Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a stupid thing, really. Of all the things that he had to deal with lately, this was what did him in. This stupid jealousy that thrummed through his veins like lightning, more so considering Crowley's words, had struck closer to the truth than he'd ever admit. Because whoever- whatever was parading around in his brother's body, Sam would make sure to send it straight back to the deepest parts of Hell. There was always the possibility that Crowley hadn't been entirely lying just to mess with his head, a chance that some part of Dean still resided in there, lying dormant, itching to get out.

For the first time in a while, Sam was rolling with a poor idea of a plan on how to get his brother back, stopping at nothing. His chances were slim, if not close to zero. The two of them were on par on his best days, both formidable hunters and fighters in their own way, but with a broken arm added to the equation, he was simply no match for Dean. Then again, Crowley's taunting remarks raised suspicion as they were deliberately dragged out, meaning that the King of Hell wanted Sam to track them down, offering his brother's location on a silver platter. Whether that meant there was a party waiting for Sam en route or Crowley had sold Dean out purely for reasons that were beyond him- there was only one way to know.

He must have been no more than thirty miles out of Beulah, North Dakota, when he had to make an emergency stop on the highway. The car had suddenly broken down, and by some miracle, there was a gas station only about five minutes out on foot. It was four past midnight, a road light by the gas station flickering ominously and, surprisingly, a roadhouse with booming music coming from inside. There was no one that he could see in the gas station, so he headed for the roadhouse, setting foot into the blaring noise and suffocating scent of tobacco.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion, Sam becoming too preoccupied with tracking down Dean's location, double-checking every couple of seconds to notice the piercing eyes from across the bar, pinning him down from the moment he walked in. Unfortunately, there was nothing that could be done for his car other than to haul it to the station until tomorrow, later in the afternoon. The owners suggested roadside assistance, but that wouldn't be until one or two hours down the road, and he couldn't afford to lose more time (he didn't want to insist since it was stolen and it would be better not to risk drawing unwanted attention to himself). As a last resort, he was thinking of hot-wiring one of the cars parked outside. He truly didn't want to leave a poor soul or, God forbid, a family stranded out here in the middle of nowhere, but he was left with no other choice. Besides, he supposed this wouldn't be nearly the worst thing he'd ever do for the sake of his big brother.

And that's why, absorbed in his own head, he barely gave much thought to the drink that was slid over, the bartender jerking his head towards the other end of the bar, saying it was paid for by Janine. And maybe it was the long, blonde curls and the disarming and shy but eager smile thrown to his direction that fooled him into momentarily lowering his guard, lips twitching into a small smile of his own, charmed and grateful, as he accepted the drink and downed it in one go. He told himself that he needed the familiar buzz of alcohol in his bloodstream, just enough to take the edge off, and he'd be back on the road not a minute later.

Anything that followed after that was a blur. He remembered blonde curls blinding his vision, delicate and manicured nails closing in a seizing grasp around his wrist and digging firmly into the denim covering his thighs. At least he thought he did, because the next thing he knew, Sam was waking up with the glaring sunlight piercing through his eyelids, a pounding headache, and his stomach violently lurching. Before his eyes were even open, he rolled around on his knees and puked on the floor, the acidic bile burning the insides of his throat. When his body had nothing left to give, he dry heaved, chest squeezing and cramping. Eventually, Sam was allowed some sense of reprieve when the retching eased off into the occasional hiccups.

He blinked his eyes open with a groan, taking in his surroundings with rising panic. A restroom which could only be described as nothing short of disgusting and unsanitary, and Sam had just made his own addition with the pool of vomit next to the bathroom stall. Pushing himself back onto his folded knees, he frantically patted himself down only to come up empty-handed. His wallet, phone, even his demon knife- everything was gone. Fuck. Janine, whoever that bitch was (if that was even her real name), she must have been on him from the moment he walked into the roadhouse; an outsider, easy and fresh meat for the night to be sucked dry of his belongings. Unluckily for her, Sam didn't have much of value on him to begin with. Unfortunately for him, Dean would probably be long gone by now.

With a muttered curse, he forced himself to unsteady legs, swallowing down on the second wave of nausea that hit him. With a frown, he noticed that the world around him was oddly… big. No, not big, but more as if he was seeing the world from a different angle. Sam stumbled his way to one of the sinks to wash the pungent bitterness from his mouth and leaned down to open the tap. He smacked his forehead against the edge of the sink, hand coming up to cradle the throbbing pain.

