Threefold
Chapter 5
S s S s S
"Hey, Sam, it's Bobby. Please give me a call."
Bobby snapped his phone shut, Dean watched him, arms tightly crossed clamping down on his irritation and impatience, his earlier good mood slowly eroding as he realized that finding Sam Winchester would be no easy task.
"You can wipe that look of your face, you're just going to have to wait. He'll call if he wants to, if not there's not a whole lot we can do about it." Bobby moved to the sink and raised a cup, "Coffee?"
Dean didn't think he needed the extra stimulation the caffeine would provide, Bobby was being reasonable and helpful and Dean couldn't stand it. It was childish, but he didn't want to wait, he needed to see Winchester now, not at some undetermined time in the future when Bobby or whathisface decided to schedule a meeting.
"Where does he live? We can go and check on him," Dean was trying to keep his voice level and unconcerned, what he really wanted to do was to stamp his feet and yell.
Bobby looked at him in surprise and shook his head, "He doesn't live anywhere. He's off the grid, on the road; people like Sam Winchester just keep going until someone stops them." He sighed, "Sorry Dean, I forgot. You knew all this. I know you were partners and fine, you think maybe you should help. Please drop it, he made his choice."
Dean pushed back on the kitchen counter, rocking his shoulders, he had no argument with which to counter Bobby's words, all he knew was that he had to find the kid, if only to hear from someone else who he was and what he had done.
"How long? How long did we hunt together?" Any answer was open to interpretation, how long was significant? How many days would increase the importance of their relationship? How few would diminish it?
"Just over three years off and on and don't ask me what you got up to because some things you told me and some things you didn't. Better for my blood pressure that way."
"Three years. Three years hunting every kind of freaky crap out there. I guess we got used to watching each others backs." Dean tried to imagine how that might feel, repeatedly risking life and limb and trusting someone with that life, what it would be like if it all went wrong. A bitter emptiness rose in his chest. He couldn't do it, couldn't picture himself outside of the short and limited life that he had experienced for the past few months. There must have been residue of those times; the adrenaline, the fear, surely those memories would be the type to stay with a person for years and years, good or bad. For some reason that stung more than the lose of his family or his girlfriends or anything else that his previous life might have entailed. It made him angry and confused. Had he defined himself by those memories, who was he without them? Bobby waved a cup under his nose and he grabbed it.
"Why do you think seeing him will help?" Bobby asked from the depths of his coffee.
Dean swallowed a mouthful of the strong brew; it burnt his mouth and gave him a fresh focus for his annoyance.
"Why won't it? You haven't fixed whatever the demon did. You said it was your fault, so why don't you help me find this guy again; he seemed to have a way with the evil bastards. How do you know he can't help?" His words were sharp and although Bobby stiffened slightly his expression remained unchanged, a placating calm mask. And for the first time in a long time Dean could feel his brain turning over and connecting the dots.
"Fuck. It was Winchester wasn't it? Not you, it's his fault I got wiped. He screwed up and took off. Jesus, no wonder you don't want me going anywhere near the asshole." Again Bobby's studied lack of reaction told Dean all he needed to know, he threw the dregs of his coffee in the sink and dropped the cup, it rattled loudly against the metal, snapping the handle.
"That was my favorite mug," Bobby said disapprovingly and gripped Dean's shoulder. "You're right; Sam Winchester is responsible for your current condition. Alive, as in not dead. So for once, shut the fuck up and wait."
S s S s S
Sam listened to the message several times; trying to gauge the tone of Bobby's voice, there was something in the cadence of those few words, a wariness and apology combined. It was about Dean, obviously. Strange, Sam ran his fingers over the smooth lines of the cell phone, he had decided to ditch it, no one ever called him and he certainly had no plans to be speaking to anybody any time soon. He dropped it on the floor and slumped back onto the bed, the dried blood stains on the pillow crinkled under his cheek. He would see Dean one last time, tell Bobby what he had learnt and then, well it didn't matter much, Sam knew he was dying. His head ached constantly, nose bleeds were the norm, his body adamantly refusing any food that he pushed into his stomach and the scar on his back was leaking pus. This time, he was certain, he was going to stay dead.
