A/N I own nothing and no one. Damn it

Sorry for the delay in getting this one up. Y'all may have noticed that I kind of wrote myself into a corner in the last couple of chapters. It took Sam to make a visit in my dreams (not like, that! Y'all get your minds out of the gutter) for me to figure out what was really going on.

Also, I'm eager to read what you think of the "guest stars" in this chapter. Who do you think was after Sam?

Responses to comments are, as always at the end of the chapter

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June ? 2001

Forest behind Singer Salvage, Sioux Falls

….maybe

Sam came to back himself slowly, one awareness at a time, as body and brain reconnected.

He was lying on his side, on something hard, his hands over his ears. A few more seconds, and he could smell dirt and grass, evergreen trees and the slightest hint of motor oil, gasoline and…ash?

He knew that particular mixture of scents — minus the ash, that was weird — very well. It was almost as familiar as the scents that filled the Impala. Combined with the hardness beneath him, and he knew he was lying on the ground in the forest behind Singer Salvage. But why? The last thing he remembered…

Dean! Holy shit, I shot Dean.

Well, technically, Dean kind of shot himself, since he'd pulled the trigger, but…

Dean. Where was Dean?

He concentrated for a moment, trying to isolate sounds. He remembered noticing, with Dean, that the birds and insect sounds had stopped, and he didn't hear them now.

But there had been sound, a screeching note scratching from the inside of his brain, a presence in his head that he'd been certain was trying to communicate, even if he didn't have a clue how to decipher it.

It had something to do with those damn clouds, back again over a year after they'd last tried to…whatever they'd tried to do when they invaded the salvage yard and Bobby's house.

Whatever it was that came for him, it had clearly failed, since he was still in the forest. He must've passed out from the pain; he remembered how overwhelming the sound — if it was a sound — had been, and knowing that he couldn't take it much more.

It didn't surprise him that he'd lost consciousness, really.

What was surprising was the silence now that he was awake. He could understand that the birds and insects could still be quiet, that wasn't the sound that he was missing.

The sound he was missing was Dean.

It was a sad fact of their messed up life that this was not the first — or even the twentieth — time he'd been knocked unconscious by some something. What caused it, how long it lasted, what the long or short term damage was — all that changed. But there was one thing he could count on. Always.

Dean.

If Sammy was uncons cious, for whatever reason, Dean would be there. His awesome big brother, as Dean would call himself — not that Sam would argue (not to himself anyway) — would be sitting close by, trying to deal with any wounds or damage done by whatever had attacked Dean's little brother. And once Dean had patched Sam up as best he could (or after the doctors had, if it was really serious), Dean would still be there, talking to his unconscious baby brother, letting Sam know it was going to be okay. When Dean got tired of that — when the constant repetition of reassurances made him self-conscious, more likely — he'd move on to reminiscing or talking about some plans the pair had made. When that got old, if Sam wasn't awake by then, Dean would move on to bad jokes or entirely-too-graphic tales of his romantic exploits. Anything to let Sam know his big brother was there, watching over him, keeping him safe while Sam got on with the business of healing.

But Dean wasn't talking, and Dean didn't have his fingers on Sam's pulse, or on his chest, or his hand.

As far as Sam could tell, Dean just…wasn't there.

Which was…wrong. No way Dean would ever leave him unconscious and alone in the middle of the woods, even if they were the woods they'd been playing in since they were little.

Dean would never leave him alone if there was the slightest chance he was hurt, not even to get help. Especially not when he'd been talking to Bobby just before the trouble hit. If Bobby couldn't get in touch with them, he'd come looking, even if Dean didn't — or couldn't — call.

So, that meant that either Sam had lost his hearing, or…Dean was in trouble.

Either way, Sam needed to do something about it.

Slowly, Sam opened his eyes and pulled his arms down, looking around for his brother whom logic dictated simply had to be hurt.

"Heya, Sam. There you are..."

Sam turned his head and looked at Dean who sat a few feet away from him, idling drawing on the ground with a stick.

"Dean?" Sam frowned. Okay, so Dean wasn't hurt, at least visibly, and that was good but…where were the stories? Where were the reassurances? Where was the touch, the one communication that never failed them, no matter what else was wrong?

