A/N: Guys, I think this is going to hurt, so be careful.
"As if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood-
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent."
- Neruda, Lost in the forest (part 2)
After she recovered from her shock, that crazy old woman told them a complete tale about a pair of scared children and the things she had done just to keep them together. Convincing her coworkers to help, seeking out shady connections she made in her younger years, forging Sam's birth certificate, making calls to ensure the next place expected siblings instead of a single child and altering their data in the orphanage's system.
"Most of it was on paper." She said, wringing her hands. "Not every care home had computers back in those days."
That was all she was able to get out before she burst out crying about how little people cared about orphans, how nobody ever had the inclination to check with the police, how frighteningly easy it was. That's the only part of her story Dean believes. People not giving a fuck about unfortunate kids is basically a part of the law of this modern jungle. The other stuff - things like a miraculous instant bond between boys who had never seen each other before - sounds like absolute bullshit to him. She looks old enough to have known Uncle Abe in person, her memory can't be all that sharp regarding things that happened fifteen years ago. She is most likely senile and has seen far too many suffering children over the years to tell them apart from each other. The stories she heard, the tragedies she saw must have blended together into elaborate fairy tales of darkness and magical interventions. The whole thing gives Dean a very, very wrong vibe.
Sam is a little naiver about it. Still so ready to believe shit that might give him answers, like he used to believe their fosters bought him trainers for football practice when it was actually Dean who stole them for him. And believing in this absurdity means he has been freaking out ever since Dean dragged him away from that place (and that insane, disturbed woman) and took them back to their room.
It's getting late now. All the primetime shows on TV are reaching the end of their episodes and Dean isn't in dire need of entertainment given the day they had, so he switches it off and settles down for the night. It's the middle of June, but he has his thin blanket pulled up to his chin. Being locked into a cellar as a kid probably didn't help developing a healthy perception of heat. But Sam is so amazingly warm, Dean could sleep like a rock with those octopus-arms around him. If only Sam wasn't over there by the window, dead-set on pacing a hole into the threadbare carpet.
"I can't remember anything!" He bursts out in frustration, pulling at his too-long hair. Honestly, if he gave Dean five minutes with some clippers… "I would know if I had a different name before, right?"
Dean turns face down and snuggles into his pillow with a content smile. He's surprising even himself by how chill he is about this, but he is sure there's nothing to worry about. He knows it in his core that he has a brother, he knows Sam is his fix point, has been his North Star all his life. There's nothing to question about it. Whatever that woman says, whatever she knows, Dean doesn't care because it won't change a single thing.
Sam comes over to the bed, his footsteps heavy and troubled. His gaze prickles at the back of Dean's head. "Do you think it's true?"
"Sammy… That old hag is halfway to her grave. None of it makes any sense."
"But what if it is the truth?"
"It isn't."
Sam's fingers tug at Dean's shirt, insistent. Dean groans and turns back around, glaring up at Sam and his twisted halo of brown hair.
"There's nothing to be scared of. We are going home first thing tomorrow." He declares and closes his eyes. He's not going to argue about this any longer. Sam is working himself up over nothing.
Half a minute later, the mattress dips beside him, springs creaking from the additional weight. Dean expects Sam to kill the lights and begin toss and turning, as he is wont to when he is upset. Instead, he feels his blanket lift, and not only a hand, but an entire torso slides under it. Dean's eyes snap open. What? Sam wants to get frisky now, of all times? Is he possessed or something? Not that Dean's dick would complain, but he's not all that up for the party. Is this how Sam wants to cope with the stress?
Sam doesn't move, though. He stays there, halfway under the covers, face pressed into Dean's ribcage and only the top of his floppy hair visible from Dean's viewpoint. He's hiding like a little boy during a thunderstorm. Is he really that distressed?
"Hey." Dean calls out softly and begins sliding down until he's lined up with his brother, almost completely covered by the thin fabric.
They breathe in each other's exhales, toothpaste-damp puffs blowing back and forth. The air in their bundle gets heavy and warm like an oven, lit up orange-yellow from the outside by the bedside lamp. It's kinda nostalgic, something out of their group home years when there was little comfort and no privacy beyond the blanket tents they always burrowed under. Sam is displaying puppy look version three ("puppy left alone in the dump"), which Dean tries to get rid of by making faces, waggling his eyebrows and being a general dork until Sam cracks up a little and relaxes his hold on the hem of Dean's shirt by a notch.
