The news broadcaster is talking about it again, that story about the missing boy that vanished six days ago. He's the fourth child to go missing around the county area, second one to disappear from the neighborhood playground. There's a noticeable pattern, clear signs that point to something strange, something supernatural, and it takes every ounce of control Dean has not to revert into hunting mode again.
Sometimes there'll be a brief story on the evening news about a missing person or an unexplained death and Dean will have to fight the urge to be the hero. He'll have to push aside the need to help and ignore the consistent tug in his stomach. He can't be a hunter anymore, can't afford to put his life on the line for the sake of other people – not when Sam needs every ounce of his attention.
"Dude, be careful with that knife. Two hands, man." He's watching his brother over his shoulder while he scans the local newspaper. He purposely glances past the stories on the missing children and instead sweeps the ads for part time jobs.
The life they've grown up in, it's not what Dean wants for Sam this second time around. Not that the life they had when their dad was present was horrendous, just that a second chance at life means a new beginning. Sam deserves better, hell they both do. Which is why a little extra income – income that doesn't involve scamming and subterfuge – is a must. A real honest-to-god earning means Dean can rent out an apartment for the two of them. No more motels, no more running. It's Sam's wish finally come true.
"Sam," he repeats again a little harsher this time when he sees his brother waving the little carving tool around without care. The blade is probably as blunt as a butter knife but the fact that Sam is brandishing it like a light saber makes it all the more dangerous. "Hey, no more. Hand it over." He stands up and goes to grasp the knife from his brother's hand but Sam wiggles away with a grin. "Sam," he glares but his brother giggles at the look, mimicking Dean's face with the same sour expression.
"I said you're done. I mean it, Sam."
"I mean it, Sam," Sam repeats in a voice that sounds uncannily like his brother's. He's holding the knife above his head with a wide opened smile and Dean has to physically clench his fist to keep from smacking him in the face.
"Sam!"
"Sam! " He mimics, but his laughter immediately ceases when Dean swiftly knocks his legs out from underneath him and pins his body to the floor. His shoulder blades lie flat against the linoleum. Dean easily plucks the knife from Sam's fingers and gets back to his feet without effort.
"Whoa," Sam falters with his bad hand before getting into a sitting position. His face is slackened with awe. "How'd you learn to do that, Dean?"
"Doesn't matter," he starts to clean the mess off the table. Sam at 19 makes just as much of a mess as Sam at 5. Guts of the pumpkin are literally splashed across every surface of the kitchen and chunks of orange goo tangle the locks of Sam's hair into knots. "When I tell you to do something, you do it. Got it? Next time you -- " And like that he trails off, his brain finally catching up. "You said 'Dean.'
"What?"
"You called me 'Dean.'
Sam shakes his head swiftly back and forth, scattering more pumpkin across the floor. "Yeah, so?"
"I, you just… "
"What's wrong?" And it's that 'ghost of a smile' that caresses Sam's face, the same smile that puts a lump in Dean's throat. It's the smile that is so Sam-from-before-the-accident that Dean can't help but imagine that his brother from a few months ago is here, smiling at him.
"You, ah," he clears his throat, tries to pull back the emotional strings, "you called me 'Dean.'" He can't help but quirk his head to the side, like the deeper he stares at Sam the more answers he'll get.
Sam shrugs, all nonchalant. "I always call you Dean, stupid."
Whether this glimpse of remembering is a small step in the path of getting better or if his Sam is truly back Dean can't tell for sure. Hope is starting to bubble again in his chest; the possibility of full recovery for his brother is edging its way back into his thoughts. But any hope is immediately dashed when Sam starts to tug him towards the table with a goofy grin on his face, pointing at his carved pumpkin with glee. And just like that Dean knows that this isn't his Sam – only a brief glimpse of the former Sam, a ray of hope in the scheme of things, just one more filled in gap.
Loss has been apart Dean's journey. Loosing Sam in the accident, loosing a part of his brother that may not ever come back is a difficult thing to swallow. But it has also shown him what is precious. His brother is still here, still just as special as the Sam from before. And Dean is grateful. He is. He gets to be with his brother, experience life from Sam's new beautiful perspective. He gets to watch Sam grow up for a second time. This time he gets to let Sam grow up the way it should have happened the first time around.
