Author's Note: I am very proud of this chapter and I just hope and pray that I got it loaded for most everyone to read before watching the episode tonight (6.11) as it occurs between 6.10 and 6.11. Lots of angst in this one folks and just a little bit of humor. I hope you all enjoy. Also, a HUGE thank you to my lovely beta, Zara Zee for cranking through this chapter and making sure I did it right. She's been ill all week guys and still she's such a trooper!
Disclaimer: You decide.
But I think I'm better off without it.
You're wrong. You don't know how wrong you are.
I'm not so sure about that.
Sam ...Don't walk away. Sam.
"Sam." Breathless, Dean woke with a jolt of alarm. He sat up and anxiously looked around the room; his heart sinking when he realized, once again, that Sam was nowhere to be found.
Dean had returned to their room and waited for the younger man to return after their disagreement. That had been two days ago and Dean had long since flown into panic mode. He'd called all his contacts, even venturing to make a call to Gwen at the risk of having to deal with Samuel; that son of a bitch would get his, just…not now. Right now, finding Sam was priority one, but no one had been able to give Dean any leads on Sam's whereabouts.
Dean had contacted the phone company to activate the GPS finder, but Sam's skills at avoidance had improved and even though the cell phone was still receiving messages, the company had been unable to locate it. Dean had exhausted all his normal methods of hunting the man down and the few methods that were beyond normal had also turned up nothing.
So he sat…waiting in a dark motel room, hoping beyond hope that an answer would float down from Heaven, but even that was wishful thinking.
Two days. Forty-eight hours, give or take. It wasn't that long, but it was above anything that Dean's nervous system could handle at the moment. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally. And alone. More alone than he'd ever felt, more unsure of his situation than he could ever imagine or remember being.
Dean needed direction and focus. He needed reassurance. He needed his brother and all of the above was so far beyond his reach that he melted back into the mattress, closing his eyes, and once again replaying their disagreement over in his head.
No, I'm saying something you don't like.
Dean's cell phone vibrated against his chest where it was currently lying. Swiftly he grabbed it up, sparing just a moment to check the caller id before answering it.
"Hey, Bobby," Dean answered solemnly.
"Hey, Kid. No word from your brother, huh?"
Dean didn't even bother to answer the question. It was ridiculous on two parts. First, Bobby would have been the first to know if Dean had heard anything. Second, Sam, this Sam, was not his brother. Although having thought that, Dean now regretted it. For as much as he was adamant that his 'brother' was still in Hell, the void left by this Sam's disappearance weighed on Dean like a stone. A two ton stone with jagged edges.
"Dean…you still with me?" came the hesitant voice on the other end of the line.
"What? Yea, sorry Bobby. I'm just…" Dean trailed off, unable to put a voice to his emotions.
"I know, Kid. I know. Hey listen. The reason I called is I got something I need you to look in to."
"Bobby," Dean started to argue.
"Look, I know you. It's driving you crazy sitting around there waiting, wondering. You need to be working."
"I am. I'm researching. Gotta find another way of getting his soul back, now that Crowley's…poof"
"Dean…"
"Bobby," Dean's warning was weak. Even as he spoke, his argument was deflating. "Don't try and talk me out of this. Please. You're the only one I have left on my side."
Bobby found the weakness in Dean's voice shocking and it took him a moment to affirm his decision to give Dean work when all he really wanted to do was comfort his oldest boy.
"I am on your side, Dean. And right now, I'm looking out for your best interests, even if you won't. I have a job for you. It'll get you out and get your mind off Sam for a while."
When he didn't get a response from the younger hunter, Bobby was afraid that he'd lost him.
"I need your help on this one, Kiddo," Bobby said softly.
He heard Dean snort quietly on the other end, probably in response to Bobby's new choice of nicknames, but Bobby thought, 'What the Hell. The kid needs family right now.'
"Dean, it's right near where you're at and it'll only take you a moment to suss it out and take care of the problem. Can I count on you to look into it for me?"
"Yea, Bobby. Of course. Whadya got?"
52 hours earlier…
"Sam. Don't walk away…Sam."
Dean quickly leaned in through the car window and pulled his journal free from where he'd crammed it into the crease of the bench seat, then backed out and trotted around the front of the car.
"Wait up for just a second."
Sam's shoulders tensed, trying to decide whether to put more distance between them or to stop and give Dean a chance to again force feed his point down Sam's throat. But that moment's hesitation was all the time that Dean needed and he pulled up alongside the younger man.
"Look, you want time, I get it. Take time, but take this with you, okay? I think it's time you read it." Dean pressed the leather journal against Sam's chest, holding it there when the younger man wouldn't accept it.
"It's not going to change my mind, Dean," Sam shook his head.
"I'm not expecting it to. I'm not changing my mind either, you know. But if you're gonna go off without me to make some decision…"
"My decision's already been made. It's just you that's having a hard time accepting it."
"Sam, dammit. At least take a moment to really think about this. We're talking about your soul." Dean paused to pull a ragged breath into his lungs, willing his heart to stop hammering the inside of his ribcage. "You're suggesting that we leave your soul in Hell with Lucifer and Michael. I can't…" Dean's throat constricted around the thought, "I can't do that. That's my baby brother in there. I can't just leave him like that."
Unmoved by Dean's open display of emotion, Sam shook his head in disapproval. "No. You need to understand that I am your brother. Maybe I'm not all watery eyed and soft hearted like I was, but I'm still me. So you need to either accept that or…"
"Or what?" Dean interrupted, horrified by the turn of the conversation.
"Or move on. I'm not gonna give up everything that I have and cross my fingers that my soul's fixable just to appease you. You're asking too much. I'm fine with how I am. I'm better…how I am. Just…get over it already."
Sam turned to walk away again, but Dean caught him by the arm. Without looking up at Sam, Dean shoved the journal further into his chest.
