Prompt: Swan Lake
Disclaimer: not my characters
Three months. Three goddamned fucking months, and neither hide nor hair of Sammy. No hint at all. Not since that night they challenged the-wizard? Warlock? Male witch?- Dean still doesn't know what to call the bastard, but he waved his hand and Sam vanished. Right in front of Dean's eyes. Poof. Not even a puff of smoke and no more Sammy.
After slamming the son-of-a-bitching-whore into the wall and beating him bloody, Dean still knew nothing more. The bastard never said a word. He met Dean's eyes and he smirked and he laughed when Dean shoved a knife into his belly and pulled it across, spilling his guts all over the floor.
Dean burned the old warehouse down around the corpse after collecting all of the magical paraphernalia, which included a spellbook written in blood, and called Bobby. He's called Bobby every day since, and Ellen, and Jefferson and Joshua and Missouri.
Bobby scoured the spellbook before finally deciding Sam had been transformed and sent away somewhere, but he didn't know the destination. So Dean drove, searching for his little brother. Bobby was sure he'd know when he found the right place.
And what'll I do when I find him? he'd asked Bobby. Bring him back here, you'll work some mojo?
No, Bobby answered. If that bastard did what I think he did, you have to break the spell, Dean.
And if he didn't? Dean asked.
Bobby shrugged. Then I'm sorry, kid. Bobby looked away. I don't know of a single magic-user in the world powerful enough to turn Sam back.
So Dean drives because Bobby says he'll know and Bobby is always right.
o0o
But three months turn into six into a year into a year and a half. He never finds Sam. He can barely remember Mom and Dad's voice has faded, and now he can't recall the color of Sam's eyes.
And then-and then. He turns the car into the long, gravel-strewn drive of a third-rate petting zoo just because. He parks in the muddy lot and walks around the too-small enclosures, looking looking looking-there. An itty-bitty little fox thing with ears the size of planets. It goes crazy when it sees him, yipping and jumping, throwing itself against the chicken-wire.
"Calm down, Sammy," he says, crouching. He peers around before pulling out his lock-pick; once he's got Sam free, he tucks the itty-bitty little fox thing into his jacket and calmly walks back to his car.
o0o
The sun is just starting to set when Dean pulls off the road again, twenty miles from Sam's prison. Sam's spent the whole drive yipping and barking, bouncing around the passenger seat. Dean's spent it trying not to cry because he finally has Sam back.
"Sammy," he says. "Fuck, Sammy."
Sam-ripples is the only word for it. He whimpers and screams, and then he's Sam again, Sammy hunched over shotgun, whole frame trembling.
"Shit, that hurts more each time," he mutters.
Dean stares before reaching out to touch Sam's shoulder. "Sammy?"
Sam, human and naked and here, slowly turns his head. "Dean?" He blinks and jerks a little, like he's about to reach out, and then he pounces, pulling Dean against his chest, arms tight around him. "DeanDeanDeanDean," he says all in one breath. "Dean."
Into his shoulder, Dean murmurs, "You're never leavin' me again, hear? If I have to lock you in Bobby's panic-room, I swear to God I will."
And Sam fucking glows, an intense, white-hot light.
"What the fuck?" Dean demands, yanking back.
Sam smiles a watery smile, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I'm me again," he says. "For good."
Dean grins, too, still not understanding, but-Sam. He lets Sam enfold him in another hug without a grumble, and if he sniffles a bit, raising a hand to tangle in Sam's hair? Neither of them are ever going to mention it.