AN: Okay, the previous chapter got the BEST COMMENTS EVER. I can't tell you how many of them made me smile and laugh and outright guffaw. (Guffaw, people. Guffaw.) Fixed my fourth wall right up as good as new. I have responded to every single fabulous one at the end of the chapter, cuz you guys are the greatest.
This is one long ass chapter because I didn't know how to break it. *shrugs sheepishly*
Random thought: I hope it doesn't mess things up that I changed my profile pic in the middle of a story. I just had to share the pic of Oz a.k.a. Land Whale sitting like a Buddha.
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Dean stared at the focused face through the heavy window. Its furrowed brow and pursed lips were as familiar to Dean as his own reflection. It was Sam, of course. But it was a Sam who was (even more) fresh faced, shorter, slighter…and no more than 15 or 16 years old. As he read Dean's complicated notes and thought it through, he looked like he was working through a complex math problem or translating a text after Dad had gotten too frustrated to finish or figuring out how to approach Tiffany? Tammy? Some t-named girl he'd had a crush on.
Seeing that face was like a punch to the gut. This Back to the Future version was the kid from before Dad disappeared and Jess died and before Stanford and that horrific fight that had cracked something Dean had thought was unbreakable. Sure, Sam had been a punk when he was actually a teenager, a know-it-all brat with a shit-eating grin and an aversion to obeying anything without asking why first. But he'd also still laughed and roughhoused and looked to his big brother when he was scared or uncertain. And though he'd tried to hide it, he still occasionally looked at Dean with that my brother is so cool look that made Dean feel like that song said – ten feet tall and bullet proof. *
Luckily, between the dark and his concentration, Sam didn't seem to notice that Dean was staring and gaping like a guppy. This is a bad thing, Dean reminded himself. Something is taking away Sam's years or some shit. And people who disappeared around this house are never seen again. Time to get him out and fix it.
Sam suddenly looked up and gave a lopsided grin and shit it was one thing to remember the kid this age, and a completely different thing to see him again. His look right now said, I got it! I solved the puzzle. Are you proud of me, Dean? Dean hadn't been paying enough attention to know what puzzle Sammy had solved, but he couldn't help but smile back. Hell, yeah, kiddo. I'm always proud of you. The smile was designed to say what Dean never would.
As Sam produced a water bottle with four inches of water in the bottom, another thought struck Dean like a mule kick. Sam didn't realize what had happened. What was happening. Or he'd never be so calm. As Dean watched, Sam took one bullet out of his handgun and held it up triumphantly, his young face lit up like he'd found gold. I'll tell him after we get him out, Dean decided. And if getting Sam out of the stupid house didn't work, they'd figure out what would. Preferably including burning the place down.
Sam was waving the bullet at him and Dean's brain, still sluggish from the shock of watching the kid turn…well, back into a kid…belatedly realized that Sam was loaded with consecrated rounds. They had crosses carved into each side and had been blessed by PJ himself. Dean's smile became more genuine as he realized that Sam was going to try to make holy water so they could complete the ritual. Holy water was something they always had, because Dad insisted, but they rarely had a use for it other than to clean wounds that might have some kind of supernatural poison in them. Dean had been hoping that Sam was carrying some, even knowing it was highly unlikely.
But just maybe, Sam could make his own with a mostly empty water bottle and a bit of consecrated iron. It wasn't distilled water and a rosary, but maybe it didn't matter. And Dean had no doubts whatsoever that Sam could recite a flawless Pater Noster whether he was 15 or 22. Dean made a get on with it rolling gesture with his hand, trying to scrub the smile from his face when Sam rolled his eyes like the little punk he looked like right now.
As Sam dropped the bullet in the water and began to recite the prayer, Dean took a few moments to look over the area around him and check if the EMF readings had changed at all. He'd been distracted and staring for a few too many minutes. Nothing. No changes. Apparently what Sam was doing wasn't bothering anything…or at least anything that Dean could detect. The thought made him twitchy.
