Looking Back

- Author: Sensue
- Summary: Post Asylum. After a serious injury, Sam’s role changes: the protected must now become the protector. H/C.
- Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural: the series or either of the two hot guys in it. Wish I did, especially Jensen Ackles.
- Rating: TV-14
- Pairing: Brotherly love (only): Dean/Sam. Smarm, NOT slash.
- What is Smarm?: Smarm is a loving relationship between two members of the same sex, usually men. It is highly emotional and physical (touching), and completely NON-SEXUAL.
- Author’s Note: This is my third Supernatural Story. This story, at first may sound similar to some of the other stories published at however, trust me, I’m twisting it differently than any one else could imagine, as usual. I hope that everyone enjoys this as much as I’ve loved to write it. This story will be completely written in Sam’s POV (third person), but is about Dean. So, it’s Sam’s thoughts about his brother.

Looking Back

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Sam stared at Dean, silently studying his older brother as he drove. He knew that his scrutiny was being ignored from the way his brother stared ahead, teeth clenched, and body tense. He had been driving for over twelve hours only taking restroom/snack breaks every so often since they had received the phone call from their father.

It infuriated him. They had both been searching for him for months now—all of their calls to John Winchester’s cell phone and voice mail had been ultimately ignored. The only thing that kept Sam from calling the FBI to help search for him was Dean and his complete confidence that they would find him. No matter how many times that he tried to convince Dean that the man had abandoned them, he refused to give up that hope.

Sam ran a shaky hand through his hair, turning his angry face away from his brother to look out the passenger side window beside him, their latest argument still fresh in his mind.

After the ‘events’ that happened at the Roosevelt Asylum, Dean had driven to the nearest motel and then proceeded to ignore everything that had happened there, claiming that he was ‘fine’ and just needed to get some sleep. Sam knew, he KNEW, that his brother was hurt; he’d been shot at point blank range with a gun full of rock salt then flung across the room and through a wall. He’d been unconscious for a few minutes--that he remembered from his psychotically altered mind.

He should have insisted that Dean get some medical help or at the very least let him wake him in case he had a concussion, but the man was so stubborn. And instead of actually getting some rest and letting his body heal from his wounds, they were driving across the country yet again on some mission their father deemed necessary to send his sons on.

“Dean,” Sam had argued, “Just tell him ‘no’. You have a chest wound, and possibly a concussion. You don’t need to be driving across the country just because our father, who hasn’t spoken to us in almost six months, told you to. The damn ghost will still be haunting the place in a couple weeks; we don’t need to leave now.”

Dean fought back and he spoke without mercy, his voice hard and sharp, “Sam, either help me or get the hell out of my way! I need your help, but I’m getting so fucking sick of you and your attitude! Now, I’m going. If you want to come, just shut the fuck up and get in the car. If not, well, maybe one of your old college buddies can come and pick you up.” He didn’t even wait for an answer, just picked up his bag with a grunt, tossed it in the back seat of his car and started the engine, all without once glancing at the passenger seat.

So, twelve hours later, the view hadn’t changed. His brother still wasn’t speaking to him, disregarding every suggestion that he’d made for them to take a break. Finally, Sam stopped trying and just ignored the nearly silent grunts and moans that Dean was unable to mask behind the blaring Metallica rock music that was pounding out from the Impala’s speakers.

The silent treatment, as annoyingly concerning as it was, had also given Sam time to think about the recent events that had so stirred up their lives and, of course, their reactions. Mostly, though, Sam thought about Dean. He looked up to his older brother; he had to, Dean was the only person that he could trust throughout his entire life. No matter how much he screwed up or said the wrong thing, Dean never turned his back on him. Dean took care of him, had taken care of him since he was a little baby. He knew for a fact that Dean would willingly give up his life for him, just as Sam knew that he’d do the same.

But somehow, through the all years they had traveled together, it had taken this moment for Sam to sadly realize that HE was all Dean had. His brother never let anyone into his life—not one single person knew the real Dean Winchester. He had no friends, he’d never fallen in love, hell, his big brother never had a single girlfriend; one night stands aside.

How many times in his life did he hear Dean refer to himself as a ‘freak’? It was always said jokingly, in a sarcastic tone. But he really believes it, Sam thought.

The car door slammed, jarring him from his contemplation. Dean had already got out and walked over to the passenger side window. “You comin’?” He asked quickly, though he didn’t wait for Sam to answer before walking towards the house that he parked in front of.

Sam nodded before climbing out to join him at the Anderson home, their newest ‘clients’. They had reported a string of recent supernatural activity at their newly renovated mansion slash hotel. It seems the family had a resident ghost. It was tearing the place apart in its efforts to get rid of any intruders in its territory. Mr. Michael Anderson placed a call to John Winchester and of course, Sam huffed under his breath, he referred him to Dean’s cell phone.

Now, they were stuck in some middle-of-nowhere small country town researching town history in order to determine the identity of the ghost. Dean knocked on the front door and silently waited for someone to answer the door.

The door opened with an old-house creak and revealed a young girl. “Hello? Can I help you?” The girl asked timidly, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds.

Dean blinked a couple times but then gently kneeled down to her level and spoke softly, “Is your Daddy home?”

The little one bit her nails, but nodded. Sam inserted, “Can you get him for us?” She ran from the door to another room and yelled ‘Daddy’ at the top of her lungs. Sam watched as Dean struggled to rise back to his feet. Biting back his automatic ‘I told you so’, Sam just silently helped him, wrapping his brother’s arm around his shoulder and wrapping the other around his waist to pull him up gently. Sam pretended to ignore the grunt as Dean straightened and pulled away.

“Yes, is there something I can do for you, gentlemen?” A man opened the door, patting the same little girl who’d opened the door on the head to run off and play.

Dean stepped forward, “Mr. Anderson?”

The man looked at them with a questioning gaze, but answered, “Yes, I’m Michael Anderson. And you are?”

Sam answered for them both, “I’m Sam. This is Dean. I believe that you called our father in regards to some strange, um, happenings in your newest real estate purchase.”

The man quickly stepped outside, looking around before shutting the door behind him. “Yes. Thank you both for coming so quickly.” He held out his hand to them both, shaking their hands. “Please, let’s go somewhere a little more private. I’m afraid that my family is in the dark, so to speak on the current situation. I—,” he rubbed his hand over his mouth as he walked them over to a small cottage which was along the side of his house. The small house rested on a small hill which overlooked the larger mansion the man had purchased in order to renovate into a luxury hotel. “I just wanted to keep them safe, so I told them it was dangerous in there, due to architectural instabilities. I’m afraid that I just don’t know what to do about this. That—thing is getting more and more violent. Just last week a man was killed, one of the glass windows shattered and his throat…”

Dean reassured the man with a tight smile. “Well, that’s what we’re here for. Sam and I will take care of it. We’ll get this problem settled and this will be like a horrible nightmare soon.” He shook Anderson’s hand again, then nodded to his brother.

As always, when the job started, the two brothers became an unstoppable force, it was as if they could read each others minds. Sam spoke, completely professional, “Mr. Anderson, what can you tell us about the property? Do you know if anyone that had previously lived there died a violent death? Suicide? Murder? Anything like that?” They walked into the cottage, Anderson flicked the switch filling the small room with a warm bright light.

“It’s Michael, please. And everything that I know about this house is here.” He went over to a locked desk drawer, unlocked it, then handed Sam a large old fashioned leather bound folder. “Those are the legal documents that I acquired after the purchase.”

“Thank you, Michael. This will help us. We’ll, of course, return them to you once we’re done here.” Sam gave him a tight smile, looking over at his brother for the next step.

Dean walked over to his little brother, then gently pushed his shoulder towards the door. “Michael, we need to research this house first, you know, so that we know exactly what we’re getting into before we make any moves, alright?”

The man nodded robotically, as if he had been placed in this situation many times in his life, agreeing to whatever they wanted. “Again, I wanted to say thank you for coming this quickly. You must’ve driven for hours, why don’t you come in for dinner? I’ll just tell my wife that you’re –architects or something—that I hired you to oversee the architect plans for the hotel. So, what do you say?”

Dean jumped in before Sam could think of a response, as usual. “Oh, thank you for the offer, Michael. But Sam and I ate on the road. We really need to get started, okay?” Sam was floored with shock, his brother was not known for turning down free food. “Oh, more quick question, can I ask how you know our father? His—our services are usually from referral.”

“Oh, actually, my brother served under your father in the Unit. Jim, my brother—uh, didn’t make it back, unfortunately. But your father occasionally calls to see how the family is doing. We keep in touch.”

“You haven’t seen him recently, though?” Dean asked, his eyes wide with hope.

Michael answered in the negative, causing the hope to fade fast from both brothers.

Dean nodded, and then using a little bit more force than before, practically shoved Sam out the door. Dean strode back to his car, keeping a tight hold on Sam’s arm the entire time. Once he knew they were both alone, Sam questioned, “Dean, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

Dean licked his lips, not answering him, but just running his fingers through his hair, messing it up. Sam waited patiently, knowing from years of experience that his brother would answer in his own time and that rushing him would only lead to another fight.

“Sam,” Dean started, his tone unsure, “Did you feel anything?”

Sam’s forehead wrinkled up into a frown, leaning against the hood of the car to mirror his brother. “What do you mean, feel anything?”

He watched as Dean gulped, running his tongue over lips as if he was dry, which knowing Dean, he probably was. Sam held his hand up, giving him the universal ‘wait a minute’ sign. Walking over to his side of the car, he rummaged under the seat until he found a half-full bottle of water and then gave it to Dean. For a second, Dean looked surprised before twisting the cap to gulp the lukewarm water. Taking a deep breath, Dean re-capped the bottle then looked up.

“I—that guy Anderson I—Hell, I don’t know. I just thought he felt OFF to me. It just—he made my skin crawl. I can’t explain it; I just wanted to get the hell away from him.” Dean put his hand over his mouth, blowing into his palm. “Did you?”

Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, rubbing it slightly. “I didn’t.” It was all he could say. Dean pulled away from him suddenly, walking over to the drivers’ seat and started the engine. Sam stared at the spot where his brother had been only moments before for a few seconds before walking over to his side of the car to get in.

And like a switch had been flicked, the silence returned and the rift spread a little wider.

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It was 3:00am when Sam opened his eyes. Squinting, he noticed that his brother was in the same place he’d left him; sitting at the table, still researching the Ghost of Anderson Manor. “Dean,” he called out from under his blankets, “Why don’t you just give it a rest? You need to get some sleep.”

Dean flipped another couple pages in the book in front of him, “Don’t tell me what to do, Sam.”

Sam sat up, now angry, as he got out of bed to walk over to where his brother was sitting. Huffing before placing both hands flat against the surface of the table, he wanted to be calm when he confronted his brother. “Dean, listen to me. You haven’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. You look like shit and I know that your chest has got to be hurting. Dean, you can’t keep on like this. You need to rest.”

Dean stood up, no emotion evident on his face beside anger, “No, you listen to me, little brother. We’ve got a job to do and that’s what I’m doing. I’m being a ‘good little soldier’.” The words that Sam had spoken in the fit of rage at the Roosevelt Asylum had been flung back at him, hitting him in the heart.

“Dean!” Sam grabbed his arm, not letting him turn away. He wasn’t prepared when Dean’s fist flung in his face with a quick round-up punch. Landing on the hard ground with a startled yell, he stopped himself from the instinctual urge to attack him physically. He didn’t want to hurt him—not any more than he already had.

Levering himself off the floor, Sam glared at his brother, but left him alone. He returned to his bed, purposefully turning away from the table and throwing his pillow over his face to sleep.