Halloween is now a holiday his brother can enjoy without shame. Never before have they been able to celebrate it without salt rounds and lighter fluid.
Sam's pumpkin is still full of goo, the stringy seeds peek through the carved out eyeholes. The whole thing looks like a giant mess, like a two-ton cargo truck ran it over with its back tires.
"You like it, Dean?"
"What is it?" He looks at it from every angle, pokes the flesh with the tip of his finger and tries to dislodge the toothpicks that are stuck in random places.
"Don't!" Sam smacks Dean's hand away. "Those are his spikes!"
"Spikes?"
"He's a porcupine!"
"Oh." He squints at the lumpy mush of orange and tries to make out the shape.
"Isn't it cool, Dean? I made it for you."
He tries to smile at his brother's excitement but instead reaches up to tussle Sam's hair. It still makes his heart stop a bit, hearing his brother say his name, the one word he's been longing to hear ever since the crash. "Where's the mouth, buddy? You forgot to carve the rest of it."
"No I didn't. He doesn't have a mouth because he doesn't like to talk."
"Oh," Dean says with a hidden smile. "That makes sense."
"I'm hungry, can we get pizza for dinner, Dean? Please? Please, Dean?"
"We just had pizza, Sam. We had pizza for lunch."
His forehead crinkles in thought. "We did?"
"Yup," He answers picking a few pumpkin seeds off of his brother's t-shirt. "Thin crust, your favorite."
"Pepperoni?" Sam asks, and Dean nods his head, 'yes,' even though it's a lie. The doctor told him it'd better to let his brother make up his own memories instead of constantly telling him that he's wrong. Apparently the more you scold someone dealing with amnesia the more resistant they are to try to remember. The last thing Dean wants to do is crush Sam's spirit, especially when he's so keen on making him proud.
So he patiently puts up with the continuous questions while making them dinner. With ever turn of the spoon Sam's off asking him about something else, fidgeting around with everything in the kitchen, reaching down to tug on Dean's necklace every time he's being ignored.
Dean's a patient man. He's learned to be a patient man because of Sam.
There was this one Halloween back in '85 where the highlight of him babysitting was when Sam accidentally dropped a bowl of soup on the kitchenette floor, which led to a hidden colony of ants crawling out from the woodwork to embark on a journey through the spilt star noodles. This time Halloween is more or less the same. Sam may be older but he's now just as clumsy. Once again there's a river of chicken and stars spreading down the length of the kitchen tiles. The newspaper with the circled job ads is trashed along with now soggy cell phone.
Patience, Dean has to repeat. Patience.
*
He loves his brother but every few days he finds himself cursing the new life he has. He doesn't blame Sam. No, he'd never blame Sam. He doesn't know whom to blame, just knows that the situation sucks. Sam is still there, but only mockingly, and Dean doesn't know how to pull him out. Sometimes he finds himself falling in love with the new Sam, at other moments he'd sell his soul to get his brother back. Sometimes the Sam that stares back at him is like a Sam-puppet. His brother's tall, strong body stares at him blankly with a little boy lost somewhere inside.
But Dean's a determined man. If he wants Sam to gain his memory back bad enough he'll figure out a way to make it happen. That's why he's game for anything. Step number one – trying to trigger memories by visiting places from the past. First stop on the list? Eating food that can't be delivered and doesn't come out of a can.
After Sam's usual late afternoon nap, Dean takes advantage of his brother's good mood to convince him to eat out for once. Sam still flinches at the sight of the car, still withdraws from all conversation when inside the vehicle. So Dean gently places a hand on his brother's knee, giving him that solid, silent weight of support.
The diner is nice, no different from the usual, not special in any way, yet it looks like some they've eaten at in the past. And because it's familiar, Dean's hope is that something will click in his brother's mind. Sam's eyes are wide-set on the blueberry pie in the display case and there's a genuine flair of happiness on his face. When Sam licks his lips and turns to smile at him – all teeth and deep dimples – Dean knows this was a good idea; memories flooding back or not, it's a nice escape for the both of them.