He looked back and received a nod from Sam. He was ready. Dean shook the paper a little, silently asking if Sam needed to see it again, but Sam shook his head no. He knew what to do. He tipped the water bottle so a little water poured over his finger. Dean did the same with his flask of holy water, then they reached up in unison to draw a youd above the door. Dean pricked his finger with his knife and glanced up, catching Sam's eyes. The eyes that were looking at him with such calm belief that it rocked Dean for a moment. Was this utter confidence in Dean courtesy of the teenager, or the 22-year-old looking out from a teenage body?
Later. Dean reached up and drew the simple letter again, saying the word required.
And there was a blast of air and power. Dean felt himself flying through the air. It felt like he took a piece of the porch railing with him as he went. Well, shit, he thought just before landing. And the impact stole all of his thoughts for a while.
WINCHESTER *WINCHESTER
1:01 am
Everything was wrong. It can't possibly be everything, said the part of his brain that Dean called the born lawyer. Fine, he told that part of his brain. It really was as annoying as Dean claimed it was. I'll catalogue what's wrong. The other part of his brain was a little smug, as if that's what it had wanted him to do all along. Honestly, it was what Dad would have wanted from him too, but he would have called it "assessing the situation."
Okay, everyone was in agreement. Number one thing wrong was that Sam was thinking of himself as multiple entities. Two: just thinking made his head hurt like it had been used as a soccer ball for a while. Concussion likely, he decided. More parts of him hurt, too, especially his back, but nothing as much as his head. And his emotions felt…off. Too strong. Too volatile. Probably another result of the concussion he couldn't remember getting, he thought. Three: he couldn't remember through the slush that seemed to have invaded his brain, but he knew there was something bothering him just before…whatever had happened.
Sam remembered jerry-rigging up some holy water. Yes, the spell to get out of the hungry house. Right before the spell backfired so spectacularly, something had hit Sam with the subtlety of a two by four. What was it? Not the word he'd said. Not the letter he'd reached up to draw…reached up…reached up way too far to reach the lintel. It had been just above forehead level, but to get the youd drawn, he'd had to reach above his head and shake the cuff of his sleeve off his hand. What the…?
Sam began to feel around for his flashlight, hoping he would find the door open so he and Dean could figure it out together. Dean? Had he looked different? Smaller? No, so the curse – because what else could it be? – was hopefully limited to the inside of the house.
"It almost worked," said a voice that was all wrong and not Dean at all.
Not all wr – that lawyerish voice in Sam's head started to say before he ruthlessly squashed it. The voice that had spoken was airy, soft, and oh, yes, female. Sam rolled toward it, relieved to find his knife still at his back. Who knew where the handgun or shotgun had gone? A young woman sat crosslegged on the floor nearby, the long skirt of her dress covering her feet and legs. She was a little older than Sam and despite the slight glow around her, he couldn't make out the color of her hair, which was all pulled up. She was pretty in a girl-next-door way, but there was something incredibly child-like in his wide eyes.
Slight glow? Ah. Ghost. Very substantial-looking ghost, but ghost nonetheless. Sam shifted his hand from the knife to the cannister of salt in his coat pocket. Still, she wasn't acting aggressive, and it seemed she had information. Sam rolled farther and sat up so they were at eye level, leaning against the opposite wall. He noted nervously that his feet came right out of his shoes and the rest of his clothes were swimming on him. "What almost worked?" he asked as calmly as he could, looking around.
He was in a large garrett with a window in the center of each of the four walls. Most of the floor was covered by a thick and colorful braided rug, and next to Sam was a delicate vanity table and embroidered bench. Opposite him, by the girl, there was a row of elaborately-dressed dolls. A wingback chair sat facing the window to Sam's right with a small pile of books next to it. To his left there was a wooden rocking chair and a very large, flattened pillow that brought to mind a dog bed. A very, very big dog bed.
There were other accoutrements he couldn't make out in the low light, and all in all, it was a cozy space. Or it would have been if not for the darkness and the resident ghost girl. "The spell," responded the girl. Sam should have thought of her as a woman, but there something ineffably childish about her.