"Just take it with you. Maybe it won't change your mind, but it's still useful."
"Whatever." Sam accepted the journal and tucked it into his coat and then briskly walked away, leaving Dean behind, shattered.
Sam hadn't gotten far. He'd hitched a ride up Interstate 44 into Fort Leonard Wood and found a commercial hotel just outside of the airport there, leveraging convenience for a fast getaway if it became necessary. Military base plus airplanes, two things Dean would never consider as a hideout, not that Sam was hiding out. He laughed for a moment for having considered staying at a little place on Winchester Road. No, that would be too obvious…and corny. It would have been a place that Dean would have chosen.
"Shut up," Sam instructed his inner monolog. "No use thinking about him. The jerk wants to cram an eviscerated soul into your body and expect that it's all going to end hunky dory. He really ought to remember that it never ends well for us and leave it alone."
Shucking out of his coat, Sam sank into the bed, pulling his back up against the headboard and began flipping through the loose leaf papers he'd copied at the library. Having left everything behind in the Impala, Sam had resorted to primitive methods of research. His cell phone was out of the question. Sam was sure that Dean had already attempted to find him using GPS and although he most likely hadn't figured out how to track Sam by his internet searches, Sam wasn't willing to give him the opportunity. He also avoided the library computers as he was sure the Army and other government agencies kept close tabs on who did what on their machinery.
But all this security meant that his research results were slim. It's not like public libraries had access to the volume and quality of material available in Bobby's library, but Sam would just have to make do with what he had. He spread the papers out over the bed, sorting through the viable and nonviable.
All soul related information was theoretic or theology and although it gave him lots of ideas, it did nothing to direct his actions. He'd gathered a bit of Greek and Roman mythology but had already passed those items into the nonviable pile, knowing from experience that there was no River Styx, so there was no use hunting down the boatman for information.
Sam had considered reapers as a good source, but the only thing he'd come up with in the library was a copy of Showtime's, Dead Like Me. He smiled briefly remembering an unusually quiet weekend a few years back when he and Dean had marathoned the show, laughing at George and her reaper escapades. Dean of course found an immediate kinship with Mason and vowed to be just like him when he 'grew up'…minus the hole in the head. Sam shook the memory from his head and delved back into the pile of papers.
Dean had been pulled from Hell by an angel, although Castiel had openly admitted that it had taken a war party to make it in and out. The reference section on angels and Heaven was lacking and sadly incorrect. Sam crumpled up page after page, tossing them haphazardly at the foot of the bed.
"Well, that was a waste of time," Sam said, catching sight of the time on the alarm clock; six, twenty-two pm. He stretched his back, rocking his head side to side and groaned slightly at the tense pull between his shoulders. Rocking forward onto his knees, Sam reached into his coat lying at the end of the bed for his wallet. Since his research had yielded nothing, he may as well go scrounge up some supper, but rather than his wallet, his hand found the leather journal he had stuffed into the inside pocket.
Slowly he pulled it free of the coat, turning it over in his hands, studying it with a look of distaste.
"I don't need this crap," he said dropping it unceremoniously on the bed. Sam snatched up his coat and left the hotel room in search of a meal.
"A carnival, Sam. I can't believe you're missing the clowns," Dean said grinning to himself. The smile quickly faded when he remembered why Sam wasn't here.
"S'alright, there's not many clowns here anyway. It's too cold. Who's ever heard of a carnival in November? And this case is a bust. Nothing, not even a pesky vengeful spirit…" Out of the corner of his eye, Dean caught one of the carnie workers give him an odd look before sadly shaking his head and walking in the other direction. "And, I'm gonna quit talking to myself now."
Dean zipped his jacket up underneath his chin, then stuffed his hands down deep into his jeans pockets and made his way back towards the entrance of the carnival. Once he was in the warmth of the car, he'd give Bobby a call and let him know the bad news.
Just as he was leaving, though, a light flashed on his left catching his attention. He pulled up short, looked and then under no control of his own, his body turned to follow the lead of his eyes which had zeroed in on an animatronic machine sitting in a corner between two vendor stalls.
"You've got to be kidding me, Zoltar Speaks," Dean whispered like an eager ten year old. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching him and then quickly approached the machine. It was a wood grained machine, just slightly taller than Dean with blue and gold trim decorating the front. A glass panel box occupied the upper half of the machine and sitting inside the glass was a swarthy man with a black goatee, hooped earrings, black leather vest over top a brilliant gold gypsy blouse and on top of his head sat a gold turban. As Dean leaned in to get a real good look he noticed the bright blue glass eyes that glinted in the carnival lights and then jumped when they moved suddenly to look right at him. Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, Dean chuckled nervously, again checking to make sure no one had seen him and then stepped up to the machine.
"Okay, Zoltar. Let's have it. Tell me my fortune." He dug into his pocket and retrieved a quarter, dropping it in to the fortune telling machine. The display lit up in an eerie red and gold, and Zoltar took his first breath. Following the instructions, Dean adjusted the coin ramp and pressed the button at just the right moment, watching as his quarter rolled down the ramp and arched perfectly into Zoltar's mouth. The machine stopped and at waist height Dean's fortune card popped out of the machine, dropping into the slot waiting to be retrieved. Dean frowned, picking it up and turning it over.
"Your wish has been granted. What the Hell's that supposed to mean? I didn't even make a wish." He stuffed it into his pocket, gave the machine a parting scowl and strode away grumbling to himself.
Sam sat at the little hotel table, pounding down his meal, all the while, his eyes never leaving the leather journal sitting in the center of his bed. He huffed at it as if trying to warn it off, but the journal didn't budge.
Tossing his empty food wrappings in the garbage, Sam crossed the room and took up a spot on the empty bed, grabbing the remote and kicking his feet up on the mattress. He surfed through one hundred plus channels not finding anything that could hold his attention longer than thirty seconds and every time his mind would wander, Sam's eyes would find their way back to that journal.
