In a Desperate Land Chapter 4: The Road to Damascus, a supernatural fanfic

A/N: Because I was dying for a flashback chapter. Didn't mean for it to turn into an epic, but what are you going to do? Thanks again, everyone, for the great reviews.

THEN: Dean steals Sam's powers so that he can make a deal with the Demon, giving up a piece of his soul in exchange for Sam's safety. Sam meets up with Missouri, who gives him a clue on where Dean might be staying. Also, Dean's been a very naughty boy.

NOW:

Sam stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon, looking down and down and down. He didn't like it here, didn't like that there was no end to how far you could fall, but Dean had wanted to come, so Sam had come with him.

Now they were standing and looking down and Sam wished they had never come in the first place.

"It's amazing," Dean said, and Sam looked at him. Dean looked calm, serene . . . a little like an angel actually, leather jacket, biker boots, and all. Sam didn't like it, didn't like Dean looking like an angel—angels were too ready to sacrifice themselves, to ready jump ahead and take the hit. And Sam was pretty sure that angels could still bleed.

Sam was so tired of seeing his brother bleed.

Dean nudged Sam's shoulder. "It's amazing," he said again, as if they were speaking from a script and Sam had simply missed his cue. Sam knew he was probably supposed to agree, but he just didn't have it in him.

So, instead, he shrugged. "If you say so, man."

"Oh, come on, Sam. Look at it. It's like freaking perfect." Dean grinned and stepped forward, and Sam didn't like how his toes hung over the edge. "I bet you could just fall forward and never stop, never land. I bet you could fall forever." His grin disappeared instantly. "God, that sounds nice."

"Dean—"

"If I didn't have you to look out for, Sammy, that's exactly what I'd do."

Sam's breath caught in his throat. He put his hand on his brother's arm as Dean looked down at the abyss with something close to need. "Don't say that, man. Please, Dean, don't say it."

Dean just shrugged. "Sorry," he said. "It's the truth. It's always been the truth. You're the only thing keeping me here, tethered to the earth and the hell that's on it." He sighed, kicking at the loose soil under his foot. "I'm tired, man. You can't know how tired I am."

"I do," Sam said desperately. "I know. But it's going to be okay. I'll make it okay. One way or another, I'll make it okay, Dean. I swear to you. You're my brother, man. I love you."

Dean glanced at him. "Yeah?" he asked. "Really?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, of course really, you dumbass."

Dean smiled quietly. "Then prove it," he said.

At first, Sam didn't know what he was talking about.

Then, suddenly, he did.

"No," Sam said sharply, shaking his head and backing away. "No. No, Dean. I'm not going to do that."

"You got to, Sammy," Dean said earnestly. He took a step towards Sam as Sam took another step back. "Please, man, I got no one else to ask. I need you to do this. You have to do this for me."

Sam shook his head. "No way, Dean," he said. "I won't do it. I won't let you leave me."

Dean smiled bitterly. "Oh," he said. "Guess I should have realized. It's all about you, right? It's always been all about you."

"Dean, I didn't—"

"Sam," Dean said.

Sam stopped.

Dean took a step away, and looked down at the edge for a long minute. When he looked back, he was crying. He looked like a broken child.

"Please, Sam. I'm begging you, man. You have to do this. You have to free me."

And Sam gulped back breath, because he couldn't deny Dean this. He wanted to, God, he wanted to, but Dean had sacrificed everything for him.

"Okay," Sam said quietly, not looking up. "If that's what you really want."

Dean's smile was beatific. "Yeah," he said. "That's what I really want."

"Okay," Sam said. "Okay."

And he shoved his brother off the cliff.

II.

Sam woke up with a start, knees jerking upwards and slamming into the steering wheel. He swore as he bent over in pain (as much as he could, anyway; the Impala didn't leave a whole lot of room for maneuverability) and looked blearily around him, trying to remember where he was. He had pulled over awhile ago, aware that his lack of sleep was seriously catching up to him. He had nearly veered off the road three times, and that was after a close call with meeting a semi head-on.

Yeah, Dean-In-His-Head had said. THAT's the way to pay me back for my sacrifice. Get yourself killed on the middle of some highway and, oh, yeah, destroy my CAR. Good plan, buddy, glad college paid off for you. I mean, really, Sam, that's an AWESOME rescue attempt.

Fuck off, Sam had thought back. I didn't ASK you to do this for me. But he had listened anyway, as usual, and pulled over on the side of the road, telling himself that he'd only rest for half an hour, hour tops.

Sam turned on the car to discover he'd been asleep for four hours.

"Shit," he swore under his breath, and pulled the car back onto the road. He still had a whole lot of miles to go before he reached California, and that was assuming that Dean was even there.

He'll be there, Dean-In-His-Head said softly. He picked that motel for a reason. He's waiting for you.

"Yeah," Sam said quietly to himself. "Yeah, I know. It's a real funkytown."

III.

"Dude. We NEED some code words."

Sam barely looked up. He needed this paper done by tomorrow, or Mrs. Miller would be really mad. Mrs. Miller didn't like things late—she didn't believe in excuses, even if they were good excuses. And Sam had a good excuse, a really good one (how was he supposed to write about his summer vacation? It's not like he could say he was helping Dad research werewolves, not unless he wanted to be sent to the looney-bin, which, no; he couldn't be with Dean there).

But even if Sam could explain that to Mrs. Miller, she'd just say that this was an excuse, not a reason. Sam liked Mrs. Miller and all, but sometimes that excuse-reason stuff really drove him nuts.

Sam stared down at his blank piece of paper and tapped his pencil against it. "What do normal kids do for summer vacation?" he asked his brother.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Go to Disneyland or something? Man, who cares? We TOTALLY need code words."

"Dean, we don't need code words."

"Sure we do."

Sam sighed. Dean was always acting like a grown-up, always taking care of him, doing all the stuff that Dad forgot about. Why did he have to pick TODAY of all days to act like a kid? "For what?" he asked.

