's." He reached inside the bathroom, flipped the light on. Sam blinked crazily in the sudden light; Dean pushed him through the doorway. "Here. Do your thing. Hurry up."
The door closed. Dean leaned against the wall and waited. It was freezing, he thought absently. He would have to take a look at the heater tomorrow. It fritzed out last winter too-
The door swung open. Sam sniffed up at him. "Dean, I'm still in my jeans."
"So?" It was too cold to wait for Sam to take his time here. Dean reached down and swung Sammy off of his feet, settled him against one hip. Sometime over the last five days, he had realized that the fastest way to get Sam from Point A to Point B was to haul him there himself.
"I can't sleep in my jeans, Dean."
They were back in the bedroom. Dean closed the door behind him, tumbled Sam onto the bed. Sam righted himself, bouncing on his knees. "Dean, I can't sleep in my jeans," he insisted again, and Dean sighed. In the bright winter moonlight he hunted along the floor for his duffels, then inside of them for a shirt. He pulled it out and threw it at Sam.
"Here. Put this on."
Sam stood on wobbly legs, sinking and rising on the mattress. He laughed. "Dean-"
"Sam, it's four a.m."
He hadn't meant to be so harsh, but, Jesus, he was tired, and cold, and he wanted just a few more hours before he had to deal with this all over again. Sam looked hurt- his eyes darkened and his mouth turned down.
"It's not my fault," he said petulantly, and Dean remembered that same line of defense from a hundred other arguments: spilling the last cup of juice, breaking the window in that seedy motel room, jamming the toilet handle. He stared at his brother, watched him struggle with the button on his jeans, and felt something inside of him shatter. He couldn't do this. This was not something he could endure a second time.
He went wordlessly to his brother, helped him out of his jeans and his sweatshirt. He was little, Dean saw again with despair, little and uncoordinated and so very helpless. Sam shivered while Dean slipped the t-shirt over his head – too big, it was grey and shouted LED ZEPPELIN across the front- and tucked him back under the blankets.
Dean took a minute to fold Sam's jeans and sweatshirt and stack them back on top of the duffels. When he returned to the bed Sam was already drowsing, his eyes lolling back in his head and his breathing evening out. Dean sank back into the bed, back into the warmth, back into the mindless wasteland of sleep. Before he slipped away for good, he was dimly aware of Sam's hand anchoring itself in his own.
xxxx
It was bright when he woke with a start. He lay still a moment, gasping in the cold air of the room, his heart racing. He dared not close his eyes. He knew what he would see there- red and black and iron and chains and blood-
Beside him, Sammy slept on. Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye, the way his lips curled around his thumb, the way his nose crinkled in some dream. That old blue afghan – where the hell had they picked that thing up, anyways?- was tucked around his chin, wormed through the fisted hand at his mouth. Sam's other hand, Dean realized suddenly, was still grasped tight in his own.
He excavated his fingers from his brother's grip and sat up. It was ten past nine in the morning. Outside, snow sifted out of grey clouds. Downstairs, the television thrummed, a pan clattered, a door opened. Bobby was up, Dean thought distantly. It struck him how normal it all felt, when everything else was still so wrong.
He pulled on sweatpants and socks, then leaned over the bed to rouse Sammy. His brother whimpered, blinked at Dean, and tried to bury his head back into the pillow. In the end, Dean pulled him, afghan and all, into his arms and went downstairs to find Bobby.
Bobby was where Dean had thought he would be: in the kitchen, doing battle with half a dozen eggs and bacon. Dean's stomach growled appreciatively. "Bobby," he said, "We have to fix this."
Bobby sighed. It didn't look as if the night's sleep had done him much good; Dean suspected that he looked the same. He crossed the kitchen and dumped Sam, who was finally waking, into a chair.
Sam slumped against the table, blinking slowly. "Where're we?" He asked in a small voice. Dean opened the refrigerator in hopes of finding milk or something to give the kid. He wasn't surprised when all he found was two six packs of beer and a mason jar of lamb's blood.
"Dean?"
Dean turned. Sam blinked owlishly at him from the table. "We're at Bobby's. I told you that already."
"I forgot." Sam stuck his fingers into his mouth, pulled the afghan higher around his shoulder. "How come it's diff'rent?"