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Next Day

Research complete and plan formed—tersely and without the usual conversation or jokes, Anderson and both brothers entered the Anderson Manor to burn and exorcise the ghost of Madsen Gilmore. In the 1920s, the man had, by accounts of the city records, almost owned the entire town. He was a greedy little pig that built himself a little kingdom, complete with a fortress-like mansion and let the rest of the town rot. The town rebelled, rioting against his tyrant behavior. They threw stones through the stained glass windows and gained entry, supposedly beating the man and then locking him in his own wine cellar to die a slow horrible death. The bastard refused to let go of his house—his prized possession, haunting it to repel any human entry to this day.

It was going to be hard, it was a gut feeling. The ghost wasn’t playing fair, it was out to kill anyone that entered its residence. It was going to be dangerous and Sam wanted nothing more than to tell Dean that he’d handle it on his own. His brother was running on pure adrenaline and will. The lines of pain around his eyes were deeper than they had been the previous day and it was obvious from the way he moved that the bruises were killing him. It was fear that held him back.

Fear that Dean would, yet again, take it the wrong way. Sam knew that the hunt was the only thing that Dean had faith in; it was the only thing that hadn’t let him down. He didn’t want to take it away, question his brother’s ability to do the job. Somehow, Sam knew that would probably be the last straw—the straw that would break him.

Anderson was the guide; he would lead them down to the cellar where Gilmore was supposedly buried after starving to death.

Dean walked ahead of both men, taking point, rock salt rifle at the ready to repel the ghost, at least temporarily. It was deceivingly quiet…the sounds of rats scratching the walls the only sounds that echoed through the mansion. Dean put up a hand, motioning for Sam to watch his back as he made his way down the stairs that Anderson pointed out. Pulling out flashlights, they hooked them onto their belt harnesses, their beams lighting the way through the old mansion.

Sam took the rear, senses tingling as the continued the trek. The feeling that something was wrong grew stronger as they neared the cellar door. Dean reached it first, opening it slowly. Anderson held the EM meter that Dean had rigged. It was quiet, not even a flicker of activity showed on it.

Yet both brothers still felt the wrongness of the situation. “Sam,” Dean whispered, “check it out.” He nodded towards the cellar. Sam nodded, bringing up his own rifle before stepping into the cellar. It was dirty, dusty, and smelled of rat feces. There was nothing. It was quiet.

“Clear.” Sam called out to the two men waiting.

Anderson entered with Dean following behind, his body still tense, waiting for the ghost to spring something out on them. “I don’t understand…where the hell is it?” It was mumbled under his breath.

Anderson looked around at the old bottles of wine, which were covered with spider webs and dust. He handed the EM meter to Sam, before picking up a bottle, studying the old label. Sam put his rifle down on a barrel of wine, before taking a moment to study the non-readings.

Dean walked over to his little brother, whispering to him, “Sam, what the hell is going on here?” Sam could only shrug, his brow furrowing in his confusion, while tapping the meter he held in his hands.

There was no warning—none at all when the bottle of 1921 Palmer Margaux Bordeaux wine that Michael Anderson held was shattered over Dean’s head. Sam reacted immediately to break his fall to the hard concrete. Lifting his head, Sam was forced backwards; the dripping broken glass of the bottle was pressed too close to his face for comfort.

“What the hell are you doing, Anderson?” Sam grounded out angrily, his teeth clenched.

The small town man—father that had greeted them disappeared before Sam’s very eyes, leaving behind the monster before him. “Payback,” he snarled.

Sam glanced down at Dean’s unconscious body, the anger growing. “Payback? Payback! We don’t even know you!”

The bottle was suddenly swung towards his neck, nearly cutting him before Sam whipped himself away. “Your father left my little brother to die in that fucking mess he created. He was in charge of the operation! He should’ve been the one to die, not my brother. The bastard ordered everyone to leave; they left my brother to die alone while they ran! And to top it off, they give him a fucking Metal of Honor. A fucking Metal of Honor for killing my brother. I promised myself that he’d pay one day—that he’d feel the same loss that my family felt knowing you’ll never come home again.”

Sam spit, “How did you know we’d come?”

Anderson laughed, “I knew that he’d send Dean here; that was evident from the voice message on his phone service, but I got a two-for-one deal. I already did all the research on the Estate; I knew about the Gilmore murder. All I had to do was set up the ‘accident’ and you’d come running to save us from the mean old ghosts. John’s obsession with the supernatural is common knowledge; so is the fact that he raised the both of you to follow in his footsteps. I just played on it. And now, you’re both going to die.”

The man backed away, grabbing their rifles before running out of the cellar door. It locked behind him with a metallic grind. Darkness soon filled the corners of the sealed room, the only light coming from the flashlights that remained with them.

Sam stared at the locked door, “FUCK!” He swore before kneeling down to check his brother. He ran a hand over his head, pulling back at the feel of wetness.

Blood covered his fingers, his brother’s blood.

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Sam took a deep breath. Head wounds were known to bleed profusely, so there was no need to panic—much, he thought. Taking off his outer shirt, he bundled it up and pressed it hard against the cut made by the glass bottle, hoping that it would staunch the flow of blood. Dean moaned softly and tried to move his head away from the pain caused by the pressure.

“Dean,” Sam called out, “can you hear me?” There was no response. After checking Dean’s neck and spine, Sam rolled him onto his back, still keeping the make-shape bandage in place. “Dean?” He tried once more to wake him, this time gently slapping his cheek.

Still nothing.

Pulling back Dean’s eyelids, he shined the light into his eyes. Relief flooded his entire body when the pupils reacted normally. Sighing, he mumbled mostly to himself, “Shit, Dean. If Dad were here right now, he’d rip us both a new one for falling for that ass-wipe. I can’t believe that we--.” He cut himself off, it wouldn’t help matters much.

The only thing that mattered was getting them out of the cellar, and doing it quickly, for three reasons. One: Dean was hurt—badly. If he hadn’t had a concussion from being shot and thrown against a wall, then being hit over the head with a full bottle of wine had certainly done it. Two: The longer they stayed in the cellar, the worse it would get. No one knew where they were. They didn’t have any supplies, well, besides a half-eaten bag of Peanut M&M’s that his brother always had in his pocket and their flashlights. And three: That bastard Anderson—he planned his scheme for one reason; to destroy their father. The only problem was—the man didn’t know John Winchester. Oh, he’d be destroyed alright, Sam thought, right after he killed anything in his path that caused his pain. Anderson would wait a couple days, then call their father with the news of their deaths, that was a given. And right after he told John that he had caused their deaths, he’d kill him without a single qualm—and he’d probably kill the rest of his family just for the heck of it. John Winchester’s entire life revolved around vengeance, it wouldn’t take much to push him into revenge.

Scratching noises drew Sam’s attention away from Dean. The noises came from the back corner of the cellar. Sam picked up the flashlight, slowly inching his way to the source. Shining the light into the corner, little beaded eyes lit up, before squeaking and skittering off into a hole they had chewed through. “Rats?” Sam spoke aloud, “If the rats can get into a sealed room, then…”

Rushing over to the corner, he shone the light on the hole, trying to figure out where it led. Surprisingly, the light shone like a beam. “There’s another room.” Standing up, he looked around, then smiled at the cliché. Right above his head was an old fashioned torch that was attached to the wall. Dean will get a kick out of this one, Sam laughed as he pulled the torch. Like a door, the wall opened to reveal a kitchen.

Shooting a look back at where his brother lay on the ground, he wasted no time in getting him out. Bending over him, he lifted Dean onto his shoulder with a fireman’s carry; the extra weight made him grunt. His brother was heavy.

It seemed to take forever, one foot then the other, but he made it to the front door of the damned mansion. His brother was still out of it, luckily—Sam knew that Dean’s ribs would be on fire from the carry, but it was only way that he could get him out. He’d make it up to him later. Closing his eyes, Sam prayed that the Chevy Impala was still where they left it in front of the mansion. He opened them a second later, looking up he thanked the Power-that-Be above.

It was there; right where they left it.

Grabbing hold of Dean’s hips with one hand to make sure that he wouldn’t slip, he reached into the pocket with the other hand to pull out his keys. Pushing himself, he walked the distance from the mansion to the car, all the while keeping an eye on the Anderson home.

Once he got to the car, Sam quickly unlocked the passenger side door and opened it using his hip. With another grunt, he lowered himself and his brother so that he was kneeling on the concrete. Using a pendulum motion he swung his brother’s hips onto the passenger side seat before sliding him off his shoulder and onto the seat cushion. Making sure that Dean’s head was supported, he adjusted him so that his head rested on the seat, then moved his legs into the car and strapping the seatbelt around his waist.

Angrily, in an adolescent move, he flicked off the house. “Bastard,” it was muttered a few times as he strode over to the driver’s side.

Anderson would get his soon enough, Sam swore. As soon as Dean was awake, the both of them would make sure that he’d pay. He got into the drivers’ seat, slamming the door behind him like it was the cause of their troubles. If Dean was awake, he’d be angry—no one slammed his car door.

It made him turn around and look back at his brother. Dean lay deathly still; the only indication of his livelihood was the movement of his chest as he breathed. Dried blood smeared down his face, making him seem even more pale under the yellow glare of the streetlight. He needed to get him to a hospital, knowing that there was nothing that he could do for him—he’d been unconscious for nearly an hour and it worried him. Sam bit his lip—for once, he wished that his father was there. He’d know what to do.

Sam’s eyes widened. “Dad!” It was a gasp. He reached over to his brother, gently pulling the cell phone that he’d carried in his leather jacket out so that he could call their father. Dialing the memorized cell number, he waited for the voice message system to dial through. “Dad, listen. It’s Sam. I really hope that you get this message, but that guy—Michael Anderson, he tried to kill us. He thinks that he succeeded—it was part of his plan to get revenge on you for his brother. I don’t know what the deal with the two of you is, Dad and frankly I don’t care. I’m with Dean—Dad, he’s hurt. I’m taking him to the hospital. If you give a damn, call me back and I’ll give you the directions.” Not wanting to bother with goodbyes, he used his chin to flip the phone into its “off” mode, then threw it in the cup holder. Turning the key, the engine roared to life.

Without a single look behind him, he drove. With a focus that Dean would be proud of, he sped towards the nearest hospital, the only sounds he heard were Dean’s weak moans.

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The gently vibration of the cell phone that was attached to his belt loop jarred John Winchester from his research. The hotel desk was literally covered with his notes as he investigated the monster that had taken away his beloved wife from him and his boys.

Slipping the phone from the hook on his belt, he saw the flashing indicator light turn red. He had a voice message. Pressing the Number One down for a few seconds, the phone automatically dialed the service. Pressing the phone to his ear, he numbed himself.

The last time he had received a message, it was from Dean. From his voice, he could tell that his son—his proud, strong, incredible son was scared to death. His voice was shaking, practically in tears as he begged him, his father, for help. It was with a heavy heart that he hung up the phone. He drove to Lawrence, Kansas like there was a demon behind him. And once he got there, he hid, silently watching them from afar like a coward.

John focused on the call, trying not to involve his emotions in hearing the sound of his estranged son. The last time that he’d hear his voice or spoke to him was the day he’d left for Stanford. He kept himself a stone, forcing himself not to panic—Anderson tried to kill his sons. The man had called him, asked him for help to exorcise a ghost and he’d sent Dean—and Sam right into his hands.

He ran a hand tiredly over his face as he listened to the rest of the message.

‘I’m with Dean—Dad, he’s hurt.’ The panic that he’d squashed earlier returned, this time, he didn’t bother to try to stop it.

Leaving his things in the hotel room, he grabbed his jacket, keys and new journal before turning off the lights and running to his car, cell phone in hand.

Sam might think that he didn’t care about them, but he was wrong. He drove like a mad-man. He’d go see Dean in the hospital and then take care of Anderson.

Nothing would hurt his boys. It was a promise that he made on Mary’s grave and it was one that he swore to keep.