"Let's get pie for dinner."
"Nah," Dean chuckles. "As much as I'd like to say, 'yeah,' we gotta eat some real food. We can have pie after dinner. Deal?"
"Deal." Sam flips through the menu, tongue sticking out in pure concentration. "Hey Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Where's my Dad? Is he still doing a job for work or will he be back soon?" Sam isn't even looking across the table. He's too engrossed in the menu, but the words are said so calmly, so blasé, as if they've been talking about their father all along.
"He's working a job, Sammy. You know that." His voice tries to match the casual tones of his brother, but it comes out forced. He's about to change the subject but there's no need to because Sam's already off the topic.
"I have to go to the bathroom."
"You want me to go with?"
"Dude," Sam says in the most affronted voice, "Don't be gross. I know how to pee by myself."
"Sorry, sorry," Dean says with his hands held in surrender, "didn't know if you knew where it was."
"I can read you know." His voice is quiet as he scoots out of the booth. His right leg shakes a bit as he balances himself into a standing position. "I'm not totally useless."
"Sammy –" But his brother has already turned to leave, his feet shuffling against the ground as he makes his way to the other side of the restaurant.
*
When the waitress comes to bring the food Sam shies away as close to the window as possible. Dean shoots him a questioning look but Sam just shakes his head and turns his face downward, the wetness of his lashes making smudges on his cheeks.
"You okay?" Dean asks as soon as the waitress leaves his side.
"Don't like strangers," Sam says with a sniff. His eyes intently follow the waitress's every move as she returns to fill his glass of milk.
"It's okay, Sammy," he whispers as soon as she's gone. "I don't like strangers either."
*
Sam doesn't talk to him the whole ride home, though the minute they make their way through the door he pushes both twin beds together. It's sort of like a peace offering from their earlier tiff, though he won't let Dean help. He's apparently determined to prove he's able and strong and capable enough to do things by himself. Dean watches with concealed admiration. It's amazing, how far his brother has come in such a short amount of time. He's looking healthier now, put the weight back on that he'd lost in the hospital, and his limbs are beginning to work with him now instead of against him. The memories are proof enough that Sam's making progress. With each recollection, he gains another ounce of self-confidence. By becoming more self-assured his brother gets that much closer to becoming the person he once was.
Sam flops down on one side of the bed, pats the empty area next to him, beckoning Dean to do the same.
"No TV tonight?"
"Tired," Sam says with a flick of his foot. His sneaker slaps against the floor with a 'thud.'
"Yeah," Dean yawns, "'s been a long day." He turns his head to glance at Sam who is staring at his face, lost in thought. He reaches over and plugs the slope of Sam's nose with his fingers. The response he gets, of Sam's soft smile in response to the gesture, has him sighing in contentment. He rolls his body onto his brother's, his head resting against shoulder, hand sneaking up the underside of the soft t-shirt material. He's pleasantly full, the weight of his stomach dragging him into sleep, so he closes his eyes.
*
Sam nuzzles the tuff of hair that rests below his chin. When he hears Dean's heavy breathing he knows it's his cue to flip off the lamp. He nestles in closer, melts into the feeling of Dean's warm hand against his belly.
What Sam feels for Dean is at the same time both simple and complicated. He may not know what "home" is, where home used to be, or what the future holds, but what he does know is that he's home now. Wherever Dean is, that's home.
And being home is a great thing.
*
Is not telling someone the whole truth the same as lying to them? It's getting difficult to keep a running total of what Sam knows, what Sam believes he knows, and what Sam is still clueless about.
What Dean can't figure out is if Sam's realized that they're brothers. Sam knows there was a fire, knows his mom is dead, knows his dad goes away to work on "jobs" all the time, but he's never made the connection – or if he has he's never told Dean about it.
Why is he keeping answers from Sam? Well, he'd like to believe it's because he wants his brother to remember for himself. The real reason? The affection. If Sam knows they're brothers it's game over, they're done. RIght now he's not ready for the physical comfort to stop.
