Chapter Text
“I’m telling you man, it’s more than one witch.”
Dean shook his head, tossing his shirt into his duffle bag. “Sam, you know what Dad said-”
“But-”
“Sam, enough. This isn’t up for debate,” Dean snapped, shooting his little brother a look. Sam’s mouth shut before opening again, ready to retort with his face scrunching up.
“Dean-,”
“Dad’s got it covered, alright? Quit worrying,” Dean huffed, moving past Sam to the bathroom, ruffling his little brother’s hair as he went. Sam shoved his arm away, groaning.
“I’m not worrying, I’m just stating a fact.”
Dean popped his head out from the bathroom door, “And I’m just stating that you should chill. We’ve already looked into this case for days. It’s one witch, it doesn’t make sense if there was two.”
Sam turned away, tired of arguing with his brother. It doesn't make sense that there's one, he fumed. Yesterday, he tried convincing his father that there was a second witch, that they needed to reconsider their plan, that this was reckless for them. John didn’t listen to him at all; just waved off the concern and told him to stop overthinking the hunt. But Sam wasn’t, he really wasn’t.
Dean raised his eyebrow as he watched Sam busy himself with packing, shoulders all tight, and turned back into the bathroom. Sam had brought up the idea of another witch privately around three days ago, and that they were working alongside each other. Admittedly, some things made sense but only some. Like how the witch could be targeting people so fast, how she happened to jump from place to place, how they were never able to catch her. But John had debunked those ideas, saying that she was a witch, she could’ve easily set up several spells to set off all at once.
Dean shook his head, stepping out of the bathroom with his toothbrush. Sam was a smart kid, he knew that. He could figure things out faster than both of them sometimes, and all the research he was being told to do was definitely making a dent in his hunting memory, but maybe it was a bit too much. He shouldn’t be reading until ungodly hours about witches, vampires, and the like.
“All ready to go? Dad said we should leave by 8:00,” Dean called out, zipping up his duffle bag.
Sam came out of the kitchen, carrying his books and a pencil in his mouth.
“Yesf.”
Dean snorted, flicking the pencil. Sam’s mouth fell open as the pencil twanged painfully against his teeth.
“You're such a jerk,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. Dean snickered, shrugging his shoulders. He watched as Sam carefully stacked his books inside the duffle bag and zip it closed, ignoring the fallen pencil. It had touched the motel room floor and God knows what diseases it had now. No way was Sam even going to touch it.
“I know you are but what am I?” Dean teased, hefting Sam’s bag on his shoulder, the weight of the books making it heavier than it looked. Sam sighed, lightly punching his shoulder.
“A jackass,” he snorted, grinning softly and shrugged past older brother to open the door, revealing the Impala with its trunk already open and right in front of them. Dean tossed Sam the keys to get the car started and swung the bags into the open back, sighing as soon as the car rumbled to life, purring softly.
He slammed the trunk door closed and rounded the car, his eyebrows going up as he saw Sam frowning with Dean’s phone pressed against his ear.
“The woods? But I thought-” Sam was cut off, and his face scrunched up in confusion. Dean slid in, his eyes never leaving Sam’s scrunched face as he tried to figure out what was going on. He blinked quickly at the sudden drowsiness that swept over him.
“Map, Dean,” Sam muttered, his eyes meeting green. Dean shook his head to shake off the drowsy effects and reached into the back bench seat and unfolded the map, spreading it out between them and turning it towards Sam. He watched as Sam traced his finger along the small grids of the map, following the coordinate plane. His finger stopped at the edge of a road, just touching the woods.
“But Dad, that doesn’t-” Sam started, shaking his head. “…Yessir.”
Sam flipped the phone closed, tossing it on the map with a sigh.
“What did Dad say?” Dean asked, pocketing the phone.
Sam shook his head again, looking out the window.
“He moved the hunt to the woods. Said she had a shack there.”
“Here?” Dean motioned, sliding the map around. Sam looked over and nodded to where Dean was tapping, sighing.
