So, this is the start of another multichapter. As if I don't already have, like, eleven ongoing ones... Oops. In my defense, this has driven me crazy for the past week or so and I am already plotting out the next chapter as I type this, even if I will finish at least one—possibly two—other story first. I promise.

This is also my first full story for either Supernatural or Sherlock. And I am not even close to up to date with Supernatural, though I've been spoilered up to mid-season 11. I intend to catch up during December.

The song Heathens from Twenty One Pilots was a major inspiration for this.

Word Count: 2,192

Rewind, Renew, Redo

The first seven years of his new life were very weird for Sam Winchester.

For one thing, he was no longer called Sam. He had another name now, which he supposed only made sense. He had new parents and everything as well.

Another thing that made the entire experience feel so very off was that he was an only child. It felt so weird and odd.

He did not like this feeling at all, so he decided to do what he always—often—did when he had no idea what to do.

He hit the books.

Of course it took a couple of years until he had the mobility needed to do this and make it seem like a gradual process.

Mycroft Holmes—for that was his name now—lasted two years and three months before he took the simplest book he could find—and reach. This size was quite different when compared to what he was used to—and started to 'teach himself how to' read.

It was safe to say that his new, second, hopefully surviving set of parents was quite impressed.

Sam—Mycroft—was quite an odd child in every possible sense of the phrase and then some.

It was impossible not to be, no matter how hard he tried.

How could he—Sam Winchester, the possibly still demon blood addicted Hunter that happened to be Lucifer's vessel be normal?
Wait, was he even still the vessel?

Because he did have a whole new—currently four-year-old—body and all. And his former self had yet to be born, so some other poor sod was currently suffering this curse.

The probability that the person in question had no idea was quite high, but it could not be him. It was impossible, this particular burden only transferred when the owner of it died—permanently.

There was no way he would not do that within the next seven years. Not if he could do anything against it and that was by no means an insignificant amount.

Even if he was currently a toddler. He had his ways.

When he—Mycroft, not Sam—was six, his mother—he had a mother!—became pregnant.

The resulting conversation was quite awkward, so to say. He had to pretend to be all innocent and naive. He had only barely been that when he had turned six for the first time. Mycroft was not sure if he remembered what those words meant when put to practise.

A small part of him dared to hope that this child would be someone he knew—Charlie, Kevin, Adam or—dare he dream it—just maybe even...

No it was ridiculous. It could not be the case and it would not only be pointless but detrimental to get his hopes up.

Mycroft was more than smart enough to realized that.

He was smart enough to realize a lot of things that no one else seemed to notice or care about, but that may just have been his long experience as a Hunter—the capital 'H' was definitely necessary—worming its way into his life once again.

Mycroft could not help but wonder if the baby—his brother, William Sherlock Scott Holmes—could possibly, be Dean?

He shouldn't give himself false hope, but it seemed so irrationally plausible to him, the way the kid smiled and made attempts to grab Mycroft whenever he entered the child's field of vision. William rarely did that to anyone else, seemingly distrusting them, but not Mycroft.

Then there was his gut feeling. If there was one thing he had learned as a Hunter, then it was that his gut feeling was rarely wrong when it came to Dean, no matter how frequently it used to be in other matters.

That was a thing of the past, however. Mycroft knew better now. He had taught himself to observe, not just see. By observing, he was able to discover so many more things that he rarely needed to investigate to find out anything about anyone.

He had already known a lot and he was just getting better and better.

On a side note, just who named their children Mycroft and William? That made no sense at all.

Then again, he supposed their family had never really made sense, so it really should not be this surprising.

That didn't mean that he was happy with this name from the beginning, but he grew to accept and even like it over time.

He and his brother were 'playing' in William's room a couple of days after the boy—was either of them really a boy?—had turned two, when he offhandedly called his brother by his proper name. William.

The child in question crossed his arms and declared, "Not William. Dean."
Mycroft sighed. He had seen this coming. Stubbornness had been a major family treat after all. "You can't be Dean. That was an old life, we're living an entirely new one now! And your past self has been born only a couple of months before you were. You can't go around by Dean Winchester in this life, too."

"Not William. William boring." Even though both of them had kept their memories, they still needed to relearn anything that involved muscle memory.

It was quite tenuous, really, and he longed for the day when he would be able to give a reasonable excuse as to why he needed to train shooting, knife throwing and everything else he could think of.

For now he stuck to karate, because many kids his apparent age seemed to be doing this, so it was not unreasonable for him to do the same.

"Okay, then why don't use your new middle name? Sherlock. That sounds plenty exciting."

His brother tested the sound out. "Sherlock," he said slowly, carefully making sure not to stumble over a single letter. Then, he nodded.

"Sherlock Holmes. I like that!"

Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes sounded better than Mycroft and William—or, Chuck forbid, Mike and Bill—either way.

"I want to be a pirate," Sherlock declared when he was seven. Mycroft sighed. Was that how he had been in his first life? Was Sherlock—was Dean trying to pay him back for everything?

"And why?"

"Because Jack Sparrow is awesome." Nevermind that it would be over a decade until the first of those movies came out. His brother had apparently decided to randomly rewatch them in his memories.