The key to getting Sam to remember is to help speed up the remembering process. The problem is, what will Sam remember? No, more than that the question is does he want Sam to remember? In some ways he wants his partner in crime back, that big geek that can back him in a hunt, who he can count on be it hell or high water. It's tough not having his brother here.
If Sam started remembering he'd no doubt remember all the things Dean fears most: wanting to leave for Stanford, hating their father, the plan of escape to start a normal life. And with that would come the anger, the resentment, the hate; the kisses would stop, all touching would cease, the smiles would disappear along with the childlike naivety. Though maybe what he'd gain in return would far outweigh the benefit. Like it or not what he's doing right now is nothing more than babysitting.
Yeah, Sam is doing well and Dean couldn't be more proud, but it's still a daily struggle to do the most basic of tasks. Things have started to get even more strenuous now that Sam has decided he's determined to do everything for himself. The fact that he's a Winchester isn't helping the situation, particularly when that patented stubborn gene is paired with a bad mood thanks to an upcoming therapy session.
Sam's new thing is taking control. He no longer wants Dean to do anything for him, though, simultaneously he still needs, needs, needs.
A ceramic coffee mug shatters across the floor for the second time this morning. Chunks of the pottery clang under the broken stove, apple juice soaks the broken shards of mug under the table.
Dean has to control his temper, huff under his breath and keep in mind that although his brother looks his nineteen years, he's not yet physically capable to control the twitches in his hand.
"Next time, let me do it."
"I can pour my own cup!"
"Obviously you can't, Sam."
"I'll clean it up," he says with force, though when his long legs dart to help pick up the broken pieces, his feet buckle under the sudden movement and his hands collide with the slivered ceramic.
"Dammit, Sam." He rubs his hands across his face, pinches the bridge of his nose to keep from lashing out. "Go sit on the sofa. Carefully."
"I can help –"
"Out of the kitchen! Now!"
"But my hands are all bloody. I'll get the couch messy."
"Go get a bandage while I mop up the pieces."
"I don't know where they are."
"Closet. Top shelf."
"What if they're something waiting for me in the closet."
"Sammy."
"I can't get the wrapper opened by myself."
It's the whining that throws Dean over the edge. He takes a deep breath to cool his anger – counts to ten and then talks through clenched teeth. "You're killing me here, man." The broken pieces are gleaming in the wet paper towel Dean is using the wipe the floor. He's about to abandon the entire cleaning process, just say 'fuck it' and grab a beer from the fridge when the jingle alarm on his cell phone goes off. "Aw shit." He gets to his feet, tosses the remains of the mug into the sink. "Come on, we have to get ready to go see Dr. Kurtz."
"I'm not going to the doctor today," Sam states matter-of-factly while Dean wraps a cloth around his hands to stop the bleeding.
"Oh yes you are."
"Na-ah. You're gonna have to fight me to get me in the car."
"Fine," Dean says. He doesn't care if his voice sounds harsh, doesn't care if he's being unsympathetic. "I'll wrestle your ass into the backseat if I have to. I don't care. You're going."
"I'm bigger than you, you won't be able to."
"Oh that's hilarious. I seem to recall me pinning you to the ground with one hand."
"Doesn't matter," Sam banters, "even if you get me in the car I'll just run away when we get there."
It's hard not to ignore the sting those words cause. 'I'll run away.' It creates a surge of emotion, of bitterness mixed with the already present frustration. "Fine, Sam. Run away. Let's see how far you get."
His brother is standing there, arms crossed, staring at him with narrowed eyes. "You don't mean that."
"We're going to the doctor's," he cuts off abruptly. "Grab your crap, and get in the car."
"I don't want to."
"Tough."
"I'm not leaving."
"Three seconds until I shove you out the door. "
"I'm not going and you can't make me!" It's shouted through the room as Sam sprints to seek refuge in the motel bathroom. The door slams shut with resounding crack. The click of the lock comes about a second after.
Dean just about growls out in response but instead snatches his keys and heads to the door. He slams the front door with the same resonating crash.
The next thing Sam hears is the snarl of the Impala before he's left alone in absolute silence.