There was just one small job he had to finish before the end and he didn't think she was going to be too happy about it. He closed his eyes, wriggling to get comfortable. He would call Bobby later and they would meet, if Dean remembered any details it didn't change anything. His limbs heavy and his mind fuzzy he felt a small measure of peace seep through him and he drifted off to sleep.
S s S s S
With nothing better to do than glower at Bobby, Dean had gone back to the bar and had stayed there until closing, serving customers with ruthless efficiency and a scowl.
He went home, thumping up the stairs as a gentle reminder to its sleeping occupant that he was home. Nothing stirred. He shoved open his bedroom door and jumped back, silhouetted against the window was a small figure. Dean blinked and it disappeared, he scrabbled for the light switch and a soft melodic tinkle sounded above his head, the room stayed dark.
Dean shifted in the doorway, no couldn't be, his eyes were playing tricks on him, Bobby had the house and grounds bound up in so many charms and wards that nothing short of a zombie apocalypse could cause any trouble.
This hunter's going to bed, Dean assured himself, quickly crossing the room and slipping under the covers. He pulled them high over his shoulders and up to his nose and willed himself to sleep.
The muted grays of dawn were filling the room when Dean woke, he lay unmoving with his eyes shut, although the room was quiet Dean could feel it, tracing its way across his skin, a soft paintbrush forming an abstract pattern that he instinctively understood. He opened his eyes.
Perched on the windowsill, feet dangling above the floor, was a young boy. His pale blond hair came down to his chin, he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and to Dean he looked to be about twelve years old. He appeared solid enough but in the weak morning light his form lacked depth and cohesion, it was like looking at an old black and white photocopy, recognizable for what is was but clearly not the original.
Dean sat up and pretended that he wasn't scared. "Hey," was all he could think of to say.
The apparition turned to him, swinging its legs to and fro and Dean thought it gave him a shy smile; it was hard to tell in the shadows that played through the window and over his bed.
"What do you want?" Wasn't that what you were supposed to ask?
The image before him flickered, shimmering at its edges. "Your brother needs you."
Dean shook his head, surprised to find that he was genuinely unafraid only confused. "My brother's dead, I think you'd know more about that than me, seeing as how, ah, you know…" Awkward, he should check with Bobby on the do's and don'ts of talking to the dear departed.
"Your brother needs you," the child's ghost whispered and then was gone, only to materialize by Dean's bed, "I'm not your brother." The image was static for a second and then vanished.
"Wait, don't go," Dean yelled at the empty space, willing the apparition into reappearing, in answer a door banged out in the hall and the heavy tread of footsteps told him that Bobby was awake.
The swung open and a disheveled and bleary eyed Bobby peered into the room, "What's with all the noise?"
Dean ran his fingers through his hair and shrugged, "You could have told me the house was haunted," he said.
S s S s S
Sam picked up his phone from the floor, rubbing at his encrusted eyelashes; fresh blood decorated his bedding and had soaked into his shirt collar. Ignoring the fine tremors running along his fingers, he punched in the familiar numbers and waited.
It was early, perhaps too early and Sam was just about to end the call when a shaky voice answered, "Singer here."
"Bobby, it's Sam," and without giving Bobby time to respond he continued, "Tomorrow, seven a.m. at Clinton Cemetery, Douglas County, Kansas. How much does he remember?"
There was brief pause. "Nothing, he wants to see you; he knows you were his partner, he wants..." Sam heard no more, terminating the connection. He slung the phone across the room, where it missed the small trash can and shattered against the wall.
"Oops," he muttered and dragged himself from the bed, time to clean up and say his goodbyes. Twenty minutes later he had changed into some not quite so dirty clothes. He left the dingy apartment as it was, leaving behind everything that wasn't on his back or packed in the small armory in the Impala's trunk. Outside the morning sunshine was not yet high enough for its warming rays to reach into the shadows of concrete and blacktop, Sam leaned against the car and let his eyes roam over the cracked stucco walls of the church across the street.