Why ever not, Mycroft supposed. It was not like it would hurt anyone and his little brother—because their age difference was larger and he had spent time in that loop and been in hell longer. He was older now—could have picked worse memories.

"Okay. Shall I convince Mommy to let us go to town for a costume?"

He took his brother's beam as a yes.

Sherlock refused to dress in anything else for two weeks. Thank Chuck he had thought to buy two costumes, or else that would have ended horribly for his nose.

Mycroft was done with the British education system and then some roughly two weeks after that incident; about two and a half years before he was expected to. It was not like it was particularly hard or anything and he had the benefit of already having gone through the process once.

Which brought him to his current problem. What should he do? What kind of job could he find that was challenging and helped him to do the right thing?
He thought about studying medicine or law—his marks were certainly good enough for either—but both of them brought back painful memories.

Then he discovered political science. It was truly a fascinating subject.

He ended up tutoring roughly half of the law students either way and was allowed to sit in the tests once the professors heard of it.

Mycroft Holmes left the university five years later with four degrees. Political Science, Law, Latin, and Ancient Mythology, though he planned on going back to add more one day.

"I am not going to be a philosopher or a scientist and you damn well know it," Sherlock ranted at his older brother when he had dared to suggest these things to his currently fifteen-year-old brother. "That's boring and you have to sit around all day. That's nothing for me. I need to save people, to hunt things. Just like in old times."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and deadpanned, "And yet you're going to university. I don't recall you ever doing that last time. And chemistry is not supposed to be easy. It does involve a lot of studying."

The younger brother glared at him. "Shut up. Chemistry is fun."

Mycroft chuckled. "At least you acknowledge I won."

When his brother told him he wanted to be a detective in this life, Mycroft laughed for a full five minutes.

The irony was priceless.

Then, Sherlock explained his idea which the 'consulting' business.

That made a bit more sense. No matter if Dean or Sherlock, his brother should never be given that kind of authority.

Then again, neither should he and he had already evolved into the shadow ruler of this country, somehow. Mycroft was actually pretty sure there were several dozen laws against it, but it happened.

The Queen and the Prime Minister both served pretty good tea, though.

And, holy Chuck, this was so weird when he put this into context with his first life.

Mycroft was in a meeting with a number of foreign ministers when he got his brother's text. He gave himself a second to glance on it.

You won't believe who I met.

-DH

He returned his eyes to the other politicians before he had even started to type his reply. After all, he had about a decade of experience with this on every single other person in his room.

He knew which buttons to press as smartphones unfortunately would only become common in seven or so years.

Who?

-MW

They had long ago decided to mix their names of this time and last when it was just the two of them. And it certainly confused anyone else.

The reply arrived instantly. Of course his brother on his phone was waiting for their conversation to continue. He did not seem have anything better to do.

Bobby works for the NSY! He's actually the closest thing to my superior.

-DH

Mycroft had to suppress a snort. It was quite ironic, what with them being wanted for just about every crime but rape at one point, but he could actually see that.

The two of them were good for each other.

And if Mycroft's' schedule suddenly happened to take him to his brother's flat, then that was purely a coincidence. Both siblings and Gregoby—as Sherlock had named him—knew that.

A couple of months later, they found Balthazar in the morgue. Molly Hooper was eir name now.

It had caused quite a few memorable scenes, but in the end ey were happy to provide all the body parts Sherlock could possibly need for his experiments. Consequently, they were on exceptionally better terms than before.

The siblings visited America for old time's sake. They had invited Gregoby to come along, but he had declined, citing work as the reason.

Mycroft supposed that the Inspector had to be quite busy, after all he was also working as a freelance translator at the side while also re-assembling his collection of books and various other written sources.

The reincarnation process seemed to have gotten rid of Dean's fear of heights, though.

They found Gabriel in Florida. As a woman—Martha Hudson—two or three decades older than them.

A quick question and they were informed that Gabriel usually stuck with the sex of his vessel and did not particularly care either way.

Mrs. Hudson had been high at that time—marijuana—and her husband was connected to a double murder.

Dean made sure the husband got the Death Penalty, which strangely won them the currently-powerless Archangel's favour.

"At least you're smarter this time around," she had said.

A couple of months later, he found Sherlock with a needle in his arm.

Apparently Gabriel had been wrong.

Mycroft slapped his brother on the head and crushed the needle with his foot.

"What on earth do you think you're doing!?" he yelled. He had not done that in a long time.

"Bored," Sherlock drawled in reply.

"This is the weakest excuse you could have used. This is going to stop. Now," he added, putting additional emphasis on the last word.

"I can't. I'll get withdrawal symptoms," Sherlock answered, already plotting how to get out of this.

"I would say that these are plenty interesting. And if I could go cold turkey on demon's blood, then you can do the same for Heroin!"

Security cameras were installed in his new flat, 221B Baker Street that had been helpfully provided by Gabriel.

Even though she volunteered to look after his brother, Mycroft did not trust her, especially not in this regard. He would have done it himself, but his life as a shadow ruler of a country only allowed that much free time and he had other things he would have liked during that time.

Sherlock still needed a flatmate, but Mycroft was not going to bother finding him one.

His brother could do that much himself.

Please tell me what you think!

~Marvelgeek42