His brother smiled and moved closer until he could lay a hand on Sam's arm.

Leaving it a bit late, that.

Sam started to sit up, but Dean moved his hand to Sam's shoulder and pushed him back to the ground. "Easy, tiger," Dean chuckled. "Take it slow. You're likely to be a bit off balance, right now."

"Wh…What happened?" Sam asked, his voice hoarser than he'd expected. So I've been out for a while, then. And Dean was just…sitting there, three feet away, drawing in the dirt?

"You had some kind of, I don't know — fit, I guess," Dean shrugged.

"A fit?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Started to yell that something needed to stop, and you didn't understand and stuff like that, and then you were covering your ears for some weird reason, and then you just…collapsed," Dean shrugged again.

And that was a bit casual, wasn't it?

"I don't know, Sam. It was all just…random and weird. Even for you," Dean chuckled.

Teasing me. That's more normal. But still…

Sam pushed Dean's hand away and sat up, looking around for his backpack. "It was the…the cloud things," he told Dean and grabbed one strap of his backpack, pulling it towards him as he shifted onto his knees.

"Cloud things?" Dean repeated and shook his head. "There weren't any cloud things," he assured him. "There weren't any clouds to have cloud things in."

Denying our last conversation entirely.

"But there were!" Sam argued, and shifted again so his back was towards Dean as he began rummaging through the backpack. "Where did I put…" he muttered and pulled out a dark metal bar, carelessly handing it behind him with a casual "hold this."

Dean sighed and took the rod, shaking his head. "There were no clouds, Sam," he repeated.

"There were," Sam said calmly. "Bobby called you about them, remember? The same cloud things that came after me last year, those Close Encounter things with the lights."

"Bobby?" Dean said, his voice reflecting growing concern. "Sam, I haven't talked to Bobby since we left the house to train. Are you sure you're okay? That was a hell of a fit you had."

"It wasn't a fit, don't be a jerk."

"Whatever, Sam. All I know is that you were yelling about sounds that weren't there and curling up on the ground like a…I don't know. A scared little kid. And then you passed out."

So, I'm a scared little kid and the call with Bobby never happened at all. Okay.

"And you didn't see any clouds?" Sam said, his tone reflecting complete puzzlement. "Here, hold this," he added and handed Dean a cloth.

"Sure," Dean agreed, and put the bar down to take the cloth. "Eww, Sam, what's on this? It's all wet! That's gross!"

"I'm sorry," Sam apologized, and took the cloth back. "Think fast, Jerk!" he called and tossed a small, shiny ball over his shoulder.

Dean caught it, and stared at it for a second, before setting it down next to the metal bar. "Come on, Sam, what are you doing? You almost hit me in the face with that!"

"Sorry," Sam said again. "I'm looking for something and I guess I'm getting a little careless."

"Careless? I'd say dangerous. But that brings up a good point."

"What's that?" Sam wondered and pulled one more item out of the backpack, placing it on the ground in front of him. "Oh, can you hand me that ball and bar back, please?"

Dean rolled his eyes and did as Sam requested. "You have some kind of fit, and then start making up clouds and noises."

So, I'm making things up, now.

"…And now you're telling me you just flat out hallucinated a call from Bobby? It's made me rethink a few things."

"Like what?" Sam stowed the bar and sphere back into the backpack and rotated his shoulders, loosening them up a bit after lying on the ground.

"Well, Stanford, to be honest," Dean said. "Now, I know you don't want to hear this," Dean admitted, lifting a hand towards Sam's back as if to stop an interruption that didn't come, "but I have to admit that I've changed my mind."

"Have you?" Sam muttered and took a deep, slow breath.

Now we're getting to it.

"I'm afraid so, Sam. And I know that you're not going to like it, but I have to do what's best for you. I'm your guardian. I have a responsibility towards you now, that I didn't have before, and I can't let you do something that would hurt you."

Sam sighed and shook his head. "No, I guess you can't. So, what am I not going to like, jerk?"

"You should show me some respect," Dean said sternly. "I am responsible for you, in the eyes of the law. I have the legal right to make the decisions on your future. And I'm talking about Stanford. You're having fits and hallucinations now, and I just…Sam, I'm sorry, I can't let you go."

