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Chapter 2

It couldn't have been more than twenty or thirty minutes, but it was hard waiting for Sam to come out of the bathroom. Dean knew Bobby was right, but that didn't mean he liked the idea of breaking his brother's heart all over again. It would have happened anyway, however he found out about Dad and Jessica…but Dean hated to be the one to do it.

He felt even worse when Sam finally trudged back out to the kitchen, clean and in fresh sweats and a t-shirt, ready to hit the sack, but somehow looking even worse than when he'd disappeared into the bathroom.

"Sammy?"

His brother lowered himself into a chair again and sat in silence for a moment. "I have scars I've never seen before," he said eventually, arms hugged around himself.

Dean sat beside him, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I guess you do."

"So…it really has been four years," Sam swallowed. "Since I can remember, anyway."

"Closer to three-and-a-half, if that makes you feel any better, but…yeah, Sam. I'm sorry."

"Damnit…" His head ducked, in a classic Sam Winchester attempt to hide or fight back the tears that Dean knew were there anyway. "So what then? Just wait, like Bobby said? Stay here? Have you called Dad yet? Shouldn't you call him? I mean, I don't even know if anything has changed or if he would even want to see me or what, but he would probably want you to call him—"

"Sam. Sam, calm down, okay? You need to know a few things." Under Dean's request Bobby had already made himself scarce.

"Like what?" Sam asked restlessly.

Dean wasn't sure how to prepare himself to do this. He'd been trying to think of a way for the past half-hour, and nothing had presented itself. So he jumped in.

"Look, you have to find out anyway, and Bobby and I didn't think it would be all that great to just…let you remember on your own…" Not even to the bad part yet, and he was already staring at the floor between them.

"Dean?"

"It's not good." He glanced up long enough to see Sam grimace.

"What, Dean?"

He took a deep breath, and somehow managed not to look away. He wasn't sure how he did that and kept his throat open at the same time. "Sammy…Dad…and your girlfriend, they…I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sammy, but they're...gone."

Sam stared at him in horror. "What?" he croaked.

"Both in the first year after your memories stop…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't want to just tell you like this, but it would have been worse to just remember, without any warning or anything, we thought, and—"

"They're…gone?"

"I'm sorry," Dean repeated, finally looking away again. It was pathetic, but he didn't know what else to say.

"But—no."

He swallowed hard and forced himself to focus on his brother again—the brother who was suddenly once more the young, brokenhearted kid he'd bundled away from Stanford. "Sam, you know I wouldn't lie to you about something like this," he said quietly.

Sam's stunned gaze faltered, and his eyes slipped to the floor as he pulled in an unsteady breath. "N-no…no you wouldn't."

But Dean had seen the big question, even though Sam didn't want to ask it because he didn't want to believe. He had to answer it anyway, because Sam had to believe it, and because he couldn't give an effect without offering a cause. He didn't want to get into details, but he had to tell his brother something, and it had to be the truth.

"We found out that the thing that killed Mom was a demon…and it killed them too. God, Sam; I'm so sorry…" Dean tried to reach out, though he wasn't certain what he could do, but Sam moved. He was up from his chair and out the door before he had the chance to try.

"Sam, wait!" Dean jumped up, and heard the screen door at the back of the house slap. He tried to follow, but Bobby put an arm out to stop him just before he could get through the door himself. "Bobby—"

"Give him some time."

"But—"

"He needs it, Dean. Don't worry; we'll keep an eye on him. He's not going anywhere."

He sighed, but Bobby was right again.


Even with the lights in the lot Sam didn't quite see the salvage yard cars in his way as he stumbled away from the house, and he bumped into several before he finally hooked a hand on one and pulled himself around to sink to the ground behind it. He knew he was sobbing, but there wasn't much he could do about it now.

He wasn't sure how long he was alone, but by the time Dean found him he had calmed down. His chest still hurt and his throat was still tight and his stomach was still roiling, but on the outside he was only sitting, staring at nothing in the darkness beyond where the lights reached. It was cold, but at least there was no snow or he might have frozen by now.

He knew it was Dean who crouched beside him because it was always Dean.

He didn't know exactly how the last three or four years had gone, but it had always been Dean. Ever since they were kids, it had been Dean.

"Did we at least send the damn thing back where it belongs?" he asked after a moment.

