Just a little idea that came to me after watching 'Malleus Maleficarum.' Dean seemed pretty upset over the rabbit. Just a fun something that I thought might help to explain why! Set about a day after the episode. Enjoy!

The Ballad of Poor Slimer.

They'd taken refuge in a roadside bar, although the term 'bar' was probably too generous given the state and proportions of the place. Truthfully it was more like a shack, with a motorbike-strewn stretch of tarmac and a half-lit neon sign outside. Coyote Ugly meets Jerry Springer.

Inside was just as bad, with a few cracked and stained-looking tables clustered around what looked like a hand-made bar set 'Cheers' style in the middle, a small glitzy stage in one corner with a fully set-up pole – probably for the owner's mother to entertain customers. It was nasty and so was the clientele, a mix of chain-smoking non-natural blondes and fully-grown men wearing tattoos and scraggly beards down to their beer guts.

Forget Coyote Ugly, it was Jerry Springer all the way.

Skirting the perimeter with his head low, Sam crossed towards their table with a bottle of beer in each hand and an unnervingly sticky sensation under the soles of his boots – undoubtedly years worth of blood, vomit and alcohol all combining to give the floor the adhesive properties of duct tape. He grimaced visibly. Pleasant.

Dean was sat alone at the seats they had bagged for themselves, elbows resting on the wobbly tabletop, shoulders hunched forward, eyes staring into deep open space.

Sam frowned, worried. Dean was not a thinker – not of the melancholic variety anyway. That crap was usually his gig, and yet there his older brother was, fingers interlinked, chin resting on his knuckles, looking almost as if he were praying. Except that Dean didn't pray and if he ever did then it wouldn't be with his eyes wide open, in the middle of some crappy bar right before he drank a beer. Even he had standards.

But still, something was wrong and it had been ever since he'd stepped out of their motel room one day earlier to get some ice for Sam's continually aching back – involuntarily almost breaking a wall with your spine tended to do that to a guy. Dean hadn't said anything, probably never would, but that didn't mean Sam wasn't at least going to ask.

"Hey," he said as soon as he was close enough, setting his brother's beer down and watching it start to slide across the surface as the additional weight tilted the angle of the already unsteady table. His call, plus the scraping sound of glass on cheap plastic combined to pull Dean out of his musings, the older hunter reaching out a hand to collect up his drink seconds before it tipped off the edge altogether.

Sam sat down opposite him, searching eyes never leaving the source of his concern, "You okay?"

"Yeah Sam," it was said as a sigh, an unspoken stop asking me that. Sam ignored it.

"You sure? You looked pretty out of it to me."

"Yes Sam," God damn it, "Will you lay off already?"

He hadn't meant to sound so angry when he spoke but what the hell was he supposed to say?

Me? Fine, yeah. Ruby just told me a little story about Hell is all. You know, slowly morphing into a demon over hundreds of torturous years. Hey, I'll send you a postcard…

Angry was definitely the way to go.

It was better than scared.

Sam was still looking at him intently, gazing solemnly across the tabletop at him, beer sitting limply between his hands as he waited for Dean to say something, anything.

Time to change the subject.

"Hey, you know that rabbit we found?" Dean began suddenly, watching Sam's brow crinkle in confusion before continuing with a mildly irritated sigh, "At the witch's house," Sam still looked blank, "You know, strung up from the ceiling? Missing a couple of teeth…"

Recognition.

"The one at Amanda's?"

"Yeah,"

Sam paused, completely lost by the sudden change,

"What about it?"

Dean stared back at him, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips,

"Remind you of anything?"

Sam stared back at him unblinking, face awash with utter confusion. What in the hell was a dead rabbit supposed to remind him of? Slowly he shook his head, unable to offer the answer his brother was clearly waiting for,

"Like what?"

"It didn't remind you of Slimer?"

"Slimer?"

"Yeah!" Dean was grinning, broken from his earlier mood by whatever the hell he was talking about now, eyes shining brightly at some memory or other. A flicker of genuine surprise flashed briefly across his face, "You don't remember Slimer?"

Sam shrugged, opening his hands wide,

"Should I?"

"Hell yeah!"

Try as he might the youngest Winchester was still totally lost, his confusion only growing with each passing second. Dean sat staring across at him, obviously waiting for some flash of inspiration to hit. He was going to be waiting a long time.

"Who's Slimer?"

"Dude!" his brother groaned, exasperated, "Your rabbit!"

"My – ," Sam paused, blindsided by the response, "We had a rabbit?"

"Yeah!"

Another frown, more confusion.

"And…we called it Slimer?"