He set down the remote and brought his hands up to his face, rubbing absentmindedly at his eyes while considering his options. Weapon cleaning was out. He had two; Ruby's knife and his Taurus, but nothing to clean either and no ammunition to restock the clip. A shower was a possibility but a quick glance around the room reminded him that he hadn't bothered to grab his bag and so a fresh change of clothes was out. There's always pay-per-view, he thought. And then a flash remembrance of Castiel watching porn and then testing it out on Meg put a fast kibosh on any pay-per-view in the near future. There were some things that even without a soul, Sam wouldn't consider.
Sam let his hands fall into his lap and opened his eyes, once again landing on the journal.
"Fine!" he growled. He clambered off of the bed, took the one step to its twin and sat down, pulling the journal into his grasp. Taking a deep breath, Sam opened it to the first page of Dean's messy scrawl.
Oh, so you've finally given up the ghost and decided to read this, huh? Well, congratulations. That means you've either gotten your soul back or I've forced the journal on you and after fighting it for half the day you've broken down and given in. With our luck, I'm gonna guess it's not because we got your soul back.
This started out being a case study about you and your soullessness and has morphed into something completely different. It's not really surprising, living in each other's pockets like we have for our entire lives; it starts to eat at me when I can't share every random thought that crosses my mind with you. You know that I'm not one for chick flick moments, but I'm struggling here. Really struggling. So since I can't tell you, I guess I'm using this as an outlet. Just…don't let me acting like a soppy girl turn you away from this. Give it a chance, is all I'm asking.
Dean
"You are a soppy girl," Sam told the empty room but turned the page anyway and was met with a humorous recount of a cute little red head walking in on the tail end of his shower.
Sam laughed appreciatively, remembering her reaction to his full-on nudity, the flush that spread up her neck and across her cheeks was nearly the same shade as her short crop of hair, the stammer on her pretty lips. Truth be told, he'd considered wrapping himself in the towel just to ease her humiliation, but then he'd seen the spark of interest in her eyes and decided against it.
"What Dean doesn't know won't hurt him." He laughed again and turned the page. Instead of finding the next part of the case study he found another note from his brother.
You think I didn't know? Dude, I'm your brother. I taught you everything you know about women and I'm a better read than you are. I saw the look in Marci's eyes and I was sure she'd be back, just as sure as I was that she'd have already told her sister all about it. My only questions is, Why the Hell does it happen to you? I've been waiting my entire life for a threesome and you luck out with twins? I hate you…How was it? It was awesome, right? Nevermind, I already know. I heard. From two rooms down I could hear. Jesus Christ, man! Just…the next set of twins are mine, dammit.
Sam laughed out loud and had to set the book down while his mind replayed that morning.
Having left the carnival, Dean had returned to the motel room well after midnight and upon finding no Sam, decided that he didn't have the energy for anything further. He didn't even bother with a shower, just stripped out of his jeans and over shirt and climbed under the covers of his bed. Half an hour later and he was still lying there staring at the ceiling, one arm thrown up above his head, the other resting lighting across his chest feeling the rhythm of his breathing. If it hadn't been for his mind racing at one hundred miles an hour, his slow steady breaths would have long ago put him to sleep, but that wasn't the case. Dean rolled onto his side looking across the dark room at the empty bed and sighed miserably.
"Fuck, I just want him to come home. I just…wish I had my little brother back." He closed his eyes to keep the moisture that was building at bay and it was then that Dean finally dozed off.
Choosing not to relive the nightmare, Sam was quick to pass through the notes regarding his adventure into the clown convention, but couldn't help but notice when suddenly Dean's chaotic handwriting was suddenly replaced by Gwen neat script.
Sam,
We just finished lugging your heavy ass into the motel room and I must say, for someone that supposedly doesn't sleep, you sure can saw logs.
All kidding aside, I wrote down our earlier discussion regarding your phobia hoping that it will help you figure more of this 'condition' out. It's probably not as legible as it should be, since I'm still at least two out of three sheets to the wind, but the physical exertion of pulling your lifeless body from the car has gone a long way towards sobering me up.
Dean, however, has joined you in a perfect state of unconsciousness, taking up residence at the foot of your bed like a protective dog. How he managed to find room there, I don't know. He might be using your feet as a pillow and if so, ewww.
I envy you guys though. Even as screwed up as your relationship is right now, you still have each other. Me? I'm left with Samuel. I used to look up to him and now I can't look at him without every nerve in my body screaming at me to get away. I don't think you know how lucky you are to have each other and I hope you're able to come up with a solution to your problem and I'm not just speaking about your lack of a soul, but the trust issues you both have going on.
I'm only a phone call away if you need me for anything.
Gwen
Below that, once again was Dean's handwriting.
I don't trust Samuel. First chance we get, we're busting her out of there. I'm not leaving family behind…again.
The bed shifted slightly and in his sleep, Dean felt the brief rush of cool air as the covers were lifted. He breathed in the strangely familiar, soft scent of Prell shampoo and hummed quietly when chilly little fingers and toes dug underneath him seeking to share in his body heat. Dean turned into and tossed a protective arm over the little form and that's when he woke, sitting up in a panic.
"Sa…Sammy?" He stammered over the realization.
There, curled up beside him was a younger, much smaller version of his little brother. The boy mumbled sleepily, peeking out from beneath his flop of dark hair.
"What are you doing here?" Dean's voice betraying the emotion that had suddenly overwhelmed him.
"M'cold. Can I sleep here with you? Please, Dean?"
Dean was met with the largest, saddest puppy dog eyes ever, nearly brown in the dark room. He reeled in shock. This really was Sam. A miniature version of him, a fully souled version, but Sam none the less and Dean was frozen, uncertain what he should be doing. Just to be sure, he reached a hand out and pinched to boy in the arm.
