Chapter 2

All worries in the world had left him. His head had squashed and mashed till it found the perfect lumps in the pillow. His duvet wasn't too warm and it wasn't too short. The night was quiet without any obnoxious repetitious sounds. Not a dribble from the faucet. Not even the tick of a wall clock. This was heaven. The air smelled like sweat, but not just his. His brother's as well. Not many people would claim to love that smell, but – then again – not many people had lost their brothers to hell.

He sighed. Yup. This was heaven. He shifted just to feel the sheet gently scratch his bare back. The sheer pleasure of it. He sighed again. A deep sigh. His eyes slowly closed and his breathing evened out. He was dancing the fine line between sleep and consciousness, moving in the right direction. Like a line-dancer with an umbrella, who just couldn't wait to take the plunge into oblivion.

Then it happened.

At first a shuffle. Sheets shifted. Then a grunt. More shifting. The second grunt was what sent him careening back to consciousness. It took a full second, but he got there. Not much could stop him if ever he heard that tell-tale sound of Sam in trouble. His heavy lids snapped open, but not quite all the way. He tensed. Another grunt from the twin bed and he was sitting. "Sam?" He ran a hand over his face as he spoke and muffled the word.

Not thinking, he rolled from his bed and flicked on the light. There he saw Sam. Not thrashing, but jerking. Like he'd seen creatures do seconds before their death. Little convulsions. "Sam!" His snap brought both men back to the surface. Dean's bleary-eyed weariness was banished permanently as Sam felt an infusion of adrenaline bring him up and about. The younger brother shied violently away from the elder, with the result of him hitting the floor.

"Jesus." Dean knew this dance and sipped into big-brother mode without being told. He rounded the bed and kneeled in front of his brother in two seconds flat. "It's alright. I gotcha," But Sam didn't seem to listen. "Kiddo, relax!" He barked when one of Sam's flailing limbs struck out and caught him on the knee.

"What's happening . . .What's happening . . .Where am I?" His voice was breathless to put it mildly.

"We're in our room, we're fin-"

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"What date?" the young'un demanded a little more flippantly than Dean would've tolerated, were he more lucid.

"I dunno. Uhh, the twelfth,"

Sam exhaled deeply in a visible attempt to calm himself. "Of. . .?"

"Of June. Christ, Sam. You want me to count your fingers and toes while we're at it?"

"Why would you-"

"Just shaddup!" he rose and cursed whatever god was listening for his rotten nightmare-prone brother. All happiness from a few moments ago, gone. "God, I can't feel my thigh." He rubbed the bruised limb while walking to the coffee machine. "Should'a played soccer."

"I did," was Sam's terse response.

The comment banished his sour mood a little. Dean couldn't help but smile. Even when angry it was the greatest sound he'd ever heard. All the sounds his brother made were like angelic choirs these days. They made goosebumps riddle his skin and silly smiles tug at each corner of his lips. And he couldn't stop it. No matter how grumpy he got; one word from Sam and he'd smile. Hell the kid had barely spoken at all since getting a soul, but just the breathing was heaven.

He just prayed to God Sam never found any of that out. The mocking would be relentless. "I'm makin' coffee. You want?"

"Yeah," The sheets shuffled some more as the younger brother creped out of bed.

"One condition, though. You tell me what you dreamt about just now?"

"Fine,"

And another wondrous thing to come of Sam's new soul: The complete openness. He was so relaxed. So in control and yet not. The nightmares were plain indicators of that, but he still rolled so gracefully with the punches. They would wake up, Dean would make coffee and Sam would talk. Almost a week had passed since the re-spirification, as Dean so lovingly dubbed it – and almost time for their first session with Dr. Flintstein.

So far the worst of it were the nightmares, but those were tolerable. Mostly dreams of events Sam had no real memory of. Dean figured they might be imprints of the soul, but didn't press it. He was just glad to finally have some semblance of his brother back. He clunkered down with two mugs. "Spill."

Sam copied him. "Don't know what exactly you expect to get from it. Same dream as last night," Dean pushed over the coffee and Sam gulped a sip before continuing. "I'm walking through a house and out comes this kid," Sam's face flickered so fast Dean barely noticed. "And there's a woman working in the kitchen. . ."