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7:58 PM

Sam shook his head as he stared at the clock for the millionth time the past six hours. On “ER” (at least the first couple seasons), the second a person was taken to the Emergency Room, they were quickly whisked away for professional treatment of ailments from coughs to amputations caused by disasters. Diagnostic tests only took seconds to perform, bloodwork was instantaneous, and the nurses were the kindest, most generous individuals in the entire facility. The doctors, of course, could do no wrong and knew everything.

Unfortunately, this was not Cook Country General and Dean’s doctor was not George Clooney. He’d only seen him for about a minute and a half before the man ran off to check on his pager that hadn’t stopped beeping the entire time he’d been in the room. He left the room, leaving his physician’s assistant to order the tests, administer medications, and instruct the nurses. Dean’s nurse, of course, had to check up on fifteen of her other patients because of the severe short-staffing before coming in to take care of his brother. He’d, literally, been to every floor of the hospital going for a MRI, CT, and EEG of the brain.

The entire situation made him want to scream. Dean had been unconscious for almost seven or eight hours. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t making jokes or laughing; he was moaning in his sleep, as if he was unable to wake from a nightmare.

It was a feeling of helplessness that he hadn’t felt since Jess had died. As he watched her body burning on his ceiling as she screamed for him, unable to do anything but stare at her.

He was tired of it: the hunting, the danger, the pain that came along with it all, but he couldn’t stop. Sam wanted—no needed to find the monster that had killed both his mother and girlfriend. It was an obsession that he shared with his father—it was the only thing they shared now.

He looked at the clock once more.

8:13 PM

Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and began to pace the small room, ignoring the look of his brother’s bloody and beaten roommate as he too waited to be seen by a doctor. Running a hand through his messy hair, he swore under his breath, muttering and grunting his displeasure with the staff.

“Mmmm.”

Dean had moaned loudly, his hands flexing as if he was pushing someone or something away from himself. Sam ran over to his side within a heartbeat. “Dean?” Sam called out to him, gently taking the hand closest to his within his own, and pushing a stray hair from his forehead. “Dean, you waking up?”

Dean moaned again, his head leaning into the touch. He gulped a couple times before trying to speak. “Dad?”

Sam blinked back his surprise before answering his brother. “No, Dean. It’s Sam. Can you open your eyes?”

He didn’t answer, blinking a few times, but unable to complete the seemingly simple request. He called out again, “Dad? Sammy?”

“I’m right here, Dean. Are you with me?” Sam tightened his hold on his brother’s hand before pushing the nurse’s call button.

The intercom system flashed before the nurse at the other end answered. “Is there something wrong?”

Answering for his brother, Sam told her that his brother was waking up. She told him that she’d page his doctor as soon as possible, and then the intercom blinked off.

The door opened as the nurse who had spoken to him walked in, clipboard in hand. The woman started taking vital signs, writing them on the clipboard.

Meanwhile, Sam tried to get his brother to respond. “Hey, Dean. Come on now. Wake up!” It was spoken sharply, meant to be an order.

His brother was nothing if not predictable. His eyes flew open, the light in the room making him wince, while involuntary tears streamed down his cheeks.

Sam smiled, using his thumbs to wipe away the tearstains.

Dean’s eyes widened, jerking away from the touch. A cry flew from his lips, it was practically a scream.

“Dean?” He spoke it softly, gently moving his hand away from Dean’s face. He put his hands out in front of him, trying to calm his brother. “Dean, it’s Sam. It’s alright. You’re okay.”

Sam watched with shock as the tears that he’d wiped away were replaced with others. Dean, the rock, the anti-chick flick moment guy, was sobbing. And through it all, kept calling out for their father.

The doctor had walked into the room; and began to speak. The man had been monotonously saying something about possible brain damage, diagnostic scans, and medical therapies. Sam didn’t even notice him, didn’t hear him or care anymore.

There was something seriously wrong with his brother and not a single person in the room had even looked at him as he cried.

Sam’s patience ran out. “Shut up!” He said it softly, but edged with malice.

Dean jerked at the sound, whimpering softly. He had stopped crying and was now looking at Sam with fear filled eyes.

Sam slowly edged towards the bed, their eyes were locked. He lowered the railing slowly, purposefully. “Dean?” forcing his voice to warm, not to scare the man in front of him. “Dean, do you know who I am?”

He curled up into a ball, wrapping his arms around his legs before resting his chin on his knees. Dean shook his head ‘no’. “Where’s my dad? Where’s Sammy?”

Sam’s heart stopped. He had no idea what to say. He felt like passing out.

The doctor jumped in, using his silence to question his patient. “I’m Dr. Peters. Do you know your name?”

The head bobbed up and down. The doctor smiled tolerantly, “Can you tell me?”

“I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.” He said it quietly, as if he was shy. Sam shook his head internally; Dean was never shy—he was the outgoing flirt, the B.S. King; he could talk about anything and everything.

“Do you know where you are?” The nurse asked this time.

Dean looked around the room, taking it all in. “In a hospital. Where’s my dad? Where’s my little brother?” He asked it again, becoming more and more upset that no one would answer him. “Where’s Sammy?” He was shouting now, pushing his blankets off and trying to get out of bed—most likely to try to find him.

Sam stepped towards him, making him jump back against the headboard to avoid his touch. “Dad—your dad isn’t here, Dean. He’s—um—on a hunting trip.” That was something Dean could understand; their father was always on a hunting trip. He didn’t want to lie to his brother because in that moment, all Sam wanted to do was cry; his brother didn’t recognize him. He didn’t need the doctor to tell him—obviously Dean had suffered some kind of brain damage during the attack. Dean was confused enough without Sam lying to him.

The eyes that stared back at him were filled with suspicion. “Dad went on a hunting trip? Then where’s my little brother?”

Sam swallowed, “He’s safe. He’s with family.” It wasn’t a lie. He was with his brother. Sam smiled, though the smile didn’t reach his soul, “My name is Sam.”

Dean looked at him, the suspicion slowly fading, yet not completely gone yet. “That’s my brother’s name, too. ‘Cept me and my dad call him Sammy.”

“Yeah? I’ll bet you are a great big brother, huh?” Sam just chatted, his mind was reeling. He truly didn’t understand how things had gotten this bad.

The doctor was off to the side of the room, flipping through Dean’s medical reports. “Dean, can I ask you a question?” He waited for the young man to nod. “How old are you?”

Sam closed his eyes; he didn’t want to know. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare in an old tacky motel room with his brother lying in the bed next to him. He wanted to wake up screaming. Dean would wake up and go to him. He’d ask him if he was okay, and as always Sam would lie and tell him he was fine. Dean would make them some coffee, silently agreeing that he’d ignore the current round of nightmares—giving him some time to himself. They’d stay up all night, watch stupid infomercials and laugh about how they could come up with better products. It would be comforting—their idea of normal.

He didn’t want to hear his answer. He didn’t want to lose his brother. Steeling himself, he couldn’t stop the gasp when he’d heard Dean’s answer.

“I’m nine years old.”

--------------------

Later the Next Day

He should’ve seen it coming, Sam thought. Why the hell didn’t he see this coming?

From the moment Dean admitted that he believed that he was nine years old, from the moment his worst fears had been confirmed—his big brother had brain damage—he should’ve done something. He should’ve snapped out of the fugue state he’d entered and just acted on his instincts. Dean would have. Dean would’ve acted the second he discovered the danger they were both in. He wouldn’t have just sat there like Sam had.

“Mr. Winchester?” Dr. Peters called to him. “Are you alright? I know that this is a lot for you to think about, but like Mrs. Jorgen was explaining to you, it’s best to act quickly so that the transition goes smoothly and he doesn’t get attached.”

Sam blinked again, staring at the ugly painting hanging on the wall behind the doctor’s desk. He stared at it until his fury was contained—until he knew that he wouldn’t jump over the desk and strangle the man. The woman sitting next to him stared at him worriedly. She, Mrs. Jorgen, got up out of her chair to pour him a cup of water.

She tried to hand him the cup. When he didn’t take it, she placed it on the desk in front of him. Dr. Peters immediately picked it up and placed it under a marble coaster. Sam felt his control waiver—the bastard was worried about his mahogany finished desk! “Mr. Winchester, I’m sorry for being blunt,” Mrs. Jorgen started, “but, unfortunately, the waiting lists at these types of facilities is miles long. We were lucky to find a permanent care facility with a spot open for your brother. You need to act—and act quickly if you wish to get him proper care.”

Sam turned sharply, his eyes blazing, “Let me get this straight. You want me to put my brother in a Fucking Mental Hospital?”

The woman looked disturbed, shooting a look at the idiot doctor before trying again to convince him of her point. “Please, Mr. Winchester. The Windsong Facility is not a ‘Mental Hospital’ as you so eloquently stated; it’s a permanent care facility. One that is equipped to deal with your brother’s mental deterioration.”

Sam stood, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get the hell out before he killed them. He walked to the door slowly, like a caged animal stalking its prey. He swiveled slightly, making eye contact with both of them before speaking. It was a strategic move taught by his father. Never look down when speaking to your enemies, it was deadly. “Dr. Peters, Dean and I are leaving now. We will no longer require any of the services offered by you or your staff. I will also be reporting this incident to your hospital board and the police. Extorting grieving family members into sending their loved ones to facilities that are filling your pockets is against the law.” He turned slightly, making one last point before walking out. “Oh, didn’t I mention that I was a law student?”

Ignoring their ‘deer-in-the-headlight’ expressions, he let the door slam behind him as he walked out.

Striding through the now familiar corridor, Sam slowed as he neared Dean’s room. They’d had moved him in the middle of the night to a private room due to his currently vulnerable state—treating him with, pardon the expression, kid-gloves.

Dean distrusted everyone—the nurses, the doctors, the aids that came to visit him. He refused to sleep, his body rigid with tension and fear anytime the door opened and someone walked in. Surprisingly, Sam was the only person Dean seemed to relax around. It was enough for Sam to hope. If Dean trusted him, then he had to believe that he hadn’t completely lost his big brother. That perhaps a small piece of him would return.

Sam opened the door slowly, making sure to make enough noise as to not startle Dean. Earlier, Dean had dozed off while Sam left his side to use the restroom facilities. He’d noticed that Dean was sleeping so he quietly snuck back to his side. The results had set them back to the beginning. Dean woke suddenly, forgetting where he was for a moment and seeing a strange man sitting next to him staring at him while he slept, and immediately screamed bloody murder.

It wasn’t an experience that he wanted to repeat, especially since he now had to convince his brother to trust him—trust him enough to leave with a person he didn’t know. To trust him enough to let him take care of him.

He knew Dean. He knew him better than he knew himself or their father. Dean didn’t trust easily. Hell, Sam didn’t know a single person Dean trusted outside of their family. It would be a struggle, one that Sam hoped he was strong enough to win.

At the sound of his door opening, Dean sat up in his bed—he sat stiffly, poised for flight until he recognized the man walking in as the man who’d been with him the entire duration. “Hi, Sam.” Dean called out warmly. “Guess what? There’s a really cool show on called the Power Rangers S.P.D. They’re a group of teenagers who try to rid the world of evil monsters. They know karate and kick butt!”

Sam smiled at him, “Really? That awesome, Dean.” He turned to look at the described show playing on the television, wincing at the karate moves shown. It only served to remind him of the times he and Dean would wrestle; their idea of wrestling involved many different varieties of martial arts and weapons, of course. He sat next to Dean’s bed, thinking.

“Sam, are you okay?” Dean’s question jarred him from his thoughts. The man—boy looked at him with wide concerned eyes.

The smile he gave was forced. “Yeah, Dean. I—We need to talk, alright?” He took a deep breath, rubbing his hand across his eyes before continuing, “Dean, listen, buddy. I need you to trust me for a while.”

“What do you mean?” The voice was anxious. Dean clutched the sheets that were tucked around him tighter.