"I want to find out the truth." He says, staring at Dean with a hopeful glint in his eyes.
"How?" It's a legit question. To have access to their records, they have to wait until their request is processed by the responsible office, which, knowing the speed of bureaucratic issues, might take as long as a month. Neither Jody, nor Donna can help them at the moment. However, if the crone is telling the truth (she doesn't), those records will be no help whatsoever. Going to the police might be the only way to get the truth immediately. But then they are going to hear about the fire, which means possible flashbacks and quite a few days of distress and nightmares. Awesome.
"I don't know." Sam mumbles.
God, the things Dean is willing to do for this kid… "Maybe, there's something in the police records."
Sam turns thoughtful. "But how do we get them?"
Dean shrugs, smirking. This gotta cheer his boy up. "We could go in as FBI agents." He says with a conspirative lilt in his voice. Sam laughs, as per Dean's intentions. Still, Dean pretends to be affronted and carries on with the game. "Don't knock it, man. Ash taught me a thing or two, we can totally swing it."
"We don't have suits."
"Details."
Sam's smile doesn't disappear this time but turns fond and grateful. "We should just ask Doug a favour."
"Yeah, but what if they still refuse? They won't say no to the freakin' FBI!"
"But we are not the FBI."
"Alright, what's plan B, then?"
"You could just charm the panties off the hot receptionist."
"I like the way you're thinking." Dean grins and tugs the damn blanket off their heads at last. God bless the gust of fresh air that hits his face. "But I'm still saying we should be Agent Ford and Hamill."
"Any way to convince you otherwise?"
Dean hums. Sam has stubble burn on his chin, a spot of redness that draws his gaze like a magnet. He knows how it got there and now he wants to make an identical one on the other side, kiss Sam stupid until he has nothing else on his mind but serenity. There's not a thing on Earth they should worry about this week. They are on a vacation. Dean won't let a doddery old nurse ruin it for them.
"I can think of a few." He says and leans in to capture those pink lips.
Two days later, they are standing in front of the tiny police station in the centre of Lawrence. Sam is anxious as all hell, fiddling with his button-up and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He probably needs a hug for reassurance. Dean doesn't trust himself to do it, though, because anything beyond platonic around here could lead to a disaster. He's already analysing their interactions, tries to judge every move - are they close enough, but not too close? This trip is such a nuisance, they could be in Sioux Falls right now, eating Jody's delicious cooking and playing footsie instead of doing small talk with a five-o. But Sam likes knowing things with unwavering certainty, so here they are, sweating through their shirts.
Dean bumps their shoulders together. (That's brotherly enough, right? Shit, it has barely been eighteen months and he's already forgetting how it should be.) "Come on. We'll just clear it up real quick."
Sam gives him a raw look and starts walking. "I don't know which outcome would be better." He mutters to his feet.
An exasperated sigh escapes Dean's chest. "No plural. There's only one possible outcome."
Sam's lips press into a thin line, but they are up at the front desk and he has no time to argue. Dean is polishing his best grin for the receptionist when he glances at her for the first time and the smile dies a quick death as a suppressed grimace. This isn't going to be his field, oh no. She looks like freakin' Clint Eastwood in a (presumably) female form, with a glare hard enough to break diamonds with and thick fingers adorned with a collection of rings that might actually be brass knuckles. Dean, wise enough to assess his meager chances to win this woman over, pushes Sam in her direction with a hand between his shoulder blades. If those floppy bangs don't get through to her, then nothing will.
"I think she's your type, Sammy." He whispers through a stifled smirk.
Sam gives him a charring scowl that twists something hot and pleasant low in Dean's stomach. Go figure.
Sam clears his throat and steps forward, polite boy scout voice at the ready. "Excuse me, we're looking for Officer Spradlin."
She stabs the paper she's scribbling on. "Take a number."
They share a nonplussed look. The reception area is empty. A lone cop is scratching at the coffee stain on his shirt in the doorway of a small room on the right. "Uh - Sorry, but -"
"Sit down, son, and wait in silence." She frowns at them over the rim of her glasses. They back away to the cheap plastic chairs with wide eyes, though Dean can still hear her grumbling about "kids nowadays".
