A/N : Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I can't tell you how nice it is to have feedback. I'm trying to keep a chapter or two ahead so I can update more often, so I need all the motivation I can get!
There's an explanation for anyone looking at the bottom of the page.
Poor, desperate Sam...
--
Sam couldn't sleep. And not just because his mess of a night. He couldn't sleep because there was a body in his bed, looking all for the world like his dead brother, tearing open barely healing wounds. Now he was bleeding all over the motel room as he paced, trying to figure out what the hell it was he was supposed to do about this.
As a precaution, he laid a circle of salt around the bed. It proved to be difficult, and he had to haul the entire frame, headboard and all, out a few inches so he could get the circle complete. Only after that had he realized he should have tied the damn thing to a chair and locked it in the bathroom so he could grab a few hours.
At least it didn't have any advantage over him. It was tied down as securely as he could get, and it didn't seem in any hurry to escape. After a while, he'd thought it was sleeping, but the eyes never closed. Unless it was doing a creepy 'sleep with your eyes open' thing, it had to be as tired as him.
He laid the cards out on the table.
The way he saw it, he had two choices. He killed it, or he let it live. Of course, all that depended on so much more, and it had his head spinning.
He slammed his fist on the first accessible object, which just so happened to be the TV. Three things happened as he did : pain shot through his hand, a sharp noise exploded into the silence, and the thing jumped. It didn't get far, but he'd wanted a reaction, and there it was.
It didn't make him feel any better, though, and now his hand hurt. He turned away, inspecting the TV for damage. He couldn't afford to fork over any extra cash because of stupidity.
"Smart move, Sam," he muttered, brushing the top of the TV.
His phone rang, chirping loudly, and he snatched it out of his pocket, bringing it to his face with a growled, "What?!"
Bobby's voice sighed from the other end of the line.
"Let me guess, it ain't dead yet?"
Frustrated, Sam shoved a hand through his hair, raking it away from his face. "No, it's not."
"Sam..."
"I know Bobby," he interrupted - only to have Bobby interrupt right back.
"You know but it's still alive? Sam, I know its looking like Dean's got you shook up, but you're going to have to make a choice."
Sam sighed, looking at the bed again. "I just... I want answers, Bobby."
"Then you know there's only one way you're gonna get any."
"Why do I get the feeling I'm not gonna like it?"
"Hell, Sam, you already know the options. Unless you got a truth spell, it's gonna be torture. And even then, you can't always trust -"
"Truth spell?" Sam interrupted, curiosity peaked.
Bobby's sigh dragged out for a long time.
"You know if there was one, we'd've used it by now. Now listen, Sam... I'm gonna give you three hours. After that, I'm gonna come up there myself, all right?"
"Yeah," he agreed after a moment. "Thanks, Bobby."
He disconnected, and shoved the phone back in his pocket, sighing in frustration. Now he was working under a deadline. Three hours didn't give him much time.
He wanted more than answers, he realized. He wanted his mind to make itself up, for his heart to reveal something he thought he should be feeling. If this was Dean, he would know.
Wouldn't he?
And that was what it all boiled down to, that indecision. He was at war with himself, one part of his mind screaming to him that if Dean had returned, he would have known. Would have felt it somehow. But the other part told him that was wishful thinking, and that if by some twist of fate, some miracle, his brother had found a way out, he would never know.
Both parts wanted to believe this was Dean. Neither part would allow him.
He knew, without a doubt, that he could not kill this thing.
Even if he found himself against the wall with a knife at his throat - which, he had to admit, was pretty damn likely - he wouldn't be able to end it. Hell, his last breath would probably be spent trying to convince the thing it was Dean.
The smart thing to do would be to make sure the job got done, even if he couldn't do it himself.
Which was why the next thing he did was call Bobby.
But as he gripped the phone, he heard himself say something entirely different :
"It's me. It's done."
--
At night, when he was supposed to find peace in his dreams, Sam dreamed of death. He saw his brother die in a hundred different ways, some memories left over from a trickster, others close calls his mind could not let go. Still other nights he dreamt not of death, but disappearance. The way his brother had gone out still had him waking up in cold sweats.
He went to lengths to avoid that some nights, so he wasn't exactly torn up over missing out on some sleep. Still, he had a sour taste in his mouth, knowing he'd lied to Bobby, and it'd probably bite him on the ass sooner rather than later. Oh, and it might have something to do with the fact that it was three o' clock in the morning, and he was breaking into an animal hospital.
He'd left the Dean thing tied up, tied down, everything but chained to the bed. And if he'd had chains, they'd be employed, too. He'd duct taped its mouth shut so it couldn't scream, and moved everything out of its reach. No way was it going to get a hand free to grab anything, but he wasn't taking chances. The last thing he needed was to involve some poor bastard in something that was way over their head.