"For—I don't know. Like . . . like what if . . . what if a vamp got one of us or something? Yeah, this big, bad, vampire dude kidnapped one of us and made us call Dad and use us as bait or something, right? Yeah, then, if we had a code word, we could warn Dad that it was a trap, and the vampire wouldn't know and Dad could come in kicking ass and taking names and it would be awesome! The vamp would never know."

"Vampires aren't real. And why would they be calling Dad, anyway? Wouldn't they just eat you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "That's not the point," he complained. He jumped off the couch which he'd been practically bouncing off to begin with, and came to stand over by Sam, hands energetically tapping the sides of the table to the sound of the radio coming from the other room. Sam sighed again. You'd think DEAN was the nine year old in the room.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean said when Sam tried to return to his homework. "It'll be fun, coming up with something. We just need to find the perfect word. What about . . . tangerine?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Tangerine?"

"What's wrong with tangerine?"

"Dean, who goes around casually talking about tangerines?" Sam put his hand to the side of his face, mimicking a person talking on the phone. "Hey, Dad, I need you to pick me up after I mysteriously disappeared and, hey, look! A tangerine!" Sam shook his head. "You don't think the vamp might get suspicious?"

"Maybe vampires are stupid."

"Maybe you're stupid."

Dean looked at him. "Jeez, what's with you?" he asked. He sat down in a chair next to Sam, finally stopping with all the pacing and the hovering, but his legs jittered against the floor and his hands drummed out beats even more frenetically against the table top.

He peered curiously at the piece of paper Sam was glaring holes into. "What are you writing, anyway?"

"Essay."

"About summer vacation?" When Sam nodded, Dean just shrugged, and waved one slightly shaky hand in the air. "So lie," he said. "Say you went to Disneyland, rode a bunch of rides, screamed like a girl, and got a picture with Mickey Mouse. What's so hard about it?"

Sam ground his teeth. He loved his brother, but he just didn't get it. "If we were normal, I wouldn't HAVE to lie."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Here we go," he said dryly, and stood up from the chair, idly hopping from one foot to another. Sam watched him critically for a minute, looking at all the candy wrappers spread around the room. "You shouldn't eat so much sugar," he said. "Mrs. Miller says it's bad for you."

"Yeah, well, Mrs. Miller's a dyke."

"Dean!" Sam didn't know what that word meant, exactly, but he knew it wasn't a nice word, and Mrs. Miller wasn't mean. She was a little strict, yeah, and always did that I-need-a-reason-not-an-excuse bit, but she'd never said anything rude, at least not to Sam. She did talk to Dean once, though, after Dean picked Sam up from class. Sam didn't know what she said, but Dean had hated her ever since. "You shouldn't call people names," he told his brother.

"Why not, asswipe?" Dean went to ruffle Sam's hair, and Sam swung at him before he could get the chance. Dean laughed, back peddling, but then suddenly wavered, a strange look crossing his face. His arms went out to his sides, as if trying to maintain his balance.

"Dean?" Sam said uncertainly, but Dean didn't answer. His eyes were closed and the look on his face was concentrated, like it took every ounce of his being to stay still and on his feet. After a minute, he slowly opened his eyes with a small, shaky grin. "Whoa," he said quietly. "Little head rush."

Sam put down his pencil. "Dean, are you okay?"

Dean licked his lips, looking up at Sam and then away. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah." He walked over to the empty chair by Sam and sat down carefully, eyes on the ground. "I'm good, Sam," he said when Sam continued to stare at him. "Just . . . a little dizzy is all. Throw me those M&M's, would you?"

Sam did so but frowned. "I'm serious, Dean," he said. "You're not supposed to eat just sugar. Even DAD says that." Dean just laughed at him, and Sam frowned harder. "You should eat something . . . better," he said. "Like . . . like . . . carrots . . . or something."

Dean poured a handful of M&M's into his mouth. "Can't," he said, around the chocolate. "Don't got enough food."

"What do you mean? We got stuff. Uh, we got . . . I don't know . . . bread and peanut butter and . . . stuff. You could make a sandwich."

"That's for your lunch tomorrow."

"What about YOUR lunch?"

Dean shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

"Dean—"

"Sam, I said, don't worry about it. Now, are you going to help me pick a code word or not?"

Sam sighed. He knew what Dean was doing, but he let himself be distracted. He knew he'd lose any argument, anyway. "How about Disneyland?" Sam said, after a minute. "Dad could ask something like 'How are you doing?' and I could say, 'Well, I'd rather be in Disneyland'."

Dean thought about that for a moment before eventually shaking his head. "Nah," he said. "Knowing you and Dad, he'd probably think you were serious. What about . . . John McClane?"

"Dean! That's even stupider than tangerine!"

"It is not! John McClane's awesome!"

"Yeah, as a good guy. As a codeword, he sucks."

"You suck."

"No, you suck."

"No, YOU—hey!"

"What?"

Dean looked excited. "Listen to the radio."

Talk about, talk about

Talk about movin

Gotta move on

Won't you take me to Funkytown?

Sam shrugged. He didn't get what the big deal was . . . it was just some song, not even one that Dean would like. "Yeah?" he said. "So what?"

Dean rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Come on, Sammy! That's it?"

"What's it?"

"Funkytown! That's our code word!"

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "That is so lame."

"It's not lame! It's genius!"

"You're crazy."

"Yeah, well, you're a geek." Dean indicated the paper Sam was trying to write with one hand. "Why don't you just blow this off? It's only one paper. It's not that big of a deal. Besides, First Blood's coming on in five minutes."

"I can't blow it off!" Sam said, horrified. "This is IMPORTANT, Dean. Way more important than some stupid movie."

"Some stupid movie?" Dean looked as horrified as Sam felt. "Dude, it's First Blood! It's not just ANY movie."

Sam shrugged. "Whatever."

"Whatever? Dude, I thought you were supposed to be my little brother, not my little SISTER."

"Oh, shut up."

"Or what, Samantha? You'll curl your hair and POUT at me?"

Sam looked back at his homework and tried his best to ignore his now grinning brother.

"Samantha! Oh, Samantha!"