Sam moved his chair closer, happy to see that Dean didn’t pull back away from him. “Dean, I need you to trust me. To trust that I’m a friend and that I would never do anything to hurt you. Dean, I’m not going to lie to you; things—they aren’t great right now. Your dad is hunting and I can’t reach him. I don’t think he even knows that you’re here. Now, I don’t trust the doctors in this hospital. I told them that we were leaving—and I really need you to let me take you away from this place. Can you trust me?”

Sam reached out his hand to his brother, silently praying for guidance. He had done everything that he could do at this hospital. There was no medical treatment or miracle that would help Dean right now. The doctors didn’t care anymore—they were willing to just pass him off to the loony-bin. They didn’t care that Dean was, right now, a scared child. They didn’t care that Sam had lost the only person who meant more to him than Jessica ever could. Now, Sam just hoped that the decision that he’d made was the right one.

He had to trust himself and that was the hardest part of the whole thing. His brother wasn’t around to protect him from having to make difficult decisions anymore.

Dean slowly extended his hand, placing it on top of his. “I don’t know why, but I trust you. I’ll go with you, Sam.”

Sam smiled warmly. “Thank you, Dean.” It was a whisper. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

-----------

Sam filled out the paperwork the nurses hastily threw at him. They seemed to be too eager to get him and Dean out of their hair. Sam, in his own accord, couldn’t wait to leave, skimming for the X’s and quickly scribbling his signature. He thanked the Powers above for his foresight; Sam had to bribe his brother, but convinced him to sign over a Power of Attorney, in case of emergencies, and signed one over to Dean as well after they had decided to continue the search for the monster who’d taken the only women Sam had loved. Though, never would he have dreamed of actually using it—especially in this way.

Dean sat on the bed, hunched over as he tied his sneakers. For the most part, Dean seemed okay with leaving the hospital. He looked relaxed and happy, chatting away like there was absolutely nothing wrong. If Sam were any other person on earth, he would’ve fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. He would’ve relaxed his guard. Dean was planning something—something mischievous. Sam saw it in his eyes.

“Dean.” Sam called to his brother. Dean lifted his face, a slight smile on his face. “Ready to get out of here?”

“Yeah!” Dean jumped to his feet, full of energy and curiosity. “Sam? Where are we going?”

Sam stopped. For a moment, he honestly didn’t know how to answer that question. He had planned to go to their hotel room to rest for the night, but afterwards—he had no clue. Their situations had changed so drastically that Sam didn’t know where to begin in order to get them settled. Dean was now essentially a child, a Winchester, yet still a child—he would need to be cared for as one.

Dean was staring at him worriedly, forcing him to answer. “We’re going to go to a hotel room for today. We’ll get some sleep and then we can figure out where we want to go in the morning, alright?”

Dean nodded, “Okay.”

Reaching down, Sam grabbed his bag from under the bed then gestured for Dean to walk ahead of him as they left. Stopping by the door of Dean’s hospital room, he stared at the empty room thankful that they were leaving its cold confines.

He dropped the paperwork off at the nurses’ station. The head nurse barely glanced at him as she took the paperwork, signed off on them before wishing the both of them good luck snidely. Obviously, the rumor mill in the hospital was running at full speed; everyone knew that he’d threatened Dr. Peters and the hospital.

It was incredibly awkward for them both as they made their way out of the hospital and towards the car. Sam had no idea what to say for once in his life. Dean just stared at his shoes as he walked quietly to the car.

Sam held his brother’s keys in his hands tightly as if by just holding them they could bring him back; they represented the only thing Sam had left of his big brother. His mint condition black 1967 Chevy Impala. It saddened him to realize that fact; that if Dean had died, that car would be the only thing tangible left behind.

Dean’s stopped short as they walked up to the car, his mouth open in surprise. “Sam, that’s my Dad’s car!” He twisted around to face him, “My Dad gave you his car!”

Sam held up a hand, knowing Dean was angry. As far as he could remember, Dean had always reminded him that Dad had promised him that he could have the car on his sixteenth birthday. Anytime Dean got into trouble, their father would threaten to give it to Sam instead. It was an empty threat. Everyone knew that the car was Dean’s. He had marked and claimed it and would fight to the death anyone who tried to take it from him.

Opening the passenger side door, Sam hoped to delay the conversation, if only for a little while. Dean stomped over to the car, throwing himself on the seat before crossing his arms over his chest to sulk. Sam pulled on the seat belt and moved it towards its latch; Dean snatched it out of his hands to snap it into place himself, all the while muttering under his breath.

Sam pushed the ‘child-lock’ button on the door frame before closing the door softly, Sam walked over to the driver’s side suspiciously wiping at his eyes before opening the door and getting in. Reverently, he placed both hands on the steering wheel, then stared at the man who should’ve been driving.

“Dean.” Sam spoke seriously, waiting for the angry child to face him, “This is your car.”

Dean did a double-take. “It is?” His tone sounded unsure.

Sam just nodded. “I—Dean, I promise you that I will never lie to you. I won’t keep anything from you either. That’s what those idiots in the hospital wanted and I told myself that I would never be like them.” He turned in the seat, putting his leg up as high as he could to rest it on the seat without kicking the steering wheel. “I want you to trust me.” Sam reached for Dean’s hand. The hand under his flinched at the touch, but didn’t pull away. “I know that you’re planning on running away to find your Dad and little brother the second that I turn my back. And I can’t let you do that, Dean. It isn’t safe.”

Dean pulled away in panic, reaching for the door handle. Sam had seen it coming; it was why he had child-locked the door. Dean pressed himself hard against the doorframe, “How did you know that?”

Sam leaned against his doorframe, mirroring his brother’s pose. “Because I know you better than I know myself.”

Dean’s breathing was starting to get heavy—more angry than afraid. “If you know me, then how come I don’t know you from Jack Shit!”

Ah, that’s the big brother I remember, Sam thought to himself. Dean had been acting in the hospital like an innocent sweet child, like their father had taught them, in order to pull the wool over the social workers and child service employees who would question them. He looked him straight in the eye, resting his hands on the raised knee as if he had all the time in the world—completely unconcerned. “Because you have a head injury. You lost your memory. That’s why you were in the hospital. It’s why you have a bandage wrapped around your head.” He was telling him the facts, speaking to him like an adult. It was the way Dean and their father had always spoken with him as a child. There was no ‘babying’ in their family.

Dean reached up to touch the bandage around his head, as if he had just remembered that it was still there. He winced at his own touch, making Sam wince along with him. Sam knew that Dean was hiding his pain, he always did. It just frightened him that his brother learned that habit so early in life. Softly, he asked, “How’s your chest?”

Dean gulped, his chin quivering. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Dean.”

“I’m not lying, Sam.” Dean shot back. “If that’s even really your name.”

Sam rested his head against the cold glass window behind him, staring at him from nearly closed eyelids. “Are you asking me a question? Because I promised you that I would never lie. I was hoping that you would do the same.”

There was a fire burning in his brother’s eyes, a one that he used on bullies and monsters, and never on Sam. “Who are you? And where are my father and brother?”

Sam closed his eyes completely now; things had gotten out of his control. Opening them again, Sam licked his lips then continued, “Dean, you told me in the hospital that you trusted me. Was that a lie?”

“And you promised you wouldn’t lie! Why won’t anyone answer me? Are they—dead?” The word was blurted out; the mere thought of it alone was enough to send him into a panic. His breathing came out in gasps; Dean was hyperventilating.

Sam slid across the seat; there was no more space between them. He rested his hand on the back of his neck, pulling him to rest his head on his shoulder. “Dean, come on. Take a deep breath. They aren’t dead. I swear to you. Just breathe. Everything is going to be okay.”

He rubbed his hand on his back, making small circles until he felt him calm, then stiffen and pull away. His voice became hard, “Just tell me, Sam. Please.”

“Alright, but I think we should do this at the hotel. I promise that I’ll tell you, alright? But it’s been a long day and I really think you should lie down. You’re shaking and I know that you haven’t eaten anything in almost two days. What do you want to eat? Your choice.”

Dean looked upset, but settled after a few minutes. Sam thought that Dean was going to give him the silent treatment, but he spoke up after he saw the car approaching a McDonalds. “Can we go to McDonalds?”

Turning his head towards him, he gave a little smile. “Yeah, we can do McDonalds.” The turn signal flashing, he turned into the Drive-Through of the Golden Arches. “What do you want to eat?” He asked this even though he already knew what he wanted. Dean always ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and Pepsi. As a teenager, he switched the Pepsi into a large coffee and doubled the size of the order. Dean gave him his order, precisely as he’d predicted.

Placing his own order, he pulled up to the window where they received their meal quickly in the paper bags. He handed them to Dean, paid for the food, then drove off back to the hotel. They ate on the way to the hotel.

They pulled up to the cheap motel, the lights flickering on the vacancy sign. Getting out of the car, Sam walked over and opened Dean’s side. As he drove, he noticed Dean becoming quieter, while the lines on his forehead got deeper. Sam walked behind him, a hand at the deep of his back in order to stead and lead him to the office.

The clerk at the counter was the same clerk who’d processed their request the last time they had come in. Dean had come in the first night to talk to the man, (he was the same age as Sam) they’d chatted for a little while, Dean getting information about the Anderson Manor. “Hey, Dean. Sam. You’re back. How did the architecture project go? Mr. Anderson hire you?” It must’ve been Dean’s cover story, Sam assumed.

Dean looked at the man strangely. “How did you know—.”

Sam stepped in front of him, cutting him off before he broke their cover. “The project went well, we’re still waiting for Anderson to call us back though, so we figured we’d stay in town until then. We were hoping that you still had a room available.”

Chris, the clerk, nodded. “For you, absolutely.” He stepped around the counter to hand the keys to Dean. “Hey, you two want to go out for a drink? There’s a bar down the street. I could put up the ‘No Vacancy’ while we go find us some real fine ladies to spend quality time with.”

Dean stared at him, “I can’t drink. My dad will kill me. And I don’t like girls.” Sam waved at him, trying to get him to stop.

Chris got offended, arguing, his hands tightening into fists, “Hey, man. I didn’t know you were gay! What the fuck? Were you coming on to me, asshole?”

Dean backed away, his eyes wide. “What?”

Sam pulled Dean until he was behind him, “Chris, man. Back Off! We don’t want to fight, we just needed a room. That’s all.”

Chris stepped closer Sam, getting up into his face, “Wow,” he commented, leaning over Sam’s shoulder to shoot a disgusted look at Dean before looking back at Sam. “Sammy boy, I hope that you know that lover over there is telling everyone that you’re his little brother, while fucking you in the ass.”

Sam heard Dean’s gasp and the sound of metal hitting concrete, but couldn’t risk turning his back. Grabbing the clerk by the front of his shirt, he shoved him into the desk, lifting him slightly off his feet before getting right in his face. “You bastard. You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

Chris just sneered back, “I don’t give a damn what you and your boy toy do. Just do it at another hotel. Give me back the keys and don’t come back.” He was dropped roughly to the ground.

“Bigoted jerk.” It was mumbled under his breath. “Dean, give him the keys. We’ll go somewhere else.”

The keys, which had fallen to the ground, were kicked over to the asshole now crouching on the floor. Dean turned his back, pushing through the door and ran all the way back to the Impala.

Following behind him, Sam waited patiently. “I’m sorry, Dean.” He said it quietly.

When Dean turned back, his face was red. “That guy. He said--.” He didn’t finish.

So, Sam finished it for him. “He said some pretty nasty things. It’s not true. We—Dean, we’re not lovers.”

Dean shook his head, then stopped moving over to the car, where he rested his head. Sam put his hand on his shoulder, rubbing it when he discovered that the shaking from earlier was worse. “No. He said that you were my brother.” He lifted his now bloodshot eyes to stare at him. “You’re Sam? You’re MY Sammy?”

Sam swallowed, feeling tears starting to pool behind his eyes, he could only nod. When he spoke, it was choked, “Yeah, Dean. I’m your little brother. I’m your Sammy. Sam Winchester.”