“Doesn’t make any sense, Dean,” Sam pressed, tapping his leg. “Why the woods? What happened to going to her house?”
Dean shrugged, pulling out of the parking space. “Maybe she moved. Or maybe it was never in her house.” He pushed down and ignored the dread that was prickling his spine. Maybe Sam was right? It was unusual for John to make a “change of plans” since that involved him being wrong. It wasn’t even about his pride or ego, they never went into a hunt without knowing every single last detail. So to do a change of plans after days of research and making a game plan, it was just unheard of. In John’s book, it would be a dangerous and dumbass move to change a formulated plan right before heading into danger.
Sam bit his lip, his eyes drifting back down to the map. His finger jittered against his leg the more he thought about the idea of going into the woods that they’d barely looked at, let alone mapped out
It didn’t take long for Dean to reach the location John had told them. Just as expected, John’s truck was parked off to the side. The brothers silently exited the car, Sam too nervous to speak and Dean too confused to bother with words. They moved robotically, arming themselves like soldiers. Dean tucked his gun into the waistband of his jeans, sliding two lighters into his jacket pocket and a small, silver pocket knife in the other. Sam did the same, tucking his lighter and pocket knife in his pockets. Like Dean, he carried a gun, safety on, and tucked in jeans. After each taking out a bottle of gasoline, Dean slammed shut the trunk, gently patting the Impala twice on the hood out of habit.
“Follow the yellow brick road,” Sam sighed, trudging forward to the dirt path that was roughly outlined against the patches of overgrown grass.
Dean rolled his shoulders back, suddenly unsure of following Sam into the woods. Something prickled against the back of his neck, he didn’t like it.
“Wait, Sam,” Dean muttered, pulling his brother back by his hood. Sam sputtered for a moment, caught off guard but came to a stop, snatching the hood from Dean's light grasp.
“What,” Sam hissed, his eyebrows scrunched up.
Dean paused, looking back at the truck. Something was off, he knew it was. But what the hell was it? Looking back at his brother, he opened his mouth to voice his suspicion when he froze, his gaze traveling to Sam’s hoodie. It was brown but Dean swore just a second ago it was a navy blue. He knew it had to be, he had just pulled on it, right? But that memory was getting hard to recall, just a foggy image with an even foggier description even when it just happened seconds ago.
Dean looked back to the truck, and then his car, scouting out any differences, any subtle changes.
“D’n?”
Dean's head snapped back to look at his brother; he was no stranger to Sam and the tone that his little brother just used hadn’t been used since the kid was younger than 10. The scene melted away, the trees grew bare, the cold became colder, and the ground became whiter with snow. And all of a sudden, Dean was transported back into time, looking at a seven-year-old Sam all bundled up with snow up to his ankles.
Dean stumbled back, nearly falling on his butt in the snow. He looked down at himself, expecting to be placed back into his eleven-year-old body again but he wasn’t. He was still wearing his t-shirt, flannel, and jeans, and he was still seventeen.
“Cold, Dean.”
Dean looked back up, his mouth still hanging open. He didn’t feel cold at all, he barely felt the chill.
“Sammy?” he whispered, reaching out to brush his hand against his little brother. Sam took a shaky step forward, almost kneeing himself in the head. As he set his foot down, he listed sideways, unsteady balance taking hold and Dean instinctively reached forward, hands just about to grasp Sam’s little arms but instead of flesh meeting flesh, Sam sailed right through him, falling face first into the snow.
Dean’s stomach dropped a hundred floors and all the blood drained from his face. Only two thoughts raced through his head and he barely heard Sam’s shouts of surprise.
Either he was dead or Sam and he would not take the latter.
Wake up.