Dean exchanged an uncertain look with Bobby. How much were they supposed to tell Sam, anyways? Sam was four. He didn't even know about monsters or demons yet; he didn't even really understand simple things like how to double-knot his shoes laces or why he didn't have a mother. How on earth was Dean supposed to explain something like this to him?
Bobby saved them both by planting a plate of food in front of Sam. "Eat up," he ordered gruffly, and Sam blinked from him to the plate to Dean.
"I hate eggs," he said simply. "I want Lucky Charms."
Of course he did. "We don't have any," Dean replied. He filled a glass of water at the sink, drank from it liberally, then re-filled it and put it in front of Sam's plate. "Here. There's no juice and there's no cereal. This is it."
Sam was looking at the glass with a sour expression. "You drank from that," he muttered, and Dean had to close his eyes. He'd forgotten what a picky kid Sam had been.
"Its fine, Sammy." Dean took a plate from Bobby, sat at the table. He shoveled a piece of bacon into his mouth and reached across the table to nudge Sam's plate closer to him. "Eat up, dude."
"I said I hate eggs, Dean." Sam glared at him. "They got dead babies inside'a them."
Dean almost choked on his bacon. Bobby hid his sudden laugh with the rim of his coffee mug. Dean swallowed, glared at Sam. "Don't say it like that. That's gross."
Sam stuck his jaw out. "They got dead babies. I know. I saw one."
"Dude, they don't. They're not fertilized." Everyone knew that, Dean thought with a sinking feeling, everyone but Sam. Sam was four years old again, and as bright as he had been at that age, there was a whole world out there that was beyond his comprehension. A whole world, Dean saw, that he was relying on someone to show to him, to help him navigate. And without a mother and without a father, who was he looking to for that but his big brother?
Dean's appetite fled him. He had too much to do, he thought. He didn't have the time to sit around eating breakfast. He had a world to save, an Apocalypse to stop, a little brother to fix. There was more at stake than there had ever been. It wasn't his head on the chopping block- it was Sam's whole life, his future, his very being. He had to get his brother back. There wasn't another option. Dean couldn't do this without him.
"What's fer'lized?" Sam asked innocently, and Dean angrily shoved another piece of bacon in his mouth, stood in a rush.
"Stop talking and eat your breakfast, Sam," he snapped, and dumped his plate in the sink. He left to take a shower without bothering to watch the hurt flicker across his little brother's face.
xxxx
He took his time in the shower. He turned it as hot as it could go, stood underneath the burning water with his head bowed, and leaned against the grouted tile wall until his neck ached and his skin stung. He listened to the steady patter of the water as it drummed out the rest of the world, felt it wrap him in its solitude. For the first time in days, he was alone; he didn't have to pretend, he didn't have to plaster on a face for the rest of the world to see. He could almost just imagine that this was all a dream, a night mare he was bound to wake up from sooner or later-
When he emerged from the bathroom into the guest room, four year old Sam was waiting for him on the bed, hands clasped between his knees, socked feet bouncing against the bedframe, face turned down in a frown. Dean paused when he saw him sitting there and took half a second to decide if he should turn around and leave. He kicked himself the minute he thought it. Leave Sam?
Sam looked at him as he stepped through the door. "Bobby said I gotta shower," he declared. "He says I stink an' I should tell you." He stuck his pointer finger in his mouth, wormed the fingers of his other hand through his hair. "Dean, I don't like showers. I just like baths."
Dean remembered. It had taken Sammy until he was almost six to take his first shower. He didn't like the spray- he was afraid of drowning. Dean felt like caving in, suddenly. Was this what it was going to be? Re-fighting every single one of Sam's childhood battles, with even less expertise than last time? He shook his head, dug a pair of clean jeans out of his duffel, stuffed one leg, then the other, into them.
"You can shower," he told Sam. "You'll be okay."
Sam's eyes rounded, shimmered. "Dean," he whispered desperately, "I'm too scared."
Dean bit back another sigh of irritation. He pulled on a t-shirt, slung his towel over his shoulder, and pulled Sam off of the bed. "Sammy," he said firmly, "You'll be fine."
In the bathroom, he ran the shower warm and helped Sam strip out of the t-shirt, out of his socks and underwear, trying to ignore the whimpering coming from his little brother the entire time. "Sam, you'll be fine, okay? You can't drown in a frigging shower."
"What if it fills up, Dean?" Sam clung to his arm; Dean shook him off, swept the curtain aside, maneuvered Sam over the side of the tub and underneath the spray. "Dean, what if it fills up?"