They slump down next to each other. Dean blinks at Sam's bright red face. "Did that just happen?"
"Shut up. I feel like I'm in detention." Sam hisses.
Dean snorts. "I don't think you ever got -"
"Gentlemen." Rude receptionist snaps at them. Dean's spine straightens on instinct. He almost salutes, for Christ's sake. That woman must have been a drill sergeant in a past life.
"Geez." He mutters.
"Yeah."
While they are waiting, Sam occupies himself with lame ass Stanford emails, which Dean doesn't find interesting at all, so he lets his eyes roam across what's visible of the precinct house. When the guy with the stained shirt moves, he gets a view of what's inside the room and the prettiest thing catches his eye: a blonde chick with shapely legs and a butt to bounce quarters off, a real knockout. She's bending down to see something her fat colleague is pointing out on his computer, black uniform pants stretching just the right way. She has nothing on Sam, of course, but being committed doesn't mean Dean can't appreciate the sight. He's not gay, and he still knows a sexy babe when he sees one, even though all he had a chance to watch in the past year is a flat chest and hairy calves. Sam gotta give him some leeway, he's deprived of seeing soft curves like these. As the girl starts turning around, Dean prepares a good reel and a line about handcuffs, but they never make it to his lips, stopped by the sight of her face. She's eerily familiar. Her tiny nose and doe eyes, those features…
Holy shit. Is she - "Jo?"
She goes stock still, mouth dropping open as recognition strikes. "Dean?" She exclaims. "Oh my God! Sam!"
What follows is a blur of awkward hugs and incredulous smiles, spiced with a pinch of blabbering. They haven't seen each other in eleven years, it's not like it's easy to start chatting again. Sam is blushing something fierce, which would be prime blackmail fodder (or porn fodder, depends on the context), but Dean is momentarily distracted by Jo's starry-eyed wonder as she takes them in. (She must be overwhelmed by Dean's looks, he knows.)
Or not. "Wow, you got big." She whistles at Sam. That, he can forgive. Sam is gorgeous after all.
Dean smirks, pitching his voice suggestive. "An understatement, sweetheart."
Sam smacks him upside the head.
"You guys are just the same." She laughs, face flushed. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for Officer What's-his-name."
"Spradlin." Sam fills in reflexively. "What are you doing here?"
"Fighting monsters." She shrugs, smiling with a hint of pride in her eyes.
"Joanna." The strict receptionist calls out.
"Sorry." She winces and begins steering them further inside the building to get out of another scolding. "I don't know what's gotten into Marion, I swear she's normally the sweetest woman around here."
Yeah, Dean bets. She looks just like the type who would invite you over for a tea party and chatter about cute little fairies or something. Suuure.
Sadly, they don't get to catch up with Jo as much as Dean would like to before a middle-aged guy steps up to them and introduces himself as Jack Spradlin. But the chance meeting puts a spring in Dean's step, fills him with unusual positivity. There's nothing that could go wrong here. He feels invincible, ready to face everything head on. A flashback about the fire eating away at his mother's body? No problem, he can take it. The memory of smoke in his lungs? Whatever, he made it out of there, it can't hurt him anymore. He can combat damn well anything right now, he feels so strong, and he is going to take Sam and Jo out for a fancy dinner after they get this shit over with, because they deserve one hell of a celebration.
Sitting inside Spradlin's office, Dean tunes out the first part of the conversation. He's only here for moral support. He has no questions and he's not the least bit curious about the details of the tragedy that took away their mother. (He doesn't give a fuck about their father. The bastard should rot in hell side by side with his buddy, Alastair, for the mess they made of Dean's… whatever. No use thinking about that.) Anyway, Dean knows he should remember the things this guy is going to tell them. There's nothing wrong with him medically, the docs had it checked. It's a psychological block. Nothing physical. He knows he should remember, but he doesn't need to. Or want to, for that matter.
He only starts paying attention again when Sam puts his hand on his under the cover of the table. Dean gives him a furtive look. Sam looks terrified, but he's soldiering on as Spradlin pulls a dusty folder out of a box marked "Homicide files". Sam's sweaty fingers tremble.