"Ow, what was that for?" Sam sat up, rubbed at the sore spot and then reached out to hammer a fisted hand into Dean's adult chest.
"I was checking to see if I'm dreaming," Dean defended.
"You pinch yourself for that, you jerk. Fine. I'll go back to my own bed and freeze my ass off." Sam scooted to the edge of the mattress, intent on stomping back to his own bed, but was stopped when Dean reached out and snagged him in the crook of Dean's arm, pulling the boy back against the older man's chest.
"I'm sorry, Sammy." Dean pulled him into a full on hug. Sam struggled at first but after a short fight realized he wasn't able to wrestle himself out of his brother's hold; Dean just had too much strength compared to himself.
"Dean?" Sam's voice was muffled in the older brother's shirt.
"Yea?"
"I can't breathe."
"Oh my God, I'm sorry."
Sam took a deep breath when Dean pressed him away, one hand on each of Sam's upper arms. In the dim light of the room, Dean took a moment to really look at his brother. He pushed the boy's hair out of his face, resting his hand along Sam's jaw line and neck, his eyes tracing every plane and angle of the young face, every beauty mark, every facial expression, until there was absolutely no doubt in his mind.
"It's really you," he whispered.
You'd asked me a question tonight. A question I wasn't prepared to hear, a question, honestly, I wasn't prepared to answer. If we don't get your soul back, if you are what I'm left with, will I still try to keep you safe? Always was my answer, no matter what.
Well, I've had a little time to think about it. Funny that you go on a soul-searching walk and I end up finding the answer. Always was my answer. Always is still my answer.
You and I have had this round and round discussion about who you are. Are you Sam or something else? Are you my brother? It doesn't matter. And I'm sure that I'll tell you differently if you ask me again next week, but when it really comes down to it. When it really matters, I don't care whether you are something else or not. You're the most important person in my life and I will do everything in my power to protect you. It's been my whole existence for twenty seven years and I don't see that ever changing.
So I guess the question is what are you going to do if you're left with me?
"You're such a chick," Sam informed his brother's journal, shaking his head in disapproval. But it didn't stop him from quickly turning the page.
"It's three o'clock in the morning. This had better be important," came the gruff greeting on the other end of the phone line.
"It is," replied Dean quietly. He passed his very young little brother a smile before turning his back to gain some privacy. "I think I shrunk Sam."
"Dean…Son, did you have a nightmare?"
"What? Bobby, I'm serious," he hissed into the phone. "I went to that carnival like you asked."
"You said. Turned up nothing."
"Right. But before I left I found one of those Zoltar Speaks fortune telling machines."
"Like from the movie, Big?"
"Exactly! I put a quarter in and got a slip of paper that said, Wish granted."
Dean looked over his shoulder at the boy who had been surfing though channels but was now watching Dean with wary, frightened eyes. Dean lowered his voice again and tried to hide the panic he felt, "But I swear to God, I didn't make a wish."
"Every time," Bobby grouched. "Every blasted time. What is it with you Winchesters? You just can't keep your noses clean for anything?"
"Bobby," Dean pleaded.
"Okay, so you shrunk him. What are we talkin'? Is he Smurf size?"
"Um,no." Dean looked again at the kid, sizing him up. "I think he's about 5'3", 5'4"."
"Oh, well, that's not so bad."
"And he's 10 years old."
"I am not!" Came the argument from across the room. The boy had scooted off the bed and was quickly closing the gap between him and his brother. "Give me that." He reached up and snagged the phone out of Dean's startled hand.
"Uncle Bobby?"
"Sam?" It was Bobby's turn to be startled. On the other end of the line was a voice so young that Bobby hadn't heard it in nearly fifteen years and the shock of that forced Bobby to sit down suddenly. "How did this happen?"
"I don't know, Uncle Bobby. I woke up cuz I got cold and climbed into Dean's bed and then he freaked out and pinched me."
"He pinched you?"
"Yeah, the jerk," Sam frowned. "Oh. And he's old."
"I am not!" Dean mirrored Sam's earlier argument. "Give that back."
There was a brief war over the phone, but Dean having regained a height advantage, won easily.
"Bobby…"
"You pinched him?"
"That's not really the point here," Dean argued, throwing a dark look at Sam. A look that had 'tattle tale' written all over it. He reached a long arm out and tapped young Sam in the shoulder.
Not to be outdone, Sam clenched a fist and drilled it as hard as he could into Dean's stomach. Satisfied with the umph that he earned from the hit, Sam stomped back over to the bed, climbed up and proceeded to sit Indian style, crossing his arms over his narrow chest, scowling at Dean.
Turning back into himself, Dean rolled his eyes thinking, I'm trading punches with my munchkin brother. What the Hell?
"Dean, how did this happen?" Bobby asked again, now fully up to speed with Dean's own state of panic.
"I don't know. It's just like Sam said. We woke up and he was…little." Behind him came a growl of displeasure for having been once again referred to as little.
"And you're sure it's Sam?"
"Oh, yea," Dean breathed out, his voice having failed him. He turned again to look at the boy and he shrank back a little when he found that he was being leveled with one of the darkest bitchfaces Sammy could dole out. "Oh, yea," he repeated.
"When did he come back? And he said he woke up. When did he start sleeping?" Bobby had rattled off the questions so quickly that Dean was thrown.
"What?" Dean shook the cobwebs from his head. "He didn't come back. Sam's right, we just woke up. Oh, there's something else." Dean lowered his voice again and turned away from Sam's prying eyes. "He has a soul."
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure, yea."
"Okay, let me ask you this. Have you tried calling your brother's phone?"
"No. Why?"
"Just a hunch. Listen, I've got people I can call that might know a little something about this, but it's too late now to get a hold of anyone, so it's gonna have to wait till morning. But you call Sam now and then we'll talk once the sun's up, okay?"
"Yea, I guess, but…what am I supposed to do with the midget?"