"Then it'll be a bath and you'll be happy," Dean muttered. He closed the curtain and turned away. Behind him, Sam ripped the curtain back.
"Dean, can you stay? Please?"
Those eyes- those stupid big brown puppy dog eyes- were more potent on four year old Sammy than they had been on twenty five year Sam. Dean struggled against the scream building in his throat and sat on the closed toilet. "Yes. Jesus, Sam- close the damn curtain and get washed up, will you?"
The curtain retracted. Beyond it, Sam moved fumblingly, sniffling. "Dean, what if I get water in my mouth accidentally? Will it drown me then?"
Dean massaged his temples. His head throbbed. "Sam. You can't drown in a shower."
More sniffling, more tentative shuffling. Then: "Okie dokie, Dean-o."
Dean hadn't been Dean-o in eighteen years. He closed his eyes, ground his fists into his thighs, breathed out and in through the tightening band in his chest. He couldn't lose it now- there was too much at stake. He took that pain, that confusion and fear, and barricaded it behind his stolid resolve. He would fix this, fix Sam, if it was the last thing that he ever did.
Dean took Sam downstairs when he was done showering and plopped him on the couch in front of the television. He flipped through the twelve channels that Bobby had, found a cartoon of some kind of animal with glasses that he vaguely remembered from somewhere, and turned to Sam. "You okay for awhile?" He asked, and Sam stuck his fingers in his mouth and shrugged.
He joined Bobby in the kitchen, where the dishes from breakfast had been piled in the sink and mugs of coffee were available. Dean took it, swallowed it, grimacing at the taste, and coughed. "Jesus, Bobby- this is disgusting."
Bobby snorted. "I'm not running out to get you a latte, boy."
Dean rolled his eyes. Lattes were Sam's drink. They used to be. Dean didn't think he was going to be having another one of those for a very long time. "Bobby…"
Bobby nodded slowly. He knew. He always knew, somehow, just what Dean was trying to say, what he needed to hear. "Boy, we need to start from the beginning. Treat this as any other hunt, okay? You think you can do that?"
It was a load of bull. Treat this as any other hunt? This was Sam, and he was more messed up than Dean would have ever thought was possible. He chuckled weakly, shook his head. "Yeah."
Bobby's eyes sharpened to his. "I'm serious, Dean. I know this is a load of crock and it's a lot to take on now, but I need your head in the game. We gotta do this."
"Yeah." Dean coughed, got up from the table to pour himself another coffee. In the living room, Sam had abandoned the couch for the top of the coffee table. His fingers were still in his mouth. Dean grimaced; he'd forgotten how gross little kids could be. "So what's the first step, Bobby?"
Bobby sighed. "We gotta figure out what did this to him, Dean." He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table. "What were you two hunting up there in Michigan?"
Dean sipped his coffee. "An Opongo. Bobby, they can't do shit like this-"
"What about before that?"
Dean shrugged. "A necromancer in Philly. Bobby, nothing we've come in contact with in the last two months could have done something like this."
Bobby was quiet a moment. "What about before that?"
Dean scrubbed the back of his hair with his fingers. Sam edged off of the coffee table, cast a tentative look towards them in the kitchen, and settled on the floor in front of the television. "Bobby, you know what we've been dealing with."
"The Apocolypse. Right." Bobby hesitated. "You don't think one of them could have done this?"
"One of who? The demons? Maybe."
"I mean one'a the others. Your angel friends."
Dean's face darkened. "They're not my friends." He tipped the mug to his lips, held it there even though it was empty. He didn't want to see the look he knew Bobby was giving him. "Bobby, we've got to have some way to keep him safe in the meantime. Ruby knows her way here. Cas does. Any of them show up and see him- word gets out that he's defenseless like this, we're going to have a whole new pile of shit on our hands."
"I know." Bobby followed Dean's gaze into the living room, where Sam was bobbing his head along in time to the music on the television. "Jesus, Dean…."
Dean said nothing. He knew.
xxxx
They warded the property. They re-painted the Solomon's Keys above the doors and windows, spray painted one under each carpet, even braved the cold to carve them into the windowsills outside. Every vent, every window and door was lined with salt, and Bobby drove to the gate of his property to paint wardings on the fence. Sam watched them with curiosity.
"Can I help?" He asked, and Dean hesitated.