"You know," Spradlin starts without looking up, leafing through the papers. "there were two house fires that month. My old partner, Mike, he was a damn good cop, such a shame he retired a couple years ago, he used to tell me about the second one. Horrible sight, he said. Eight-year-old kid holding the burned corpse of his little brother next to a house in flames. Father was a complete whackjob, set it on fire." He says, shaking his head, and thrusts a report over to them, the name "Winchester" scrawled on the top in a messy chicken scratch. There's an address, then the name of Dean's father and the word "deceased" after a comma.
Dean doesn't force himself to read further. He already knows it must have been written without care - seriously, how could the police mess up these things this bad? Not so difficult to decide whether a kid is alive or not. He has no idea who this Sam Wesson turns out to be, but it doesn't even matter. His Sam, Sam Winchester, his brother, isn't burnt and he sure as hell isn't starting Dawn of the Dead. Incompetent doughnut-heads.
"They found this John Winchester's notebook in his factory locker. Ugly thing, filled with drivel about rituals, demonic sacrifices and whatnot. The guy was convinced killing his family was the ticket to a better world." Spradlin shakes his head. "Scientology, boys, scientology and brainwashing. Makes murderers out of decent people." He adds with close-minded conviction.
Sam seems to forget how to breathe as he skims the page containing the details of that ill-fated day. His nails are biting thin, white crescents into the back of Dean's hand, but his voice doesn't waver when he raises his gaze and asks "What about the other?"
"Huh." The officer hums. He must have thought they would linger on the murder case longer. To be frank, Dean can't wait to get outta here. Seems like there aren't much they can tell him here that he would believe. It's a bad enough sign that they have never uploaded these files to some kind of computer system. Smells like half-assed work.
Spradlin roots around in his haphazard stack of files beside the big box and pulls out a wrinkled, coffee-stained paper. The sentence on their lives - how ironic it's almost illegible after years of careless handling. If it turns out Sam Wesson's case didn't exist when he and Sam got into the system, then it counts as conclusive evidence. Evidence that Dean is right. Time to put Sam's doubts to rest.
"Well, that's surprising." Spradlin comments as he scans the text. "I thought all of them died, you know? It was a gas leak explosion, not something folks usually survive. It's either the toxic gas, the blast or the fire that gets you. But look, here, it says they found a toddler in the neighbour's front yard. Report says he figured out how to unlock the door and sneaked out to play with a friend while his parents took a nap. Smart kid, huh? Luckiest one I've heard of."
"A boy?"
"Yeah, name's Samuel Wesson."
Sam is on the verge of panicking, but Dean is still relaxed and calm. It means nothing. The old nurse must have read this case in the papers. It means nothing at all.
"S-Samuel?" Sam stammers.
"That's what it's sayin' here. Oh, crap." Spradlin curses as he knocks into the rest of the Winchester folder with his clumsy elbow and the contents of it spill out onto the floor, pictures of a burnt-out sofa, a gun, a pair of broken glasses and a whole bunch of papers from the forensic specialists.
All three of them jump out of their seats to gather them back together. Dean's starting to feel a little worse off, but he banishes the niggling discomfort some of those pictures cause him to the back of his mind. He has to shake his head to eject the edges of the memories battering at his block, but he's growing increasingly tired of not thinking about the things his mind is trying to dig up for him. Fuck, what was he thinking? He can't go through with this. He's gonna have a flashback, sooner or later.
"Did you know John Winchester?" Spradlin asks, presumably to break the awkward silence with anything that's not Sam's panicked wheezing.
"Ah, no, we're just…" Sam waves a hand, his tell when he's about to lie through his teeth. Sneaky boy. "Distant relatives. Second cousins, once removed."
"We are on our leave. From the navy." Dean adds his own bullshit automatically. If Sam makes up a story, he feels compelled to colour it out. Make it more badass.
Officer Spradlin gives them a look full of admiration. It figures that the guy has a bone-deep respect for the military. "I can see why Doug vouched for you guys."
Dean nods, about to shift back into his chair, when a corner of a picture makes him do a double take. Frowning, he pulls the whole thing out of the stack.