". . . ."

"Samantha, I need some help with my hair!"

". . . ."

"Oh, come on, Samantha. Do you think these shoes match with this purse?"

Sam gritted his teeth and ignored Dean. 'I'm not giving in' he thought. 'I'm not giving in.'

At least, not until Dean started singing 'Funkytown' at the top of his lungs.

Then . . .

"That's it!"

. . . and Sam forgot all about his homework.

IV.

Sam remembered lunging at his brother, driving him back into the living room and assaulting him with couch pillows. Dean laughed the entire time, easily deflecting each block or rolling out of the way.

Dizzy, half-starved, and sugar high . . . and you still had me pinned in ten seconds flat.

I know, Dean-In-His-Head said. I was just all kinds of awesome, wasn't I?

Sam laughed a little to himself. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you were."

He was driving past Black Forest, Colorado now, a town that the Winchesters had lived in for about two months. Not a lot of good memories here—not a lot of good memories in a lot of places. It was pretty much impossible to drive anywhere without thinking of Dean—the two of them had been everywhere together, either lived or hunted or traveled through. Each town he passed was haunted with more than ghosts. Sam was haunted by memory

Do you remember this town, man? Dean-In-His-Head asked. You must have got beat up, what? Three, four times before I finally got the truth out of you?

Sam smiled helplessly. "Yeah," he said, "I remember." There had been this girl, Kasey, who had wanted help with her homework. Kasey's boyfriend, who had been a few years older, got the idea that Kasey wanted more than scholastic help from Sam. Kasey's boyfriend and his five friends helped Sam into the hospital by breaking his collarbone.

That's what you get, for looking at my girl. Nobody, NOBODY, looks at my girl.

Sam laughed dryly. "If I hadn't been in the most excruciating pain of my entire life," he said, "I might have had something to say about recycling cliché lines from bad movies."

Yeah, Dean-In-His-Head agreed. They weren't too witty, were they? And man, you're right, broken collarbones SUCK. But they got theirs in the end, Sammy. You know I made sure of that.

God had he. Sam had been high as a kite on whatever drug he'd been given, so Dean didn't have a whole lot of trouble getting the story out of him. The first few roughing ups had been small stuff, nothing big that Sam couldn't handle on his own, but the last time Kasey's boyfriend, Tom, had meant business. And though Sam hadn't wanted Dean or Dad to know, he couldn't hide a broken collarbone. He had to go to the hospital.

When Dean pushed, Sam spilled. He told about everything that had happened, and at one point he started crying, though he couldn't have said why. Later, he understood that the medication was just screwing with his moods, but at the time Sam felt like he was falling apart. He talked about Tom and his football friends and how he just wanted his big brother to come and find him. Where were you? Sam had asked, bewildered and miserable and high. Where were you?

Dean had listened without speaking a single word, hand locked in Sam's like he was holding on for life. After a few minutes, the weepy spell passed as soon as it had come, and Sam was blinking at his brother who was standing very, very still. Sam was almost afraid to speak. Dean looked like he might explode at any given second.

But Sam couldn't just lie there and watch Dean stare at him like that, like there was something building inside him desperate to break free. "Dean?" he asked, giving Dean's hand a little shake. "Dean?"

Dean shook himself a little and smiled at Sam. It was supposed to be a reassuring smile, Sam was sure, but Dean failed spectacularly in that endeavor. Instead, Dean had produced a cold sort of grin, something that people saw right before they got their heads smashed in. "Dean?" Sam asked, but now Sam was so tired. He had gone from maudlin to exhausted in two seconds flat.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said soothingly. "You just go to sleep. Go to sleep." And though Sam didn't want to, knew that Dean was about to do something either very bad or very stupid, he didn't have a whole lot of choice in the matter.

When Sam woke up, he was being checked out AMA, and they were fleeing the county after Dean had beaten the holy hell out of Tom and his buddies. All six were checked into the hospital. Tom himself had ended up in the ICU.

"You almost killed him, you know," Sam said conversationally. He knew he should probably be worried about that, worried that he was actually holding a conversation with a brother who wasn't really there—but Sam figured as long as he knew it was in his head, then it was okay. Once Sam literally started seeing his brother in the car, well, then they'd have a problem.

For now, things were okay. This was just . . . Sam's way of coping. He wasn't used to being alone. Even at Stanford, he'd had Dean-In-His-Head to talk to.

And those conversations had never really stopped. They had just slowed down a little. Since coming back to this life and having the real Dean to talk to, Sam hadn't relied on the imaginary one quite so much.

Now, the imaginary Dean was all he had, to keep him going, keep him sane.

He got what he deserved, Dean-In-His-Head said. Besides, what are you worried about? He lived, didn't he? And there probably wasn't any brain damage. Dude wasn't all that bright to begin with, so it wasn't easy to tell.

"That's not funny," Sam said. "What were you thinking, taking on six guys by yourself? You're lucky you didn't end up in the hospital."

Me? Never. Besides, it's sort of part of the older brother's job description, beating up the bullies who beat up your brother.

"Yeah?" Sam said. "Is it also part of the job description to sell your freakin soul?"

Yeah, Sammy, Dean-In-His-Head said. If it saves you, that's all that matters.

But Sam didn't want to hear that, even though he knew that it was true, at least to Dean.

But not to me, Dean. You mean more than that to me.

Sam listened to the radio until Black Sabbath came on (at least it wasn't The Doors again; Sam didn't know if he was ever going to be able to listen to The Doors without screaming) but Black Sabbath wasn't a whole lot better; Sam was sure that the lyrics were some kind of personal joke from God.

I search for serenity yeah,
Is it really out there?
I don't read the holy books cause
They take me no where
I cant hold on yes I'm losing control
I'm paying the price now for
Selling my soul, selling my soul

Sam snapped the radio off by pounding his fist into it.

Dude! Dean-In-His-Head said. You're going to break my car if you keep hammering her around like that.

Sam glared at the road, since he didn't actually have a brother to glare at. "I don't care about the car," he hissed.

Well, you should. You're supposed to take care of her. You know, last wishes and all that.

