So I've already got some great reviews – thanks, guys! I'm going to have fun with this idea, and I'm glad it seems most people agree.

Disclaimer: Because I totally didn't disclaim last chapter or anything.

It was the best pie he'd ever eaten, and he was a little guilty about enjoying it so much while Sam was unconscious. He eyed Charlotte suspiciously. "This is really just pie, right?" he asked.

"Just pie," she said. "Only spice in it is nutmeg. I'm allergic to cinnamon."

"That's a weird allergy to have," Dean mumbled.

"Right?" She grinned at him, smile fading slightly when she realized he was still glaring. He had, in fact, looked over all her books. They were mostly Native American or European folklore books, telling about the rumored powers of certain herbs. Nothing even remotely demonic, not even a five pointed star or odd looking symbol anywhere, but he was still wary on principle alone. "OK, then, Mr. Trust Issues."

"Well, something in this town is killing people," he growled at her.

"All I know is what was in the papers," she said. She fidgeted slightly in her seat. "That and there is this sort of scary pack of… domestic wives, y'know?"

He looked at her, interest piqued. "Come again?"

-X-

The driver was a paramedic. There was no question about it, the occupation ringing in her calmness, the way she immediately took a pulse. "Alright, sweetie, what's your name?" she asked the little Sam.

"Sammy," he replied. He wasn't crying, but that was probably just because of shock. That was the reason older Sam wasn't.

"Alright, Sammy, are your parents home?" He nodded. "Do you live right there?" He nodded again. "OK, now I'm going to ask you to be very, very brave now." She guided his hands to Dean's head and pressed them down. "You need to keep your hands there while I get your parents and an ambulance, good?"

Sammy nodded, swallowing and trying not to look where his hands were. The woman stood and hurried to the front door while Sammy sat, not moving his hands even an inch, sobbing quietly. Sam couldn't look either, kneeling beside his younger self and gently bringing his hand as close to the small, shaking back as he could without sliding through it.

Mary was outside in a moment, kneeling beside Dean with only a few tears on her face, forcing herself into a calmness. "Sam, you can let go now, this nice lady will take care of Dean now, alright?"

John came up beside Sammy, lifting him up, passing through Sam as he went. "Shh, buddy, it's OK, you did real good, alright?"

The ambulance arrived not a minute after and there were suddenly paramedics everywhere, the driver explaining the situation with a special professionalism. "We can take one extra," a man said, and Mary was instantly on her feet.

"I'm going. John, take Sam and meet us there." John nodded, hugging Sammy closer to him.

"Here is my number and address. Let me know how he is when you can," the driver said quietly, and John accepted the small note with a quiet thank you, more focused on getting into the car.

The world faded in and out of focus again, settling in a hospital waiting room again. Sam looked around, trying to find his family. John and Mary were sitting in a corner, crying silently, while Sammy was off by the window, head bowed and little hands pressed together. "God, please don't take my brother, he was just trying to save me. Amen," he whispered.

Sam chuckled sadly at that. "Amen," he repeated.

"Family of Dean Winchester?" a voice called out. Sammy rushed over to John as they walked over to the doctor. He looked at them, then said, "Maybe we should speak in my office."

They consented silently, the doctor leading the way and offering them seats in the office. He sat down and sighed. "I'll be frank with you," he said. "When they first brought in your son, I thought it was a lost cause." Mary sobbed quietly, covering her mouth with her hand. John brought his free hand up to squeeze hers, his other arm around Sammy. "But," the doctor said, asking for patience. "I'm glad I operated. Your son is going to make it."

"Oh, thank God," Mary sobbed, looking ready to collapse. Sam almost did, watching from the door.

The doctor held up his hand. "This won't be easy," he warned. "Dean has had extensive brain damage. He may never walk or speak again. He may have seizures and migraines for the rest of his life. We won't know entirely until he wakes, which won't be for a while. We currently have him put under until his brain can heal."

John nodded, rubbing circles on Mary's hand. "We understand," he croaked. "Can we see him?"

The doctor nodded. "Just know that there are a lot of machines and he did just undergo surgery. It can be a slightly shocking sight."

"We understand," John said again, his voice this time sounding like an echo of the last time he'd said it. Sam wondered if he really did understand or if this was just a haze for all of them. This wasn't even his world and he was already spinning with it all. Suddenly, he realized that wasn't him. It was the scene change again.

He was in the hospital room, Dean laid up in the bed. There were few machines around him – he must have been taken off the respirator, which meant they were weaning him out of the coma. He'd missed a while, he realized. The whole family was crowded around Dean's bed, and yet it was Sammy who first noticed Dean stir. "Dean!" he cried.

Dean painstakingly wrenched his eyes open, blinking at Sammy. He tried to sit up, but didn't get much further than moving his arm slightly before collapsing back into the pillows. "Shh," Mary whispered, stroking his hair. "Shh, it's OK, sweetheart, just relax, you're safe."

Dean's eyes focused on her lips oddly, as though he was having trouble understanding the words coming out of them. A faint confusion settled over his face, and he tried to speak, coming up only with a few strangled sounds. Mary shushed him again, eyes teary. "It's OK, everything's OK," she whispered, voice cracking slightly.