And because it was Dean, he didn't have to say anything else for his brother to know what he meant.

"No—we killed it."

Sam looked at him. "Really?"

"Son of a bitch is a doornail," Dean nodded, smiling a little.

He huffed quietly. "Huh. Didn't know you could do that."

"Yep."

"Oh...good." He looked out again, because it was easier.

"You okay?"

"No."

Dean was silent for a long moment. "Hey, Bobby's got some pancakes in there."

Sam shrugged once. "I'm not hungry."

"They're fresh."

"Dean—"

"We didn't really eat today..."

He loved his brother, but right now he only wanted to be left alone. "Maybe later," he sighed.

"Okay." Dean paused again. "So you gonna stay out here for a while?"

"Yeah."

Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw his brother nod in understanding, and then Dean's hand was clamped on his shoulder. Dean used the shoulder to push himself to his feet, but he gave an extra squeeze before he let go. "Okay." Then his coat was dropped in his lap.

Dean left, and Sam pulled the coat on and let his head drop back against the car behind him.


"How's he doing?" Bobby asked once Dean made it back inside.

He shrugged. "All right. Excuse me for being cliché, but as well as could be expected, I guess."

Bobby picked up the plate of pancakes he and Dean had barely touched. "He coming in?"

"In a little while."

"Oh. Well...." He trailed off, shrugged, and located the plastic wrap to put the food away. "Like I said, just give him some time. If he's not back inside by morning, then we can worry."

Dean shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and stared at the floor for a moment. "Bobby...what if he doesn't remember?"

He wrapped the plate in the plastic wrap and opened the refrigerator door. "He should."

"But what if he doesn't? What if all he ever knows about the past four years is what we tell him?"

Bobby slid the pancakes into the refrigerator and and looked up quickly, wondering what in hell the boy was getting at. "What?"

Dean crossed his arms uncomfortably. "What if Sam can't remember? What if all of it's gone? Would we just tell him everything?"

He slowly shut the refrigerator again and trailed back toward Dean. "I guess so...We wouldn't have much of a choice. He's got to know what's going on; we need him in this. We've got a huge fight on our hands here."

"Don't I know it," Dean huffed. He perched on the edge of the table, still scowling, but now he seemed to be thinking hard on something. Somehow the expression unnerved Bobby a little.

"Couldn't he help just as well...without knowing everything?" Dean mussed quietly.

"What?" Bobby repeated.

The boy looked up quickly. "Huh? Oh...never mind."

"Yeah—never mind," Bobby nodded firmly.

Thankfully Dean seemed to hear him.


It was another hour or so before Sam dragged himself inside, and by then it was nearly dawn. Dean had convinced Bobby to go on to bed, and he waited for his brother himself—wide awake on the floor in the living room. Even though it was his turn, he'd left the couch for Sam.

Sam, for his part, didn't say anything when he finally made it inside. He took in Dean and the makeshift bed on the floor, sunk into the couch, and was out almost immediately.

"You're welcome," Dean muttered. But he didn't mean it. The usual annoyance that would have laced the statement just wasn't there. He couldn't muster it up, and he didn't want to. Suddenly—for now, at least—all of the shit from the past few months meant nothing.

This was Sammy, and the kid needed his brother, and Dean would be there.

He was only able to sleep on and off, and Sam didn't seem to sleep much more—at least not well—but both of them must have managed to finally get to the deeper realms. One moments he was watching the blackness of the living room slowly lighten to dawn, and the next he was waking to the bright light of noon.

Bobby had let them sleep.

Dean sat up slowly, and realized that Sam was already awake and perched on the edge of the couch. He didn't look to have been awake for long, but that intense look on his face had to mean something.

"What's up?"

"The apartment building...and the stairs—the shapeshifter." He scowled. "God, that thing was ugly. It...jumped me?"

Dean blinked. "Yeah. Hey, that's something."

"It's all of ten minutes, Dean—out of three-and-a-half years," Sam answered miserably.

"Well it's better than nothing, and it means all of it's probably still up there somewhere." He felt guilty for not knowing how to feel about that. He should want his brother back—all of his brother.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that Sam without the past four years was having his little brother back.

"We don't know that."

"Sam, stop it. It's only been two days; give it more time." And he was talking as much to himself as to anyone.