The blood flew out of Dean’s face so fast that Sam looked down at his feet to see if it had pooled there. Unfortunately, Dean’s body followed his gaze. He fell to his knees before almost slamming into parking lot concrete. Sam’s quick response saved him from another head injury.

Cradling the pale man—boy in his arms, Sam finally released the emotions that he’d been hiding. Tears streamed down his face only to drop on his brothers. The yellow light shining from the lamp posts only made them look paler.

Now, it all hit him.

It wasn’t a game. It was for keeps.

This wasn’t something supernatural. There was no spell, no chant, no cure he could use to reverse it.

And Dean needed protection; from both human and supernatural causes. Chris, the clerk, had proven that case.

Sam rested his head against his brother as he rocked back and forth on the cold ground. Only one thought repeated over and over in his head like a mantra: Dean would know what to do.

------------

Sam didn’t know how long he lay holding his brother on the cold concrete parking lot; not until Dean stirred in his arms with a small moan.

“Dean?” He called out softly, placing a hand against his chest lightly and letting his thumb rub soothingly across him.

Dean moaned once more, his eyes flickering rapidly before opening them slightly. “Dad?”

Grasping his brother from under his arms, he lifted him slightly so that he was propped up and Dean’s back rested against his chest. “No, Dean. It’s Sam. How are you feeling?”

He blinked for another couple of minutes, seemingly clearing his head before speaking. “Sammy?” Dean turned his head to look up at Sam. He stared, not speaking, and barely breathing as if he was searching for something that only he could see. With a little breath, he lifted a shaking hand to touch his brother’s face. Sam let him explore his face, watching him as he discovered the truth; Dean, as a nine year old, obviously hadn’t learned how to conceal his emotions like the twenty-seven year old had. It was like watching one of the students that he’d helped tutor learn a difficult concept—finally understanding the meaning of what he’d been teaching them.

“You weren’t lying, were you?” Dean was whispering, letting his hand drop back to his side.

Picking it back up and covering it with both of his, Sam just shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you like that. Are you alright?”

Dean didn’t answer. Sam didn’t think that he knew how to answer that question, at least not yet. “Alright, Dean. We don’t have to talk right now. Let’s just, you know, find a hotel.”

He helped him off the ground, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind and guiding him into the passenger side seat. Dean faced the window, resting his forehead against the cool condensation that had formed on the window, then with his finger drew little swirls in the glass while he hummed ‘Fight Fire With Fire’ by Metallica.

Sam drove, a smirk formed on his lips. Dean literally had been listening to the same band for almost eighteen years.

“Sammy?” He asked a few minutes later. Dean never turned, still facing the window, “Where’s dad?”

Sam swallowed, tightening his grip on the wheel. “He’s—um—on a hunt.”

Dean finally turned his head, his forehead and nose red from where he was pressed against the cold glass. “Looking for the monster who killed mommy?” His voice was full of something that Sam had never heard from his brother; it was fear.

It made Sam uncomfortable. “Yeah.” It was all he could say. “Listen, we can talk about this more tomorrow. We—I think we both need to get some sleep, Dean. I mean, you just got out of the hospital and you just passed out. I don’t want you to get upset.”

He neared another motel, flashing the turn signal to pull into the lot. “Dean, why don’t you just wait in the car? I’ll get us a room and then we’ll get cleaned up, alright?”

Sam waited for Dean to nod, then climbed out of the car to walk up to the desk. The room rental went smoothly, the clerk handing him a key card. Apparently, this motel actually had updated in the last few years. He walked back to the Impala, then slowed as he watched Dean through the window. Dean didn’t notice him as he huddled into a small ball, his knees against his chest as silent sobs racked his body. The passenger side visor was pulled down and the little lighted mirror illuminated the interior.

For a while, he stayed back, hid in the shadows feeling like a voyeur, as he watched his brother wipe his face, before turning back to stare through the window as if nothing had happened. Sam truly didn’t know what to do, but knew he had to do something. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the car and opened Dean’s door. Crouching in front of the door, he waited for Dean to look at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” It was said sadly.

First, Sam grabbed their bags, then returned to Dean. Helping him to his feet, Sam hooked his arm through Dean’s then walked him to their hotel room. He had managed to get them a double bed room. Thank god, he thought. Even though he and Dean had shared a bed before, he truly didn’t know how Dean would react if placed in that position so soon after that asshole’s assault.

Dean sat on the bed, staring at his shoes, while Sam rummaged through his bag for medical supplies. Holding out a roll of gauze, he walked back to Dean. “Dean, I’m going to change your bandage now.” It didn’t seem to phase his brother; he sat quietly as the bandage around his head was removed and the anti-biotic ointment and new gauze was placed on the healing cut.

He kneeled on the carpet, lifting Dean’s feet to help remove his sneakers. “I’ll get you a pair of sweats to wear, if you want to take your clothes off.” Sam watched as Dean struggled to remove his pants, after a few seconds, he took over the task with a professional ease, using the opportunity to give Dean a quick medical look-over without his knowledge. Dean was too sleepy to even notice. He ran his hand lightly down his chest, happy to notice that the damage caused by the rocksalt was healing.

Dean leaned back against the pillows of the bed, sort of flopping down. Sam pulled up the covers, tucking him in before turning to his own bed. Changing into his shorts and T-shirt, Sam lay down on his side, watching his brother as he slept.

What the hell am I going to do? Sam thought. It was a thought that kept him awake for hours before falling into a restless sleep.

-----------------

A bright light from the rip in the curtain shined directly in Sam’s eyes. He threw a pillow over his face, moaning about how things seemed to work against him—even mother nature.

He threw the pillow at the end of his bed, rolling back over to see Dean’s empty bed. For the first few seconds, that fact didn’t phase him—after all, Dean needed his morning coffee and would drive across the country if needed to find the ‘perfect cup’. It was funny, because for a few minutes, Sam forgot. Or most likely, believed it all to be some sort of a horrible nightmare.

Sam wished that it lasted more than a few seconds, because right after that he was filled with nothing other than pure panic.

He shot up out of bed to run into the bathroom, praying that Dean would be in there washing up. He wasn’t, making his heart leap into his throat.

In his shorts and t-shirt, he flung open the front door to run towards the parking lot. The Impala was still there!

He stood there, in the middle of the parking lot, barefoot and practically in his underwear looking around frantically for his brother. He looked everywhere, not spotting him.

He stared at the road ahead of him, searching for any signs of where Dean had gone. There was a bus stop. Sam ran back to the room to get his clothes and the keys to the car. He’d find his brother. He had to.

Throwing on a pair of jeans, Sam dressed as quickly as he could without falling over. He grabbed the keys from the nightstand that was in between the two beds.

Suddenly, Sam felt a presence behind him. Whipping around, he felt the keys fall from his now slackened fingers. Mouth open, Sam gasped out the name of the person he and Dean had been searching for.

“Dad?”

---------------------------

The man stood in front of him. The only way to describe his father’s appearance was haggard. He looked completely exhausted; uncombed hair and wrinkled hair presented these facts.

John Winchester walked into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. “Sam,” he said quietly as he stared at the son he hadn’t seen since the young man walked out of his life nearly two and a half years ago. He inched closer to him, his arms raising as if he was going to hug Sam, but dropped to his side suddenly, aborting the gesture.

Surprise was an understatement at that moment in time. Sam was seriously floored. “Dad, are you alright? Where have you been? We’ve been searching for you for six months, Dad! We’ve been leaving messages everywhere.”

John rubbed his face tiredly, before walking away and turning his back. “Sam. I have no time for this. I came to let you and your brother know that I took care of Anderson. He’s not going to be a threat anymore.” He looked around the room as he spoke, taking in the ‘spartan’ look both his boys adopted, mostly due to his training.

Sam swallowed hard, getting upset. “What did you do to him? Is he dead?”

John turned to face him, his face emotionless, but his eyes sad. He scoffed before responding. “Do you really think that I’m a monster, Sam? You really think that I’d kill a human being?”

“I just don’t know what you’re capable of now, Dad. I mean, you disappear on us for months—just giving us damned text messaged coordinates to send us on your damned hunts.” It was honestly stated. Sam truly didn’t know what had gotten into the man he called his father. He never thought that he’d abandon them.

His father straightened, as if in ‘attention’ position. “I did what I had to do, Sam. I don’t need to explain myself to you. I gave you and Dean my orders and I expected you to follow them. Now, where is Dean?”

“Shit, Dean!” Sam smacked his head with his palm before bending over to grab the keys that he’d dropped earlier. “Dad! Dean’s—he got hurt and—god, I don’t know how to explain this—but he’s not himself. He’s run away and I’ve got to find him.”

Rushing past his father, Sam reached the front door of the motel room before an arm stopped his panicked flight towards the parked car. The force sent him spinning against a table, his butt cushioning the collision. “Dad, stop it! I need to find Dean.”

Personal space was invaded purposefully. “Sam. I want to know what’s going on.”

Sam pushed his father, using both hands. “There’s no time, Dad!”

The man pushed back, flinging Sam back against the table. “REPORT!” It was an order, one that Sam knew Dean would automatically answer. The problem was, he wasn’t his brother.

Putting up his hands in the universal ‘surrender’ sign, Sam nodded, hoping that the quicker he explained the situation, the faster he’d be able to search for his injured brother.

Gesturing to the seat across the table, he waited for John Winchester to sit before telling him succinctly what had happened at the Anderson Manor, leaving out the details of their previous disastrous—nearly deadly, hunt at the Roosevelt Asylum. John had sat listening to him, slumping in his seat and playing with his wedding ring when Sam reported Dean’s current mental condition.

“Dad,” the man lifted his chin from his chest to look into his son’s eyes, “We need to find Dean. He’s—Dad, he’s been through so much lately. I mean—he only has nine years of memories. Last night—the reality of EVERYTHING, well, it hit the both of us with a sledgehammer. When Dean runs off, usually it’s to a smoke-filled tavern filled with drunken gamblers. I have no idea where he’d go now.”

John had sat back in his chair, staring at his ring as if he was in a trance. He sat there for a few minutes, just thinking. Sam was practically vibrating in his chair, waiting for him. Finally, it seemed like a million years later, John stood up and spoke, “I’m confused, Sam. Did something else happen last night that you’re not telling me?”

Sam’s head tilted to the side, “What? No.”

“See, Sam, that’s why I’m confused.” He started pacing the room, before turning to face his youngest once again, “Are you sure that Dean’s run away?”

Hitting his palm flat against the table with frustration, Sam started huffing, “Dad! He’s not here! Of course, he’s run away and we’ve got to go find him.”

“No, we don’t, Sam.” It was said matter-of-factly.

Whipping his hand through his short hair, Sam was furious. “Dad, what the hell are you talking about? We have to go!”

John walked up to him, and placed his hand against his shoulder. “Sam, listen to me. I know your brother—Dean would never run away from you. NEVER, Sam. Not even as a child. Sam, Dean would never go anywhere without you. So, just sit down, don’t move and wait for him to get back.”

Sam sat, not because his father had told him, but because he needed to. His father was right. He couldn’t remember a single time throughout their entire childhood in which Dean wasn’t by his side, whether during the day or at night. It was Sam that instigated their separation in his early adolescent years—not wanting to ‘tag-along’ anymore—not Dean. He was tired of being the ‘Baby Sammy’ that followed his big brother, he wanted to be Sam Winchester, not Dean’s shadow.

“Dad, where are you going?” Sam called out. He had been so deep in thought that he didn’t notice his father opening the door to walk out.

With barely a glance behind him, John simple stated what he believed. “Sam, you and Dean don’t need me anymore. I’m tracking the monster that killed your mother—and your girlfriend.” He sighed, “I heard about it, and I’m sorry, Sammy. But I need to leave. I know the both of you will be fine without me.” He looked at his son once more before he left, “I usually tell this to Dean, but Sam, look after your brother.”