"I'm sorry – what spell?" Sam's brains were still a little bit sloshy. He checked his phone surreptitiously as he asked. Still no signal. Expected, but still disappointing.
The woman tipped her head slightly and Sam suddenly recognized her. There had been a large painting in a big sitting room he'd come across, a very well done rendering of this woman and an older woman whom she resembled.
"The spell to open the door. The blood of brothers, offered and not taken, is powerful. But not as powerful as lifeblood."
That didn't sound good. Fear pinging through Sam, and he felt ridiculously like crying. Crying? What the -- ? "I'm Sam," he said, failing to stop a frown when he realized just how high his voice sounded.
"Philomena Cerridwen Walsh," she replied. She shifted her position to pull her knees up under her chin and studied Sam.
"Are you…" Sam wasn't sure what question to ask, for he settled for, "are you a witch? Did you cast a spell? The spell that used lifeblood?"
Philomena nodded. "It is the strongest spell I ever cast." She canted her head again, her eyes growing distant. "I did not expect it to be so. Mother said I cast with desire rather than intent, so perhaps that is why."
A ghost witch who all but admitted that she was responsible for the disappearances and whatever happened to Sam. Sam had no illusions about how Dean would react if he knew Sam was just sitting and conversing with her. Dean must be having kittens not knowing where Sam was, he thought. He had to speed up this conversation and get to his brother before Dean tried something more desperate to get inside, like dynamite.
Despite everything, Sam felt no sense of malevolence from the young (but very old) ghost gently rocking across from him. "What did you mean for the spell to do?"
"Protect. I took the warding down after they killed Mother, then I did not wish for more to be hurt." She picked up a doll and carefully arranged its stiff curls. "I wanted to go back to before they hurt, but I cannot because I am dead. So the spell takes others back instead. It keeps them from outside, where they can be hurt."
Takes them back… Sam's heart jumped right up into the back of his throat. Abandoning his shoes completely, and grabbing a fistful of the top of his pants to preserve his modesty, Sam got shakily to his feet and stumbled to the vanity table, leaning a hand on the top to peer in the mirror. The pale, shocked face staring back at him was definitely him. But him as a young teen.
If Sam hadn't seen and experienced so much weirdness in his life, he'd probably have fainted. As it was, he stood there stunned, half-completed phrases jumping through his mind too fast to make sense of. How did…can I…will I ever…is Dean…? It could have been one minute or ten before he slowed down his breathing enough to realize he was kneeling on the bench with his head hanging low, very close to a panic attack. He hadn't had a panic attack since he was a kid. Since the last time he was a kid. He could remember everything, Sam realized, still trying to slow his breathing. But memories of Jess and Stanford and anything he'd done in recent years felt flat, like he was trying to understand something that was beyond his comprehension. And his mind wasn't as crisp as he was used to. He was truly a man trapped in the body, mental capacity, and emotional state of someone much younger. And that meant he needed to get more information and break the damn spell before he completely forgot everything.
Deliberately slowing his breathing, Sam lifted his head to meet Philomena's eyes in the mirror. She was looking at him sadly, with those pale, young-old eyes. "Are you going to cry?" she asked. "I would come here when I cried."
"No." Damn, it was hard to keep teen (preteen?) emotions in check. Sam caught sight of something he hadn't been able to make out when he was seated. There were clothes all over the floor, modern, adult clothes lying in small piles like their owners had simply melted away while inside of them. Sam swallowed down a sudden burst of nausea. "No. I just have some more questions for you, okay? Who, uh, who killed your mother? Do you know?"
Instead of answering, Philomena stood and touched his arm. There was a sickening feeling of being compressed, then they were in a different room. Disoriented, Sam tripped over his much-too-long pants and very nearly lost hold of the waistband. "They did," said Philomena serenely, pointing one at a time at four black smudges. Sam realized they were back on the first floor, in a large, central room he suspected was a small ballroom.
"You…uh…killed them to…" Sam knew this. He did, but he couldn't remember.