Dean’s eyes shot open, blinking rapidly with an awful burning. His mind was a haze and his limbs felt heavy and uncooperative. There was a painful crick in his neck and it cracked when he craned his neck back. The movement alone garnered all his strength at the moment and he needed a few seconds of rest before he could focus on anything else. He tried to bring his hands around to rub his eyes but felt tight resistance against his wrists and the back of his elbows were pushed painfully against square rods on either arm. He shrank back down, letting the haze from his brain fade away and for his eyes to start working again. His surroundings slowly came into focus and one by one, his senses came back. In a few seconds, he was able to deduce that he was tied to a wooden chair in a dark room. There was a table on the far left that had a couple of objects on it; Dean could barely see what they even were. There was a single light bulb on the wall above a heavy-looking metal door right in front of him with two latches and a lock.
Dean’s head was muddy with broken thoughts. He felt drugged and sleepy.
Probably am, he thought bitterly, shaking his head like a dog in hopes of getting the last of it to clear out.
Trying to get his bearings, he began to try to recall his memories, going through his head from the moment where things went wrong.
Sam.
Dean’s head whipped around, the sudden realization of the absence of his brother sending sparks up his spine.
“Sam?” He called out, his voice echoing back at him. He strained his ears to hear his little brother’s voice or anything. A soft rustle, a moan, anything. Only his echoes responded to him. He tugged against his bonds, twisting against the scratchy rope that scratched his wrists. It didn’t hurt, it was just uncomfortable. But it wouldn’t give, instead, it only seemed to hold him tighter against the chair. He huffed, rolling his shoulders back.
Without warning, the light burned brighter, and the loud sound of the latches being undone filled the room. The door swung open and a hazy figure stepped into the room, hurrying over to Dean with an old metal syringe, her fingers right on the plunger.
“Who the hell are you- what’re you doing with that?” Dean sputtered, worming away his heart fluttering in his chest. Trying to gain any recognition was impossible, other than deciphering that it was a man. But he was wearing a mask, only exposing his cold blue eyes. They didn’t say anything, grasping his head and pressing it back with inhuman force, his nails digging into his scalp. He plunged the needle into his neck, squeezing the strange fluid into his blood system. Immediately, he felt the effects of the injection, his entire body relaxing and he morphed into the chair.His muscles felt like they were filled with cement and against his will, his head dropped to his chest and he faded into darkness.
They were in the woods again, snow all around him. Sam was looking up at him, his cheeks and nose red and his puffer jacket zipped all the way up to his neck. Dean was dressed similarly, standing ankle-deep in wet, uncomfortable snow.
“Sammy, c’mere,” Dean found himself saying, opening his arms out. He felt like he was floating above the scene, watching little Sam and little him replay an old memory. Sam listened, stumbling his way just like he did before, and fell into his older brother’s arms.
Dean recognized this memory and it was one of the ones he pushed away, hiding it in the back of his mind and in the depths of his nightmares.
Sam was seven and Dean was eleven. Just before turning seven, Sam had gone through John’s journal and learned about whatever lurked in the dark. It wasn’t the first hunt Sam had been on but it was the first where he was able to be with Dean and be slightly included. At eleven, Dean was mortified to let Sam be with him; to be in the line of danger. But now that he was, the eleven-year-old was doing anything he could to keep his little brother safe and right next to him.
John was hunting a black dog. He had said that it was smaller than the “average” black dog but Dean had sneaked a look at the claw marks. He had seen the measurements of the scratches.
“I wanna go home,” Sam whispered into Dean's chest. Dean breathed, placing his chin on top of Sam’s warm head, taking a moment to be chick-flicky.
“Dad’ll be finished in no time,” he tried, but even to him, it sounded weak.
It was a blatant lie, only to put on a brave face and get through however long Dad took to hunt.
Dean tried to will his muscles to work, to freaking cooperate but nothing. He was just a spectator of a memory he didn’t like.