And there it is.

"You can't," Sam repeated flatly, rising easily to his feet to stand almost sideways to Dean, his left shoulder towards his brother, his right hand still carefully kept out of Dean's sight.

"No, I can't. It's too dangerous for you, now," Dean admitted, his voice dripping with concern, as he, too, stood.

"Why's that?"

Come on. Come on.

"Well, really, Sam," Dean sighed. "After today's hallucination, and that weird fit of screaming for no reason? You're obviously a danger to yourself, and maybe to others. You need to stay here, where Bobby and I can keep an eye on you," Dean said gently and moved forward to put a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder.

Bingo.

"You must see, after today, that you're sick, Sam. Too sick for the pressures of a school like Stanford. You need to stay here, where you're safe."

"Safe with you?" Sam asked.

"Of course, safe with me. You're always safe with me, Sam. You know that, right?"

Sam nodded and gave a little half-smile. "I know exactly how safe I am with you."

"Then you see my point, right?"

"I understand why you're saying it," Sam replied, truthfully. "But I do have one question."

"Okay," Dean smiled and gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze. "What's that?"

And Sam moved, executing one single, fluid motion, to grab the arm on his shoulder with his left hand, spinning his opponent around and stepping up against "Dean's" back, the arm he'd captured pinned between them, while simultaneously swinging the machete he held in his right hand up against the other man's neck.

Exactly the way the real Dean had taught him.

"Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"I am your brother," Dean said carefully, staying as still as he could as the edge of the weapon pressed against his throat. "Sam, you are hallucinating again. You are not at all well."

"What I'm not," Sam growled, "is an idiot. And what you aren't, is my brother."

"Sam…" Dean began and started to lift his free hand toward the arm holding the machete.

"DON'T," Sam warned and pushed the machete slightly harder against the man's throat. "I will cut you," he warned, then gave the arm between them a little yank upwards. "Or break your arm. Maybe both, I'm not picky."

"Oh, Sam," the man said sadly. "I can prove it to you," he assured his captor. "I can prove that I'm Dean. Ask me anything. Something only we would know. Give me a test."

Sam scoffed. "I already gave you a test, genius. You failed. Three times. Now I admit, you got the look right, and some of the inflection. But you are woefully ignorant about hunting, and damn near clueless about my brother and me."

"Sam," the pretender said quietly. "Look, if you take the knife away from my throat, before things get any worse, I won't have to put you in a locked ward. I can do it, Sam. I am your guardian."

Sam laughed. "You're just proving me right again and again. Dean would never threaten to lock me up. So you listen carefully, before things get any worse," he suggested and pulled the arm between them up more, just this side of breaking it. "Because we're done with the part where you play games and pretend to be Dean. Now we're at the part where you tell me who and what you are, and where. My. Brother is."

"I'm your..."

"Nope," Sam said, firmly and tweaked the arm he held another sixteenth of an inch toward breaking. "I don't know what you are — yet. But I do know what you're not. You're not a demon — that wet cloth you found so disgusting? It was wet with Holy Water. You're not a shapeshifter — the ball I tossed you was pure silver. And you're not a spirit possessing Dean's body, because the first thing I gave you was an iron bar. All of which any competent hunter would have recognized. The second I handed Dean an iron bar, he'd have known I was testing him. You didn't. And this isn't a 'knife', asshole, it's a fuckin' machete, which Dean would know, and he would never call it a 'knife'. Blade, maybe," he conceded with a shrug that added to the strain on the imposter's arm and pushed the blade in question slightly harder against the imposter's neck. "My brother is very precise when it comes to his weaponry. So I may not know exactly what kind of evil dick you are, but I know you aren't Dean."

"Really?" the pseudo-Dean challenged. "Because you just said it yourself, you've tested for everything that could easily take my place, and I tested human. I tested Dean. "

"No, you didn't," Sam assured the thing. "Like I said, you already failed the I'm-Dean-Winchester test, three times. Beyond that, you haven't acted anything like my real brother would act after I had a 'fit' and passed out. So I ask again," Sam said and leaned closer to whisper in the thing's ear as he pushed the edge of the machete into the thing's neck just hard enough to draw a single, thin line of blood. "What are you? And where. Is. Dean?"