"To anchor the spell. I never used lifeblood before, but I hurt so much I forgot."
Philomena admitted to murder and he felt sorry for her. What would Dean think? Sam felt a massive wave of longing for his brother. He was utterly swamped by a wish that Dean would show up with a grin and a wink and fix it. Focus, Sam. You're a hunter too. "What about that one?" he pointed at the fifth mark. He didn't want to know. He really didn't want to know, but he needed to know.
"The spell needed five anchors." Philomena smiled, vacantly. He was losing her. "So I used myself. I am the only one left…even their bones are gone now." She hugged herself and began to hum.
Feeling an urgency to get his questions answered before she lost her hold on reality or he forgot them, Sam tried to clamber to his feet, but the extra long pants frustrated him and he went down hard, clipping his chin on the floor rather than moon the ghost. That grabbed Philomena's attention again, and she frowned at him in concentration. "I can fix…" she mumbled under her breath and touched his shoulder. If Sam hadn't turned that way, he never would have noticed, but a whisp of ghostly light seemed to come loose from the girl and sink into Sam. He didn't feel a thing, but suddenly all of his clothes fit again. He looked down. He wasn't bigger. His clothes were smaller. So nothing was fixed, but this woman/child/ghost seemed to want to help.
"Thank you Philomena." He stood and wiped at his chin, finding it bloody. "Can you put me back to the way I was before? And let me out of the house?"
Philomena started walking slowly away. "No," she said simply. "I have tried." She sounded distant again.
"Wait! Wait, please." Sam licked his lips and tried to order his thoughts again. "Why, uh, why didn't you help the others with their clothes like this?" Dammit, that wasn't what he wanted to ask.
"They didn't talk to me. They just cried."
"That's why you brought them to the room where you felt safe," he realized, and his heart ached for her all over again.
"I thought your hurt would make you cry." She gestured vaguely at his head, but he had no time for aches and pains.
"Philomena, please, why did you let me in but not my brother?"
Philomena froze preternaturally still and thought about it so long that Sam thought she wouldn't answer. Finally, she said, "You came to fix. He came to break."
"Th-that…" It was so hard to find words! But he hadn't been stupid as a kid, either. "Dean only breaks things when it's the only way to fix 'em. And, uh, he breaks things so I don't have to. He wants to protect me. H-he just wants to get to me now, I know it." It was mostly true. Sam was sure that right now, Dean was desperate to get to him and to kill what had taken him.
"Mother died to protect me," said Philomena, sounding sad and thoughtful. "Very well." She slipped through the wall out of sight.
Suddenly nothing else mattered. Not the near pitch darkness with her departure. Not the way his stockinged feet slipped on the polished wood floor. Hell, a dozen ogres couldn't have stopped Sam's headlong flight out of the room and toward the front door.
"Dean!"
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Dean was back up on his feet, across the yard, up the stairs, and pounding on the door before he consciously registered that the rite hadn't worked. His head was pounding, but he was mostly seeing just one of everything, so he figured he hadn't been out for too long. Ignoring that and the bruises he could feel blooming up and down his back, Dean pounded on the door for a good minute, then kicked it a few times and cussed it out for good measure. Only slightly calmed, he turned on his penlight (still in his hand – thanks for the training, Dad) and shined it through the right side window.
There was no answering light, so he pressed his face to the glass for a better look. No light. No Sam. He kept looking, his movements more frantic than he would care to admit. What had the damn witch house done to Sam while he was out? He moved his search to the other window and froze as the light picked up Sam's shotgun. And the pansy little decorative table was knocked over.
There was no other sign of Sam.
Dean did a few more circuits around the house, trying every opening again and bruising his knuckles and a couple of toes on the back door. He spent some ammo on the front door, too. Truth was, he had no idea what to do next.
Breathing hard, Dean flipped his phone opened and hit the last contact he'd called, but was scattered enough that he'd been thinking Dad, not Bobby. But Bobby freaking answered and Bobby was freaking there and that was what Dean freaking needed right now. "Bobby, it didn't work and I can't see Sam any more and I don't know what to do any more." He didn't care if he sounded like a five year old girl, Dean was out of ideas.
