A/N: Okay kiddos, here's the deal. This story has always had a very specific time line and plot line, and by the original count it's a little ways past the half-way mark now. That being said, the current plan is two work through two more remixed canon cases, and then go on one final AU case that will wrap up the story arc.

That being said, I have had had some readers ask me if I would be taking Sam 2.0 further. The answer is, though I hadn't planned on it, if you guys wanted me to make this a longer story, I certainly could.

I'm trying to keep angels and demons and what-not out of it, Sam's powers are obviously manifesting early, but really, that's as far as this story will be touching on the apocalypse storyline, because that's what the TV series did.

There are tons of other fun, non-angel/demon episodes I could use to show off new, Sam 2.0 and anxious/worried/over-protective big brother Dean. (Honestly, between the hellatus and the season ten preview, I'm sort of craving protective big brother Dean). However, I do not want to drag out a story longer than the readers are interested in reading it.

So what I need from you, dear readers, is some feed back. Leave me a review, shoot me a pm, let me know if you want a longer story, or if the natural arc of this story needs to wrap up soon before I wreck a good thing. Honestly, I could go either way, but I need to know sooner rather than later to adjust the time line. If you'd like to see a longer story, please jump over to my profile. I have a poll that lists several episodes I could re-work to fit the nature of this story line, and every voter may vote for five.

As Always,

EverReader

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox

Prisoner of War-Chapter Fifteen

"The Absence of Motion"

Dean stepped out of the hotel room, closing the door as quietly as he could manage.

They'd only driven about four hours outside of Jericho before Dean had made the executive decision to pull over for the night.

The motel was even crappier than usual, but Dean had been forced to pay with cash, as his most recent credit card was obviously compromised.

Sam couldn't have cared less, however, at least as far as Dean could tell.

The kid never said a word, but sweat had been sheening his brow by the time they had stopped, and Dean had given up trying to figure out if it was pain, illness or exhaustion bringing it on.

He'd doped the kid up with everything he could lay his hands on that wouldn't cause adverse reactions with anything else, hustled him into a shower, bundled him into bed with every pillow he could find (because, of course, that damned cough was back again, Christ, could they catch a break already?) and then, for the hell of it, once the pain killers and cold medicine had started really kicking in, he'd wrestled Sammy into a sling to help immobilize his shoulder.

Now Sam was sleeping, at least until the nightmares woke him again (and Dean was getting pretty good and tired of those, he and Sam were gonna have a come-to-Jesus about those dreams if they didn't kick rocks soon).

Walking a couple of feet away, he leaned against the Impala, staring at his phone in consternation.

He didn't know who to call.

Something was wrong with Sam.

Not sick wrong, or busted shoulder wrong, or just worn out and tired wrong.

Something was wrong with his kid, and Dean couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he was having trouble ignoring it any longer.

Sam wasn't acting like Sam, hadn't been acting like Sam for weeks now.

And not just the crazy ghost-whispering act Sam seemed determined to perfect, though that was all kinds of alarming all on it's own.

No.

Something about Sam was wrong.

Really, deeply, truly fundamentally wrong.

He wasn't acting like himself. He wouldn't talk to Dean, about the good, the bad or anything that wasn't absolutely need to know.

The kid Dean had raised was a first class chatter box, how many times growing up had Dean taken Sam to the library to get books just to make the kid shut up for a while? Of course, books had always been a mixed blessing, because Sam loved to talk about whatever it was he was reading, and Dean had always been his favorite (and captive, at times) audience.

But Dean hadn't seen Sam read anything not case related since before he went to the Carolinas to hunt with Caleb. Not even for school, which was a whole other problem. Sam had been out of school for several weeks now, and it was unfortunately necessary, between his illnesses and injuries and John's cases, but his brother should have been screaming bloody murder by now.

Sam should have been threatening to hitchhike to Pastor Jim's in Minnesota and enroll himself, which they had sometimes done (not the hitchhiking part, obviously).

But Sam hadn't said a word.

And tonight. Tonight was just the icing on the cake.

