Usually, when Sam discussed magic it was in one of two ways: academically, which he preferred really, or in terms of half-assing spellwork during a job. The latter he didn't necessarily consider to be magic, except in the strictest sense. Rather, it was The Way Things Worked. Trying to academically or scientifically explain how spirits or demons could hear you in hell or anywhere else was absurd.
There was nothing in Dad's journal about wizards. Certainly Sam and Dean hadn't faced any on their own. If you'd asked him a week ago if they existed the way they were portrayed in the movies, he would have said no.
Of course, that was before Dean had disappeared. Now Sam was hitting one in the face with a chair leg, and thanking God he was fast on his feet. (He would have said that using a wand to cast lightning bolts like in Harry Potter was ridiculous, too. Dean was never going to believe him...) The bastard was persistent though. He kept a tight grip on his scrap of wood, despite Sam's best efforts. And he just wouldn't go down.
Well, until Bobby clocked him on the back of the head with the butt of his shot gun. The hunter righted his hat, the cheerful looking one with the pig that he wore all the time now, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked for all the world like he wished he'd never heard the words wizard, missing, or Dean Winchester in close to the same sentence. Hell, Sam was sure if he pressed him, Bobby might say he wished he'd never heard the name Winchester to begin with.
Then they both got a good look at the guy. He couldn't have been older than twenty-one.
"Jesus, he's just a kid!" Sam said.
Bobby stared at the back of Sam's head for a moment then sighed. "Idjits," he muttered under his breath.
They salted and burned the wand, and the ashes were locked in a curse box for good measure. When the wizard finally came to, Bobby and Sam had tied him quite firmly to the only chair that hadn't been broken during the fight. He opened his eyes to find the barrel of the Colt between his eyes, and he started squirming in a panic. Thankfully Bobby had the wisdom to cover the guy's mouth with a strip of duct tape. Judging by the noise that managed to make it around the tape, he screamed like a girl.
The click of the hammer being cocked caught his attention pretty quick, though. He looked up past the gun to find Sam glaring back. He used his height to his advantage, looming over the moron as if the arcane Peacemaker wasn't imposing enough on its own. His jaw clenched and unclenched with impatient anger.
"Now," Sam said. The chill in his voice matched the icy determination in his eyes. "You're going to tell me what the hell you did to my brother."
---
Dean had difficulty standing up. He wasn't sure if it was the concussion or if it was his twenty-nine year old mind stuck in his thirteen year old body. Either way it made him dizzy as hell and he nearly collapsed all over again.
Sammy caught him. The kid supported him until Dean was mostly steady on his feet (damn body didn't want to do what it was told). If he'd had time, Dean would have allowed himself to admit that his little brother took care of him more than he noticed or remembered. The problem was, dislike for touchy-feely crap aside, it wouldn't be much longer before the door wasn't a door anymore.
"Grab the bag from under the bed," he said. He hoped giving an order would sound more confident than he felt. That maybe it would keep Sammy focused. "Shit," Dean muttered as he leaned against the wall next to the bathroom door. The way Sam kept flinching in time to the door cracking probably meant Dad hadn't started training him yet. Not good.
Well, not right at this particular moment anyway. It pissed Dean off, having to watch the end of his brother's childhood. Knowing that all his brother wanted was to be safe.
"What..." Sam huffed with the effort of dragging the ammo, "do we... need?" He looked up at his brother.
Dean ran a hand through his hair. He knew that look: the my-brother-knows-everything look. Unfortunately the first answer that came to mind was 'a comprehensive theory of consciousness and time travel.' Then 'a Flux capacitor.' Entirely unhelpful. (Sammy probably wouldn't appreciate the reference. Or that Dean had paid some attention to one of his bizarre geek theories some sixteen years from now.)