"Goodbye Father Joseph," he mumbled. One farewell over, one more to go and then he would deal with Lilith. If he was going down he was taking her along for the ride.
S s S s S
The kitchen tiles were cold against his bare feet as Bobby shuffled over to the coffee pot and emptied the cold grinds into the sink, dealing with Dean on a regular basis was having an alarming effect on his coffee and alcohol consumption.
Three generous scoops into the filter cone, the smell alone perking up his drowsy senses, and he was ready to face the next crisis in the Singer household.
"So let me get this straight, you saw a ghost in your bedroom?" Bobby dragged a hand over a jaw cracking yawn, there were several viable explanations, Dean was dreaming, Dean was hallucinating, Dean was insane, it was way too early for this type of shit.
"I'll ignore the overwhelming disbelief that's plastered all over your face. Yes, there was a ghost, spirit, whatever at the end of my bed. It was a kid, a young boy. Modern clothes, longish blond hair..." Dean broke off as the noise of a ringing phone filled the kitchen.
Bobby grabbed it from the counter top, ducking away from Dean, hiding the shock that he knew was written across his face. The house was protected against all manner of paranormal incursion. Did the spirits of those he had loved find no barrier? Sean had often slept in that room. Bobby answered his telephone, emotions reeling, and almost dropped it when he heard the voice at the other end.
S s S s S
A light mist rose from the grass, wreathing the headstones in a thin shroud that hid the names and dates from view. Weaving in between the scattered graves it took Sam about twenty minutes to find what he was looking for, a small headstone, unadorned apart from a narrow intricate border carved into the left hand corner. To the casual observer it was no more than ornamentation; to Sam it was so much more, his eyes easily distinguishing the flowing lines of a protection sigil etched into the stone.
Elizabeth Mary Woodward.
Her duty done.
1925 – 1980.
RIP.
His grandmother's final resting place, he wondered why his father had chosen not to bury his wife where so many of her family had ended their days, somewhere behind him an engine rumbled to a stop and two separate clunks of doors slamming shut announced the arrival of his brother and Bobby.
Winding his way through the many trees planted throughout the cemetery, Sam pushed down on the blossoming anticipation at seeing Dean; this was a business meeting, nothing more.
There were some stone benches just inside the entrance, Sam sat and waited. He watched them push open the gate as Bobby pulled on Dean's arm, forcing him to slow down.
"Sam." Bobby sat on the opposite bench.
"Bobby." Sam nodded, deciding not to acknowledge his brother.
Dean remained standing, hands on hips and smiled sourly, "Hey there, old buddy." His eyes narrowed, taking in Sam's pale features and a couple of bloody splodges on the front of his shirt.
"So what is it? What do you want?" Sam asked impassively.
Dean stared at him, doubt in his eyes, "I want to know what happened. Were we friends? I mean Bobby tells me we hunted together for three years. What did I do to piss you off? Or are you the type of guy who drops people because, oh I don't know, they get hit by demon voodoo? You'll have to forgive me, I having a little trouble remembering."
Sam met Bobby's eyes and the older man sighed, "Don't blame me, he figured out that you were there that night. I tried to tell him you saved his ungrateful hide, but I guess he thinks I'm holding out on him." Bobby was good, Sam smiled inwardly to himself, he lied with the casual ease of someone who was used to being taken at their word.
He stood and in a few steps was face to face with his brother, making good use of the few inches difference in height. It took little effort to summon the anger and self loathing he needed to confront Dean, free of any empathy or compassion. If Dean believed that they were partners his loyalty to that ideal would remain, unless Sam could demonstrate how unworthy he was of that sentiment, and he was unworthy, he was convinced of it himself and he would convince Dean.