It's a photo of a paper bird, blue and clumsily folded, childish handiwork. The decoration on a mailbox, an evidence of a life rendered into the ashes in the background. A blue bird, a paper bird someone smeared a tiny drop of chocolate on, a paper bird with a piece of black tape on its left wing.
Dean gasps.
The photo falls from his fingers with a whoosh just as a crippling headache descends over his brain, familiar in its agony, but alien in depth. An old, rusty cog turns after fifteen years of misuse. The dam cracks open and breaks. Sam and the guy are droning on in the background, but Dean turns deaf and blind, all he sees is that bird and the flash of memory that splits into his mind like a lightning strike, painful, sharp and irresistible.
"Oh no. Mommy, I tore into his wing. I didn't mean to. Can we glue it back together?"
Dean is so excited to go back to school. He will be able to stay away from Dad longer, and now he can show his teacher all the awesome stuff he made in the summer! This bird is the best one of all, he's even better than Mom's, they have to patch him up. He wants everyone to see, this bird is so beautiful.
"We can make another one, love."
"I don't want to. There isn't any blue paper left. He's a really nice bird, he just needs a little bit of glue so that he can fly again!"
Dean likes glue a lot. You can turn back time with it. When Mom broke her favourite mug because Dad yelled at her, Dean stuck the pieces back together over the weekend and Mom was smiling again, like she did before. It's a pity that Dad hates sticky things and doesn't let Mom buy more. If they had enough, Mom could turn back time and heal Dean's back where the skin broke. Then things could be the way they were before.
"I'm sorry, but you know that Daddy doesn't like it when we make a mess."
"Please! It's not his fault."
"It's not a he, Dean, it's just a piece of paper. Let's make a new one, alright?"
"But I like this one. I don't wanna throw him away just because he's hurt."
Mom sighs. "Okay. How about we put a little tape on it?"
"But it's gonna leave a mark."
"There will be a mark anyway, sweetheart."
"Ooo-kay." Dean rolls his eyes and huffs. If only Dad liked glue a little more. If only. "Can I put him on the mailbox though? Birds like it better outside in the sun. And there are so many for Adam's crib anyway."
The gears screech to a halt.
Adam. Adam. Adam! Jesus Christ. Adam. No. No, no, no. His brother, Adam, his - his brother -
Dean gets noisily, violently ill. All he has time for is turning his head and letting it go into the officer's paper bin, nothing more. The acid stench of it scrapes his throat and it hurts somewhere deep in his chest, but it keeps coming and coming and coming, looks like carrots even though he never eats any goddamn carrots, oh God, oh God, he's dying, perhaps he's already dead, turned into smoke just like his baby brother, his -
Oh God.
AdamAdamAdamAdam… Can't be… How could he… Impossible… That crone in the orphanage didn't say a word about this, why didn't she? Didn't say Sam took someone else's place, didn't say Dean had a hole in his heart shaped just right for a cuckoo, her fairy tale spoke nothing of changelings, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ! Sam is his whole world, but what if he is just a goddamn hologram of someone else, what if the cracks on Dean's soul are from never having the real thing? Did he actually have a different brother?
Dean staggers up and away, knocking things over in his desperation to get back to the car as fast as he can, the taste of sickness still pungent in his mouth. Burned corpse - no, no, impossible. He - something is wrong with his mind. That report messed with it, fucked it up. His brother is Sam, he is called Sam. For Adam's crib - for Adam - this can't be real. His memory can't be right. A blue-eyed baby, golden locks - no, it means nothing, every baby has… they all have...
"Dean!" Sam is running after him. They are causing quite a commotion, but who cares, who the fuck cares when Dean might have - he might have forgotten - "What's wrong? Dean!"
"Are you going to keep him safe, Dean?" He forgot, he forgot his brother, how could he? This isn't real, this is just a bad dream, someone spiked his coffee. This isn't his life. His brother's name is Sam. Sam Winchester. His brother is alive. Adam is a delusion.
He reaches the parking lot and throws up again but has just enough time to get behind the wheel before Sam catches up with him and his intentions. Dean types the address into his phone - he doesn't remember, he lived here half his life and he doesn't remember the way, he doesn't remember anything that counts, he's demented, he's sick - then the car is in gear and they are speeding down the road to that place, back to where it all started. Sam is yelling at him, but Dean doesn't even hear it, it doesn't reach his ears, and neither do the honks and outraged shouts from the people on the streets, getting out of his way only by a miracle.