"It wasn't your last wish," Sam snapped. "You're not going to die, Dean."

And in his mind, Sam could almost see Dean smirk sadly.

Probably better if I did, he said softly.

VI.

Sam found himself humming as he past a welcome sign for American Fork, Utah. To his disgust, he realized he was humming Dean's favorite song of late, and he turned the radio back on again for the only slightly less disturbing, "I Will Survive." Dean had always had hated that song. Truth be told, Sam did too.

"Never anything good on," he muttered as he flipped through stations and glanced at the town he was passing through. After a few minutes, he realized he'd remembered the place—the Winchesters had lived here to, although it was a long, long time ago. Sam wanted to think he was five, but he wasn't sure. A lot of memories blurred together on the road. It was kind of surprising he remembered the place at all.

Or not, he thought to himself as he glanced at a café to his right. He remembered that restaurant, though he thought it might have had a different name 18 years ago. They had stayed at the motel right across the street. Dean and him had gone there almost every day, while Dad was on the job.

Impulsively, Sam pulled over to the side of the road and found a place to park. He went into the restaurant and ordered a cup of coffee to go—his stomach rumbled angrily at the thought of denying himself food, but Sam didn't want to wait that long. Still, he glanced around the restaurant as he waited for his coffee, and his eyes fell on a booth in the back by the window.

"Here's your coffee," the girl at the register said, handing him a styrofoam cup as she rung him up. Sam's stomach rumbled again, betraying him, and the girl glanced up with a slight smile. "Sure that's all you want, sir?" she asked. "We make great breakfasts here."

Sam started to shake his head when the empty booth caught his eye again. He heard himself saying, "Actually, I think I will stay. Can I sit over there?"

The girl shrugged. "Sit anywhere you want. It ain't exactly bustling yet." She handed him a menu.

Sam took it from her, picked up his coffee, and went to sit in the booth. Dean always would pick this one if it wasn't taken—Sam didn't know why at the time, but now realized that it had given him a full vantage point of the restaurant.

Jackie's Flapjacks, Sam remembered suddenly. That was what the place had been called. Most people just called it The Diner, though, probably because in this part of the world, nobody ate flapjacks. They ate pancakes.

Sam used to get them every time. Dean would tease him about it—without actually ever saying anything.

The waitress came over. "Do you need a couple of more minutes?" she asked.

Sam smiled softly to himself, lost in the memory. "No," he said, a little distantly. "No, I think I know what I want."

VII.

"Pancakes!"

Dean rolled his eyes, which meant Get something else for a change, but Sam shook his head defiantly, looking up at Shelley, their waitress. "Pancakes," he said again, although to the rest of the world, it sounded a lot like 'pan-cays'. "Pancakes and . . . and bacon!"

Shelley smiled at him. Dean and Sam came in here, like, always, so they knew all the waitresses, but Shelley was their favorite. Sam liked her a lot. She had really pretty blonde hair. And she was never mean to Dean when he didn't feel like talking. Sometimes, Dean didn't like talking to anyone that wasn't their Dad or Sammy.

Today was one of those days. Shelley turned to Dean for his order, and he pointed out a cheeseburger . . . Dean liked cheeseburgers for breakfast, even though cheeseburgers weren't REALLY breakfast food; Sam always told him that, and Dean always rolled his eyes, which meant, It's breakfast time and I'm eating it, right? Well, then, it IS breakfast food.

Shelley wrote down Dean's order. "You want fries with that, honey?" she asked him. She always called him 'honey' and even though Dean would roll his eyes, Sam and Shelley could both tell he didn't mind. Shelley was careful not to touch him, though. Dean WOULD mind being touched. At least, by anyone other than family. Dean liked Shelley, but he didn't trust her. Dean didn't really trust anybody.

Sam knew why ("there are bad things out there, Sammy, bad things that can look just like people") but Sam was pretty sure Shelley wasn't one of them—she was too nice, and she gave really good hugs. Sam tried telling Dean that he'd like one of her hugs, if he'd just let her, but Dean rolled his eyes, which meant, Sammy, you're such a girl

Sam didn't want Dean to think he was a girl. So he didn't bug Dean anymore about hugs. He also decided not to tell Dean how much he liked it when Dean tucked him in at night. He thought, Maybe, if I tell him, he'll think I'm being girly and never tuck me in again

A part of Sam knew that he was just being really silly. But he still worried, so he never said anything.

Once Shelley left, Sam leaned forward and asked when Dad was coming back. Dad was hunting a Black Dog somewhere, and he'd been gone a couple of days. He knew Dean sometimes worried (even though he always rolled his eyes, which meant he never worried) but Sam REALLY never worried, because he knew his Daddy could kick every monster's butt out there.

And if he couldn't—well, there was Dean. Dean would always be around to take care of them. He did a lot of the grown-up stuff anyway.

In response to Sam's question, Dean shrugged his shoulders. He put up two fingers, paused, added a third finger, and then shrugged again.

Sam nodded and started talking about his day—they had learned all about cats today, the big kinds like "lines" and "chee-ahs". Dean smiled as Sam told him about what kinds of food they liked to eat and how Mrs. Stewart said they were really dangerous ("but that's really silly, Dean, it's just a cat; it's not like it's a WERECAT or anything") and he outright laughed when Sam told him that leopards were his favorite cats of all.

"What?" Sam asked defensively as Dean continued to laugh. "They are. Lepers are really cool."

Dean shook his head, suppressing the laughter with a wide smirk. He waved one hand in the air. Nevermind, Sammy, nevermind. How was the rest of your day?

Sam still didn't get what was so funny, but he decided to ignore it for now. He had something he wanted to ask Dean, and it wasn't something Dean was going to like at ALL. But Dean was laughing now; he was in a good mood, so maybe this was the best time to ask . . .

"Dean?" Sam said. He hesitated and quickly came to the conclusion that if he said it really, really fast, it might turn out better. "CanIstayhomefromschooltomorrow?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. What? There was no anger in that 'what'; simply confusion. Dean just hadn't understood him.