As, so eloquently put by the younger Winchester, Sam really had no idea what Dean gained from the nightly repetitions. Almost each night Sam had the same dream. They would sit and Sam would go over it in detail. What he didn't know was that Dean was cataloguing every muscle-contraction on his brother's face as he told that tale. Every time he mentioned 'the woman' his nose would flair. As if he wanted to smile, but didn't. But that wasn't what made Dean demand these repeats every night.

At a certain point Sam would stop and stare into the wax table cloth. At the mention of a middle-aged man his eyes would go dull, to the point where Dean thought he'd lost his soul again, and then he'd continue as if nothing happened. But at that moment, every single one, Dean felt hope waver. For some reason something was still offsetting his senses and he was determined to figure out what.

"And then I'm by the sea." Sam drank his coffee and rubbed his face leisurely. "Why is that so fascinating?"

"You're not curious?" Dean countered.

"'Bout what?"

"About. . ." How to put this delicately. "Why you're dreaming about people and places you've never seen."

Sam shrugged and toyed with his half empty cup. "Doesn't seem like any of my business,"

Dean scoffed. "Only you would get into this kinda situation."

"What situation?" he demanded hotly, not knowing Dean already had the upper-hand.

One didn't have to have been captain of the debate-team in order to win arguments. "One where you lose your own soul; has to rent another and wonders about it's privacy."

"It's not the soul's privacy."

He's mouthin' off again. Dean smiled. "Oh no?"

"No."

"So it's the person that soul belongs to?"

"Yeah." Still reveling in the perceived win, Sam failed to notice his own doom.

"But how's that possible if the soul's no longer attached to that person in any way?"

Silence fell and Dean returned to his coffee and flicked on an episode of 'Glee'. "That's what I thought." Both brothers stayed up for two hours before collapsing in front of the TV. And yet again, both woke bright and early with very little need for more sleep. It was the morning of their first of many weekly sessions. Dean was feeling more than a little aggravated at having to revisit the clinic, but Sam made him promise.

The way he posed it, Dean didn't really see a choice on his part. Sam was the one being a stubborn ass. "It's not mine, Dean. I can't just take it and drive off never to be seen again. Someone's gonna need their soul again someday and until we get back my old one I gotta play by the rules."

"Whose rules? Flintstone's or Crowley's?"

"Flintstein and yes: His. He's legal and covered in all of this – if only marginally. If we run what's to stop him from putting out an APB on us? You heard him, the guy loves his souls, Dean. Not just gonna let one slip away."

"Still sucks ass and you know it," He reached for his gun. "And you can't tell me he doesn't give you the heebies."

Sam shivered a little, much to Dean's enjoyment. "No, but he's our. . ." He searched for the right word. "Subletter?"

"Is that even a word?" Dean pondered his brother as he stuffed a third knife down his pants.

"Careful or you're gonna cut off somethin' that's supposed to be there,"

Dean smiled at his little brother's snappy remark. God, he'd missed those. And not the ruthless, intelligent bribes of RoboSam, either. But real, heartfelt comebacks.

"Watch me. He blinks too quick and I'm dropping him before he can cry uncle." He banged open the door with all the bravado of his glory days. Sam followed with a smirk like before, but even so there was something alien behind that smirk. Something still unchartered and probably better left alone. Dean felt it.

"Dean? You ready?" Sam eyed his sibling from across the car.

The keys hovered in front of the ignition, but he had yet to ignite. "Huh- Yeah, I'm goin'. Keep your pants on."

The drive was shorter than Dean would've liked. The meeting took longer and the strange aftereffect on Sam was grating his nerves thin. "You alright?"

Sam was staring into blank space after leaving the doctor's office. "You think. . ."

"Do I think what?" Dean turned on his bed to study his brother without pretense.

"That . . . I'm . . . damaged somehow?"

He ground his jaw and squeezed an inch harder around the duvet. "No, I don't think you're damaged, Sam. You heard Flintstone. This is just until the soul binds with your remaining soul."

"Yeah, but what if I don't want it to?" Sam looked over, what seemed like an ocean of distance.

"Why wouldn't you want it to?"

"Because . . ." He sighed. "Because if it does, what happens to my original soul?"

"That's five percent, Sammy. You got a whole soul waiting for you," in hell.

"In hell."

Damn. Dean tried to act nonchalant, fully aware of the consequences of Sam's soul being stuck in hell for almost a year. Even when his body wasn't. The body wasn't the one that remembered hell – the soul was. "So what? I went through it and I know what to expect. Don't worry so much. We do the jobs Crowley throws our way till we find the damn alpha."