Taking a draught of his beer, Dean shook his head mid-swallow, pulling a face and pointing for added emphasis until he'd finished,

"No. Youcalled him Slimer."

"Me?"

"Yeah. I wanted to call him Optimus Prime but…" he shrugged by way of ending, the rest of the sentence unspoken but obvious, what you wanted, you got. That was my job. Still is. Sam however was still trying to wrap his head around the first part of the conversation, face screwed in bewilderment as he frantically wracked his brain for the memory and came up empty.

"Icalled him Slimer?"

"Yep," Dean nodded, leaning back in his chair, whole demeanour classic laid-back Dean once more, "You were big into Ghostbusters back then,"

"I was?" Sam's surprise was genuine, his voice rising in astonishment. He had no recollection of any of it, which perhaps wasn't entirely unusual. Over the years he seemed to have developed a strange knack for blotting out a lot of his childhood. Except the bad parts, he could always remember those. But Slimer? Not a thing.

"Yeah," Dean was chuckling to himself, lips to the beer bottle as he paused to take a sip, "Man, dad was pissed that I let you watch that movie, thought you were too young," he snorted, eyes at some invisible spot on the far wall as he thought back, laughing with dry humour, "Pretty ironic really."

Yeah. No kidding.

Ghostbusters? Had he really been into ghostbusters? Huh…wow.

"Hold on," sitting forward, beer still untouched in his hands as his brain worked over the new information, Sam quirked his lips into curious but doubtful smile, "Dad let us have a pet?"

"Well," Dean shrugged, suddenly becoming a little evasive, "Not exactly."

"Then how did we end up with one?"

"I traded a boy at school,"

"Traded what?"

Another evasive shrug,

"Just some stuff,"

"For a rabbit?" Sam was still struggling, brows drawn together like a pair of drapes across his creased forehead. It was almost like Dean was speaking in tongues, and despite the fact it was only a very simple conversation, Sam was still stumbling over the barest of the facts.

"Yeah," Dean offered casually, draining the last of his drink and waving at the girl for another. His expression suddenly became a little sheepish, "You said you wanted one…" So I got you one. Dean shook his head, the smile widening again, "Man, you loved that thing."

"I did?" Despite himself, Sam was smiling too, partly from Dean's evident happiness at the memory, and partly at the strange feeling of normality the story gave him. Having a pet. That was about as normal a thing as a child could do, and he'd managed it, even in the face of their overwhelmingly unorthodox lives. Sam's smile widened suddenly into a grin, feeling himself starting to bask in the warm glow of happy memories, "How long did we have it?"

"Four days."

"What?!" The answer caught him by surprise, blinking in astonishment, "Four days? What the hell happened to it?"

"Witches Sam,"

"Witches?"

"Freakin' witches."

No wonder he didn't remember, he was fast starting to believe that Dean was making it up. When his brother didn't prove forthcoming with any additional details however, Sam threw his hands wide, brow rising questioningly.

"What about witches Dean?"

"You really don't remember?" his tone sounded doubtful, his gaze suspicious, great, now neither one of us believes the other. Sam shook his head, a slight chuckle escaping his lips,

"No, I really don't."

Dean heaved a sigh, lazily watching as two drunken prostitutes staggered in across the threshold, simultaneous visions of leopard print and bright red lipstick, giggling and clinging on to one another in drunken stupor. One looked vaguely familiar…probably was. He got back to the topic at hand as he watched Sam's face follow his frown, his younger brother intuitive of his every expression. How could he not remember Slimer?

"Dad was on a hunt in Milwaukee," he began suddenly, tone still one of casual nonchalance, "We were in some joint run by this old broad – we called her Maleficent – ,"

Sam frowned suddenly, a flicker of something sparking deep in his memory banks. That sounded familiar. We named her after the witch in Sleeping Beauty. Dean had said that film was gay.

" – Dad wasn't around much, but you were too afraid of Maleficent being downstairs to sleep so we stayed up watching TV – ,"

That was oddly familiar too. He suddenly had a vision of meeting a craggy-faced old woman in the hall on his way to the bathroom. She'd been wearing a beauty mask and had her hair in curlers. He vaguely remembered screaming, remembered Dean appearing behind him, remembered a lecture on the proper time for young boys to be in bed. He remembered Dean calling her an old hag too. Although it wasn't to her face.

" – anyway, you saw this magician pulling a white rabbit out of his hat and decided you wanted one, so I asked around at school until I found some kid that had one."