Sam sighed. "Can I stay home from school tomorrow?" he asked more slowly, although maybe not more clearly. Daddy complained sometimes that Sammy was hard to understand. Sam tried to speak more like he was supposed to, but he could never hear the difference between how he said the word and how his Daddy did.

Dean opened his mouth soundlessly and slowly spread his hands wide in the air. Why? You love school, Sammy.

Sam looked down at the table. "Cause we gotta do a pro-jet tomorrow, and I dunno how to do it."

Dean raised an eyebrow. Impossible, little brother. You can do anything.

"No, really, I don't. I don't know how. I'll mess it all up and Mrs. Stewart will be real mad and I don't want her to be mad, Dean." Sammy liked Mrs. Stewart, almost as much as he liked Shelley. Mrs. Stewart didn't have very pretty hair, but she WAS real smart, and she always said that Sammy was smart too. Sammy liked that, he liked being the smart kid in class and knowing that Mrs. Stewart was proud of him just like his big brother was proud of him, but if he couldn't do this project then she wouldn't be proud. She'd think he was stupid and she COULDN'T think he was stupid; he'd do anything to make her think he wasn't stupid . . .

Sammy felt tears well up in his eyes and he tried to rub them away before Dean saw. But Dean always saw everything. Within a second, he was sitting next to Sam, one arm around his shoulders. Sam sniffled but didn't look up. After a long moment of silence, he heard a sigh.

"Sammy," Dean said out loud.

Sam looked up. "I don't want to be stupid," he said and then started crying for real.

Dean hugged him. Dean never let anybody hug him, but he always gave Sam the best hugs. "You're not stupid," Dean said immediately. "You're kind of a geek, but you're not stupid."

"But I don't know what to do."

"Well, I'll help you."

Sam looked up at him with wide eyes and shook his head.

Dean's eyes narrowed at that. Why don't you want me to help? When Sam wouldn't answer, Dean sighed again. "Sam?" he asked.

"Cause it'll make you sad." Sam looked down at the table again. "Don't want you to be sad no more, Dean."

Dean withdrew his arm and sat very, very still. Sam looked up at him and, for the very first time in the history of forever, realized he couldn't read the expression on Dean's face at all. Which didn't make any sense, because Sam could ALWAYS tell what Dean was thinking—that's how they talked, a lot of the time. But Sam couldn't tell now.

It scared him.

"Don't be mad, Dean," Sam said quickly. "Please don't be mad."

"I'm not," Dean said quietly. He looked at the table for a few minutes, fingers playing idly with the salt and pepper shakers, and then looked back up at Sammy. "Your project—it's about Mother's Day, isn't it?"

Sammy nodded miserably. "Yeah," he said, "it is, and I dunno what that is or what I'm supposed to do, but everyone else thought it was real easy 'cept me because everyone else has got moms but I don't got a mom and I don't remember her at all, and I tried, I try every night, but I can never remember Mommy, and I just—"

"Sammy," Dean said and Sammy shut up instantly. Dean was looking at him seriously. "Don't worry. I'll talk to your teacher. You won't have to do the assignment."

"She won't think I'm stupid?"

Dean shook his head with a tiny little smile on his face. "No, Sammy," he said. "You're too big of a geek to be stupid. Trust me, Mrs. Stewart knows that. She loves little geeks like you."

"Oh," Sam said, nodding. "Kay." He sat silently for a minute, watching his brother. Sam still couldn't read the look on his face. "Are you sure you're not mad?" he asked. "Or sad? I don't want you to be sad."

Dean glanced at him and then looked away. "You don't have to worry about me, Sammy."

"But you're SAD."

"No, I'm not."

"Liar." Sammy crossed his arms stubbornly. "That's why you don't talk so much. Because of Mommy. Cause you're sad."

Dean glanced at him again, and he looked almost . . . embarrassed. Later, Sam would understand that as shame, but at the time, he didn't know that word. He only knew Dean looked as though he had done something wrong. Sam didn't know what that could possibly be.

Dean took a deep breath. "Do you want me to talk more, Sammy?"

Sam thought about that. "No," he said, after a minute. "I mean, you can, but I don't care. I just don't want you to be so sad anymore."

Dean didn't say anything for awhile. He moved back to his side of the table and looked out the window for awhile, watching people walk by. Finally, he glanced at Sammy again, giving Sammy's hand a tight, reassuring squeeze. "Okay, Sammy," he said. "I can do that." Then he grinned, as if to prove how happy he could be. "So, what else did you do in school?"

Sammy grinned too, and started talking animatedly about recess. "And then I found a caterpillar and I showed it to Mrs. Stewart and she said it wouldn't be a caterpillar forever cause someday it would be a butterfly and just fly away and will it really be a butterfly, Dean? Will it really learn how to fly someday?"

Dean just rolled his eyes, which meant Yeah, you geek, of course it'll be a butterfly. But it almost meant I love you, Sammy, cause Dean never needed to talk to say that.

Shelley came back with two plates of food. "Pancakes," she said, setting them down in front of Sam, "and a cheeseburger with fries." She set down some extra napkins and took a step back. "Anything else I can get for you boys?"

Dean shook his head and Shelley smiled at him before she turned around. Sam took a bite of his pancakes and looked up at Dean when he noticed his brother wasn't eating. Instead, Dean was looking at Shelley as she was walking away, his mouth opening and closing, a frustrated, pained look tightening his eyes.

Finally, he called out, "Shelley!" and Shelley turned around, surprised. Dean glanced down at the table, blushing a little, and then flicked his glance back upwards. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Shelley just stared at him for a minute, obviously still surprised Dean had said something, and then she just smiled, waving at them. "No problem, honey," she said as she walked towards the back. "Try to remember to save some room for dessert, boys."

VIII.

"I forget sometimes, you know," Sam said quietly to the Dean in his head. "I forget sometimes just how quiet you were. How bad things were back then."