Closing his eyes at the sound of the door clicking shut behind him, Sam rested his head against his shaking arms. His head suddenly too heavy for him to lift. It wasn’t fair; their lives were just not fair. And for a moment, Sam imagined that this was what Dean had felt when he’d told him he was leaving him to go to Stanford.

He didn’t know how long he stay resting against the table; it could’ve been minutes or hours. Time had stopped, leaving Sam with nothing other than his own memories and thoughts. It wasn’t a day-dream, those were fun fantasies. This wasn’t a fantasy—there was nothing in his memory that would be considered ‘fun’. It was all duty, discipline and training. Their father’s idea of a ‘fun-family-vacation’ was a camping/hunting trip. It was probably the main reason that the both of them hated camping; it was something that had been forced upon them. A training camp, without the outside reliance of technology. Though, it brought a smile to his face to remember the games that his bored big brother would come up with while they were stuck out alone—‘survival training’—in the middle of the woods.

The door opened slowly. The noise jarred Sam from his thinking, his neck cracked as he rapidly lifted his head from the table. The sight of his brother’s sneakers as he pushed the door with them made Sam jump up and run over to the door. Dean was clutching two brown-paper bags in his arms, they were overflowing. Walking, over to the table, he grunted as he finally had somewhere to lay down the filled heavy bags before they ripped.

Sam watched him set down the bags. He had both hands covering his mouth, not wanting to start screaming at him the moment he walked in. Gulping a couple of times, Sam waited for Dean to turn back to him. “Dean,” he spoke softly, “Where were you?”

Dean looked up with wide eyes, not understanding. “I went to the corner store, Sam. There’s no food here and you’ve got to eat.”

“You were hungry?” Sam pointed to the chair, wanting them both to sit down before staring the serious part of their conversation.

He sat at the appointed chair, rummaging through the bag happily. “No. But I thought that you were. I got you some peanut butter and grape jelly. It’s your favorite.”

Sam put a gentle hand against Dean’s stopping him from his motions. “Dean. Why didn’t you wake me?”

Worry filled his now young looking face, “’Cause you were sleeping, Sammy. I didn’t want to wake you.” Dean put his other hand on top of his brother’s. “Are you mad at me?”

Completing the chain by putting his other hand on top, Sam shook his head ‘no’. “No, Dean. I’m not mad. I was worried about you. I thought that you had—uh—run away or gotten lost or something. Why didn’t you leave a note?” He smiled gently, trying to take the harshness out of the words.

“I was only gone for like an hour, Sam! I thought that I’d be back with breakfast before you even woke up.” He was arguing.

Dean always argued, Sam thought, shaking his head. Holding out a hand, he hoped to prevent it from escalating. “I still need to know where you’re going, Dean. It’s dangerous and I want to know, alright? Next time, I want you to tell me, even if you have to wake me.” He was frustrated, worried, and a little angry—not at Dean, but about the position he was now in.

His brother pulled away from him, turning his body around so that he faced in the other direction. His head drooped down, and he had lifted his legs so that they were pressed against his chest. Sam could see the stress running through his body as it tightened.

Sighing, Sam mentally kicked himself before getting up to kneel in front of his brother’s chair. “Dean? I’m sorry. I know that you were trying to help.”

Hiding his face, Dean mumbled softly, “I’m still your big brother, aren’t I, Sammy?” Lifting his tearstained face, Sam had never seen his brother look so upset.

Immediately, without hesitation, Sam answered, “Of course, you’re my big brother, Dean. Why would you ask that?”

Sniffling, Dean cried, “I’m supposed to take care of you when Dad’s not here, Sammy. He’s not here, so I have to make sure you eat, take a bath, and get to sleep on time. It’s my job. I’m your big brother.” He looked devastated. “But you don’t want me to take care of you anymore because I’m broken.” His lips quivered as more tears filled his eyes. Dean only let one sob escape before jumping out of his chair and running into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

---------------------

Sam worriedly glanced at the closed bathroom door for the millionth time. Dean had run in there almost a half hour ago without any indication of when he was going to come out. He’d turned on all the water faucets full blast, so that the only sound that Sam could hear through the door was the sound of running water.

Pacing the small motel room, a mini-war raged in his mind: one side telling him to be patient and to let Dean have a little privacy, while the other side demanded he run in there to comfort him. Before the decision could be made, the door was slowly opened and Dean walked out. Sam walked over to meet him half way.

Dean’s face was red and blotchy, and he shuffled his bare feet on the carpet, staring at his toes. Ducking his head down in order to meet his shorter brother’s eyes, Sam reached out to him. Grasping his hands, Sam gently pulled Dean to the nearest bed, then pushed him to sit on its edge. He kneeled so that he could look into his downcast eyes. They were bloodshot and surrounded by dark rings under the lids. The hands he was holding trembled minutely. “Dean? Are you alright?”

After a noticeable lag, Dean finally focused on the man kneeling in front of him. He blinked a few times, “I don’t know.” He gulped, dropping his chin to rest on his chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I…” He let the sentence trail off, not knowing how to explain how he was feeling.

Sam spoke softly, “Dean, I promise you that it’ll be okay. I know that it’s overwhelming right now; that you feel out of control. But it’ll get better. I promise you, Dean, it’ll be better.” Dean didn’t respond, and quite frankly Sam didn’t think he had any energy left to. It only served to increase his worry.

Dean kept blinking slowly, as if he was going to fall asleep. He swayed forward, but quickly caught himself before he slipped off the bed. Sam quickly stood up and pushed him down to lay flat on the bed. “Dean? Dean, what’s wrong? How’s your head?” He ran his hand across the bandage; it was dry and didn’t have any blood on it.

His face was pale now, which only served to make the circles under his eyes darker. “I have a headache and it was making me dizzy, sorry.”

Sam closed his eyes. He wasn’t used to this—Dean was indestructible. Even after being shot through a wall, Dean never complained, never once confessed that he was physically hurt. Sam used to think that Dean would rather die than admit that he was in pain. It was a far cry than the brother in front of him now.

The brother in front of him had no memories of the last eighteen years. He was incredibly emotional—mostly sad and afraid the majority of the time. To top it off, the only thing that made sense to the boy was to take care of his little brother.

Unfortunately, it was becoming clear to Sam that Dean wasn’t even ready to take care of himself, never-the-less his twenty-two year old brother.

Gently, Sam checked his pulse, resting his fingers against the inside of the wrist. The rate was normal. “Dean, do you still feel dizzy when you’re lying down? Or do you feel better?”

He nodded slowly, licking his lips before answering. “Yeah. It’s better now. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

Sam rested his arm on his brother’s chest, moving his hand so that his forefinger and thumb raised his chin. “You don’t have to apologize to me, Dean. I’m your brother.” He swallowed hard before continuing, “Dean, I know that you’re used to taking care of me—you’ve been doing it since Mom died. But—what if it’s my turn now?”

Dean’s face filled with panic. He tried to sit up and pull away but Sam wouldn’t let him. He could feel Dean’s heart pounding against his arm. “No,” it was a cry.

“Dean, please, listen.” Sam was begging now. He leaned in closer bringing his head to rest on his brother’s shoulder like he used to as the little brother that Dean remembered, lying next to him on the bed. “You always take care of me—always. There is not a single time in my entire life that I don’t remember you being there when I needed you. But now, I want to do the same for you. I want to be the person that you count on and trust. I just don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to let me. Why, Dean?” As he spoke, the trembling only increased, the skin under his hands started to get cool and clammy, with light beads of sweat beading on his upper lip.

His reaction scared Sam. Dean looked as if he was going into shock. He threw a blanket over his now shivering form and began rubbing his hands across his body to warm him. “Dean?”

Dean’s teeth started to chatter softly, “Sorry, Sammy. I’ll be better, okay. Please, don’t leave.” He grabbed a hold of Sam’s arm with a fierce grip, bringing it close to his chest.

Sam gently pulled his arm away, “I’m not leaving you, Dean. I’m just going to get another blanket.” Sam got up and as quickly as he could, snatched the comforter from the other bed and covered his brother with it before lying down in his previous position.

“You’re not going to tell dad, are you Sammy? Please don’t tell him. I’m not a baby, I swear.” Dean looked at him, trying not to cry.

Sam ran his fingers across Dean’s cheek and forehead, trying to gauge his temperature. He was still cold and clammy. “I’m not going to tell dad. And I know that you’re not a baby. Why would you think that?”

His eyes seemed to fade, and he pulled himself into a tighter ball. “Dad says that only babies cry, Sammy. I’m not a baby. I’m not, I swear it. Don’t leave.”

Suddenly, Sam knew exactly why Dean was so terrified.

--------------------

“Shit.” Sam murmured to himself after Dean had finally fallen asleep. His original fears about their close proximity caused by the clerk’s narrow-minded and bigoted outburst was apparently one-sided, because Dean refused to go to sleep unless Sam was lying next to him. Sam sighed softly, as a five year old little boy, he’d run into his brother’s bed almost every night, somehow knowing that his big brother would protect him from the monsters that hid under the bed and in the closets. It was comforting; Dean had never turned him away, just rolling over to let him snuggle against him for both warmth and safety. As that little boy, he’d never thought that Dean had needed his presence in the same way. It was funny what having your big brother revert back into a nine year old because of a severe head injury could do to perspective.

Staring at the sleeping innocent face, Sam whispered. Dean had forgotten so much, eighteen years of memories and experiences. “So, why the hell couldn’t you have forgotten that.”

Sam slowly slid off the bed, letting Dean settle before sitting himself down on his own bed. The memories came to him, unbidden. Ones that even now, nearly two decades later, made him squirm uncomfortably.

He could remember it so clearly, as if it had just happened, even though he’d only been five years old—it was ingrained; a well-taught, planned-out lesson from their father that neither boy could ever forget. Sam had been at home with a babysitter while Dean had been in school; their school system gave the kindergarteners half-days—letting the youngsters go home at noon. It was a gradual way to get the smaller children accustomed to the educational, social/peer, and physical requirements that they would need as they aged. For Sam, it was a wonderful freedom; a world without monsters, demons, and supernatural hunts. To him, it was fun. He couldn’t wait until he was like Dean—until he could go to school all day too.

The details of it were slightly vague to Sam. For example, he didn’t remember what the babysitter’s name was, nor what he or she had been doing before the front door to their apartment was flung open unexpectedly. All he could remember was that Dean had come running in at least three hours before he was supposed to come home. And that he had run in, sobbing.

Fear flooded Sam, as he’d watched his older brother rock back and forth, his breathing ragged. He remembered running to him—afraid that something had happened, that something had hurt his brother—and trying to bury himself in his brother’s embrace. Dean’s pain was his at that moment—Sam could remember crying along with him. The babysitter had immediately called their father, after trying unsuccessfully to coax the older boy into telling her what was wrong.

The loud bang of the front door opening frightened them both, making Dean jump and lift his tearstained face towards the door. John Winchester didn’t stop his stride until he reached them. He quickly dismissed the babysitter—though she looked as if she couldn’t get away fast enough, and waited until he heard the front door close behind her before lifting Dean up by the shoulders in order to shake him.

A cry flew from both of their lips in fear, their father looked furious. “Dean, what the hell is the matter with you? I got a call from the school telling me that you ran away! Why would you do something so stupid? Don’t you know that your teachers will call social services to check up on you? Do you want them to take your brother away?”

Dean’s teeth chattered and his voice shook, “No. I—I just-t had to go h--home.” Sam had been whimpering next to him, taking in the scene with large fearful eyes.

“Why?” John had roared, shaking him once more before letting go to pace the room. “Dean, you have one damn minute to answer me! I just let a poltergeist escape to get here. It’ll probably kill another person in its rampage because of you.”