"You got in the way that night Singer, just like every other hunt we ever did together. I got sick and tired of hauling your incompetent ass out of one screw up after another. You think it's a game, a hobby for when you're not fucking around or drinking too much beer in whatever bar you stagger into. You thought you could handle yourself, I trusted you to watch my back. More fool me. You'd be dead a dozen times over if I hadn't been there. I got tired of babysitting. Why do you think your uncle doesn't want you on hunts?" Sam could see that one strike home, he shoved Dean in the chest, "You should be glad you don't remember, you can live without the memory of all the times you almost got me or Bobby killed because you're an arrogant son of a bitch who doesn't listen. Goodbye Dean," he finished harshly.
Dean hit him. It wasn't a hard blow, it caught him under the chin and he went down with little resistance and there he stayed, feeling lightheaded and nauseous. Dean loomed over him, fist still clenched and confusion on his face.
"I get it Winchester. I don't know what your problem is but it ain't me. Sorry I bothered." He marched away, leaving Sam and Bobby alone.
"Was that really necessary? You could have let him down gently." Bobby offered him a hand; Sam took it.
Bobby ran a critical eye over his trembling form. "How long have you got?" he asked quietly and with more kindness than Sam could bear.
He let Bobby guide him to a bench. "Not long, a few weeks, maybe days. That's why," he gestured after Dean, "Clean break. There's something I need to tell you, something Lilith told me. I don't know if it's true but I can't take the risk, you can't tell Dean. Promise me."
"Let me hear it Sam, but some promises I can't and won't keep."
Sam told him anyway.
Kicking the tires did nothing to help relieve his frustration, so he paced. Around and around the car, scuffing his shoes and letting loose a stream of expletives that only succeeded in stoking his anger until he wanted to scream. Dean opened his mouth to do just that when Bobby appeared at the cemetery gate.
"Let's go," he mumbled head down.
"It that it?" Dean demanded, "We've come all this way because that holier-than-thou fuck told us to and now we're dismissed. Great."
Bobby raised his head and Dean flinched at the obvious pain on display.
"What, did the kid tell you some sob story about how hard it is being a super freaking hunter?"
"He's dying. So shut ..." Bobby snapped his mouth shut, wiping a hand over his face, too late to erase the truth of his statement.
"I'll send flowers." It was a cheap shot, but Dean he couldn't bring himself to care, Bobby just looked defeated. Dean took a deep breath, ready to offer some form of apology and as he sucked in the cool moist air a rancid taste hit the back of his throat, heavy and oily making him gag and bend double, his vision blurred and an endless void engulfed his senses. It only lasted a few seconds before the ground beneath his feet solidified again.
"Dean, what's wrong." Bobby was shaking him.
"There's a demon, here." Dean swallowed trying to rid himself of the foul taste, it was the same sensation that he had experienced at the old man's cottage. How near was it? He spun around, the fetid air drifted across the cemetery. Winchester, had to be, he reasoned, where demons were so was that insufferable jerk.
"Are you sure," Bobby followed his gaze. "Damn it, Sam."
Using the cover of the trees, Dean led Bobby around the circumference of the cemetery, tracking the demon's unholy scent. Crouching behind a large kitsch monument of pink marble, they listened to voices that carried clearly through the misty air.
"You again. Honestly, Sam I'm beginning to think you're stalking me." It was a woman's voice, arch and childish. Dean flinched, shrinking back against the cold marble as the tendons in his ribcage crackled sending darts of pain into his chest, he barely heard Sam Winchester's reply.
"No, sorry Lilith I don't like you that much. In fact this is the last time you'll be seeing me. I can't say it's been a pleasure. Good bye."
Dean spat out a mouthful of blood, Bobby's eyes rounded in horror and a hellish shriek rose into the air, immediately the painful grip on his chest lessened.
Bobby gestured wildly past the headstone, "Oh my God, it's Sam, he's killing her, he's killing Lilith. Come on," he dragged Dean up by his jacket and didn't let go as he dodged around the gravestones. Dean stumbled behind, gasping to catch his breath. Who the hell was Lilith? A demon, he got that, and how did Bobby know who she was? Why did he feel like he was being ripped apart? Too many questions and no one willing to answer them, Dean had the feeling he was being left out of the loop.