"Do what you always do," and with that Bobby disconnected the call, leaving Dean staring down at his cell phone in confusion.
It had been six hours. Six hours in which Sam had his nose buried in his brother's black leather journal. Six hours in which it hadn't left his hands for more than a few minutes. It was even taken into the bathroom on one occasion. Who knew that Dean could write such a detailed and enthralling depiction of their last few months?
Sam had tried to rationalize out why he'd been stuck to the journal like glue, but when it all boiled down; he had to admit that it was just a good read. The journal was just as thorough as their Dad's hunting journal had ever been, including maps and drawings and well researched facts. But beyond that it was personal; specifically written to Sam and about Sam.
So it shouldn't have come as a surprise to Sam when he was startled out of his journal trance when his cell phone vibrated and beeped an alert for an incoming message. He reached over the table where he was now sitting and picked up his phone, taking a look at the caller id. Sam had purposefully shut the phone off to make it more difficult to track, but the message from Dean still beeped through. He frowned at the phone and then set it down gingerly like it was a fragile thing and pushed it away. No way was he giving in to the temptation to listen to the message.
Sam picked the journal back up and flipped to the next page and began reading another one of Dean's personal messages to Sam. These little messages were scattered evenly throughout the journal, like a post script to the information and research. Each of the messages, were to Sam, like opening a little window into his brother's soul and he began to become uncomfortable reading them.
Caught you dancing today. Some stupid little pop song you'd heard playing this morning got stuck in your head and the next thing I know you're dancing in your seat, leaning over the laptop. Had to leave the room to keep from laughing.
"Yea, right. I wasn't dancing," Sam disagreed.
I didn't say it at the time, but you did a nice stitch job on my back. I didn't say a lot that I should have that day…Maybe later.
Sam looked up out into the quiet room. After so many months back together it was a strange feeling to now have no one around. Dean provided a constant soundtrack to Sam's day and being without that left Sam with a weird sense of 'what now?' He glanced at cell phone lying across the table from him and then averted his eyes and went back to the journal.
Cas thinks you're jealous of him. Like that's even possible…you're not, right? I mean, I don't tell him everything, just…stuff about you and me. Cuz who else am I gonna tell? Bobby doesn't want to hear it anymore and well, you're not interested.
"Hell, I thought Cas had a crush on you," Sam confided in the journal. "That was until I saw him with Meg. And even I know there's something really wrong with that situation."
I had a dream today…right before I woke up with a concussion. But…nevermind. I don't know why I even brought it up.
After everything else that Dean had shared in the journal, Sam found it strange that Dean would choose to omit a dream. This entry was only a couple weeks old and Sam tried to remember when Dean had sustained a concussion and couldn't come up with an answer.
God, I hate you somedays! I realize you don't care, but do you have to be such an asshole about it? It's Thanksgiving for Christ sakes and I'll admit it, I just want to go home and see Lisa and Ben. Instead I here with you and you're doing an outstanding job of making me miserable. Thanks a freakin' lot, you dick.
Sam set the book down and grabbed up his phone. He hit the button for his calendar. When had he missed Thanksgiving? He could care less about the holiday, but the food? At least Dean and he could agree on one thing, Pie is awesome and pumpkin was Sam's favorite.
"Two weeks ago? Really?"
He exited out of the calendar and saw the voicemail alert flash across the screen again. Sam sat there staring at it, suddenly struck by the sensation of wrong. Hesitantly, Sam pressed his thumb to the call button and put the phone to his ear.
"Dean, what's going on?"
"I don't know, buddy." Dean sat down on the edge of the bed beside his pint sized brother and put a comforting arm around his slender shoulders. "But we're gonna figure it out, okay? You and me."
Swimming with emotion, Sam's hazel eyes looked up into Dean's face and the older brother couldn't stop himself from pulling the boy tighter into his hold.
"I need to make one more call, alright? And then you and I are gonna sit down and work this out. Okay, Sam?"
The little boy nodded his head, lowering his chin to his chest.
"Sammy?" Dean took the boy's chin in his hand and tilted Sam's face back up to him. "You believe me, right?"
"Of course, Dean. I believe you."
"That's my boy," Dean smiled and ruffled Sam's hair making the kid swat Dean's adult hands away.
Pulling the cell phone back out of his shirt pocket, Dean scrolled through the contacts finding and pressing Sam's name. Walking to the other side of the room so that Sammy wouldn't hear him, he waited anxiously for the phone to connect and when it did, Dean thought his heart was going to stop.
"This is Sam, leave me a message."
"Crap," Dean groaned. He took a deep breath and listened for the beep. "Hey, it's me. Look, something's happened and I need to talk to you…like right away, okay? I don't know where you're at right now, but I'm still at that same motel in Missouri. Man, I don't even know if you're gonna get this message. For all I know, you're sitting here right now, but I'm following Bobby's gut. So yea, call me…please. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
Setting the phone down on the table, Dean went and took up a spot on the bed next to his, sitting on the edge, legs hanging over the side, fingers wound into the comforter. Sam slid out to the side of the opposite bed mirroring Dean's position.
The stark difference was not lost on Dean. Normally if his brother would have sat across from him, their knees would have been intruding on each other's space, even touching. It was something that they were both aware, but never spoke of. No use admitting that every once in a while they needed that physical contact with each other to feel whole. Now, Sam's legs weren't long enough for his feet to even touch the floor, let alone extend out into Dean's space.
"How did you know?" Dean asked after taking a deep breath.
"Know what? That you were my brother?"
Dean nodded.
"I'd know you anywhere, Dean." The young boy gave his brother a smile that was meant for only him. "But I don't understand. Why are you old?"
Dean smirked at the innocent jab.
"Are you gonna get scared if I tell you the truth?"
"No," Sam scoffed; insulted that Dean would ever think it. What hadn't he seen or faced in the last two years of his life that could scare him any longer.