The stricken look on Dean’s face was something that Sam didn’t think he’d ever forget. It had taken him more than a minute to answer and in that minute, something in their father had snapped. Their gentle protector was gone, leaving behind someone neither of them recognized outside of a bar.

He grabbed his oldest by the chin roughly, bringing them face to face, “Dean, report!”

It was exactly what it sounded like—an order. One that, since their mother’s death, they both had been trained to follow.

Sam shook his head at the memory, he’d honestly forgotten that Dean used to stutter as a child when he was upset. Dean had been so afraid; Sam didn’t know how his brother got the words out. From what he remembered, a group of older boys at Dean’s school had called him names and pushed him around. He’d refused to tell their father what the bullies had said and it only infuriated their father even more.

“You ran away because a couple of boys were ‘making fun’ of you? You left school, put our family in jeopardy, and came home crying like a little sissy baby because you couldn’t handle a couple of bullies?” The words were caustic and scathing hitting them both like a whirlwind. “I can’t believe that I wasted my time with this crap.”

Their father didn’t bother to even look back as he left them—left Dean on the ground where he’d dropped him forcefully. Dean crawled to his knees, before falling back on his butt. He looked completely shell-shocked, staring at the door blankly. Sam watched as the realization hit his brother—the realization that their father had left them both home alone, without protection, without a kiss goodbye or a ‘I’ll be right back, boys.’

His body started shaking as Dean started screaming for their father. “I-I’m Ssssorry,” he had cried, “I W-won’t do it ag-again. Please, don’t leave us. Please, daddy. Daddy, come back!”

Dean had cried all night for him, not moving an inch, not even when Sam crawled into his lap for comfort; not until John had returned the next afternoon.

Sam never knew what the bullies did or said to Dean to upset him as much as they did; they never spoke of the incident again. But neither boy slept alone for nearly a year afterwards.

Looking at his brother, he swore softly at their father. How could the man leave them? He had to have known Dean’s fear of being abandoned, especially after their mother’s death. John had constantly told them that they were the only ones left and that all they had was each other.

It was a struggle now. It was so hard that he honestly didn’t know what to do or how his father had done it. How did he raise them? How did he protect them and teach them things that they now took for granted? It was something that Sam wished he’d paid more attention to, instead of the anger he’d felt at their father for taking away the sense of normalcy.

Now, Sam had to raise Dean. He had to protect him, care and comfort him. Once again, their father had left when they needed him the most.

The sound of Dean’s moans shook Sam free of his angst-filled thoughts. Quickly, he walked back to his side before sitting on the edge. Placing his hand on his brother’s cheek, he softly called out to him. “Dean, wake up. It’s Sam.”

“Mmm.” He moaned once more, bringing up his hand to his head. Dean’s eyes fluttered before opening slightly. “Sammy?” He gave a slight cry, then quickly shut his eyes.

“Yeah, Dean. It’s Sam.” Concern made his voice sharper than he wanted. “What’s wrong?”

“My head…” it came out in a moan. “It hurts, Sammy.” Sam watched as Dean swallowed a couple times, his face turning a milky white color. “I’m gonna be sick.” Dean breathed. As he spoke, he quickly rolled off the bed to run into the bathroom.

Sam waited only a few seconds before following him to the small room, grabbing a cup of water for him to drink after he finished vomiting. The sounds of his brother’s sickness made Sam turn slightly green. After Dean had emptied out the contents of his stomach, Sam handed him the cup. He’d barely drank a slip before the nausea returned making him dry heave into the porcelain bowl.

Rubbing his back, he waited until Dean got his breath back. “You okay?”

His brother shook his head ‘no’. “It’s too bright in here, Sammy. It’s making my head hurt.”

Sam rested his hand on his brow, using it to comfort him and to check for a fever. He was okay, well, not okay, but he didn’t have a fever. It worried him. “Where does it hurt?”

He touched his temples and eyes. “Here. Make it stop, Sammy. Please.” He gulped a couple more times.

The pleading made Sam’s heart stop. He wished with all of his heart that he could take away the pain from his brother—to wave a magical wand and heal him, but it wasn’t within his power. The only thing he could do was to comfort him. Sam moved so that his back was resting against the bathtub and then pulled Dean to him so that his back was resting against his chest. Dean’s head was limp, so Sam adjusted it comfortably to his shoulder. As he moved him, he whispered softly, “It’s okay, Dean. Just breathe, okay? I’m here and I’m not going to leave you.”

Placing his hand gently against Dean’s belly, he rubbed little circles until he felt the muscles under his fingers relax. Soon, the rest of his body followed, allowing him to doze in his little brother’s arms.

He knew that Dean wasn’t sleeping, and couldn’t help but think back to his earlier thoughts. Finally, the temptation was too fierce for Sam to resist anymore. It was something that he’d never ask the twenty-seven year old, knowing that Dean would quickly change the subject. “Dean?” He waited for him to respond.

“Hmm?” Dean hummed.

Sam let his hand move over Dean’s heart, letting the heartbeat against his palm sooth his turbulent emotions. “Dean, do you remember the day that you ran home from school?”

“Yeah.” The answer was softly spoken.

“What did those boys say to you?”

He didn’t answer at first. Sam was afraid that he’d pushed too hard, too fast—suddenly knowing how critical their relationship and trust was.

His thoughts were in so much turmoil that he nearly missed Dean’s response.

“They—They said I was a fr—freak.” In his stressed out state, the stutter returned, “That y—you and I were mm-mother-less fr-freakss.”

Sam bit his lip, trying to keep himself from becoming angry—after all it had been eighteen years ago. “Do you know why they said that, Dean?”

Dean shook his head, before pressing his cheek against Sam’s neck. Sam squeezed Dean’s shoulder gently. “Well, I bet you and your friends at school got those guys back, huh?”

He felt Dean shift, surprised to find him looking up at him. “What’s the matter, Dean?”

“I—I don’t have any friends, Sammy.” Dean looked at the designs in the tiles, tracing them with his fingertips. It was as if he didn’t want to disappoint his little brother.

Sam moved so that they were facing each other, he held his chin—gently, unlike their father had done—until their eyes met. “What do you mean, Dean? I mean, who did eat lunch with or walk to class with?”

“Nobody.”

It was hard for Sam to understand. There was no way that Dean had ‘nobody’. There was no way that he’d gotten through school without a single friend. Gulping, he thought back to his childhood—he couldn’t remember a single ‘friend’ of Dean’s. “No one? Who did you talk to about school or your day?”

Dean looked upset, “You. And Dad. You’re my friend, Sammy. We’re best friends.”

Sam had to smile, “Yeah, definitely best friends.” Dean smiled back, before wincing at his head. “Your head still hurting?”

“A little bit.”

Sam took a breath, standing up before pulling Dean to stand with him. He tried to get him up as slowly and smoothly as he could, not wanting to make him dizzy. “Come on. Let’s get out of this bathroom.”

He walked behind Dean, a hand against his back to guide him back into the bed. It seemed that ever since they’d left the hospital, all Dean could do was sleep. That was—excluding his little trip to the corner store. Sam could just hope that he’d be okay after a good night sleep.

----------------------

Sam blinked and wiped at his eyes with frustration. There was a saying, don’t trust everything you read on the internet. The saying had never been more appropriate.

After six hours of non-stop searching on their laptop, Sam had miraculously come up with nothing, not one single thing that would help him take care of his brother. There were literally 19,100,000 websites that had ‘parenting tips’ and none (zero) had any practical advice that fit his current situation. Hell, not a single ‘expert’ child psychologist agreed with the other. One doctor claimed that structure and creating a routine was the best way to make a child feel safe and secure, while the other claimed that it was unrealistic in this day and age and that it would ‘cripple’ the child emotionally and cause them to fear any unexpected deviation of the so-called ‘routine.’

He laughed softly at himself, huffing slightly. A routine. Their routine centered on Dean and how bad his headache was that day. It was, as far as Sam knew, almost constant. He couldn’t remember a single moment of the day when Dean didn’t squint at the bright lights or touch his head when he thought Sam wasn’t looking. On good days, Sam would take Dean outside for lunch and they would play basketball at the park or go shopping for junk food. On the so-so days, Sam would have to watch Dean and then force him to sit in a shaded area to take break when he stared to waver. The other days, however, the days in which Dean couldn’t even get out of bed—couldn’t open his eyes or even move without crying in pain—those were the days that even the thought of creating a routine seemed ridiculous.

But most of all, it was hard to see his strong, know-it-all big brother afraid. Dean tried so hard to pretend that he was alright; that he understood the things that were happening to him and around him that the only time Sam knew that something was wrong was after Dean had worked himself up into a frenzy of worry and fear.

Sam’s face turned a shade of red as he thought about the ‘talk’ he’d had with Dean regarding his body and it’s reactions to certain situations. He had to explain why the young waitress at the bar leaned over to brush up against him as she took his order and why his body reacted to her advances. Dean sat on the bed staring at him with wide eyes as Sam explained human reproduction and their society’s rules regarding sexuality, though he probably wouldn’t forget it after the same waitress slapped him across the face after he inadvertently alerted her to his subconscious interest.

Of course, Sam had patterned his little speech similar to the one Dean himself had given him on his twelfth birthday. Dean, however, hadn’t been nervous or uncomfortable. He spoke confidently, making jokes about not having to hide his playboy magazines anymore as he talked to his little brother about sex. Sam remembered how embarrassed he’d felt, a little bit grossed-out by the entire thing, but most of all remembered how Dean, in complete seriousness, had told him to come to him if he had any questions or problems.

There was a time in his life, mainly when he was with Jessica, that he imagined getting married, having a baby and becoming a father. Sam had thought those dreams, the ones in which he would be responsible for the growth, protection and care of a child, had died along with her. But now, the thing he feared most was making a mistake with Dean.

The sex issue was the least of his worries. Dean had this—aura of sexuality—for lack of a better term that Sam had gotten used to. Women had always seemed to flock to him. Since his accident, that aura dissipated beneath the insecurity, fear and pain. Sam blamed it on women’s intuition, but the come-ons were less frequent now, in some cases, women purposefully ignored his brother and now focused on him instead. It was as if they somehow knew that Dean was an innocent child.

Money was starting to get tight. The motel room they shared for three weeks was starting to become a rather large expense; they really didn’t have eighty dollars a night to waste. The credit limit on “Samuel Parker’s” card was only $2000. With a little more than $1600 already spent on just their room, never mind food, water, and clothing, it wouldn’t be long until the manager kicked them out.

Dean was the ‘money-maker’ and despite the fact that he earned it in not-so honest ways, he definitely provided for them both for the duration of their journey. Sam promised himself, he’d never ever again make fun of Dean’s hustling abilities—though his thoughts grew despondent once again as he realized that Dean had forgotten that skill, like so many of his others.

He’d taken his big brother for granted and now, all he wanted was Dean—the man he was—to reappear.

Sam stood suddenly, running his hands through his messy hair. They both needed a haircut that was for sure. Dean was starting to look scruffy. He would’ve hated that—Dean was usually obsessed with keeping his hair currently fashionable, despite his 80’s taste in clothing and music.

What he needed was a job.

-----------------------

A week later

Walking around the stacks, Sam ducked his head and made sure Dean was still sitting at the table where he’d left him. Smiling, he laughed to himself as he watched Dean bob his head up and down to the music blaring out of the old cassette tape headphones he’d bought from the Salvation Army. (The electronic stores didn’t even sell them anymore.)

Picking up another stack of books left on the table from the group of students who’d come to the library to study for their literature exam, he promised himself to ALWAYS put his books away where he found them. He’d applied to work at the small university’s library and had assumed that they’d assign him the check out desk; Sam never realized how much a librarian had to do throughout the day. The stacks of books he had to re-stock on the shelves were endless, as soon as he put one away, ten more would be lying around.