The snapshots keep filtering back in, a mosaic of pictures. Adam in a bundle, Adam in his stroller, Adam in Mom's arms, bottles of formula… How does he get rid of them, how did he do it in the first place? They do not belong here, they aren't real, can't be real… He can't even comprehend… What's going on?
The Impala stumbles up onto the sidewalk when he parks, his coordination is shot to shit that bad. He falls out of it, head about cracking open from the pain of his imploding amnesia, and walks into the fenceless front yard of the place he used to live in. They built a new house on the ashes of the old one, a dull single-storey with a black roof, and Dean doesn't recognise anything. Foolishly, he looks around for his brother, or a headstone, or anything that says Adam Winchester is not only the product of a fried connection between his brain cells. Then he sees it. The giant oak tree, the one that used to stand - the one that used to stand before their garage. It's still there, and it still has - it still has a shaky "Dea" scratched into its trunk. The memory hits Dean in the chest, working on that signature as a kid, never getting to finish it, never getting that last letter, because his father ordered him into his room and on his knees.
He walks over there and falls down in its shade to sit on his haunches, cradling his throbbing head. He still doesn't process much, neither the inside, nor the outside, but he feels Sam's arm around his back, feels the nose in his hair and the fingers around his forearm, trying to pry it away. His breath hitches, and another flashback comes.
"Mom!" Dean shouts. The house is burning, it's on fire. It's so, so hot. He takes another step inside, coughing from the smoke. Where are they? Where's the baby?
There's a thump upstairs, and his head snaps up. They must be up there. Mom's arm is in a cast, she might not be able to get down with Adam, Dean has to go help. The flames are reaching the stairwell, but Dean can't stop however afraid he is. He has to help Mom.
"Mom!" He calls out again, then stops dead in his tracks. Something thick and red is dripping from the ceiling, and Dad is sitting by the wall, Mom's head in his lap. "Dad! Get up, it's burning!"
Dad doesn't get up, though. His eyes are glassy, and he has the same redness all over the side of his head. There's a burning oil can next to him. Scared out of his mind, Dean runs over and shakes Mom's shoulder. She can't keep sleeping! Where's Adam?
"Mom, get up, please!" A fat teardrop rolls down his cheek. He has to get Mom out of here. Taking hold of her arms, he pulls with all his strength and moves her just enough to see she's - she doesn't have half of her face.
The cry he lets out is louder than he has ever dared being before. Mom's dead, she's dead, she can't be dead! Dean pulls on her again, tries to make her get up, when he notices the edge of something white under her torso. Adam, it's Adam!
He crouches down and rolls Mom away, off his brother's tiny body, and sees there's not a drop of blood on him. He's just sleeping, he's going to be okay. With a deep breath, Dean gathers him into his arms and turns to get down the stairs. He's going to come back for Mom when he gets out, he just has to walk down…
But the stairwell is on fire already, just a narrow slip of space left that Dean is able to use. He tries to hurry, but the flames are too hot, the smoke is making him cough and Adam's getting heavier every step he takes. He stumbles, something pierces his shirt and burns him, hurts so bad that he drops what he should have held until his last breath… The flames flare up and blow ash into the air like snowflakes, and all Dean can see is the white of that little bundle getting swallowed by orange…
He runs the rest of the way down and throws his jacket on the baby, pulls him out of the fire and the house, to a spot under the oak tree he wanted to make his own. He hears the sirens, but he knows it's too late, it's too late now. Someone asks him to let go and grabs his arm.
"Dean, please… Let go of your head." Oh. It's Sam, crying into his hair and still trying to wrench his hands away from his skull.
It's too late. Too late. It all makes sense now. The fucked-up timeline of his memories, the fragments Cas helped him recover. Dean killed his baby brother. He dropped him, and the flames ate up his tiny body, it was his fault that he died, why couldn't he get there faster, where had he been, where…
He… he has to get away. He has to run, has to get away from this house. With bile rising in his throat, Dean jerks up and away from Sam's hold, hitting him in the nose with his elbow by accident, but he barely notices, because his world is collapsing, and he has to get away.