"Good boy. The truth is I don't know what happened…exactly."
"What does that mean? Exactly?"
"I made a wish, Sammy."
"A wish to be old?"
"I'm not that old," Dean defended.
He thought for a moment, trying to weigh his words carefully, but looking at his brother, all he could do was tell him the truth. He reached out and placed a hand on Sam's knee.
"No, I wished that I could have my little brother back."
Sam chewed that over for a moment, watching a myriad of emotions play over Dean's face.
Dean could see the alarm building, but before he was able quell the fear, Sam was up on his feet, pacing.
"Why? What happened? Am I okay? Am I…"
Dean should have known better. Even at this age, Sam was a whip crack genius. He had read Dean's body language and interpreted the words to mean that something had happened to him, to Sam. And he wasn't wrong, but how would Dean explain the apocalypse and Hell and souls to a kid.
"Sammy, I…"
Sam stopped mid-stride, his hands firmly planted on his slim hips, demanding Dean's attention.
"I'm not a little kid, Dean. I'll be thirteen in a few months."
"Whoa, settle down, Sam. I'm not trying to treat you like a kid. I'm trying to explain to you what I know." He took Sam by the shoulder and steered him back towards the bed, sitting down with him to try and quiet the boy. "Are you going to calm down?"
Sam swallowed the big lump in his throat, nodding his acceptance.
"Alright then. What happened? A lot's happened. I don't even know where to start."
Sam looked up at Dean, his eyes swimming with worry. Not wanting to give him any another reason to be concerned, Dean was quick to go on.
"But the reason I made the wish was a selfish one. Sam left…you…left. You got mad at me and you went off on your own. I haven't seen you in three days and I'm worried and I'm miserable and I made a mistake making a stupid wish."
"I left?"
"Yea," Dean answered softly. "You do that…occasionally. I think it's hard for you sometimes, being the younger brother. But you've got to trust that I'm going to do whatever it takes to make this right."
Sam straightened his back, nodding confidently.
"I trust you, Dean."
"What does that mean? You're sitting here right now?"
Sam replayed the message for a third time, hearing the fear and uncertainty in Dean's voice and trying to come to a decision on what exactly he should do about the message. He set the phone down and did a complete turn, coming to a stop in front of the black journal. Sam picked it up, running his fingers over its leather cover, getting lost in the texture.
Dean had spent months writing this book for Sam, hoping beyond hope that this journal would be the answer to Sam's dilemma, all the while knowing that their chances were slim; knowing that he might have to face the fact that they would never save Sam's soul from Hell.
Sam thought about this; Dean's never ending commitment to his family, to Sam. He thought about the journal and all the hours Dean had poured into it. He thought about the question he'd asked Dean just weeks before. 'If this is what you're left with, will you still be trying so hard to keep me safe?'
Always was my answer, no matter what.
Sam grabbed up his coat, tucking his phone and the journal into the inside pocket, did a quick double check of the room, deciding there was nothing else worth taking with him, and exited the hotel room and set off to find a vehicle to hotwire.
It was still dark when Sam pulled the stolen Corolla into the motel parking lot, coming to a stop next to Dean's Chevy Impala. He paused for a moment looking at the room with its curtains drawn closed and wondered for a brief second what he would find inside; hesitant also for having to once again face and bare Dean's scrutiny.
Exiting the car, he walked up to the door, tested the knob and frowned when he found it unlocked. Warily he turned the door knob and eased the door open. The sounds of the television drifted out of the door along with Dean's deep, throaty laugh and quiet whispers and Sam knew immediately that his brother was not alone in the room.
Pushing the door open further, he saw the light from the TV flash hypnotically around the darkened room and light up the side of Dean's face.
This was not a man who was either frightened or uncertain. This was a man who was enjoying cartoons while eating a bowl of Fruit Loops with…
Sam froze in his tracks.
"What the Hell?
Not having heard Sam enter, Dean nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Sam's deep adult voice.
"Oh my God!"
Dean scrambled off the floor where he and young Sam had been sitting with their backs against the bed watching old episodes of South Park. Shaken and elated to see Sam, Dean cleared the space between them and wrapped his brother up in a relieved hug; Sam immediately clawing his way free of Dean's hold.
"Oh my God," Dean repeated. "I thought…"
He pointed at the miniature version and then back at the full grown man.
"I thought I'd done something really bad.
"Um, ya think, Sherlock? What the Hell is this?"
"Holy Shit!" came the young exclamation from behind Dean's back.
"Sammy, don't cuss," Dean admonished, glowering over his shoulder at the boy.
The older Sam's jaw went slack, his face overtaken completely in shock, while younger Sam twitched a sideways bitchface in Dean's direction before going on.
"Is that me? I got tall! Holy…"
Dean cleared his throat to interrupt the expletive.
"Crap," Sammy finished. "I'm a freakin' giant!"
Circling his adult counterpart, Sammy poked a slender finger into Sam's muscular arm in amazement and then grabbed Sam's hand, hefting it into the air and placing his own twin hand, palm to palm for a comparison.
"Look at me. I could crush a guy with these hands."
"Dean, tell this kid to stop touching me," Sam warned.
Catching the deadly serious look in Sam's eyes, Dean reached out and snagged his little brother away from his…other…little brother and pulled Sammy back into his chest, holding him there protectively. If the boy noticed the dark looks he was getting, he didn't seem to mind them. He was just in awe of his adult self.
"Sammy…" Dean said softly over the boy's shoulder. "Why don't you go back and watch some more of the cartoon. Sam and I need to talk."
The twelve year old turned abruptly in Dean's hands and poked a firm index finger into Dean's chest.
"You said you weren't going to treat me like a kid."
"I'm not."