A soft noise came from behind, and Sam stiffened, still holding his captive firm as he started to turn his head. He felt, rather than saw, someone reaching towards him, and then…

The newcomer watched impassively as Sam dropped to the ground at his feet, grabbing the machete before it could fall on the unconscious boy.

"Your brother is perfectly safe," the newcomer assured the fallen hunter. "As to what this Dean is," he continued and lifted his gaze slowly to meet the ashamed look of the Dean-thing, "at the moment, I'm going with a disappointment."

"I…" the Dean-thing began.

"You were meant to be the expert on the Winchester brothers," the other continued. "Haven't you been watching them?"

"I have, but…"

"How long have you been watching them, I wonder."

"26,842 hours," came the soft reply.

"Ah, yes. Since Dean gained control of his brother's life, I believe."

The Dean-thing frowned. "I believe they call it 'custody', not control."

His companion waved the correction away. "And yet, after all that observation, you still couldn't convince this primitive," the disappointed one scoffed, lightly rocking Sam's unconscious form with the toe of an expensively shod foot, "that you were his brother."

"No. I'm sorry," the Dean-thing said quietly and let his gaze drop to Sam's still form. "This is the first time I've been on Earth in millennia, sir. I must admit, I find these creatures…confusing. Especially the Winchesters."

"Confusing?" the other scoffed. "What's confusing about them? They eat, they sleep, they do the fucking, and make more of themselves. They hate, lie, cheat and steal. They lock each other in cells, and kill each other, with pitiful regularity, in increasing numbers. They are a bare half-step above the monkeys they resemble, and you find them confusing? I fear that says more about your inadequacy than their complication."

The subordinate nodded, defeatedly. "I am sure you are right, sir," he agreed, then rallied himself for a moment. "But I believe I know where I went wrong, now! You see, they insult each other, but it really —"

"It matters not," his superior said firmly. "Your bungling will have made Sam Winchester too cautious to make any further attempts at using the power the real Dean has over him to keep him away from Stanford. We'll have to find a way to deal with him while he's there, that's all. Shouldn't be too difficult," he shrugged. "Our operatives at colleges around the globe consistently indicate that entering an institution of so-called 'higher learning' afflicts most of his kind with a reckless disregard for their own health and safety, not to mention flagrant abandonment of caution and propriety. It would have been preferable to keep him in Sioux Falls, where we already have several operatives in place watching the Winchesters and Singer, but we should be able to find methods for guiding them down the proper paths in Stanford just as well. Besides," he added with a careless shrug, "those of our compatriots who are knowledgeable in such things inform me that if we do not return this Winchester to his mind soon, we may never be able to. And that would be disastrous for the overall plan."

"But, sir," the underling frowned, "I thought there were many children such as Sam who were made. Wouldn't they be able to advance the plan just as well?"

The superior shrugged. "You would think so, wouldn't you? But apparently, although I find it hard to credit it, myself, apparently the Winchester is…'special'. I'm told that, while the plan could, indeed, be moved forward with the other special children, it would be more difficult with them than with this Winchester. Something or other to do with the role the actual Dean will play."

The Dean-thing nodded, slowly, frowning with concentration. "I do understand that," he admitted. "The relationship between the Winchesters is…unique, I believe. Many people would do much to save a loved one, certainly, but my observations — however flawed," he hastily added when the other scoffed, "leaves me no doubt that the Winchester brothers would do…anything for each other."

"Let us hope that in this, at least, your observations are accurate," his superior shrugged. "Regardless, we have our new directive. We shall leave, and once we are no longer holding him here, Sam should return to his own mind. What happens after that...we shall all see. If he fails to return to his mind…well, as you say. There are others. Come."

A short swishing noise and Sam was alone, lying on the ground beside his now discarded machete and backpack.

Slowly, the machete began to melt into the ground, followed by the backpack seconds later.

In the silence of the wood where he'd fallen, where he lay all alone, Sam Winchester suddenly breathed…

…And vanished

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A/N Souless666 Oooh, Chrysalis! Hadn't thought of that. Interesting idea….hmmmm