In a shadowed corner, hemmed by swaying trees and resting against a small headstone was Sam Winchester. He paid no heed to Dean or Bobby tripping over the grass towards him, his attention concentrated on a young woman pinned up against a tree. Blond hair splayed across the bark as dark blood seeped from her eyes and mouth, her skin distorted and the muscles underneath twisting with inhuman convulsions, she screamed again. It wasn't blood, Dean realized, but something black and thick and his nostrils twitched at the rotten stench that hung in the air around her.
"He's gonna kill her? What about the host?" Dean asked breathlessly.
"There is no host. She is what she is, demon through and through." Bobby said grimly, moving toward Sam and kneeling by his side. Dean tore his eyes away from the demon; Winchester was a mess, his face caked with blood and what looked like watery vomit spattered down his front. The kids eyes, half lidded were still fixed on Lilith and her every cry sent a shudder down his long frame.
Lilith called out, in deep powerful voice, "Welcome to the club, Sam."
Bobby's head jerked up, staring at Lilith, "Crap. No Sam. Stop, leave her be," Bobby took Sam by the shoulders, shaking him violently, "Stop it now, this is what she wants."
Sam tilted his head to focus on Bobby, "I can't. D… Dean," he stuttered and Bobby shook him again.
"You'll be one of them, stop it. Please."
A sudden stab of loss cut into his heart and without understanding his own motivation, Dean pushed Bobby aside and grabbed the boy's face in his hands saying as calmly as possible, "Let her go, Sammy."
Sam gazed at him forlornly, his eyes slid to the side as he slumped down. He reached up and covering Dean's hand with his own guided it to his side, tucked into his jeans was a large knife.
"Finish her," he commanded weakly and Dean thought he recognized something in the green flecked eyes before him, it was enough. He pulled the knife free, glancing at Bobby, who nodded once in assent. Lilith lay on the ground under the tree, flailing weakly and spitting out words in a language Dean was sure very few people had been unlucky enough to hear.
Black eyes tracked his progress, "Come for what you've lost? Well, tough luck, Dean, I can't give it back. If it's not me there are plenty more to take payment," she hissed at him and vice like grip squeezed his torso, the after taste of blood tingling on his tongue.
Wisps of black smoke trickled from her mouth and if his mind had forgotten his muscles had not, some memory deeply ingrained into his flesh guided his reluctant hands; he raised the knife high above his head and then plunged it into the demon's chest. Streaks of heat and flame welled up from within her, he scrambled back as her body writhed and bucked, black liquid pooling around the knife blade. The pressure on his body fell away, he felt sick and exhilarated. Dean waited until the body finished twitching and snatched the knife back, cleaning it on the grass.
"Dean," Bobby called urgently, he was supporting Sam, who lay unmoving, head hanging back baring his neck, his skin was almost translucent.
"Is he dead?" Dean hurried to Bobby's side, wishing desperately that he had never made the crack about flowers.
"Not yet. Here, help me get him up; we're taking him to Lawrence Memorial."
They managed to squeeze Sam into the front seat of the Camaro; Bobby pushed the seat back trying to make the kid comfortable.
"Here," he tossed a set of keys at Dean, "you can drive his car."
"What. No way, you can drive whatever heap he's got." Dean held up the keys, squinting at them disdainfully.
Bobby chuckled tiredly, "Trust me; you'll want to drive his car, now go find it. He probably parked it under cover and not too close."
Dean found it half a mile or so from the main entrance. It was covered in dust and one of the headlights was cracked, the bodywork around it dented, paint chipped and flaking. It was the most beautiful car Dean had ever seen, his beloved 1980 Camaro instantly forgotten.
He laid a reverential hand on the hood, "Come to Poppa, baby. Let's go for a ride."
S s S s S
The doctor was tall, dark and not particularly handsome. He greeted Bobby with a wide smile.
"Bobby Singer, you old goat. Up to your old tricks again. Who did you raise from the dead, this time?