"No, you're just sending me away so the 'adults' can talk…" Sam's adolescent voice cracked, "about me! Fine," he ground out when he saw that Dean wasn't going to give in to him. "Whatever." Little Sam stomped off towards the bed, plopping down on the pillows and crossed his arms in angry protest.
Dean rolled his eyes at the boy. "It only got worse when you turned thirteen," he directed towards the adult Sam, turning to face him and smirked uneasily when he found Sam standing with his arms crossed in the same manner.
"Do you want to explain to me what's going on here? Or am I just supposed to guess?"
"A Zoltar Speaks machine," was Dean's simple answer.
"Like from the movie, Big?" Sam's eyebrows shot up underneath his hair line in surprise.
"Yes, exactly."
"You wished for this?" The distain apparent in Sam's tone. "Dean, you really ought to know by now that these things never turn out the way you want them to."
"No. I didn't mean to wish for anything."
"Well, it must have read your mind then, I mean, look." He gestured with a long arm in the boy's direction who was sitting there eavesdropping. "You got your very own little Sammy. Now you can sit around playing Dad to your little heart's content."
"Sam…"
"No, really. This might actually be a good thing."
Dean was thrown by the suddenly eager look on Sam's face. He stepped away, suspicious of what might come out of Sam's mouth next, but his younger brother followed in pursuit of Dean, reaching out to lay both hands on either of Dean's shoulders, gripping them tightly.
"This could work. You get a little brother back and I'm free to go about my business."
"Go about your… Are you insane?" Dean's voice rose harshly making young Sam jump to his feet, ready to defend his brother. Dean caught the movement and held up a hand, mollifying the boy's actions. At this age, Sam was still following Dean's orders, verbal or otherwise, without hesitation. Sammy stood down, but didn't sit down. Instead he crept closer so that he could better hear what the two men were arguing about.
Dean lowered his voice. "Do you honestly believe that this changes anything? Like I'm just gonna let you walk away again?"
"Like you have a choice," Sam growled menacingly, leaning into Dean's space.
"I do have a choice," Dean pushed back. "I told you. I'm not leaving your soul to rot in Hell. I won't do it."
"But you got what you wanted. Look, a nice healthy soul, right there." Again Sam raised his hand to indicate his younger self. "Why do you gotta try and force feed misery and pain and possibly death down my throat? Take what you've been given and run with it."
Dean brought a lightning fast palm up, smacking Sam upside his head.
Sam sent Dean a hard look.
"Careful, Dean. The State's not gonna let you keep the kid if you show a history of domestic…"
"You're an idiot," Dean spat, interrupting Sam's snide remark. "I'm not gonna trade my brother for a younger model. After everything we've been through…"
"Do I get a say in this?"
The question came from behind the older Winchesters where a twelve year old Sam stood near tears after watching it all break down in front of him. The two men turned towards the boy, surprised they'd let him sneak up on them like that.
"Yea, sure. Why not?" Sam answered. He bent over at the waist, putting his hands on his knees bringing himself down to well below Sammy's eye level. With a patronizing tone, he asked, "What does widdle Sammy want?"
Sammy cocked his head to the side, analyzing his older self with cold eyes. "You know, you might be bigger than me and I'm sure you could crush me with those hands. But I guaran-damn-tee I get one good shot in before you know what's hit you."
Sam straightened, looking at the boy like he'd just received a nasty electrical shock from him. Dean also reeled slightly at the young boy's tone. He edged closer to Sam, leaned in and whispered, "And it really did get worse when you turned thirteen."
Taking one large step forward, Sammy came right up to Dean, hesitated for just a moment and then threw his arms around Dean's middle.
"I wanna go home, Dean."
Dean pushed the bangs back from the kid's face and was surprised to find that he had again flip flopped back to tears.
"Oh, Sammy." He pulled his little brother into a hug and looked up into the older Sam's eyes searching for compassion where he knew he would find none.
"Not that I don't like being here," the boy backpedaled. "But I want to go home to Dean and Dad."
Sam looked at Dean and mouthed the question, "Does he know about Dad?" Dean flashed a look of warning over the boy's head.
"I want my Dean back. We don't fight like you do. You guys make each other miserable and if that's what I'm gonna be when I get old, then I don't wanna get old."
"I promise it's not like this all the time," Dean offered.
"Just most the time," Sam added, earning himself a scowl from both Sammy and Dean.
"It's gonna be okay," Dean soothed. "Come on, I told you. We're gonna figure this out, right?"
"Yea," Sammy answered, nodding at the ground.
"Sam?" Dean turned the question to the older twin.
"Yea," he rolled his eyes and breathed a sigh. "I'm in. I'll need my laptop."
"All charged up." Dean nodded toward the small kitchenette table. Sam crossed to the table, sat down and waited for the computer to load up.
"How 'bout you and I go get you a change of clothes?" Dean asked the younger boy who nodded his agreement.
"I saw a Walmart about half a mile down the road. Go north…What… are you doing?"" Sam said, looking up over the top of the laptop screen and found his brother digging through a duffle. Dean popped up with one of Sam's well worn hoodies and tossed it to Sammy.
"It's cold out there and the kid needs something to keep him warm."
"Don't spill anything on it," Sam warned, using a pen to point at the boy.
"I'm not five," Sammy griped and when Sam turned back into the computer, Sammy lifted his hand and flipped him off. Dean caught him in the act and slapped his hand down, shaking his head fractionally in reprimand.
"Let's go, tough guy."
Dean pulled the door open to leave and then leaned back into the room, "And you better ditch that car, Sam."
When Dean and Sammy returned, the car was gone and so was Sam. Dean found a chicken scratch note lying on the laptop.
Went to ditch car…Dad.
Sammy carried a plastic bag full of clothes to the bed and began stripping out of Sam's hoodie and the sleep clothes he had been wearing and pulled on a new pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
"You hungry?" Dean asked, waving a plastic spoon at him.
Sammy's eyes lit up and he jumped up on the bed, kneeling in front of Dean like a happy dog.