He said it simply but the sentence itself spoke volumes. Sam had wanted, so Dean had got. It was a pattern that had repeated itself many times over, and yet Sam was suddenly sorry he couldn't remember all the details, feeling almost guilty that he had forgotten one of the many times Dean had gone out of his way to provide for him. He bit back a pang of emotion and cleared his throat, taking a swig of beer,

"What did you swap for it?"

Dean looked up,

"Huh?"

"For the rabbit…Slimer. What did you swap for him?"

Suddenly Dean looked a little awkward, scratching the back of his neck and shrugging,

"Uh, I swiped some old brooch off Maleficent. Got cash from a pawn shop."

Sam coughed in surprise,

"You what?"

Another shrug, decidedly more casual,

"She made you cry. Bitch had it coming."

Gradually Sam's face spread into a crooked smile. He actually liked this story.

"So then what?"

"Well, when dad came back we had to hide him, so I put him in a box in this storage shed in the back yard – had to take you down to say goodnight to him and everything. Told dad we were going to the bathroom, together," he added gruffly, that part of the experience clearly the mortifying part. Sam grinned,

"I still don't see how this has anything to do with witches Dean."

His older brother rolled his eyes,

"She was one."

"Huh? Who?"

"Maleficent."

"What?" How did he not remember that?

"Came home from school the next day and Slimer was all hacked up ready for the hex bag."

"Who's?"

"I don't know," Dean shrugged, looking thoughtful for a moment, "Probably mine judging by the way dad went off at her."

Sam blinked,

"Yours? You were like…what? Ten years old?"

"She didn't like my attitude," Dean replied, putting on falsely haughty tones in an obvious repetition of a line he'd heard from the woman. He grinned suddenly, that 'attitude' very much in evidence.

"So, wait, when did dad find out?"

"Later that night," he continued, nodding as the barmaid placed another beer down in front of him, offering him a wink to go alongside it. Dean smiled at her, his attention captured only briefly, "You blabbed about your rabbit to him and he made me tell him the whole thing. I think he was going to go for the 'responsibility' speech until I mentioned the whole slicing and dicing."

Sam snorted in wry amusement,

"I think I can guess what he did to Maleficent."

"Well," Dean sighed as he started on his next bottle, "Whatever it was, that place certainly wasn't a bed and breakfast when we left town the next day."

"No but I'll bet it was a crime scene," Sam replied dryly before a sudden thought came to him and he stopped absently spinning his coaster as he frowned, "So dad actually checked us into a place run by a witch?"

Dean pulled a face, instantly and unknowingly defensive,

"Low-level,"

"Yeah, but, a witch?" If ever Sam had needed proof that John Winchester had occasionally lapsed in his fatherly duties – and he really didn't – then that was it. A flicker of irritation crossed Dean's face,

"Come on dude, he was dealing with a werewolf gig. How was he supposed to know it was two for one? Besides, we just saw it, underneath all the spells and devil-worship witches are normal people. Librarians, teachers…there's no way of telling,"

Sam wasn't buying it. John should have known. Because he was their dad. He was a hunter. Sam bit his tongue, sensing the need to retrace their steps back onto firmer ground. Sighing lightly he took a sip of his drink,

"So, we throw Slimer a funeral? Bury him with full honours?"

As quickly as it had arrived, Dean's rising temper faded again.

"Nope. I told you that Slimer wanted to go back to his family and that I'd released him. Better than telling you he'd been ripped apart with a hacksaw."

Good call. And then suddenly Sam remembered a hint of that conversation, snatches of Dean's explanation – he missed his brother, like you and me, I had to let him go Sammy – and then, more vividly, what he'd thought as Dean had sat beside him on the bed wearing his serious face. Dean always does the right thing. He remembered that conversation well, he'd just forgotten what it was about. Absently he snorted, both from the sudden understanding of his own memories and another thought,

"So what your saying," he began slowly, smiling, "Is that I totally saved your ass?"

Dean blinked, moving forward to clarify the question.

"What?"

"Come on man, admit it! If I'd not blabbed to dad you would've been toast!"

The grumble that came back at him only made him grin wider,

"Would not."

"What?! You said yourself she'd got the hex bag ready for you!"

Dean pulled a face, brain desperately trying to think of a worthy argument,

"She – she…" he stopped as he realised there wasn't one, "Shut up."

Very mature. Luckily Sam was spared a response by the sound of a microphone's deafening whistle, followed by the thud of someone dropping it and an amplified curse. As all eyes turned towards the staging, the tatty curtain started to bat about wildly as someone struggled to emerge from behind them. It was certainly a well-oiled show.

