So, yeah. We're going to Puerto Rico for a week, so it's packing central in my homely home right now, and I don't know when this will be finished… but I'm working on it as fast as I can! :D Thanks to those who reviewed – you're awesome!

Disclaimer: I don't own nuthin'.

"Oh my god, Mrs. Hepburn is a murder!" Charlotte squeaked, sitting down on the couch.

Dean raised an eyebrow at her. "You gave me the tip to start with," he reminded her. Her dark brown hair was sticking all over the place with the memory of her crazed kneading of it.

"But I didn't actually think she was a demonic psycho killer!" Charlotte's voice raised an octave with panic. "Oh my god, she buys my pies on Sundays!"

"I doubt she uses your pies for anything evil."

"You don't know that!" Charlotte leaped up, running a hand through her hair again. "What if my pies have been used for death?"

Dean resisted the urge to snigger at that. It was certainly a question he'd never been asked before. "How did you even get into this whole… magic thing?" he asked.

Charlotte looked at him, wide eyed. "What?" she asked, baffled for a moment. "Oh. Yeah." She pushed her hand into her hair. "There was this psychic named Missouri in my town who helped me fend off the poltergeist next door." She giggled slightly, as though it still sounded ridiculous.

Dean just stared. There had to be a point at which something was just too improbable, but the limit didn't seem to exist for Winchesters. "Could you repeat… that whole sentence?"

-X-

"There's no way," Sam whispered, staring at the little girl eating dinner at this house. She couldn't have been more than a year younger than Dean, maybe half as tall, with a little embroidered blouse and braids running down her head on either side, but the features were unmistakable, even the awkward little shuffle as she pushed her blouse back into her skirt, nervously regarding Sam and Dean.

Sammy smiled at her, looking about five at this point, and turned back to watch Dean's frustrated attempts to hold a knife steady enough to cut his food. Charlotte had a little brother too, blonde haired and blue eyed but otherwise a carbon copy of her, maybe a little younger than Sam. Her mother was tiny, hair cropped short, her father big, broad-shouldered and bearded.

Sammy finally intervened in the cutting of foot, silently taking the knife from Dean. Dean looked up, met Charlotte's eyes, then looked away again, shy and ashamed. Charlotte remained quiet, looking as though she wanted to offer comfort but couldn't think of anything. The parents were talking about the neighborhood, the local elementary school and the nearby college, and Sam got the impression that Charlotte's family had just moved in.

"Charlie, my sock has a hole in it," the little brother mumbled, looking down at his little toe. Charlotte reached down and pinched his foot gently, receiving a little squeal and a death glare that was impressive for a four or five year old.

Dean took the moment of distraction to pull back his utensils from Sammy and regain some of his dignity by eating on his own. Charlotte notice and smiled gently. "I like your eyes," she said, her voice high and quiet.

Dean choked slightly and smiled back. Charlotte faded back into awkwardness and turned back to her food. There was not another word spoken between the two of them that night, and Sammy and the other little brother were left to play with toy cars while the elder siblings watched, bringing a smile to Sam's face as he watched, sitting on the floor.

The scene soon faded, jumping a few years. Sammy had to have been six now, starting to look less like a baby and more like an older child while Dean was starting to look lanky and ready to be a preteen. It was the first time in all of these scenes that they seemed to be at home alone, and Sam wondered where John and Mary could be.

Sammy was curled up by the kitchen stove, reading a book surprisingly thick for his age while Dean finished up breakfast. Suddenly, his fork dropped, and he pushed the chair back, looking nauseous. Sammy looked up. "Dean?" he asked.

Dean didn't react, swallowing breaths nervously and staring at the floor. Sammy stood, placing the book on the table. "Are you about to have a seizure?" Sammy asked. Dean nodded, and Sammy didn't hesitate before helping him from the chair and onto the floor. Dean's foot twitched nervously, but Sammy ignored it, laying him down and folding his sweater under his head.

There had been times when Sam had been left alone in the car while Dean and John had gone on hunts. He remembered those times, sitting in the Impala with rifle balanced against his knees, hoping the scratching on the windows was just the bushes in the wind, wondering if this would be the hunt where the prey became predator and killed his brother and father just to have a chance at him.

There was a certain similarity between those times and the one he was watching now. Knees tucked under the chin, tenseness in every muscle and eyes too afraid to be closed. Give him a rifle, and Sammy would have been the same boy he once was, helpless to do anything but watch his brother seize and twitch, eyes rolled back and teeth clenched. Sam sat with him, not really existent but still offering his support in the ways that he could.

Finally it was over. Sammy stood quickly, grabbing a bottle of pills and a glass of water. "Here," he offered to Dean, who was panting and shaking. "Do you need them for the headache?"

Dean nodded faintly, gulping them down. Sammy's hand were quivering as well, and Dean set down the cup to wrap his hands around Sam's. He smiled, then made a quiet hissing sound. Sam and Sammy both watched him intently. He was trying to make an 's.' Dean's brow furrowed in determination, and Sammy's hand tightened on his. "S-sa-sam…" Dean took a breath. "Sammy."