Just like he remembered, red glowing eyes appeared in Dean’s line of sight, blinking and slanted, just like in the horror movies. Little him’s eyes widened but it was too late. Dean tried to turn, to take the brunt of the hit but the snow stopped him and he was only able to make it half way. The dog pounced, landing on top of them and sending them crashing down with a scream from Sam as one of the claws pierced his side. Dean still heard the scream in his dreams. It was animalistic, something you would hear from the very depths of agony. Panic surged through him as the ice seeped into his jacket, wetting his hair and shirt. The ice shocked him into focus, suddenly aware of everything which was just too much. The dog reared back, causing Sam to choke and gasp. Just in time, John burst from the woods, shooting it six times in the back. Dean barely heard the shots, his world tunneled down to his little brother with a hole the size of a golf ball in his side.
Even now, Dean felt sick. He tried to look away, tried to turn away but he couldn’t, the memory wouldn’t let him. Instead, he screamed for his father, screamed for his brother to look at him.
John didn’t waste any time running over to them, already tearing apart his jacket to make a temporary bandage. He shoved Dean aside, his hands working quickly to wrap the torn fabric around his son. Dean didn’t know what to do, he had never seen his little brother get hurt this bad. It wasn’t until Sam groaned a faint “D’n,” did his brain begin to function again. He inched forward, running a hand through Sam’s hair and grasping his hand as tight as he could.
Dean squinted, his eyes watering as the world began to turn brighter and brighter.
“What-”
His eyes shot open for the second time, his fists swinging. He cringed at the tightness in his arms and muscles and immediately drew them in. Slowly, he sat up, suspicion in the edges of his eyes as he surveyed his surroundings. He was right back where he started, at the brink of the woods and road, Impala just a few feet away, path just further down into the trees. The sun was just peaking over the trees, casting a golden light over the landscape. It would’ve been nice to look at if his head wasn’t swimming and Sam wasn’t lying on his side, hair covering his face.
Scrambling over, Dean knelt down beside his little brother, shaking him roughly in panic.
“Sam, Sammy, wake the fuck up,” he demanded, slapping his face. Sam’s eyes fluttered open before going wide with… fear? as he shot back.
“Whoa, it’s just me,” Dean rushed out, holding his hands out in surrender.
“What the hell- why are you here?” Sam gaped, stumbling to his feet. Dean frowned and shot forward to steady him but- “Stop. Don’t come any closer,” he spat, steadying himself against a nearby tree. Dean froze, the crease between his eyebrows growing deeper and deeper.
Sam had never, ever in all thirteen years of knowing him, acted so rejecting towards Dean. Not even in their worst fights or days, they always ended together, never rejecting the other of anything.
Dean dropped his hands, letting Sam catch his bearings. He cocked his head to the side, studying his little brother like he was a new person because he kind of… was. His hair was just a bit lighter and longer. His clothes fit him a little better (he wasn’t wearing a belt which was unusual) but was skinnier than before, his face a little more gaunt, and he had a scar that glinted silver right on his jawline.
A scar that wasn’t there before.
“When did you get that?” Dean instinctively asked, already in protective mode.
Sam blinked up at him, comedically baffled.
“You did?”
Dean felt the world shift beneath his feet.
“What?”
Sam huffed a breathless laugh of air, his eyes rolling into his classic bitch face. Only this time, it was devoid of any teasing affection.
“Don’t play dumb Dean, it’s getting old.”
Dean slowly shook his head, not at Sam but at how wrong this was. The thirteen-year-old took a deep breath, leaning against the tree.
“Just get this over with, why’d you bring me out here?” he sighed, checking his watch. He looked over at the Imapala suspiciously when his eyes fell on John’s truck just a little farther down the road and all the color drained from his face.
“Dad’s here?” he sputtered. Dean whirled around, expecting to see his father but only saw the truck.
“Wha- oh, yeah. Wait.”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get a bearing on his hurricane of thoughts. Each question rained down like ice on a barn.
“Sam, what the hell did that witch do to you?” he muttered, rubbing his eyebrows. Finally, he held his hand up, ordering his questions in what was more or less a logical order.
“Did she inject you with anything? Big metal syringe?”
Sam narrowed his eyes, his gaze flitting back and forth between his older brother and the truck.
“What witch?”