Sam was sitting in the Impala, still in the parking lot of the restaurant. Inside, he had eaten his pancakes as though he hadn't eaten in days, shoving them down his throat with little to no interest in the subtle art of chewing, but now that he was back in the car, he couldn't get himself to drive, not just yet. He knew he needed to find his brother, and yet . . . he couldn't stop thinking of what Dean had been like, all those years ago.

"You talk so damn much sometimes," Sam said out loud to the empty car. "I forget that you didn't always, that some days you never said a word, that you . . ." He trailed off, looking back at the restaurant that he and his brother had frequented close to 20 years ago.

"It's like I got it, and then I didn't get it. Like, I knew you talked less than most kids, that there was something, vaguely, wrong about that, but . . . I didn't get how much you didn't talk. Christ, Dean, we used to have whole conversations where you never said a word. I didn't . . . I didn't know. I didn't understand how strange that was."

And it hadn't always been like that. Some days, Dean talked like a normal kid. He was never very outgoing with strangers, and he certainly didn't allow anybody but his family to touch him, but some days Dean had conversations with words.

Other days, he had them with facial expressions.

Sam and Dean had been so close as children, they seemed to almost have a psychic connection. In some ways, Sam figured, I've always had a Dean mouthing off in my head.

Sam turned the key in the ignition, but hesitated before pulling out. He could remember the look on Shelley's face, the clear surprise in her eyes when Dean had spoken something unprompted. It didn't happen overnight, but after that day, Dean's silent spells started to decrease in number, until finally you would never have guessed he had been almost mute as a child.

It was something else that Sam hadn't understood as a kid. He hadn't got the significance of Dean talking more, just understood that he was.

Now, he understood that Dean had only started talking to make Sam happy, to take care of Sam

"Jesus, Dean," Sam said to himself. "Didn't you live any of your life for you?"

Dean-In-His-Head didn't respond.

As usual, he didn't have to.

IX.

"Hotel California" was as good a song as any to cross the border from Nevada to Cali. Sam sang along because Dean-In-His-Head was singing along—albeit, loudly and obnoxiously with dramatic arm-swinging gestures to portray all the angst that the song embodied. Sam almost snickered as he imagined his brother on his knees, crooning the song as badly as possible. Dean actually had a pretty decent singing voice—which, of course, he never utilized, because that wouldn't have been so annoying

Sam glanced at the clock. It would only be a few hours now, until he hit Fort Bragg. He'd have to find the motel, of course, but Sam wasn't so worried about that. He didn't think Dean would be hard to find.

After almost two weeks of nothing . . . Sam would see his brother tonight.

Sam didn't know exactly how to feel about that. He had been so relieved to have something to finally go on, so excited about the idea of finding his brother . . . but now that he was closer, within only a few hours of seeing Dean again, some of that eagerness was wearing thin. After all, he wasn't going to see his brother for some kind of happy family reunion; the brother he met there would not be the brother who raised him.

Sam had to get that brother back; he had to be the one to save Dean, for once. But he desperately craved his big brother's help; he needed Dean's comfort, his confidence that everything would be all right because he damn well said so.

Sam wanted Dean back, and he wanted him back now. He felt like he didn't know how to be a person anymore without him.

Jeez, Sam, Dean-In-His-Head snarked. You think you'd never been without me for as long as two whole weeks before. You'd think you hadn't left me alone for four whole YEARS.

"Don't give me that crap," Sam said flatly. "It's not the same and you know it, man. When I left for Stanford, I left secure in the knowledge that you still had a soul."

Yeah, a broken one, Dean-In-His-Head said quietly. C'mon Sammy, you know what kind of man I am. Can't stand apart, can't be independent. Can't be a person without someone else to take care of. You knew what would happen to me when you left. You knew exactly what would happen and you just didn't care.

"That's not true, dammit," Sam snapped at the brother in his head. "That's not true and it's not fair. I always thought you were the strong one. I never thought you needed me."

Which wasn't entirely true, because Sam had always known, to some extent, that his brother wasn't whole without his family. But when he had left, when he had gone to Stanford, Dean didn't follow . . . and Sam thought that meant he'd be okay. Dean needed Dad more than he needed Sam, so he'd be okay. Sam had been sure of it.

"I never thought you needed me," Sam said again, softly, in the empty car. "I always thought it was the other way around."

But Dean-In-His-Head wasn't having any of it. You told yourself it was the other way around, he said. You told yourself, but you knew. You didn't want to, but you knew.

What they knew about the spirit was that her name was Elaine Marsten; she had been dead nearly ten years and haunting the town ever since. Her death had been claimed accidental; the townspeople believed she died from a snake bite while hiking. But snake bites weren't exactly violent death material; they suspected her husband had killed her.

What they hadn't known was that Elaine WAS killed from snake bite, in a way; her husband had used it to murder her. Only the venom hadn't killed her, merely paralyzed her. She was still breathing when they put her in that coffin, only nobody had known. Just like that stupid movie Dean had made him watch all those years ago, The Serpent and the Rainbow or something like that. Nobody could tell that they were burying their loved ones alive.

Just like nobody would know that Sam was alive right now.

It was funny, but being buried alive had never been one of Sam's bigger fears. Dying on a hunt, sure; they had faced too many things and had too many close calls for Sam to believe that he'd ever die like a normal person, old age or a car accident or some kind of sickness. Sam figured he'd probably get torn apart by a werewolf or outmaneuvered by a poltergeist, probably before he finished high school, if his luck went the way it had been going. But he'd never considered the idea of suffocation; he never wondered what it would be like to claw at his own casket, hoping someone would hear him through six feet of dirt.

Funny.

Although, Sam thought as he stared at the star-lit sky, I might not even have to worry about that. Dad wouldn't want me to come back as a vengeful spirit, would he? No, he'd want to finish the job before it even started. So, Dean and Dad, they won't bury me, won't stick me in some coffin underground. No, they'll light a bonfire instead. They'll burn me alive, just like Mom.

Baptized in fire and back again, full circle. It's pretty damn funny, when you thought about it.

Sam was pretty sure he'd be weeping right about now if he could move even the slightest muscle in his face.