Sammy's mouth hung open for a while. "Dean," he said, his voice choked, tears starting to come to his eyes. Dean watched him, looking frightened that he had done something wrong. "Dean, you said my name."

He collapsed into sobs, pulling Dean into his arms. Dean looked confused at best, letting himself be pulled whichever way Sammy wanted. His hands twitched, unsure whether to hug back or let himself be held. It seemed he still wasn't sure if he had done the right thing by speaking. Sammy held him close, sniffing. "Dean, you're the best brother ever," he burbled, planting a kiss in Dean's hair. "You're amazing." Another kiss.

Sam grinned at the look on Dean's face. He looked like a deer in the headlights, baffled and elated at the same time. He reached up slowly to hug Sammy back, relaxing into his arms, looking deeply proud of himself. By the time John and Mary came home, he was asleep in Sammy's arms, still on the kitchen floor. "He said my name," Sammy told them as soon as they were in the door. "He said it."

-X-

Dean was fourteen, then, on the sofa, rifling through his backpack, muttering softly to himself. Sammy thundered down the stairs. He came to a stop in front of Dean. "Are you checking that you have everything again?" he asked, sounding exasperated.

Dean looked up. "This is my first day of school in seven years," he said. He was much quieter than Sam's Dean was, and a lot thinner as well. His hair was longer, though not nearly as long as Sam's, and clearly trying to be marginally neat and failing. "I just don't want to screw it up."

Sammy sighed, bouncing onto the sofa beside Dean. "Dude. You're a genius, you're likable, and you're good looking. What could possibly go wrong?" Dean shrugged, looking green around the edges. Sammy rolled his eyes. "You'll be fine." He nudged Dean gently with his shoulder. "Hey, if it makes you feel better, maybe you can wear dad's leather jacket to school."

Dean gave Sammy a look. "Sammy, can you really see me in Dad's jacket?"

Sammy shrugged. "Just a suggestion. Hey, when do you think I'll be big enough to wear it?"

Dean snorted. "Sammy, I'm pretty sure you're gonna be short forever."

"Shut up."

And by that point, Sam was pretty sure he'd be laughing forever. He couldn't wait to get back to his Dean and tell him just how adorable he was in this world. Dean would probably kill him, but it would be worth it.

-X-

Someone had put up a calendar in the kitchen, making it easier for Sam to draw parallels between his world and this one. This, for example, was the day he and John had had their first big, earth-rending fight, a few days before his thirteenth birthday, and yet here he was eating bologna sandwiches with his father in amicable silence.

"Hey, Dad?" Sammy asked suddenly, pushing at a tooth with his tongue. "When did Dean loose his last baby tooth?"

John thought. "Oh, I don't know. I think he was thirteen." He looked up. "Why? You got a loose one?"

Sammy nodded. "Yeah, I think it's moving a little. It's my last one."

"We could pull it if you want," John said. Sammy looked contemplative. "I'll go get pliers."

"You think they'll work?"

"Only one way to find out."

Sammy grinned. "Let's do it."

Sam watched as they hurried to get pliers, looking like two conspiring boys. How that had happened, Sam had no idea. He leaned back and thought through the reasons he had always butted heads with John. A lot of it was hunting – and a lot was just a need for independence. Of course, hunting wasn't there, which meant John wouldn't have viewed his children as soldiers. He was probably the hands-off parent, the one who would let him do anything within reason (and a little without). Besides, Sam had always been so similar to John in a lot of ways. He shook his head. Who would have thought?

They came back into the kitchen, looking eager. "You want a Tylenol?" John asked.

"Nah, just take it out, I think it's loose anyway."

It couldn't have been too loose, Sam thought, since they had been at it for a long while now and hadn't managed to free anything but a small amount of blood. "Maybe we could take a hammer to the pliers," Sammy suggested. "One for the grip and one to knock it out."

John shrugged. "Yeah, sure, let's do that." He went and got a hammer and they were at it again. It took a while and a lot of protest and squeaking and some quickly caught curses, but they finally managed to get out a nicely bloodied tooth, just as Dean walked in.

"Hah!" John cried out in victory, holding the pliers up into the air, tooth still clamped into them. Sammy's eyes widened and he managed a quick, "Oh, hi Dean," before Dean folded in a dead faint. Mary seemed to think this was the perfect moment to walk in, taking in the entire scene and running to rouse Dean.

"What are you doing?" she said, looking at them over her shoulder.

"Um…" Sammy managed. "Pulling teeth?"

She glared at him coldly. "I can see that, Samuel Winchester."

"Well," John said sheepishly. "At least we got it out, right?"

This chapter felt a little disjointed, but to be fair, I wrote it with very little sleep and when I started editing (with more sleep), I wasn't really sure what to do with it, so I just figured I'd leave it the way it was. Anywho, I hope you liked it!