Dean had given Sam an order, a sensible order that fell in line with everything John had ever instructed him to do in regards to caring for his younger brother, and not only had Sam massively, epically disobeyed, but he had done so with John's apparent blessing.

Dean couldn't get over the look on Sam's face, in that moment when he had rammed the Buick into the farmhouse. It had been almost manic, like Sam had been releasing some pent up tiger that had been locked up inside him, prowling and snarling.

He hadn't looked nervous or worried or scared.

He'd laughed.

Dean was a risk taker, a first class risk taker, in fact. But Sam had always been calmer, more likely to think things through, and the balance had always seemed to work for them.

But Dean honestly felt like he couldn't guess Sam's thoughts, his course of action anymore. For sixteen years, Dean could probably have identified every single damn hair on that kid's head, and now, tonight, he almost felt like he was driving in a car with a stranger.

He wanted his brother back.

Dean considered calling John, but in all honesty, he was still uncomfortable with the knowledge that John had knowingly allowed Sam to move forward without back up. The one thing John had always drilled into Dean's mind was 'protect Sammy' and tonight seemed like a declaration of war on the primary tenet of Dean's existence.

He dialed a different number instead, holding his breath as he listened to the ring.

"Bobby." Dean said lowly. "Don't say my name. Go outside, away from Dad. I need to talk to you."

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Sam slipped outside quietly.

He doubted Dean would sleep in much longer, but Sam didn't need all that long, really. His chest was too bad to jog, and his shoulder to sore to stand for any real activity anyway. He'd simply needed to be outside, and he walked slowly over to the Impala, and climbed carefully onto her hood.

The last of the stars were fading away into the early morning light, and Sam closed his eyes, breathing in as deeply as he could. Thankfully, he didn't feel as bad as he'd feared this morning, all things considered.

But Dean was officially and completely FREAKED OUT all over again, and Sam had needed some time to gather his thoughts before they had hit the road again.

He'd spent the night trapped in a drug tinged loop of nightmares, the painkillers serving to make it harder to wake up, but Sam didn't really feel any more rested.

Images of drowning children had been chased by images of a faceless blonde woman burning on the ceiling, which in turn had been chased by images of his father and brother, backs turned to him as they strode off into the distance, and no matter how fast Sam ran, he could never catch up.

Sometimes he thought he should just run away, away from John and Dean. Run away from them before they could turn away from him, from the monstrous, evil time bomb ticking inside of him.

But Sam figured if he had any chance for redemption, no matter how slim, it would be right where he was, fighting the monsters.

The dark inside him seemed to lean that direction anyway, if his new talents were any indication.

The vision (and he could dance around the word all he wanted, but that was, in fact, what it was) that had hit him at the farmhouse was just one more piece of proof that everything he had read in John's journal was true.

Even Constance had seemed to sense it, back on the bridge, outside of Jericho.

"What are you?"

The question whispered across his memory again, and Sam wished he had no answer.

"I'm a monster." He whispered as the last star blinked out of existence.

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Dean jerked open the door of the motel, visibly relaxing when he spied his brother splayed out on the hood, fast asleep. It was barely past seven, and he wondered how long ago Sam had wandered out here.

Sam had always had an almost peculiar ability to sleep in the car, or even on the car.

Dean loved the Impala, she was the third most important person in his life, and to be honest, he'd slept in her more times than could be counted, but he wasn't like Sam.

John used to drive them miles out of the way when Sam was an infant, just to give the Impala's engine a chance to soothe a teething Sammy back to sleep. When Sam was five or six, he'd taken to sleep walking on occasion, but they'd always find him, curled up in the back seat of the Impala.

He hadn't slept walked for real in years, but Dean knew he still had a habit of using the Impala as a touchstone of sorts, especially when he was tired.

The old, Sammy-like habit was actually soothing to Dean, and he took a moment to just watch his brother, studying his features.

He was still too thin, and though Dean didn't even want to think the words, he thought the kid might have somehow managed to grow another half an inch when Dean wasn't looking. The way he was going, he'd end up six three, or even taller.