He was lying flat on his back, head angled slightly to the right against the grass of Green Hill Cemetery. His dad was around somewhere, unconscious after getting his head slammed into a tombstone. Sam wished he could see him, but he couldn't; he couldn't move his eyes around even to focus on his peripheral vision. All Sam could see were sky, stars, and Dean.

Dean was sitting about half a foot away from Sam, knees drawn up tightly against his chest. He was rocking back and forth very softly, a Smith and Wesson resting at his feet.

Dean, Sam thought, wished he could say out loud. Dean, I need you to look at me. Dean, please look at me and know that I'm still alive.

Dean didn't look at him. Dean didn't appear to be looking at anything. There was no expression on his face as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, against the headstone behind him. He just sat there, looking numb, looking hollow.

It was worse than the tears Dean had wept when he found Sam lying unmoving. Sam hadn't thought anything could have been worse than those tears.

But this was. This . . . emptiness . . . it was freaking Sam out on whole new levels.

Sam wished his Dad would wake up, would roll over and get to his feet and figure out how to fix this. Dean thought Sam was dead, but Dad would have to figure it out. He'd wake up, figure it out, and tell Dean that Sam was going to be okay.

Come to think of it, Sam thought, I'd like Dad to come around and tell ME everything was going to be okay. Because being paralyzed like this was getting to be pretty damn creepy.

Although not as creepy as the look on Dean's face. He'd give anything to change the look on Dean's face.

Come on, Dean. Look at me. LOOK at me. SEE me.

Dean looked at him.

Sam gasped. Or would have, had he been able.

This Dean that was looking at him now . . . it wasn't Dean, not really. It couldn't be. It was like something had been taken from him, some essential, inner Dean-ness that made Dean DEAN. The brother that always looked after him, that told bad jokes and gave big grins and teased him constantly about still being a virgin at 15 . . . that brother was gone. This was just a shell of Dean, looking at him.

Then the shell started to talk.

"I didn't love you, you know," the Dean-shell said, talking in this strange voice that sounded light and disconnected from his body. "When you first came home from the hospital, when they brought you home—I didn't want you. I wished you would just go back to wherever you came from. I didn't want you there. I didn't love you, like I was supposed to."

"It's always been my job to protect you, you know. Dad's always saying that, but it was Mom who said it first, Mom who said that's what big brothers did, watch out for the little ones, protect them when they couldn't protect themselves. And you were so small, Sam. You were so helpless. But I didn't care. I . . . I hated you, I think."

Sam wasn't sure if he could breathe. The air that burned through his lungs hurt like hell, though if that was due to emotion or advancing paralysis, Sam couldn't tell. Dean didn't notice either way, talking in that disjointed way as Sam, helplessly, stared at him.

"I thought they loved you better. They said they wouldn't, but—they did. I was sure they did. I guess all kids think that. But, you know, I really don't think I was wrong. They did love you better. But it shouldn't have mattered. I should have taken care of you.

You do, Sam tried to say. Dean, it's okay. You do.

Dean closed his eyes. "I wished . . . I wished you'd go away. I wished you'd go away so they'd love me again." Dean took a breath that hitched a little, but when his eyes opened they were still glossy, unfocused. "Sometimes, I think if I hadn't, if I hadn't wished that, then maybe Mom wouldn't have . . ." He trailed for a minute, eyes wandering Sam's unmoving form before ending at Sam's face again. "You were so little," he whispered. "I was supposed to take care of you."

Sam was getting more scared by the second. Come on, Dean, he thought. Come on, Dean, you never give up. Don't give up on me now, man. Please, don't give up.

Dean reached out a hand hesitatingly and brushed hair away from Sam's eyes, smiling a little. If Dean didn't still look like some strange shell version of himself, the gesture would have been sweet instead of creepy. "I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

There was a strange, shrill sound that Sam couldn't immediately identify. At first, he assumed it was some kind of spirit (God, he had thought, what else could be out there tonight) but when Dean calmly reached into the pack next to him, Sam realized it was simply the phone. Dean answered it, eyes never moving from Sam's face.

"Yeah?" he said. "Hey, Pastor Jim. What's up?"

Pastor Jim must have heard the WRONGNESS in Dean's voice, because after a minute Dean said, "I'm fine." He still sounded vague and disconnected, as if he wasn't really there.

There was another pause on the phone where Pastor Jim was talking. "No," Dean said, "Dad can't come to the phone right now." Then he giggled. Actually GIGGLED. "He always told me to say that, y'know. Never talk to strangers. There are monsters out there." He laughed again and obviously couldn't stop, tears pouring down his face as he stared straight at Sammy.

God, Sam thought. He's lost it. He's LOST it. The idea was inconceivable. Dean was the strong one; Dean was the bad ass. Dean wasn't the one who lost his shit in the middle of a crisis.

But here Dean was, laughing hysterically and crying, and Sam didn't know what to do.

Dean's laughter tapered off after several minutes, and he rubbed one hand across his eyes. "No," he said, sounding suddenly a lot more serious. "No, Sammy can't talk either." He looked like a lost kid at Christmastime, just finding out that Santa Claus wasn't real. "I failed him," Dean whispered. "I failed him."

Sam could tell Pastor Jim was yelling at this point, but he couldn't make out words, just a voice desperate to get through. Nothing was getting through to Dean, though; Sam could see him shutting down on all levels. "I have to go now, Pastor Jim," Dean said distantly.

Pastor Jim's voice only got more frantic on the phone. Dean ignored him.

"Take care of my dad, okay?" he said. "He . . . he needs someone to take care of him. You . . . you do that, okay?"

Pastor Jim was still yelling, and Sam could make out words sounded like "Don't do this" and "Dean" and "Please". "I'm sorry," Dean said simply in the phone and shut it off, tossing it carelessly a few feet away where it started to ring again.

Dean touched Sam's hair again, fingers spilling down the side of his face. "Sammy," he said, a crooked smile on his face. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

Then Dean looked away, to the gun resting at his feet.

Take care of my dad, okay? You . . . you do that okay?