Sam just sat where he was, on the edge of the couch hunched over his knees.

Dean sighed. "Hey...how are you doing?"

"Just peachy," he mumbled.

"That's my line."

Sam smirked weakly. "I remember that much." The smirk quickly faded, and he looked like he wanted to say something else. Dean waited. After a moment he sat up a little more and took a deep breath.

"Dean, did I...did I ever even see Dad again?"

Oh.

He winced. "Yeah...of course you saw him." Sam just looked at him. "What?"

"And?"

"And what?"

Sam grimaced. "Did he still hate me, or...?"

Dean really, really did not want to get into this, but with that opener he had no choice. He couldn't let Sam wonder about something like that. No matter how stupid about everything they had all been, he couldn't let Sam think...

"What? No, he...never hated you..." he answered uncomfortably. Sam was still looking at him with that damn searching kicked-puppy expression on his face. Maybe it had changed a little over the years, but that expression was something that was distinctly Sam, no matter many memories or not that he had.

"Look, we were all together for a little while, before it happened, and...no, it sure as hell wasn't perfect or anything, but it's not like you were still at each others' throats 24/7...I guess. I'm sure you'll remember soon enough anyway..."

Sam swallowed and looked away. "Yeah...great."


For the next two days, there was nothing new. Sam remembered the last few moments before the blackout, and with it came the sense of the missed time...but no more memories. The sense of something missing changed his perspective, but at the same time it still felt as if he had just been with Jessica a few days ago, dreading Halloween and midterms.

Then came the pancakes.

They'd all been a little unnerved that first night, and Bobby had been awake enough that he'd made way too many pancakes. The stacks had lasted three days, and every day he'd seen the plate being dragged in and out of the fridge, resting on the counter or the table...

They didn't mean anything. They were only pancakes.

Then that night he looked at them, and he saw something else.

"Cookies."

He heard Dean say something, but he was staring at the pancakes. The few that were left were piled haphazardly in the center of the plate, and the folded paper towel that had been sitting on his empty plate as he walked past had fluttered off and landed on top of them.

Suddenly a hand was on his shoulder, and he glanced over to see that it was Bobby, with Dean right behind.

"What?" his brother asked again.

Sam looked back to the cookies—pancakes. They were pancakes, but he was seeing cookies, and instead of a napkin he was seeing a note, and a counter instead of an old table. It was dark, not a room lit by fluorescent lighting.

"Chocolate chip cookies. I...went somewhere, and...when I came back Jess had left them for me," he said quietly. He didn't see them looking at him strangely, but he knew they were doing it. "It was something I didn't remember before," he clarified, looking up.

Understanding dawned. "Oh...really?" Dean asked.

"That's all?" Bobby asked. "Anything else?"

"I don't think so..."

"Bobby."

"You sure?"

"Bobby," Dean said more insistently.

"What?"

Dean invented a reason to pull Bobby out of the room, and as Sam heard them whispering indistinctly in the living room, Sam felt a horrible twist in his gut that told him something was wrong—or was about to be wrong.

Then he looked at the cookies again—pancakes, damnit—and saw the fire.


"Dean, what is it?" Bobby asked quietly, pulling Dean's hand from his shirt as they withdrew from the kitchen.

"That's...not good," Dean answered anxiously.

"What's not?"

"What he was starting to remember. The crack on the head only blacked out everything after the day before I showed up at Stanford," he whispered. "He has to be remembering the night I dropped him back off—the night Jessica died. The image he just described couldn't have been more than a few moments before."

Bobby sighed. "Dean, if it's going to come back we can't stop it."

"I know that, but..." He grimaced. "If it's all really up there, and it's going to come back anyway, I...just don't see any reason to hurry it along. You know what I mean?"

He didn't have a chance to answer. Seconds later a strangled cry echoed from the kitchen, and Dean was rushing back in.

"Crap..."

Bobby followed him, and his throat clogged at what he found.

Too late.

Dean was catching Sam as he went down on his knees, head in his hands and close to hyperventilating. "No...No! Jess!" He broke into violent sobs, and Dean said nothing as he pulled his brother close and threw Bobby a helpless look.

Bobby wasn't sure if there was anything he could do, but he crouched silently on the floor beside them—if only to be there.