He looked panicked for a moment, and Sam could feel his own tears. How must it feel to suddenly be incapable of coming up with words? Especially for Dean, who liked to put his two cents in for everything, liked to lend comfort and humor to hard situations with a few good words. But eventually, his mother's voice and touch spoke the words he had trouble understanding, and he calmed, watching them silently, clearly glad they were there.

The scene shifted. John was helping Dean stand, hands on Dean's arms and Dean swayed dangerously. "Whoa, there, tiger. You're doing great," John encouraged, and Dean put more weight on his feet, tears streaming with frustration at how hard it was. But in true Dean fashion, he gritted his teeth and pushed John away gently, using the bed as a support to clamber painfully to Mary, who had her arms outstretched.

"That's my boy, that's my Dean," she said, tears of happiness falling from her smiling face as Dean tumbled into her arms, exhausted.

Sam and Sammy sat beside her, marveling. Sammy reached out a hand to wipe away Dean's tears of frustration and joy alike, planting a soft, slobbery kiss on Dean's cheek. "That was amazing, Dean," he whispered, hero worship in his voice.

"You have no idea, kid," he told his younger self, knowing all the other things Dean was capable of. There was nothing Dean couldn't do. He was proclaimed a goner, he survived. He'd never walk again, here he was walking. It was only a matter of time before he'd be chattering away again, too.

He looked at Dean, practically glowing in all the praise and wondered if Dean knew that as well as he did.

The transitions were getting smoother between scenes now, because he didn't feel dizzy at all when they were back in the Lawrence house. John and Mary were helping Dean in, and though he was still too shaky to go it solo, they were barely supporting him. "I just don't think a growing boy should be on medication all the time. How do we know those pills don't have worse side effects than the seizures?" Mary was saying. Dean didn't react, entirely focused on walking.

"Mary, you saw those seizures. They were awful, for all of us!"

"I know! Do you really think they didn't hurt me as much as they did you? I'm just saying we should ask someone else before we do this. A second opinion, John, that's all I'm asking."

Dean's knees buckled and he went down, struggling to get up but failing. He cried out in frustration, trying one more time to no avail. John bent down. "Shh, tiger, it's alright, you did good," he said, more softly than Sam had ever seen him. "I'll carry you the rest of the way, don't you worry."

He picked up Dean, who gently rubbed at his eyes, still shaking with anger and despair.

Sam flinched at the scene. Dean, who never let himself be carried when he was conscious. How hard was this for him? He looked at Mary. Of course, he wasn't the same Dean, hadn't been forced into toughness from age four, but there was enough of that stubbornness in him that Sam knew this wasn't easy for him. How could it be?

Sammy ran in, taking his mother's hand. "Can I still sleep with Dean now that he's home?" he asked, letting himself be picked up by Mary.

She touched her forehead to his. "Of course, pumpkin, you always can."

The next scene had to have been a few months later – Sammy was looking a little older, Dean was walking unaided, though still slowly, like an old man. Mary had out a math book, carefully placing a pencil into Dean's hand. He struggled to hold onto it correctly, but he made not even a noise of complaint, looking up at her expectantly. "Alright, now, your teachers told me that you've been doing multiplication, do you remember that? It's been a little while now, so it's alright if you don't."

Dean nodded, watching for a task. His eyes were focused entirely on her mouth, as though he needed the extra visual to understand what she was saying. "Alright, then, how well do you know that?" she asked. Dean shrugged. She smiled. "Can you do 381 times 43?" She asked teasingly.

Dean was silent, putting the pencil down as though it required too much thought to hold it and do math simultaneously. He put out his fingers as though counting, then picked up the pencil and carefully scratched out 16383. Mary took the pencil, brows furrowed, and wrote out the multiplication, blinking when she received the same answer. "Dean, did you do that in your head?" she asked. He nodded.

She stared at him. "Dean that's brilliant," she said. He brightened at the praise, clearly ready for more if it would make his mother happy. "Alright." She paused, standing. "New plan. How about we do something a little harder?" She stood and went into another room for a while, then came back. "This is my algebra book from high school. You're lucky I still have it." She pulled up a chair beside Dean. "Now, algebra is a bit harder, but only because we don't always know the numbers, so we give them names, like letters, instead. Does that make sense?"

Dean nodded, pulling the book from her hands and looking into it. "Alright, let's just start slowly and do some of these problems, alright?"

Sam frowned. Dean doing math? He chuckled. Then he almost cried. Of course Dean didn't care about schoolwork. John didn't care about schoolwork. He cared about hunting, which Dean was amazing at. Or course Dean was a genius. Building an EMF detector by himself? That was genius. And Sam had scoffed at it. Shrugged off one little shine of genius that had been dulled by Dean's need to be valued and John's obsession.

So Sam sat on the floor instead and watched his brother learn algebra at age seven, because that was the closest he could get to the respect Dean deserved.

Tada. These will probably be shortish chapters, because I never know when I can fit time into real life for this story. I do, however, want to update frequently, so… compromise! Yay! :D

Please review! It helps me know how I'm doing and motivates me to write more!