"Absolutely!"
Dean climbed up onto the bed next to him and they opened the package and dug in. This is how Sam found them a few minutes later. He walked into the room to the sight of Dean and his younger counterpart sitting cross-legged on the bed, bent over something in Dean's lap, spoons dangling from each of their mouths.
"What are you eating?" he asked, not really sure he wanted to know the answer.
"Cookie Dough!" Sammy cheered.
"Did you know this stuff comes in tubes now?" Dean asked equally happy in his sugar high.
"You're not supposed to eat it uncooked, Dean. It's got raw eggs in it."
Dean smiled from behind his spoon, utterly gleeful.
"Do I look like I care? It's cookie dough, Sam. That's like one step away from pie!"
Sam shook his head and turned away from the scene. Behind him, Dean licked his spoon clean and then handed the tube over to Sammy.
"So…" Dean scooted to the edge of the bed and stood up, tossing his spoon in the garbage. "What did you find?"
"This is gonna sound really crazy but, I think you need to do like Tom Hanks did and go back to the carnival."
"You think? Is it that easy?"
"Only one way to find out."
They waited until dark and then headed down the road towards where Dean knew where the carnival was.
Standing in front of Zoltar, all three Winchesters were frozen, none of them having the nerve to step up to the machine.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" Sam asked. The question was directed at Dean, but he was unsurprised when both Dean and Sammy answered 'yes' simultaneously.
Dean took a deep breath and stepped forward, pulling a quarter out of his pocket.
"Ready?" Dean looked down at his baby brother. Suddenly he was torn about letting the boy go. With Sammy looking up at him, Dean could see the world in his eyes. This young man who held Dean's entire life and heart in his small hands; who had yet to face all the trials of their life together. Dean wanted nothing more than to shield him from all of it. To be everything that he couldn't be for his own Sam; to be his hero.
The empathetic young man who had always been able to read his brother, swept in, wrapping his arms tightly around Dean, burying his face in the man's chest. Dean's hand came down to rest at the back of Sammy's head, his fingers threading into his overgrown hair. He tilted the boy's face up and wiped at the tears that glistened beneath his eyes.
"I love you, kiddo."
Sammy nodded, swallowing hard.
"Love you, too, Dean."
Behind them, Sam cleared his throat quietly. "Can we um…get this over with?"
Dean closed his eyes, quickly counted to ten to keep the seething anger down.
"What's the matter, Sam?" he asked through clenched teeth. "You see a clown?"
Dean felt the boy against him, seize in fear and he patted his back protectively and then pried his arms from around his middle. Dean approached the machine, dropped his quarter into the slot and followed the directions.
"You make your wish, I'll make mine. Okay?"
Sammy nodded in agreement, squeezing his eyes shut. Dean followed suit. When the coin had been lobbed into Zoltar's open mouth and the machine's music stopped, Dean opened his eyes. Sammy was still standing there, staring at him with despondent eyes. Dean snatched up the card from within the slot and growled.
Your wish has been granted
Sammy brought a stiff foot back and kicked Zoltar has hard as he could and then dropped to the ground, cradling his aching foot. Dean squatted down next to him.
"You break it?"
The teary boy shook his head angrily.
"You woke up like this, right?" Sam asked.
"Yea," Sammy answered simply.
"Maybe you've gotta go to sleep for the wish to be granted."
Dean considered this, nodding. It made sense and what other choice did they have, really. He helped Sammy stand and offered to carry him to which the boy adamantly refused. They all walked slowly back to the car.
The ride to the motel was quiet except for the occasional sob from the backseat. Dean watched through the rearview mirror as Sammy grieved for the loss of his own family, which only solidified Dean's need to protect the boy and to restore his own brother. And when Dean wasn't watching, Sam was watching him. And between the flashes of street lamp light, Sam saw the look of stone cold resolve sweep over Dean.
By the time they had reached the motel, Sammy was sound asleep in the back, having worn himself out crying. Doing his best not to wake him, Dean gathered the lanky boy into his arms and carried him through the door that Sam held open, laying him down on his own bed.
He knelt on the floor next to the bed and reached up to push Sammy's too long hair out of the way, taking a moment to study his young face, rememorizing every aspect. Exhausted, Dean rested his head on his outstretched arm and continued to pet Sammy's hair until finally he drifted off to sleep himself.
Sam sat at the table watching the exchange, seeing the unabashed love that Dean had for the boy and the heartache that went right along with it. It was not, he realized, this boy in particular that affected Dean so dramatically, but Sam. Himself. In that moment, Sam knew that Dean was never going to give up. He should have known it all along as it had never been in Dean's nature to give up on anything. And he knew just as certainly that he didn't want to be here when Dean woke up and turned his attention back to Sam and his missing soul with renewed vigor.
A few hours later, Dean woke up. He stretched his arms, rolling his neck and shoulders and then wondered why he was sitting on the floor. Realization came crashing down on him when he looked into the empty bed. All at once he was relieved and heartbroken and all he could do was rest his forehead against the mattress and shudder a lone sob.
"Sam?"
The room was quiet and Dean looked around for a tell-tale sign of Sam, but it wasn't until he noticed the laptop was missing that panic set in. Stretching his numb legs, Dean climbed slowly off of the floor and began combing the room for a note, a clue, something that would tell him that Sam had run out for coffee or food or beer…something. Instead he discovered that Sam's bag was missing as was a box of ammunition and forty dollars from Dean's wallet, but Dean's black journal had been left lying on the table.
Sam had gone and this time Dean knew that there was no use looking for him. He'll find his way home when and if he wants to come home. Dean slipped down on to the edge of the bed, lost his footing and slid all the way to the floor, dropping his head to top of his knees.
But I think I'm better off without it.
You're wrong. You don't know how wrong you are.
I'm not so sure about that.
Sam ...Don't walk away. Sam.