Sam couldn't breathe again. Dean. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Dean, you can't, you can't, you—DEAN! You can't do this, Dean, De—

"Dean?"

At first, Sam thought he had finally managed to move his mouth, finally managed to speak. Then, he realized that the voice hadn't been his. Oh, thank God, Dad, Dad. Dean hadn't moved, though, only closed his eyes, looking almost irritated at the sound of his father's voice. His gaze turned slightly wistful as he looked back at the gun.

"Dean?" Dad called out again, his voice sounding, thick, confused. "Sammy?"

Dean closed his eyes again, sighed, and stood up, moving out of Sam's line of sight. Sam could hear Dean talking, but he spoke so quietly that Sam couldn't make out the words. He could hear his Dad, though; incomprehension and anger clear through a resounding "WHAT?" Then footsteps, lurching at first, then loud and steady across the ground, and Dad was sitting in front of him, hands on Sam's shoulders.

"Oh, Jesus," Dad wept. "Jesus, Sammy, Jesus."

Sam tried to respond, tried to say something, anything, but he couldn't even twitch. Dad's face changed as if he had, though; expression moving from grief to anger within the bat of an eye. "No," Dad said, "no," and picked Sam up by the arms, shaking him around. "Wake up, Sammy. Wake up."

But Sammy couldn't wake up.

Dad's head snapped up and he glared at something Sam couldn't see—he could only imagine it was Dean. "Why are you just standing there?" Dad growled. "Help your brother, dammit."

There was no response, at least, not one that Sam could hear. Dad glared even harder. "Dean! Godammit, get over here and HELP YOUR BROTHER!"

Sam heard odd, shuffling steps—feet tripping over each other, unsure where they wanted to go—and then Dean was kneeling beside Dad, crying softly again, looking dazed and uncertain. He put his hand to the side of Sam's face.

Dad looked up then, looking suddenly as alarmed as he did angry. "Don't you do that, Dean," Dad said, shaking his head. "Don't you give up on your brother now." He looked back down, convulsively swallowing. "Sam! Sam!"

Dean didn't even seem to hear their father. He leaned forward, fingers tightening in Sam's hair. "Sam," he whispered.

Sam blinked.

He did it without thinking about it, almost without realizing that he'd done it at all, but the look on Dean's face changed immediately. Within a blink, Dean went from Shell Dean, No-One's-Home-To-Take-Your-Calls Dean straight to Big Brother Dean, My-Sammy's-Alive-and-I-Have-To-Take-Care-of-Him Dean. "Sam," Dean said sharply, looking closer at him. "C'mon, Sam, I saw you. You're still there. I saw you. Come on, Sammy. Blink. I know you can do it. Blink."

Sam tried. He couldn't. He just couldn't move. Dad was watching them both, trying to decide if Dean had really seen something.

Dean didn't seem to notice his father was even there. He stared at his brother, expecting, waiting. "You can do it," Dean said again. "I know you can. I know it."

Sam tried, but he just couldn't . . .

Dean took his hand. "It's okay," he said softly. "It's okay. I'll wait."

XI.

It had taken hours before Sam had been able to move, days before he could do it properly without jerking limbs and constant shaking. Dean had slipped back into Dean-mode quickly, as if he had never talked the way he did, and it had hurt coming back so much that Sam let himself forget—but he had seen Dean look at that gun, and he knew exactly what Dean was thinking about doing with it.

Christ, Dean, Sam thought. It wasn't your fault, man. It was never your fault.

It was always my fault, the Dean-In-His-Head said. And don't tell me you don't know something about taking on too much guilt. I remember how you were about Jess, man, and I remember how you were with the ones we couldn't save. Hell, even that old guy who bought it at that hotel . . . didn't have a damn thing to do with you, and you drank yourself stupid anyway. All because of your guilt, your godamned supposed destiny. Well, I don't believe in destiny, Sam. Life is what you make it.

Sam snorted. "So, you're whole making the deal to save me thing? You just thought that'd be fun? You don't think that it's your destiny to save me, or are you the only one who gets a destiny that doesn't end in happy ever after?"

He could almost hear Dean shaking his head. No, man, he said. That wasn't about destiny. I'm not destined to save you; I CHOOSE to save you. It's my choice, every day. It's all about survival, man. Because if I lost you . . . you know what I would have done. You've seen what I would have done. I made this choice to save us both, Sam. And it was the right choice.

Sam grit his teeth as they passed a sign saying Welcome to Fort Bragg.

"The hell it was," Sam said softly.

XII.

The sad truth was, it took barely fifteen minutes to find the motel Dean was staying at. Fort Bragg just was not a huge place, and Sam knew what kind of motel to look for, some place out of the way, cheap and where people didn't look too closely behind closed doors. The second place Sam called had a Dean Winchester staying there.

Sam drove to the motel, scoped the place out. Most of the windows were shut, but one, the furthest from the desk, was wide open. From fifty or so feet away, Sam got his first glimpse of Dean in almost two weeks.

Dean walked by the window several times, not pacing or anxious, just walking, waiting. Weeks ago, before Dean made the deal, the Dean-In-His-Head had tried to warn Sam. He's waiting for something, he had said. Sam didn't know what that was at the time, but he had discovered at Missouri's, too wired to sleep. Dean had been waiting for the right time to do his spell, to take Sam's powers. He'd been waiting for the new moon.

Now, here Dean was, waiting again, only this time he was waiting for Sam. Setting a trap.

So Sam did what Dean would do.

He walked right into it.

He watched with binoculars, waiting until Dean went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Then he drew his gun and crawled into the open window, climbing into his brother's motel room.

This is a massively stupid idea, Sammy, Dean-In-His-Head warned him. I mean, seriously, Sammy. MASSIVELY stupid. First class retard stupid. I mean, didn't you learn ANYTHING at college?

Yeah, Sam thought. But I don't have much other choice.

The toilet flushed and Dean exited the bathroom, a gun (the Colt, Sam realized belatedly) trained on Sam.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said with a grin.

"Miss me?"

TBC

-Lyrics by Lipps Inc. and Black Sabbath