"Not really," he said, and Sam sighed, sank to the floor next to where Dean was working on the back door frame.
"Dean, I'm bored. Can we go outside?"
It was still snowing. The drifts were piling up against the porch steps, burying the yard under a blanket of soft white. Sam didn't have any boots or mittens or even a proper jacket. Dean sighed.
"Not today, dude."
"Tomorrow?" Sam asked hopefully. Dean turned away.
"Maybe."
Lunchtime came and went without either of them noticing. It wasn't until Sam started whining that he was hungry that Dean realized it was nearly three o'clock. He put Sam at the table, where he had been scrolling through Google searches madly, and investigated Bobby's fridge. Besides the eggs and beer and blood, he had a few onions, a plastic bowl of chili, and a container of left over Chinese noodles. The cabinets yielded even less, so Dean dug the noodles out of the fridge and heated them in the microwave. Sam scowled when he offered it to him.
"Dean, this is gross." He crinkled his nose, sniffed experimentally at it. "Dean, I want maraconi'n cheese."
"It's macaroni," Dean corrected. "And we don't have any. This is it."
"I don't like this stuff." Sam's eyes were filling up. "Dean, this stuff is gross."
"You haven't even tried it." Dean pushed the plate towards Sam, who drew backwards, pressing himself further into the chair.
"It looks gross, Dean." Sam was breathing hard and fast now; Dean knew enough from the last six days to know what was coming next. He braced himself for the impact, beckoned to the plate.
"Sammy, it's all there is."
"You're lying." Sam dropped his face into his hands, took a deep shuddering breath through his fingers. "You always have more. Dad always buys the maraconi. How come I can't have any?"
It was the mention of his father that did it, Dean thought later. He was plunged suddenly over the edge that he had been trembling so precariously on since that morning six days ago. The plate was suddenly a shattered mess on the floor, and Sam was looking at him with something akin to real fear on his face. Dean couldn't think; it was hard to breathe, to move, to remember. He was vaguely aware, somewhere, that this was unfair, that Sam didn't know any better, that Sam didn't remember, that it wasn't his fault-
Dean didn't care. It wasn't his fault either. What happened to Sam was not his fault. It shouldn't even be his problem, except that there was no one else. It was always him, he thought bitterly. Always. Dean Winchester got the shit end of the stick every single time.
Bobby was there. He gave Dean a long, calculated look, then pushed him aside and went to Sam, who was crying, his little fingers wrapped around the arms of the chair, his little chest moving in and out, his breaths rapid fire, like a machine gun. He was so little, Dean thought in the midst of his anger- so little, and it hurt to look at him. After all of the shit Sam had been handed in the last twenty five years, why this? Why now?
Bobby picked Sam up off the chair, wincing a little. He gave Dean another look, then used a hand to brush Sam's hair back. Dean remembered suddenly, that same affection shown to another Sam, years ago. He closed his eyes, sagged against the counter, listened with dull ears to Bobby's soft consolations. "How about you lie down upstairs for awhile, Sammy, and I'll order us some pizza. Okay?"
Sam hiccupped. "C-c-can we have extra cheese?" He asked tearily, and Bobby chuckled.
"Extra, extra cheese," he assured him. "But maybe you should get a little rest first."
"Can Dean rest too?" Sam asked. Dean opened his eyes, found Sam's gaze pinned on him over Bobby's shoulder. "I don't want t'be alone."
"I'll stay with you." Bobby stepped out of the kitchen, up the stairs. His voice carried back. "Dean's a little busy right now, Sam…"
Dean waited until the bedroom door creaked over head, till the raging in his chest calmed to a murmur. Then he picked up the splinters of ceramic with shaking fingers, scraped splattered noodles into the dust pan with a heavy heart. He was terrified to watch the floor and his hands and the garbage bin blur before him; he ran his palms over his face, grateful that Bobby was upstairs. No one needed to see him like this- the only person who he'd ever allowed to was Sam, and that was all shot to shit. For the first time, Dean realized how very alone he was, and the impact was staggering. He sat at the table, elbows on knees, face in hands, and struggled to bring to front his own hard bitten resolve, his rough exterior. That was gone, smashed to smithereens on the racks of Hell, and he had no one left to rely on.
Eventually, he managed to move. He opened the laptop and went back to Google, to all of the thousands of useless webpages there. Bobby came back downstairs and into the kitchen, where he moved to the sink and ran the water.
