(Pulling) A Sam Winchester
K Hanna Korossy

Dean unlocked the bunker's front door and put the ridiculous key back in its box. Seriously, they had to figure out a way to duplicate that thing, maybe make a version that would fit on his keying. Mystical keys were a pain, let alone breakable wooden ones.

Coming down the stairs, grocery bags in hand, he wasn't too surprised to see Sam in the midst of some heavy-duty research at one of the library tables. They'd been home a, what, whopping two hours? He really needed to take the kid out for a night on the town. One that, you know, didn't involve a fairy tale cannibal witch and a body that wouldn't pass for legal no matter how good the forged ID.

It was probably weird that he no longer thought their lives were weird.

"Hey," he called to Sam. "Got some of those apples you like." Sam preferred going to the farmer's market for them, but they'd just missed it and Sam would be cranky with a week of no fruit.

"Yeah, thanks," Sam said absently. The notepad page in front of him was already nearly full of scribbles.

Dean didn't have to ask about what, and his determined cheer took a little slide south. "Got a craving for mac & cheese, the box kind. You want some?"

"Yeah, thanks," Sam said again.

Dean thought about asking Sam if he wanted a hooker for his birthday, just to see if he got the same response, but his heart wasn't in it. Dean sighed, thunking the bags down on the table in front of Sam with enough force to jolt his brother's attention to him. "Okay, weren't you the one who said something about not reading the same books over and over again?" Because he was pretty sure they'd mined everything the Men of Letters library had to offer about the Mark, which was almost nothing.

"I was," Sam sat back, "but…I'm not reading the same books. This case gave me an idea."

They'd been through this before. Sam trying to save him from the Deal. Sam trying to save him from Michael. Now, the Mark. Dean was tempted to roll his eyes, except that Sam was doing this out of love and worry for him. Maybe he could downplay that, but he wouldn't belittle it.

Dean sighed again instead, resigned, and dug a bottle of beer out of one of the bags. He twisted off the top as he sat opposite Sam, and took a gulp before starting. "This is about the Mark being gone when I was kid-me."

"We don't know where it went, but it was gone. No anger, no bloodlust, right?"

"Right." If Dean hadn't been so worried about being the much younger brother, he would have appreciated the release from the pressure.

"Okay, so, we've dealt with de-aging before. Remember Patrick, the witch who gambled for years?"

Dean smacked his lips. "I remember being seventy-something. And that you conned a conman. I think we should steer clear of good ol' Patrick in case he figured that one out."

Sam shook his head, leaning in as he warmed to his subject. "I'm not talking about playing him again. I just mean, there's a lot of possibilities for making you younger—witchcraft is just one of them."

Dean took another drink, then mirrored Sam's lean, a foot away from his brother now. "We tried this once, remember? Doc Ellison and his Frankenstein Fountain of Youth? Messing with the natural order always has a price, Sammy." He turned one of Sam's books toward him, grimacing at the picture of a very disturbing-looking kid. "Besides, I thought we agreed, fourteen isn't a good look for me."

"I'm not talking about becoming a kid again. Nothing drastic, just turning back a few years to before the Mark."

Dean sat back again. "How would that even work? I'm going along tat-free, then one day I get to the age I met Cain and, wham, it's back again?"

Sam grimaced. "I don't know. But that's why I'm looking—"

Dean reached out and gently shut the book that was right in front of his brother. "No."

Sam bristled, immediately starting to open it again. "Dean—"

"Listen to me, Sammy," Dean said gently, because he could see how close Sam was to breaking. "I'm good, okay? I mean it. I'm not saying it's not hard, or that we're not gonna have a problem down the road. But you were the one who said it: it's on me. And maybe I can beat this. That's where the answer is, okay, not in…creepy old books about pedophiles."

"Pedagogy," Sam corrected.

"Whatever."

But Sam was shaking his head, his eyes disturbingly distressed. "Dean…I need to…"

…save you. Castiel had pulled Dean out of Hell. Adam had taken on Michael. Benny had helped Dean climb out of Purgatory. And there was Sam, trying so hard and never feeling like he succeeded, despite Max Miller and the demon cure and the ghost sickness and Gordon Walker and the cage and that djinn and every freaking day of Dean's life.

He smiled softly. "You did, dude. You already did." He wouldn't, didn't have to spell it out, but Sam's belief, his faith in Dean, had already saved him.

Sam snorted wetly, shaking his head again, but more for disapproval at Dean's corniness than denial.

And, okay, yeah, that was enough of that. Dean tipped his head, smile twisting. "'Course, there were some benefits to being a teen again."

Sam rolled his eyes. Kid never did respect his elders.

But Dean didn't need an invitation. "Dude, I could eat anything. Girls were…" Okay, so it sounded pervy now that he was on the wrong side of his thirties, so Dean just shook his head appreciatively. "And one sad puppy look at a waitress, and it was all-you-could-eat free pie."

Sam returned his smile, only a tinge sad. "So, like now."

Dean grinned as he reached for his beer. "If you got it…"

Sam beat him to it, snagging the bottle for a healthy gulp, ignoring Dean's scowl.

They would have to revisit this at some point. The Mark was only growing stronger, and Dean wasn't sure how long he could control it. But Sam wasn't giving up on him, and his conviction was contagious. For now, his brother had pulled a Sam Winchester and given him the determination to keep fighting.

And even as Dean smacked his brother in the arm and reclaimed his almost-empty bottle, he let himself wonder, wasn't that kinda a victory in itself?

The End