Slamming his empty bottle onto the tabletop again, Dean let out a long satisfied sigh, wiping a hand across his mouth and looking up, bright-eyed,

"Time to go," he chirped cheerfully as behind them a woman well-past her prime tottered out onto the stage wearing clothes she'd obviously been poured into and clutching both a cigarette and a microphone in one hand. As the first strains of 'Nine to Five' hit the karaoke machine, Sam blinked in horror.

"Yeah, time to go."

Instead of crossing towards the exit however, Dean turned and headed for the bar, along with the pretty blonde barmaid standing behind it. Not that Dean had ever been a slouch in the lady department, but since his final year had started, he'd picked up the pace with vengeance. A free night not spent getting laid was a night wasted in his opinion.

Sam sighed and let him do it, hardly wanting to crap over what little fun his brother could get in his final months. Besides, why should Dean have changed the habit of a lifetime just because he was going to die? Sam stopped thinking at that point. He didn't want to get beyond that. He couldn't. Because Dean wasn't going to die.

Instead he let himself out into the warm air of the evening, loose chips of gravel skittering away under his feet as he headed towards the Impala through the maze of leather and chrome that made up the collection of Harleys parked out front. More bikers were arriving as the night drew in, perhaps for some Dolly Parton-style karaoke of their own. He smiled at the thought, coming to a standstill beside the Impala and leaning backwards against it.

Dean didn't take long to reappear, a piece of paper in his hand and a smile on his face. He was going to be busy later.

Sam grinned, watching him pass by a hillbilly-type rocking a very Ash-worthy mullet, his brother's voice biting across the parking lot in amusement,

"Hey Billy Ray, how's that heart? Still achy-breaky?"

He'd ask how Dean knew that song later, instead settling for watching him pull out the keys and round to the driver's side door. The hillbilly was staring across at him, a narrow-eyed glare about the bravest retort he could muster. Dean chuckled, catching his brother's eye as he slid into his seat,

"Good times Sammy," he sang happily, settling himself behind the wheel of his baby. Sam shut the door with a bang, unable to help the grin that came with seeing his brother so happy, and, if he was honest, so insolent. That was trademark Dean, always had been. It was bizarrely comforting.

"Yeah," he snorted in response, mind playing back to the story he'd just heard, recollections slowly coming back to him bit by bit, "Hey Dean?"

Leaning back across the seats, reversing out and trying not to hit half a dozen motorbikes as he went, Dean frowned absently,

"What?"

"I remember Banjo,"

The frown deepened,

"Banjo?"

"Sure," Sam's turn to blink, Dean didn't remember Banjo? "The dog we found in Tennessee."

"Oh right," there it was, Dean never forgot, "Man that dog was cool."

Sam nodded his agreement, Banjo had been cool for the short time they'd had him. Dean had rescued him off the side of the road one day and they'd stashed him in the boiler room at their school. Dad hadn't known about that one either. He paused suddenly, unable to connect up the beginning of the memory with an ending.

"Whatever happened to him?"

"Who Banjo?"

"Yeah,"

Dean fixed him a look, dubious,

"You sure you want to know?"

"Yeah…" although suddenly he didn't sound too certain. The answer was more straightforward than he'd anticipated.

"Possessed lunch-lady."

"What?!" He'd been better in ignorance after all. Dean sighed heavily,

"Yep. Remember me telling you not to eat the meatball stew?"

"No."

"Well, let's just say it's a good thing you didn't," Dean snorted again, "We didn't stay at that school long."

And just as suddenly as the memories of a 'normal' childhood had arrived, they vanished again, although for once Sam didn't mind so much, because any childhood memories – weird or otherwise – involved Dean, and that couldn't be entirely bad.

"So," Sam sighed, a hint of amusement creeping into his expression, "When are you seeing the barmaid?"

"Krystal."

"Krystal?"

"Yeah. Seven…oh, and I'm going to need the room tonight."

Sam blinked,

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"The movies?"

"I'm not eleven Dean,"

"The library?" he sounded hopeful, like a small child and suddenly Sam couldn't deny him. He sighed heavily, trying to sound more putout than he felt,

"I'll find somewhere," he grumbled, watching Dean grin.

"Thanks Sammy."

"Don't mention it."

And he meant it, all the things Dean had done for him he'd never once asked for thanks in return. In his last few months – no – well, last few months or not Dean deserved to be repaid, on one condition…

"You use my bed again, I'll kill you myself," His brother simply waggled his brows, "Dean!"

Okay, so he was going to have to kill him after all. Jerk.

"Bitch."

Whatever.

P.S. Will be posting my new story starting tomorrow!