"We oughtta try to make sure he naps once in awhile," Bobby said wryly over his shoulders. "Jesus Christ, and here I was thinking it was hard to get you to take it easy."
Dean tried to force a smile on his face, tried to force something, but nothing came. He sat dumb and useless and heavy while Bobby washed his hands in the sink and dried them on a paper towel. He poured himself a finger of whiskey. He knocked it back, poured another, offered it to Dean. He took it down in one burning gulp.
"Bobby," he said, "He keeps talking about Dad."
Bobby was quiet. He sat at the table, the bottle of whiskey held loosely on his knee, and took a deep breath. "You gonna tell him?" He asked, and Dean shot him a dark look.
"Tell him what?" He asked loudly. "That he's twenty five years old? That his father's dead? Bobby, he can't even zipper his own frigging pants. He doesn't know shit. How the hell do we explain something like this to him?"
Bobby opted to drink the whiskey straight from the bottle, forgoing the glass this time. "Boy," he said, "I ain't saying it's a perfect plan. Hell, I don't even think it's a halfway decent one. But we gotta start somewhere. Letting Sam go on day by day with this illusion that his daddy is gonna come sweeping through the door at any moment is cruel to him. I'm not saying give him the whole deal flat- but this isn't something you can keep from him."
Dean ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. "So what? I have to do it? I'm the one that gets to break the kid's heart?"
Bobby's jaw hardened. "I'll do it if you want me to," he said solidly. "But I'm just his uncle, Dean, and not even really that. You're his brother. Something tells me he would take it better from you."
Dean didn't answer. He couldn't. Just when he thought things were getting better, something came along and tore open the patch of wound that was his father, and everything he'd thought he'd laid to rest rose back up with a vengeance.
Bobby was quiet a moment longer. Then he asked, quietly, "Pizza okay with you, boy?"
Dean wasn't hungry, but he nodded anyways.
Bobby ordered the pizza and went to pick it up. While he was gone, Dean went methodically through the house with the bottle of whiskey, checking and re-checking the salt lines, the Keys on the windowsills, the locks on the doors-
Someone creaked on the stairs. It was Sam, ruffle haired, rubbing a fist into his eye, dressed sparsely in his red hoodie and underwear. He blinked at Dean, who was peering out the front curtain. He felt shaky. He wished Bobby would come home-
"I'm sorry I didn't eat your noodles, Dean," Sam said softly, and Dean turned a critical eye to his brother. Sam's bottom lip was quivering. "I'm sorry I said it was gross."
Dean didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure what was the proper response to give to a four year old's slightly ridiculous apology. "Did Bobby put you up to this?" He asked finally, and Sam looked at his feet.
"Uncle Bobby says you're tryin'," he whispered. "He said I should be nice t'you because you're just tryin' hard an' you're tired." He peeked up at Dean from underneath a fringe of bangs. "Dean, if you're tired, you could come take a nap with me. I won't kick. I promise."
The promise of a four year old should have meant nothing to him. Sam's word had become, over the course of the past several months, nothing more than a shout into the wind. Dean had stopped believing in his brother long ago.
But something stopped him. He was suddenly embarrassed of the whiskey bottle in his hands, of the way the room slurred about him. Was this how he wanted his brother to see him? It had been so long since he had cared about keeping up appearances, least of all for Sam. But this- this wasn't Sam, not really. This was a Sammy that Dean had forgotten about- a snot nosed, tag along little shit with big brown eyes and dirty fingers and a smile that could rival the sun. This was a Sam he had known once- this was a Sam he suddenly, desperately, wanted to remember.
He put the whiskey bottle on the ground behind the coat rack and held out a hand to Sam. "You want to nap a little longer, Sammy?" He asked, and Sam considered, tipping his head to one side and sticking his fingers in his mouth.
"Okie dokie, Dean-o," he agreed, and they went up stairs, where Dean tucked Sam back into bed and stretched out beside him atop the blankets, webbed his fingers beneath his head and closed his eyes. Sam waited a moment, then burrowed his face in Dean's side and fell asleep instantly. Dean lay awake a while longer and tried not to think about what he was going to have to tell Sammy when he awoke, what he and Bobby were facing, the job they would have to tackle in the coming days. They had to get Sam back. They had to.
But in the mean time, Dean thought, he could deal. He'd have to. Sammy needed him to, and being needed, he thought groggily, was what Dean did best.