"What if we never do? What if I'm old and grey before I get my soul back? What if the owner of this soul suddenly decides he wants it back?" Sam shivered.

"Sam, relax." Dean tried to chastise gently, but came off sounding angry. "Nothing will happen to you. I got your back, remember?"

The darker brother nodded through a deep exhale, but refused to look up.

Dean remembered too clearly how RoboSam had betrayed him in almost every way possible, several times over, since their reunion. He knew in his head that the Sam before him wasn't cold or callous, but his heart still pounded furiously before every hunt. Once bitten, twice shy it seemed. He was waiting for the moment Sam switched back and let some beast or another get their grab at Dean. It was killing his sanity quicker than the sleep deprivation was. "I promise."

That caught Sam's attention and the younger brother looked up. "I'm starting to remember stuff."

Is that guilt? "Like what?" He knew he had to kill it before it was allowed a chance to fester.

"Like . . . the Sam before. Before the soul,"

"Your soul, Sam."

He shook his head. "It's not mine and it never will be."

Dean sighed and sat back. It looked to be a long afternoon. "It's yours till we get yours back," He slipped out of his jacket. "Quit worryin' about it and start thinking about how to catch that werewolf."

"What if it takes over?"

"It won't." He moved to the coffee machine. The brief silence that filled the room before his brother's next words should've warned him.

Sam picked at the linen. "It's already doing it."

Dean froze in his tracks and turned. "What?"

"I can feel it a little more each night."

"You mean you're changing?" This was worse. This would need fixing. Immediately.

"Not . . . exactly, but . . . yeah," He sighed and angled his body away from Dean. "It's like I can feel myself changing, but the only way to stop it is to refuse the soul."

"Refuse the soul? You can do that?"

He shrugged. "It's in me, I'm not in it," he said simply. It explained enough. "I can feel it pressing to merge with whatever's left of my own soul, but I just . . ."

"You just what?" He heard the worry clear as day in his own voice and knew they were screwed.

"I think it'll kill what's left of the old one. Or change it to fit."

"Yeah . . . well," Dean was at a loss for words. "That happens?"

"Why?" Sam peered up, honestly asking and praying for some type of answer from his brother.

"Well . . . Uh . . . From the way Flintstone told us I figure it's like a compromise. The soul can choose to blend with you, but if it does it needs to latch onto something."

"Like a parasite?" In an instant he went defensive.

"Yeah," Dean smirked at the horrible mental image. "Or like . . . pregnancy."

"That's not better,"

"It's a little better."

"Not really."

Dean smirked again and continued his way to the coffee machine. The next muttered words were so low he hardly caught them.

"I don't wanna lose myself."

He turned and saw his brother, head down, picking at the linen with renewed vigor. "I'm not gonna let that happen," He sighed, knowing he was about to admit something he'd strongly regret. "Look, the way I see it, you and I are the most codependent bastards on planet earth. We're so alike it freaks me out sometimes,"

Sam smirked.

"And that means. . ." He took a step towards his brother and leveled him with a strong stare. "-whatever's in you is in me," He shrugged. "And I'm still here. Always gonna be here as long as you need me."

Sam looked up with wide eyes. "I hope that's enough."

Another three weeks came and went. Three more sessions in Dr. Flintstein's office. Three excruciatingly long hours, where Dean couldn't stop fidgeting. Then, at the last session, the doctor declared that Sam was making remarkable progress and that they could dial back sessions to once a month for one more month. Dean glared at him at that and remarked that he meant 'one last session and then we're free?' Since then, barely two days had passed. They had a whole month to kill.

Winter was approaching, but still only visible early in the morning. Rime covered everything from three am to eight am. Everything shone in an ethereal glow in the fledgling stages of dawn and the ground sparkled. The earth was packed and frozen too which made digging harder. This was the time of year both brothers, for as long as they could remember, would pray every night for anything but a ghost hunt.

Even John hated winter and had usually migrated to the southern states, simply ignoring the issue, claiming 'it was like digging through permafrost with his bare hands'. They had done three hunts since Sam's new soul. Two ghosts and one rogue vampire. The days blended together as both became complacent with their new situation. If Sam had known any better he wouldn't have believed his brother's calm exterior for one second. If Sam's soul had been his own, Dean mentally corrected. The small difference had grown the past weeks.

Sam still reacted like a normal person. Still moved as before. But now it seemed . . . different.