“The witch we were hunting?” Dean ran a hand through his slightly matted hair, wondering how deep were they if Sam was dealing with memory loss. Sam squinted, slowly inching off of the tree.
“Who are you?” he asked suspiciously, ignoring Dean’s questions.
Dean huffed, looking back into the woods.
“Could ask you the same thing.” He snapped back, annoyed at Sam’s aloofness.
There was a long stretch of silence where neither of them said anything, just quietly surveying each other. Dean felt like he was somewhere where he didn’t belong. The roughness and sharpness in their words never existed before and yet, it was there clear as day. Whatever those witches did, they were going to pay.
“Just take me back to Pete’s alright?”
Dean blinked.
“Who the hell is Pete?”
Sam huffed again, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Be that way. I can find my own way back.”
“Wait,” Dean stepped forward, faltering at the suspicious stare.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Seriously, Sammy, who the hell is Pete?”
Sam’s lips turned up into a soft smile just for a second and for a brief moment, he was Sam again and not the hardened version of his brother who seemed to really not like him.
“What?” Dean asked self-consciously after Sam didn’t respond. His little brother shrugged off-handedly.
“Sorry, it’s just been a while since you’ve called me Sammy.”
That sent shockwaves through Dean’s system. It must’ve shown because a small flush appeared in Sam’s cheeks and he looked back at the road in an effort to wipe away any sentiment.
“Pete?” he reminded him, pressing for an answer.
“The hunter,” the thirteen-year-old finished, looking back at him. His face was devoid of any familiarness and was back to the hidden sharp boy that Dean was deaf to. “The hunter I work with.”
Those words sounded like a foreign language to Dean’s ears and it looked so weird to see come out of his brother’s mouth. A million thoughts raced through his head. Why would you work with a hunter I don’t even know, why do you want to go back to him, why not stay with us, with me, why do you even know him in the first place…
“Sam, I-” Dean broke off awkwardly, not knowing how to begin. “I’m sorry kiddo but I don’t know a Pete,” he sighed, scratching the back of his neck. Sam shook his head with a frown, checking his watch again.
“Is this some prank set up by you and Caleb or something? You’re not making any sense.”
You’re not making any sense.
None of this was making sense. He wasn’t even sure if this was real. Flashes of the room, the table next to him, and the motion of liquid flicked through his mind. He shook his head, looking back into the woods and the shack. Half of him wanted to go in, and half of him wanted to figure out whatever was going on with Sam.
“Sam, I swear, I don’t know any Pete,” he began, his mind scrambling to think of a plan.
“Let’s just get you back to the motel so I can make sure that witch didn’t do anything else to you, alright?”
Sam laughed with mock joy and shook his head.
“No way, not again. Not after last time.”
A horrible sinking feeling weighed down Dean’s stomach and he wondered how far his body could sink before he fell. It was one sentence after the other that seemed to wreck him in ways he didn’t even know could. The question, ‘what happened last time’ was just on the cusp of his lips, ready to spill and ask. But he bit his tongue, no longer trying to hide his confused expression.
“Sam, listen. I don’t know what the hell happened in those woods alright? There was a witch—proabably two I think—and I’m pretty sure they kidnapped us, injected us with… something, I don’t know what, and we need to get back to the motel to figure out whatever this is and a plan, alright?” Dean laid out, praying that Sam would feel the truth leaking out of his words. Sam’s suspicion never left his expression but he slowly walked forward, swaying ever so slightly. The younger boy’s eyes drifted over his body where they found the puncture wound on his neck with a thin line of dried blood marking the spot.
“Alright,” he finally said. “But just so you know, I have a gun.”
Dean let the smallest of smirks crack on his face, relief exploding through his body at the baby step of progress. Without thinking, he ruffled Sam’s hair, trying his best to ignore the flinch Sam made as soon as his hands brushed against the silky strands.
“Not expecting any less,” he assured, sliding into the seat. Sam slid in slowly as if a bomb had been placed on the seat. He sat, pressed against the door, hand ready on the handle.
“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze flicking over the car as if seeing it for the first time.