"Calm down, boy," said Bobby. "I had a feeling you'd need someone with a brain backin' you on this one, so I'm on my way. Tell me everything. I'll be there in a coupla hours. Lucky I was already close."
Dean turned to lean against the house and slid to a seated position with his feet and ankles hanging off the porch where he had bodily removed part of the railing. It felt so damn good to have backup. He told Bobby everything they knew and how they'd tried to break the lockdown.
"Damn. That's a pretty powerful ritual," Bobby sighed. And when Dean told him that Sam seemed to be getting younger, he yelled, "Sohn einer Hündin!" (Sam had definitely gotten his habit of swearing in other languages from Bobby.)
"I have a couple – " Bobby was saying, when the door suddenly, soundlessly opened. Dean didn't care if it was a staple of every horror movie ever and probably a Really Bad Idea, he was going to go in and get his brother. "Bobby – I gotta go. The door opened."
"Dean, don't you dare go – "
The door closed firmly behind Dean and the call cut off. He didn't care.
"Sammy!"
* * *
AN addendum: The song Ten Feet Tall and Bullet Proof is by Travis Tritt and came out when I was in high school I think, so the Dark Ages and probably before most of you kids were born. Do I think Dean listened to Travis Tritt? No, but that song was EVERYWHERE for a while, so you knew it whether or not you wanted to. The phrase Bobby yelled is German for 'son of a bitch.' Also, gold star for those of you who guessed I was taking my stab at the de-aged trope. It sounded like fun!
sfaulkenberry: You need to stop letting those plot bunnies go around me…they aren't safe! I love your thoughts and ideas though. More than once, I've altered a story because of something you brought up. You don't need a premonition to know that I'm going to whump Sam, do ya? Hehe. Not sorry. Thanks for the laugh picturing Sam with a neon sign asking for whumpage. *snicker*
Lena: Ohio? I had you pegged for a Texan for some reason. You guys got the snow that missed us this time, but we're supposed to get buried next weekend (unless they're wrong again…I'm hoping). No, no more plot bunnies please! I need to actually get to some of the stories I have in the works. There are still some Whumptober ones I said I'd expand, and that whole Wendigo and skinning one is already started and it's all your fault! LOL I will get some Sam perspective, and if Dean comes after me, I'm throwing you right under the bus. *snicker* As always, you make me smile, and I appreciate you very much. You scolding the house is my new favorite thing…I'm picturing you standing on the porch shaking your finger at the house while Dean looks at you like you're nuts.
Scealai: I live in a land of giant people of Dutch descent (heck, I'm almost 6 ft and I'm not even the tallest of my sisters), but I'm just one big wuss. If Dean comes back, I'm hiding behind you – fair warning! Will you accept compensation in the form of baked goods? BTW, your comment made me laugh so long that my cat decided I was a raving lunatic and he left to go sit on a different lap. Thanks for the review and smiles!!
printandpolish: I'm so glad you like this story and others!!! Spoiler: we'll see more of Philomena soon. I can't wait to hear what you think of her after you learn more.
sylvia37: Sorry for the mean cliffie! I simply ran out of time to write! I hope this chapter helps…a little…
muffinroo: Oops…bad me with that evil cliffie. The house is sucking the bacon out of Sam. Excuse me, I'll be curled in the corner wheezing with laughter. That comment killed me! Hope the suspense wasn't too bad with another chapter coming out today already. And there will be more Bobby – I swear! I didn't dare try to keep him away. He has a gun.
Shazza19: Wow! Sydney! It's on my bucket list to visit some day. I recently heard a celebrity (tennis star Serena Williams, maybe?) say it's the most beautiful city she's ever been in. As for the story, Dean needs to have his conniption a little longer…sorry, Dean.
Stormy: Nice insights!! More Bobby is on the way. No promises on the rest, but I'm sure glad you're enjoying the story.