"Hey, you want some more coffee?"

Dean looked up from his spot on the wall. "Yeah sounds fine."

Sam sent him a glance from his spot by the stove. "You okay?"

"Hm?" Dean forcefully tore his eyes away from the wall. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Just, you look a little freaked." Sam sat down with two steaming mugs.

Dean sighed and rubbed his face. "Ahh, shit. Alright. You want the truth?"

"It's me, isn't it." Sam nodded, already expecting the answer.

Dean sighed again. "It's just . . . You smell different, Sam," The younger brother looked up in surprise. "I didn't even notice it at first, but you do. And . . . you talk more in your sleep than you've ever done before. You even talk differently."

The younger brother nodded and picked at a splint in his cup.

"But it's either this or-"

"RoboSam."

Dean arched a brow in surprise. He hadn't thought his brother knew that particular nickname. Hoped, was perhaps the word.

"I'm not the only one who talks in my sleep," Both brothers sighed then. "You think I don't notice that I'm slipping, but I do. I just don't know what's better: Knowing that what little of my soul I had left is dying, or knowing what I'll become without one."

"Lose lose situation."

"Hm."

Pensive silence settled over the table. It was a new motel. Smelled funny. This one had a wall clock Dean already hated. "So what do you wanna do?"

He shrugged. "I can't go back, Dean," A shiver raced across his arms. Dean saw his hairs stand on edge. "I can't. Not knowing what I'll become. What it's like."

"You won't. You'll keep the soul and I'll just have to get used to it," He clapped his brother's hand awkwardly. "We're just a little outta sync that's all."

Sam smiled sheepishly back.

"Aw, well would you look at that?" A rough British accent commented snidely from the corner.

Two bodies shot out of their seats and turned to face the king of hell. "Such a lovely way to put it, Dean." He wasn't quite smirking, but that little grin that never left his face seemed more smug than usual.

"Go to hell,"

"Just came from there, actually. Heard the strangest thing, too," He stepped forward, outwardly calm.

Damn bastard. He knows I don't have a gun on me.

Crowley smirked. "How are you feeling, Sam?" He focused his attention on the younger brother who suddenly shrunk under the intense scrutiny.

"Stay away from him." Dean stepped into their line of sight with a wrathful glare.

"You little weasels," Crowley's smirk grew a little angry without losing its smugness.

"That's cute coming from you," Dean spat and poured on the fake bravado extra thick. Anything to veer the attention away from his brother.

"You think you could go out and get a soul without tellin' me?" His question sounded hoarse.

Dean could just barely feel his brother trembling behind him. "It's not really any of your business what we do when we're not hunting," He took two full steps forward. "So why don't you just. Back. Off." He leered down at the shorter man, who suddenly laughed in earnest.

"You know, this little scenic route seriously derails all my hard work. Sam loses his edge in the fight and you suddenly think you're all that." He smacked his lips at the two, tall men. "One might be tempted to do something about that cockiness of yours."

"Try me." Dean growled the best way he could. Had John Winchester seen, he would've been proud.

Crowley smirked again.

"You touch him and I swear I'll find a way to end you,"

"Why would I wanna touch him?" The Demon King held out his hands innocently and backed away from Dean's haughty stare. "When all I have to do is snap." He snapped his fingers and vanished.

Dean flinched and did a full 360 of the room. It wasn't until he met Sam's eyes again, his body went ice cold. "Sammy?"

Sam's shaking had tripled. His hands flinched every other second as he backed away. "N-No."

"Sam, what is it?" Dean rushed over and put his hands on his brother's shoulders.

"Wh-what did he d-do?" He fell to his knees. His shoulders shook. His hands fluttered in front of him like butterflies.

"Sam, tell me what's wrong!" Dean felt his own body trembling. His shoulders hunched and his head immediately hurt. "Sam?"

"It's slipping," He looked up in terror. "Dean, it's slipping! He's ripping it out! Dean, it's slipping!" His hoarse scream filled the room. Oh god, on no nononono!

"The soul?" Dean's voice shrilled on the last word in ways it only did when Sam was involved.

"I can't go back, can't go back there!"

"Oh no you don't. C'mon!" Dean hauled him off his feet and pulled him forcefully from the room. If there was even the slimmest chance in hell he could fix this, he would. He hurried his brother to the car and pulled out, heading towards New York. Towards Flintstein.

15