It was a perfect job otherwise. Dean could stay with him the entire time as long as he was quiet, of course. And the head librarian understood that he might have to leave if his brother wasn’t feeling well. He was paid about nine dollars an hour to stack books and clean up. He was the only man working there—it was a plus in his case. The elderly and middle-aged women who worked with him treated him and his brother with a motherly fashion. Everyday, fresh cookies would be brought in for them as well as ‘toys’ for Dean. They regarded it as their jobs to make sure both of them ate and were taken care of. Sam felt his face flush as he remembered the kind gift that had been left for him in his locker. Someone, though he’d guessed it was ALL of them, had left an envelope with two hundred dollars for them as a gift.

The money was a god-send. It saved them from having to sleep in the car one more night. It saved them from having to find a shelter from the cold nights.

Sam stared at the clock, then returned to check on Dean. He walked over, making sure to stand in front of him, not behind as to not startle him. “Hey, Dean. Ready to get out of here?”

Dean pulled the headphones away from his ears, smiling. “Yes! I was getting bored, Sammy.”

“Well, you look as if you were having fun listening to your tapes.” He commented matter-of-factly as he handed Dean his jacket.

Dean slipped the leather jacket on, “I love that song. Metallica Rocks!” He started walking towards the door, but was stopped by Marcia, the head librarian.

“Dean! Hold it right there, young man.” Her deep voice echoed through the quiet building.

With an about-face, Dean flung himself around to stare at her. “Yes, Miss Marcia?” He fidgeted.

She walked over to him, a covered paper plate in her hands. She set it on the table before pulling him by the jacket and zippering it up to his neck. “It’s cold out there and you don’t want to catch a cold! And where’s the hat I made for you?” Sam covered his mouth to keep from smiling at the scene. Dean looked guilty, but pulled out the multi-colored hand-knitted hat, complete with ‘flare’. She took it from his resisting grasp, then pulled it over his ears. “I made you both some chicken and vegetables. I expect you to eat it right up and get some meat on your bones.”

Marcia finished with Dean, before turning towards Sam. She waggled her wrinkled fingers at him, “I expect you both to get a good night sleep now, you hear? Alright, Sam, I’ll see you tomorrow. Stay out of trouble until then.” She said this with a glint in her eyes.

Sam leaned over and kissed the sweet old woman on the cheek, “We will, Miss Marcia. Have a good night and thank you.”

He took the offered plate and walked out with Dean. Dean kept staring back at the door, waiting until Miss Marcia was out of sight before ripping of the offending hat. “I HATE this hat, Sammy! Why does she make me wear it?”

This was the same argument they had every night. “Because she cares about you and doesn’t want you to get sick, so just be nice and wear the hat.”

Dean stared at the hat with dread, but put it back on. “Fine, I’ll wear the dumb hat—but if you—.”

His words were cut short by Sam’s cell phone. Sam pulled it from his pocket and answered it. “Hello?”

“Sam—need you—get out—here—mission is in jeopardy.” The jumbled message was cutting in and out.

Sam’s heart jumped into his throat. “Dad?” Dean’s eyes widened. “Dad, you’re cutting out. Where are you?”

“Sam, come home—demon kill—.” The line cut off with a buzzing, leaving Sam with a deep feeling of dread.

Turning away from Dean; he couldn’t face the questioning glances right now. ‘Shit,’ he thought, ‘what the hell is happening now? And why do we have to go back home—again?’

Dean walked around him so that he could look at his face. “Sammy? What’s wrong with dad? Is he okay?”

Sam put his arm around Dean’s shoulders, rubbing them slightly. “Yeah, Dean. Dad’s okay, but he needs my help. We’re going to have to leave.”

Dean nodded, understanding. “When?” It was asked quietly, his eyes downcast.

Cupping his brother’s jaw to lift his face, Sam gave him a sad smile. “As soon as we can, Dean. Tonight, if you’re feeling up to it. How’ s your head?” He ran his hand over his head, giving him a small reassuring pat.

“I’m okay, Sammy.” He stared at the old building, “What about Miss Marcia and Miss Betty and Miss Anne?”

Sam sighed, dropping his hands and mirroring Dean’s pose. It was the part he hated the most, leaving behind friends he’d made. “Well, I’m going to call Miss Marcia tomorrow morning and tell her that I won’t be coming into work. And maybe, once we’re done we can come back and visit, huh?”

“Okay, Sammy.” Dean put his cold hands in his pocket, then went over to the passenger side of the car and climbed in.

It took Sam a few seconds longer to get himself to move. Typical, the minute he’d created a safe environment for them both, their father disrupted it.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, he started the engine, putting aside all of his doubts. Their father needed HIM—and he’d help, no matter how he felt.

------------

“Are we there yet?”

Sam huffed, biting his lip to keep from screaming out with frustration and annoyance. Dean had asked the same whining question every few minutes for the last hour and a half. Taking a deep breath, Sam strived to remain calm and collected. “No, not yet, Dean. We’ve still got another five or six hours depending on traffic. Okay?”

Dean was wriggling in his seat uncomfortably, making small noises. “Okay, Sammy.” He answered quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Sam turned in his seat slightly, taking his eyes off the seemingly unending highway to look at his brother. Taking a few seconds to study him, it was fairly clear by the tension in his body—the way he squeezed his eyes shut and was taking in short gasping breaths and swallowing –that Dean wasn’t feeling well.

Guilt flooded his body; he’d been so focused on reaching their father that he hadn’t noticed Dean’s decline. “Dean...” The passing sign indicated that it was twenty miles to the next exit. “If you can hold on for about twenty more minutes, we’ll stop and take a break. Okay?” He moved one of his hands from the wheel to take one of Dean’s. Squeezing it slightly to gain his attention, he looked into his squinting eyes. “And don’t ever be sorry, alright? I should’ve noticed…”

Dean shook his head, “It’s my fault.”

Looking at him with confusion, Sam questioned his last statement. “What do you mean? What’s your fault?”

For a minute, Sam didn’t think that Dean was going to answer him. He just sat back in his seat, staring out of his window, watching as the trees, posts, signs, and road passed them by. When he actually answered, his voice was so soft that Sam almost missed the spoken word.

“Everything.”

For not the first time in his life, Sam wondered exactly what was in his big brother’s head. Scrubbing his hand over his mouth, he decided to pull over to the shoulder of the highway and give Dean his complete attention. “Dean?”

For a few minutes, the only sounds that could be heard in the car were the sounds of the passing vehicles. Twisting in his seat, Sam waited his brother out, knowing that if he pushed him right now, he’d only bottle up his emotions and pretend that he was okay.

Dean sat slumped against the seat, biting his knuckles. Sam watched as tears pooled in eyes, before furiously scrubbing them away with the back of his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was harsh from the attempt at holding his emotions at bay. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“Sorry? What for, Dean?” As far as Sam knew, Dean hadn’t done anything wrong. Hell, remembering all the times Dean got in trouble as a child, he’d considered his good behavior as a mixed blessing. Even though he was easier to care for when he listened and followed the rules that Sam set for him, it meant that Dean was afraid to break the rules; that Dean was afraid of what would happen if he did.

“I’m sorry that you have to take care of me. You shouldn’t have to be burdened with a retard…” Dean’s lips started to quiver as he tried to continue. “You should’ve just left me at the hospital.”

Time stopped, the world slowed down, and even the rush of the cars speeding past them had no more meaning. With a hard gulp, Sam tried to force down the heart that was now beating rapidly in his throat. His next response was fueled with panic and anger; Roughly, he grabbed Dean by the shoulders, pulling him straight and looking him in the eyes. “Dean! Why would you even think that? How could you ever believe that I’d just leave you! I’m your brother, Dean. Did someone tell you that? I mean, why would you think that, Dean?”

The shoulders under his grasp were shaking as Dean’s breaths started to come out in small gasps. “Th-the kids at the p—park ssaidd I wass a re-retard. And Billy’s m-mom said that—she said that y-you—that I wass a b-bu-burden to you. That I should be—in a fac-ity.”

Sam’s face turned pale white as he thought of how hurt Dean must’ve been hearing that. “Oh, Dean. No…that woman, she’s wrong.” Loosening his grip, Sam wiped at the free-flowing tears streaming down his brother’s face. With a tenderness he hadn’t felt towards anyone since Jessica, he gently kissed his forehead. “Dean, listen to me.” He waited until he felt Dean’s attention on him, “I love you, okay? You’re my brother; My ONLY brother. I’d never leave you like that. You are exactly where you belong, alright? You’re by my side, where you’re supposed to be.”

Dean leaned his head against Sam’s shoulder, a difficult task in the small car until they both left the world right itself again—the world that encompassed just the two of them.

For a moment, Sam forgot that they were parked on the shoulder of a busy highway. The sound of a police car’s siren pulling up behind them made Sam swear softly. “Shit.”

He gently, but quickly pushed Dean to his side of the car and motioned him to wipe his face and put on a fake smile. The officer walked over to his side of the car and motioned him to open the window.

Sam sighed, but opened the window. “Afternoon, officer.”

The elderly gentleman stared at the both of them with suspicion. “Son, is there a reason why you’re parked in an emergency only stop zone?”

Sam gave a small smile, “I’m sorry, officer, but my brother was feeling car sick, so I pulled over—you know, just in case. I didn’t want the car to get messed up.”

The officer patted the car softly with a gloved hand, “Yeah, I know what you mean. When I was about you boys age, I had myself a little beauty like this one.—I’ll let you off with a warning this time.” He looked past Sam to look at Dean. Shaking a finger at him, he warned, “And you, young man, I hope that you’ve learned your lesson about drinking. At least you had enough sense not to drive… You two get going now. And drive safe!”

Sam gave the man a sloppy salute, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” With that, he started the car and continued their trek.

---------

Sam was practically vibrating with frustration and anxiety. He rubbed his forehead and ran his hand over his mouth for the millionth time since he’d pulled up to the rest area, as he waited for Dean to complete his business. What was supposed to be a six hour drive to Lawrence, Kansas had turned into two days from hell.

After about four hours in the car, Dean had finally had enough. He pulled on his brother’s sleeve, whispered that he didn’t feel very well, and then proceeded to throw up all over himself and the car. Dean was completely mortified, ignoring any and all of Sam’s attempts to cheer him up after he spent three hours cleaning up both Dean and the car. Unfortunately, the sick smell permeated the seats, and knowing that Dean (the older Dean) would’ve had a heart attack; at the end, Sam pulled into a Kissmart and paid the auto-cleaners thirty bucks to deodorize and disinfect his brother’s most prized possession. Meanwhile, he took Dean across the street to a Wal-Mart to buy him some new clothes.

An angry laugh escaped him; the fates had shown him Jessica’s death days before it had happened. He wished for that kind of foresight when it came to Dean. He slapped his forehead, gritting his teeth—he should’ve remembered that harsh fluorescent lights (the kind of lights department stores use) could trigger a migraine in certain people. The fact that Dean had already had a headache from the car ride should’ve been his first clue that Dean wasn’t up to a store filled with loud obnoxious customers, flickering lights, claustrophobic aisles, and smelly perfumes.

Of course, Dean wouldn’t let him know about it; of course not, this was Dean! He just clamped up, tight lipped until finally, the pain broke through his stubborn determination and he’d practically collapsed at the registers.

The sixteen year old girl who was ringing them out, screeched and immediately called her manager. The manager, a middle aged man wearing a mustard stained shirt ran up to them; smiling at them condescendingly, trying to make sure that his store was in no way at fault for Dean’s collapse. It had taken all of Sam’s skills to get the man to back off; they didn’t need an ambulance—the mere mention of a hospital had sent his brother into a panic, afraid that Sam was ‘getting sick’ of taking care of him and wanted to send him back.

The manager reassured him that their purchase, a t-shirt and jeans, would be taken care of by the company and hurriedly sent them on their way.

Dean was as pale as a corpse, and that wasn’t an exaggeration. The latest migraine attack lasted nearly seventeen hours—the onl