Dean runs, riding on instinct, until he runs past the last houses and ends up at the park, Veteran's park, he can see the sign, their park. Their meetup place. He just - he never entered it from this direction. He dashes in, passes a row of tall trees, poplars, big ones that whoosh in the languid summer breeze. Poplars, poplar trees… No way… Gasping for breath, he runs a little more ahead and happens upon a pond, big enough that it might look like a lake for a kid.
"What?" He spins around, hands in his hair. These are his death throes, he is sure now, it hurts so much, his headache, his throat, his chest. He sways forward and pushes past an overgrown bush, finds a big rock, slumps down on it and closes his eyes, unable to keep up any of the old blocks that kept these waves of pain away for fifteen years of his life.
Dean's sitting on his cliff again. He calls it a cliff because that sounds cooler than rock, and Dean wants to be as cool as he can get. His back is in bad shape today, but he doesn't mind, it's going to be over soon. Even the lake says so. It says Dean can drop the pain today. He's sad, because he wanted to make it until the first day of school, but the water has been calling out for him for so long now that its gentle splashes sound better than his teacher's praise. He likes the end of August anyway. It's always warm outside and the sun shines through the leaves of Dean's tree-friends in beautiful, golden rays. This is a good time and a good place to go to sleep, Dean thinks.
When Grandpa died, Mom said he just fell asleep one day and woke up in Heaven. Dean wants that so much. He remembers how it felt to dive when they went to the pool - it felt nice. It was so quiet in the water. And he felt so light. He can just jump off this cliff and sink to the bottom of the lake, look up at the blue sky from below. And when he gets down there, he will fall asleep and go to Heaven. Mommy said Heaven had all the good things in the world and none of the bad. Dad would never find him there. All he has to do is close his eyes and jump. Just jump.
"Please let Mom and Baby come after me soon. I promise I'll leave them some pie." He whispers, smoothing his stupidly blond hair down to make himself look a little nicer. He doesn't want the angels to think he is a bad boy.
He takes a deep breath and gets up into a crouch, but something holds him back at the last second. He pricks up his ears and waits. There it is again! A sniff. Someone is crying just behind him, Dean can hear the wet sounds of a nose getting wiped. He hesitates. This is the day, he knows, he has to do it today. He can't go back home, he can't take another punishment. He wants to… he just wants it to stop.
But that child - that child is crying. He knows it can't be a grown-up, because grown-ups don't cry, Dad always tells him when Mom is swallowing her tears. Dean hates seeing other people cry. He knows how sad you have to be for that, he doesn't want anyone to feel like it. If he wants to go to sleep in the lake, he has to do it today. But he can't leave that child alone, sad and crying in the bushes.
He stands up and peers through the leaves of the closest bush, finds a brown-haired boy there with enormous tears in his eyes and a plush toy in his hands. He smiles at him. The kid's lips wobble, but he smiles back and climbs out of the plant. Dean picks the leaves out of his hair.
"Hey. I'm Dean." He says. "Are you lost?" The child nods. Dean doesn't have a tissue, so he wipes the boy's cheeks with his bare hands, then looks around. He can't see any worried grown-ups. They must be somewhere around the playground.
Abruptly, a small hand grabs his in a desperately tight hold and the little boy tugs on his shirt. "Please don't leave me alone."
"Don't worry." Dean smiles at those wide hazel eyes and picks up the toy the kid dropped into the sand. There's a tag in its ear. "I'll find your Mom,…" He glances at the plush dog again and starts walking towards the playground. "...Sammy."
Dean opens his eyes and tastes salt on his tongue, dampness all over his cheeks. Property of Sam Wesson. It was on the toy, Sam's toy, his Sam's…
He hears rushing footsteps and Sam comes pushing through the bushes, soaked in sweat and bleeding all over his chin and shirt, his nose probably broken. Dean's vision goes hazy. "Sam Wesson." He sobs, just as Sam collapses by his feet. "You are… Sam Wesson."
And no, Sam is not a replacement, he knows now. He already had his initials carved on Dean's heart before it got broken beyond repair, he is a completely different part of Dean who just never really got to be what he actually was, because they didn't know. They didn't know.
He looks at Sam, at his worried, blood-covered face, then the world splits away from him and he goes down, down, down until everything is black and nothing hurts anymore.