Making a split second decision, he went back inside for the blanket from Sam's bed. He climbed onto the hood of the Impala beside Sam, glad they had taken the room at the far back end, facing the woods behind the motel.

John would be calling soon, wanting to know their location, but in the meantime, Dean allowed himself to relax beside his sleeping brother.

His conversation with Bobby from the night before played through his mind.

It wasn't that Bobby hadn't believed Dean, per se, as much as he wasn't sure it wasn't just Sam just growing up, and growing away from Dean by default.

Dean had struggled for the words to describe his fears, his unease, but he wasn't sure he'd gotten through. He'd tried describing Sam, how he'd looked when he'd crashed the car, how he hadn't even thought about how hurt he could get, was already.

In turn, Bobby had pointed out that both John and Dean were notorious risk takers, and hadn't they been training Sam since he was twelve to do what needed to be done?

Dean had been forced to concede Bobby's point, but it had done little to quell his anxiety.

Finally, Bobby had simply told Dean to stop talking.

Literally.

Bobby had said that if he wanted Sam to start talking to him again, he needed to stop talking AT Sam and start making sure that Sam had chances to talk to Dean if he ever felt the need.

The whole concept was foreign to Dean, for as long as he could remember, Sam had never hesitated to make his needs or wants known.

Sam had talked early, clearly and loudly, asking for this, demanding that.

When that didn't work, he'd taught himself to walk early, practically skipping the crawling stage, and proceeding to get whatever he wanted for himself all on his own.

There was no way all of Sam's old thoughts and opinions had just disappeared overnight. He still wanted to go to school, still hated hunting and training. He still disagreed with John.

He had to.

It wasn't like he'd just woken up with the hunting bug one morning. He hadn't converted to hunting as a religion or read some magic book that made the life suddenly appealing.

But new and improved Sam had a bad habit of always insisting he was fine, so maybe Bobby had a point. Maybe Sam's feelings of abandonment from when Dean left him to hunt with Caleb had Sam thinking that Dean didn't care about his problems anymore.

Maybe Sam had just decided that if he didn't have any problems with their lives anymore, it wouldn't hurt if Dean walked away again rather than listen to them.

He had certainly had never meant to give Sam that impression, he'd just wanted to stop feeling like a rope in a game of tug of war between Sammy and John.

Dean cared, he just hadn't known how to make Sam understand that the family, and the family business, was important. They stopped the bad guys. They stuck together.

He hadn't known how to get that through to Sam, how important that was, how scary it could be all alone.

So when he'd left to meet Caleb, he'd hoped John's plan would work.

And it had, on the surface, but Dean knew that had to be all it was. Now Sammy was acting like he wanted to hunt. He didn't even care about his own safety, acting like he had to earn Dean and John's approval.

Dean understood the feeling of needing to earn approval, especially when it came to John, but it broke his brain to try to think of his confident little brother thinking something like that.

That wasn't who Sam was.

Perhaps that was what was bothering Dean the most. The injuries and illnesses were horrible, of course, but not entirely unexpected in their line of work.

But the way Sam had shown up at the library, so short of breath he had nearly passed out, simply to bring Dean a lead? The way he had told John he hadn't needed back up, when Sam had to know that he was outnumbered?

Why did Dean's self assured little brother suddenly feel like he needed to earn his place, when John and Dean had spent his whole life waiting for Sam to want it in the first place?

They'd pretty much been in a constant state of motion since Dean had returned, except for when Sam had been so sick he probably couldn't have talked if he'd wanted to.

Maybe Dean just needed to reaffirm to Sam that he wasn't going anywhere. Sam didn't have to earn Dean's approval, he didn't have to earn anything, as far as Dean was concerned. As long as Sam was breathing, Dean would figure out the rest, no matter how long it took.

So Dean spread the blanket out over his brother, and laid back, crossing his feet and watching the sun come up.

Sam could wait as long as he needed to.

Dean wasn't going anywhere.