"Nice to see you too Ernie. Glad to know you haven't lost you bedside manner," Bobby replied dryly. "Your highly officious nurse whisked my nephew in that direction." He pointed at a set of double doors, "His brother and I would like to know how's he's doing. Samuel Singer. "
Dr. Ernest Washington's face scrunched up in amusement. "Oh, right, your nephew. Of course, how could I forget? I must swing by some time, Bobby, never a dull moment when you're on the case," and he disappeared through the double doors.
"Seems like there's a story or two there," Dean said carefully, Bobby could almost hear his brain ticking over, he thought about telling him the truth there and then. It wasn't worth the risk; if Sam died Dean would lose him all over again. Time to smooth over the cracks and deal with the 'what ifs' another day, which the way his luck had been running would probably be tomorrow.
"Don't over think things, Dean." Bobby said curtly, "I've known Ernie for years, underneath that thin veneer of respectability he's a complete scallywag, used to be a hunter, he knows what it's like out there. Now go get me a coffee, it's going to be a few hours." He sat down and tried not to think of the cruel symmetry of fate that had brought Sam Winchester back to the hospital of his birth.
Two hours of hard plastic chairs later, Dr. Washington came strolling back down the corridor.
"Don't look so glum, gentlemen. Samuel is malnourished, anemic, dehydrated and his electrolytes had a wild party and left the place in a mess, call it hypovolemic hyponatremia if you want to get technical. I couldn't find anything out of the ordinary, so I stuck a drip in his arm and you can take him home tomorrow."
"Thanks Ernie, I owe you one." Bobby grunted.
Dr. Washington waved a hand, "Some things never change. See you later old man."
S s S s S
They put him in Dean's room. Sam had slept the whole way home and Dean had helped Bobby drag him up the stairs, letting Bobby fuss over the sheets and strip Sam of his dirty, threadbare clothes before stuffing him into a pair of pinstripe gold and maroon pajamas, a present from Willa, Bobby had muttered darkly.
Dean hovered in the doorway, watching Bobby tuck Sam into bed and brush a hand through his hair. He wanted to help, Sam was still very sick, but Bobby was bustling about like a overprotective mother bear, shooing Dean out of the way and sending him on one little errand after another.
As he stared at the lukewarm soup in his hands he was overcome with a crashing sense of failure. The kid could have died and Dean couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that it was his fault, that somehow, despite barely remembering his own name, he should have anticipated the outcome of their little get-together. Sam Winchester had been his partner, a young man who could, apparently, kill demons with his mind and yet when Dean bothered to look past the angry words and accusations he thought he caught a glimpse of someone he recognized, someone who needed him and instead of being glad, it frightened the hell out of him.
For the next forty-eight hours Dean went to work, Bobby played nursemaid and Sam slept fitfully, rarely opening his eyes and muttering restlessly. Dean would peer through the door wanting to go in and always backing away, Bobby said nothing.
On the third night as Dean prepared to bed down in the small attic room at the end of the house, he heard voices coming from his old room. Sam was talking, whispering in low lazy tones, Dean turned an ear toward the closed door, the gentle murmur of another voice sounded through the wooden panels, he pushed open the door, Sam was curled up on his side, there was no one else in the room.
"Hey, you okay?" Dean asked, feeling self conscious. "Do you need anything?"
Sam shook his head against his pillow, Dean closed the door, glancing at the bedroom window as he did so and for split second the shadow of small figure fell across the glass. The next day Sam took a turn for the worse.
Bobby was up first, the clunks and groans of the bathroom echoed loudly at the top of the house and Dean rolled over, trying to summon the energy to get out of bed. He listened to the creaking floorboards below as Bobby opened his closet and shuffled about. A curse or two floated up the attic stairs.
Dean hurried downstairs and met Bobby coming out of Sam's room. Bobby's eyes were bleak and Dean's heart constricted tightly.
"He's bleeding again and he won't talk to me. I was hoping he was getting better, I guess we should get him to a doctor again. Damn."
"Will it make any difference? I mean is what's wrong with him normal?"
"He took it too far, pushed himself over the edge. Can it be fixed?" Bobby looked at Dean sadly, "I don't think so. I'm going to call Ernie. Go talk to him, maybe you can get through to him."