He tugged on his gloves, making sure they were secure, and set about picking the lock at the back entrance of the clinic. At first he was surprised there wasn't more of a security system, but it was a small place, and he wasn't gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. They probably thought these top of the line locks were enough, and he was tempted to laugh as he blazed through them.
He didn't see any cameras, either. Still, you never knew, so he kept his hood up and head down when he got inside.
Of course, he'd picked this one for a reason. A hospital was out of the question for obvious reasons, and even at a larger clinic, he'd have overnight workers to worry about, and animals to alert them to his presence. Even though it was small, he still had some ground to cover. It took him over fifteen minutes of rifling through cabinets and drawers to find what he was looking for.
Picking up the small vial, he held it up, trying to see it in the near dark of the exam room. Satisfied, he selected a few more, wrapping them carefully in gauze before tucking them in his jacket pocket. Well aware that the more time he spent there, the more likely it was he'd be caught, he snatched a few syringes and added them to his growing collection.
Satisfied that he got what he came for, he slipped back out the back door, carefully securing it.. Locking back up bought him some time; by the time they figured out something was missing, they'd assume one of the employees was at fault. Leaving the door open would make it look like the crime of a desperate addict, and he couldn't afford to have any cops nosing around the motel.
He headed off on foot, jogging to his parking spot a few blocks away. He started the car and headed back to the motel, trying hard not to jostle the salvation that lay in his pocket.
--
It was still on the bed when he got back, but not feigning disinterest anymore. Now those eyes followed him as he moved across the room. He tried hard to ignore the way the gaze burned into his back as he set a cloth across the small dresser and laid out the contents of his pockets.
"Sodium thiopental," he said, keeping his voice pitched low.
He left the syringes and vials on the counter and walked over to the side of the bed. Wordlessly he took away some of his extra precautions, namely, the duct tape. He expected screams when he peeled it off, but the only noise came in little gasps that belied the expressionless eyes.
He tried not to let his nerves show as he circled the bed. "I should probably be running an IV, but something tells me you won't be a willing patient."
His was trying to spook it, but the truth was, he was worried. He had never messed with this stuff before. Knew he was going out on a limb with one hell of a long shot, and hoping desperately it would provide him with answers and not end up killing the thing in the process.
He expected resistance as he grabbed its right hand, but he didn't get it. Still, he hurried as he carefully inserted the needle into the back of its hand, quickly setting up the catheter. He taped it down the best he could with surgical tape from his own first aid kit.
Another time he might have been amused at the efficiency with which he did this. Now there was too much riding on it.
The eyes followed him back to the dresser where he drew fluid into syringes. Suppressing a shudder, he performed the same ritual on each - holding it upside down, giving it a few good taps, and finally depressing the plunger to make sure there were no air bubbles.
He carried the syringes over to the bed in a towel, which he then set lightly on a chair within his reach.
Offering a silent prayer to whoever was willing to listen, Sam slid the needle into the catheter.
"Okay," he said softly, more to himself than to the thing. "This is just a test dose, to see how you're going to react."
It might have winced as he slid the needle out, then flushed the vein with some saline from one of the other syringes. He couldn't tell, because until the empty syringe was deposited in the trash, the other set on the chair, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the injection site.
But now he spared a glance and saw the things eyelids were already drooping. He waited to see how it reacted to the small dose. From what he saw there were no bad reactions, and it wore off fairly quickly, so he went ahead with the second dose.
He still went easy, not wanting to deal with a comatose, or dead, thing just yet, but the second time seemed to be a charm. The eyelids dropped again, and watched him with just a little less distrust.
"How do you feel?" he asked tentatively. How was this supposed to work, anyway?
It just looked at him, confused.
"Hell," he cursed. "I don't have time for this. What are you?"
The lips parted, then closed, eyes blinking sluggishly.
Sam's hopes began to diminish. He whirled away, fisting his hands. "Dammit! Are you a demon? Why doesn't holy water work?"
"N-no."
He froze. The voice was small, with a rough quality he hadn't been able to hear in the whispers earlier. It was Dean's voice, but it wasn't.
He grasped for his next question. "Skinwalker?"
Again the voice came back, "No."
"What's your name?" Sam asked softly, barely able to breathe.
His heart almost stopped when it answered, "Dean."
It took him a few beats to collect his thoughts, and he had to remind himself he was working under time constraints.
"Dean?" he demanded in disbelief, spinning around, fueled by anger and a sharp surge of giddiness that threatened to bubble out of his chest.
"Winchester." And the name slurred slightly.
"Who told you to say that?" he asked, watching the face carefully.
Brows furrowed.
"It's my name?" said the Dean-thing, but he didn't sound so sure, voice stumbling at the effort of producing more than one word.
"If you're really Dean Winchester," Sam said slowly, "then you know what happened to him."
No answer.