He tried to remember what had happened the first time he'd lived through this moment. The best he came up with was that Dad started Sammy's weapons training some time this year. Maybe Dean had been in the hospital. Maybe. And Dad had started bringing Dean with him on some of his hunts. He couldn't remember where they lived back... now. Or what kind of job Dad was on.
"Fuck fuck fuck," he muttered again. It was too late for safe. He'd settle for keeping them both alive. That required information, though, and his walking encyclopedia of weird hadn't started studying yet.
"Dean?" Sammy's brow furrowed with renewed worry. The kid was observant. He had definitely noticed Dean was acting strangely. For the thirteen year old, at least.
"I hit my head," Dean said. He tried to ignore the pang of guilt for manipulating him. There just wasn't time for the whole truth. "Its pretty bad, and I can't think straight. What are they Sammy? Did you see what they looked like?"
The nine year old bit his lip nervously. Sam was obviously terrified, but he was equally determined to help his brother. "I think you said... a werewolf? Because of the moon. And, um, his eyes looked more like canine eyes than human ones. The fingernails were really long. We didn't get away fast enough. He must have followed..."
"Were you bitten?" Dean demanded. No wonder the kid was freaked. It was probably his first fight, and werewolves were always a bitch to fight without a gun. Especially when you're pint sized. His older brother passing out and losing some of his memory couldn't be helping much.
Sam shook his head furiously. Dean pulled him closer anyway to inspect his shoulder. Leaning over and straightening brought on another dizzy spell. He forced himself to ignore it, to keep his expression neutral.
"You're doing pretty good," he said instead. Dean patted Sam down to be sure he wasn't hurt anywhere else. "Most other kids would be curled up in the corner crying like a gir..."
They were interrupted by a resounding crack. A large chunk of the door fell away. The brothers could hear the werewolves (or whatever, because Dean knew first hand those things were loners) snarling victoriously. A long pale arm stretched in for a moment before being jerked back. One of them growled.
Quite frankly, Dean didn't give a damn about the social dynamics of a group of fuglies. But it did a lot to remind him about the reality of their situation. He wasted no time in shoving Sam into the bathroom. "After I close the door," Dean said, "lock it..."
"What? But what about you? Dean..." Panic made the boy's eyes as wide as saucers. He grabbed his brother's arm. His grip was so tight his knuckles turned white under the scrapes.
"Don't worry about me." Dean put on his best nonchalant smile. It seemed to work a little bit. "There's no time to argue, Sammy. So after I close the door, you lock it and get between the toilet and the tub. Make yourself as small as possible. Got it?" Sam nodded and reluctantly let go.
Dean knelt and rifled through the bag. The things weren't werewolves, not the ones he remembered anyway. What he saw of the arm made him think that it was some kind of shape shifter, though. That was some measure of relief. There wasn't going to be time to play twenty questions and find their weakness.
It occurred to him that the bag had carried more than just ammo, once upon a time. Back before they'd built up a proper weapons stash. Most of the current stash would be with Dad, but maybe... His fingers wrapped around a dagger somewhere around the bottom. "Yahtzee," Dean said. He checked the blade, sheathed it again, and held it out to his brother. "Its not much, but they're weak to silver."
"But... I can't... I don't..." Sam flinched as the bastards went back to work on the door.
"I won't let them reach you," Dean said quickly. "I promise, Sammy." He made sure to look his brother in the eye when he said that. It was mostly true, since they were both alive in the future. (He didn't let himself think about whether or not he could accidentally change that.) "They won't get passed me, okay? Its for just in case, so you're not so scared. Okay?"
Sam nodded and took the dagger. But if anyone in the world knew Samuel Winchester, it was Dean. The kid trusted him completely. He also wasn't convinced. "What are you gonna do?"
Dean smiled. Sammy and his questions. "Silver bullets... Remember, lock the door. It'll be all right." He spared a moment as he pulled the bathroom door shut to be proud of himself for not cursing in front of his young brother even more than he already had. Things seemed determined to leap from the frying pan and straight into hellfire.