Dean slipped into the room; Sam was on his back, his white face stark against the loud colors of his borrowed pajamas. Dean lightly touched his forehead, the kid was clammy and cool so he tugged up the covers and in doing so noticed that Sam must have vomited during the night, his top slimy and bloodstained. Fumbling and feeling slightly embarrassed, Dean unbuttoned the pajama jacket; he could at least clean the kid up, Sam sighed and shivered as Dean pushed the open shirt over his shoulders. Dean faltered, his hands freezing in shock. Sam Winchester had a tattoo. Dean's hand went to his own chest, fingers running over the fabric that covered an identical mark. He'd never given it much thought, assuming it to be the result of youth and exuberance, that or too much alcohol; he brushed a finger over his ex-partner's inked skin. Sam's eyelids fluttered and Dean pulled his hand away quickly.
Sam's glazed eyes settled on Dean and he blinked hazily. "Where's Sean?"
Dean went hot and then cold. He must have told Sam about his brother. Why not? It was the type of thing you might tell someone that worked with you.
"Sean's dead, Sam. Why do you want him?"
"I know that," Sam frowned, "he comes and talks to me. I like him."
There it was, one little piece of information kept from him by friends, family and his own malfunctioning intellect. It was stunning how one small lie could mix up the puzzle and no matter how hard you looked it would never make sense without the correct context. It wasn't about his lack of memories, Dean finally grasped, it was about seeing the truth in the actions of others, it was about recognizing the abstract forms in his life and building something concrete from them. Appreciating his ability to do this was more important than merely remembering what was past. He had a brain, it was about time he used it.
Sean Singer was dead. Sean Singer visited Sam Winchester in the night. Sam Winchester had dark messy hair and hazel eyes and Dean was pretty sure Sean Singer once had long blond hair. The kid in the only photograph of his brother he owned was not Sean Singer.
He was terrified, stupid really, to be so scared of a ailing young man who was wasting away before him. With an unsteady hand he clasped Sam's wrist.
"Sam," he said and remembered the reaction he had produced at the cemetery, "Sammy, what did Sean tell you?"
Sam tugged weakly against Dean's tight grip, gradual awareness lighting his eyes. "Please." He turned his face into the pillow.
"What did he say Sammy?" Dean was insistent; with his free hand he cupped Sam's cheek, forcing him to meet his eyes.
"Don't," Sam choked and moisture glistened on his eyelashes.
"Why not, Sam? You can tell me anything you like, that's what big brothers are for."
Sam heaved out a strangled sob, his tears flowing down his cheek and over Dean's hand.
Dean leant in a little closer, "Not quite the reaction I was hoping for. Now get this Sam Winchester, I don't know you very well and you don't seem to like me a whole lot, but let's get one thing clear from the start, you are not going to die, okay. You're going to fight it and you're going to get better and then you and I can have a little talk."
The door creaked behind him and Dean loosened his hold.
"How's he doing?" Bobby asked.
Dean pushed up from the bed and grinned wolfishly, "Sam's going to be fine," he paused for one breath, "Uncle. Bobby."
Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Not my story to tell, Dean," he replied, unruffled as ever. Dean had to admire the sheer gall of the man.
"So which is it, Singer or Winchester?" Not that it was a choice he wanted to make, he was getting used to Dean Singer and very attached to the small family that came with the name.
Bobby glanced over at the man on the bed.
"Tell him," Sam rasped weakly.
"It's Winchester. Pity, you made a good Singer." Bobby glared at them both, "Why does crap like this always happen first thing in the morning? I need a drink," he turned abruptly and stomped away.
"It's not a good story, is it?" Dean said quietly.
"You have no idea," Sam slurred. "Dean."
"Yeah?" Dean replied, somewhat distracted as his mind rapidly concocted one disastrous scenario after another.
"I missed you."
Dean gave his brother a crooked smile, "I missed me too."
S s S s S
A/N: There might be more, depends how much the new season crushes this into a redundant pile of AU. Woe is me, etc. etc. Anyway, thanks for reading!