"If you know what happened," he continued, "then you know that you can't possibly be sitting here trying to sell me this story."
No response.
He hesitated, but picked up the next syringe, inserted it into the catheter and injected, following swiftly with the saline. As he did so, the eyes came back to him, blinking drowsily again.
"Hurry up," Sam said. "I really don't want to have to kill you. Yet."
But for a minute he was afraid he'd given too much, too soon, because the eyes slipped closed and stayed that way for a while. He stepped forward, slapping lightly at its cheek. It started awake, and instinctively Sam jumped back.
"What are you?" he asked immediately.
It heaved a sigh and let it's eyelids droop.
"What are you?!" Sam shouted. He was trying to be patient, but God, even as it's eyelids shot open, he wanted to punish it for this mimicry, for making him hope.
"Dean," it replied in a tired voice.
"Try again," he hissed, but skipped over that question. "What happened in the alley?"
"Got my ass kicked," it mumbled, and for a minute it sounded just like Dean, stumbling in after a few too many drinks.
For a minute he wanted to laugh, but if he gave in to that, he knew he'd be crying, and God he just really wanted this to be true. So instead he settled for another question. "How'd you get here?"
But the eyelids drifted shut again. Trying not to let the mix of emotions churning through him show, he slapped it again, gently this time.
"How did you get here?" he said again.
"Dunno," it muttered.
""What I can't understand," Sam said, standing up straight and pausing to crack his back. "Is how you just happen show up here, now. A little too much of a coincidence, don't you think? Out of nowhere, I just happen run into someone who looks like my dead brother?"
The eyes snapped to his face, meeting his gaze for the first time. There was something unreadable in them, an emotion that was gone as quickly as it came, and the dead eyes slid away again.
"Not him," it said.
"So you admit it," Sam said softly.
He should have been glad, and he knew it. Things wouldn't be so complicated now. It would be just another job, not like dragging Old Yeller out back with his father's rifle. But when the hope he'd been fighting so hard to keep at bay actually drained away, it left him feeling lost. Until that moment he hadn't really understood just howmuch he wanted this to be his brother. How quickly he'd been willing to believe if he just got the right answers. A sign. An epiphany. Now, the moment he let himself feel that, he wished he could take it back.
Then the head shook, and judging by the twist in it's expression, regret immediately followed. It paused, taking in a ragged breath before saying, "No. You."
Sam eyed it warily, wanting more than anything for this to be over. Maybe if he got really, really drunk, he'd forget it ever happened. "Huh?"
"You're not him," it said, still looking away.
Sam wasn't deaf; but that didn't mean he understood what it was saying. Nor did he miss the nervous tone that crept into the flat voice. It was just enough that he might not have noticed on anyone else, but this was Dean's voice, and some things you never forgot.
"I'm not... who?"
"Look like him," it said, closing it's eyes. "But you're not."
This time, he could tell it wasn't from the drugs. This time, the fear was evident. Fists clenched against the bonds that held him in place, and somehow, he knew it wasn't gearing up for a fight.
"Not who?" Sam persisted.
No answer.
This time Sam didn't hesitate, giving the injection swiftly. He watched in silence as the fists relaxed, and gave it a minute before he was pulling him back, wondering how long this could go on.
No sooner had its eyes opened, Sam demanded again, "Who?"
He waited as it blinked slowly, but he had no patience for grogginess. He needed to know.
"Who?" he shouted.
The eyes widened and registered shock at the sudden outburst, but immediately went back to half mast.
"Okay," Sam said, more to himself than the thing, "calm down."
He did, forcing his breathing to even out, though his heart kept racing. After a beat, he tried again. "Not who?"
The name was no more than a sigh, but it reached his ears with the force of an explosion. And that was it... that was all it took for everything to change. Now the possibility wasn't a hope, it was very much real. It didn't matter that it might be a trick, or that he was being naive. Suddenly this Dean-thing tied up on the bed stopped being so much of a thing and started looking like Dean.
It was impossible. So much so that Sam felt the world spin, thought he might be sick, and he almost dropped to the chair, before remembering it was loaded with syringes.
"But...I am," he said shakily. "I am Sam."
I am Sam, but you're not Dean, right? Because you can't be?
It - Dean? - sighed again, a forced exhalation.
"Been him before," he said. "Doesn't make you Sam."
And that made no sense, but it didn't matter, because he was obviously Sam, and all of it meant that this might just be Dean, and oh, God.
Countless questions assaulted him, but all he could do was sit there and stare.
Dean.
It was Dean.
--
Another author's note : This is fiction, but I try to stay based in fact. Sodium thiopental has actually been used as a "truth serum", although I don't know how effective it really is. I thought Dean spilling his guts would be a little outlandish, so luckily this worked out. The way it affects the brain can make lying difficult, but not impossible, so it's not a truth serum, but it can make you more chatty!