"What the hell-" he glanced up, looking at himself in the dirty mirror, and froze. Usually, he would have to lean down at an uncomfortable angle, a sure way to cause enough back problems in a few years. Now, though, Sam barely seemed to reach the mirror because the face of his freaking teen-year-old-something self was staring back at him. Short and choppy bangs covered the forehead of his small, round face. He couldn't be more than 4'7".

If he had to make a rough estimate, he looked like he was 12, maybe 13 again.

Goddamn witch, he thought immediately, as if getting mugged wasn't already enough to deal with. He had no lead he could work with besides a vague description of her face and a name that was most likely fake. Sure, he could ask around the bar; someone was bound to know her- and then what? Killing the caster of the spell was one way to reverse the effects, but he could hardly track her down stuck like this, much less kill her. His next feasible option was to pin down exactly what kind of spell or curse was used on him and use a reversal spell to undo its magic. The answer was bound to be found among the Men of Letters' vast collection back at the Bunker, which was a twelve-hour drive away.

At least his right arm was back to normal again.

Instinctively, his mind then went to Dean. Under normal circumstances, Sam would be reaching for the nearest phone to call up his brother and ask for his help, but now... things were complicated- have been complicated for the past month since he disappeared from his room with only a four-word letter left behind in his wake. Of course, he had tried dozens of times to call Dean, but it always went to voicemail. Sadly, he knew that this time wouldn't be any different, either. There was always Cas, but the angel had been out of commission after Metatron drained him of his grace, so calling him wouldn't serve either of them any good.

He had come far too long to turn tail and give up now. What was one more problem to the list?

Sam washed out his mouth and patted himself down to look somewhat presentable. Thankfully, his clothes had shrunk down to fit his now smaller frame and he didn't have to worry about going out with clothes ten times his size- that would have been a… questionably alarming sight but God was it off-putting to look at his soft and chubby hands, having to take triple the steps to cover the distance than he would normally do so. As satisfied as he could be at the sight in the mirror, he walked out and looked around. The place was empty besides the staff who were tidying up.

"Hi," he said as he barely reached the high bar counter, a nervous smile twitching on his face as his voice cracked, high-pitched and girlish and so wrong. "Could I use your phone, mister? I was supposed to meet up with my brother, but mine got stolen and I- I- couldn't reach him. Oh man, he's so gonna kick my ass."

"Whoa, slow down there, kiddo. You got a name?"

"Sam."

"Sam," the bartender -Mike, he believed the man's name was- propped his arms down on the bar counter and leaned close, giving him a once-over. "You doing okay, buddy? You look a little roughed up."

He nodded weakly and played into it by slumping forward for support against the bar stools. Not that any Oscar-worthy performance was needed to convince the guy- his stomach was still roiling with nausea, eyes irritated, and the edges around his vision swimming with blurry spots. Even through magic, it was no easy feat for his body to adjust aging from 31 back to 12 overnight.

"I'm anemic," he said, mumbling out a polite 'thank you' when Mike reached into his back pocket to hand him his phone. Since he chose to reveal the general truth behind his predicament, Sam slowly dialed Dean's number, small fingers clenching around the device.

It rang once, twice, thrice; with each ring, anticipation swelled within his chest. If his brother was about to pick up the phone for a stranger when he completely ignored Sam for the past four weeks, he'd be so pissed, but just for this one time, he needed to hear the rings shift into the voicemail-

"This is Dean Winchester. If this is-"

"He's not answering. What if something happened to him?"

Mike threw the cleaning rug over his shoulder and rounded the bar by his side, slipping the phone back in his pocket. "Hey now, it's okay, I'm sure he's just out there looking for you. Where did you say he was supposed to pick you up?"

"It was, um. Be... Beyu-something? Beu-"

"Beulah?" Mike guessed with an amused smile.

"Yeah, that's it!" Sam brightened up, plastering faux gratitude on his face. "He said he'd be waiting for me at this bar called Dark Spur or whatever."

"The Black Spur." Mike huffed.

"Uh-huh, what I said." So far, the man seemed convinced of his made-up story. He only needed to avoid any more questions about how Sam ended up stranded here, instead steering the conversation onward.

"Would it be too much to ask for a lift? I don't have money on me or anything like that." He said with a hesitant pout, his pride as a 31-year-old man wounded and battered. If his puppy dog eyes (as Dean liked to call them) were effective before in his intimidating 6'4 stature, he supposed there was no hope in fighting against it when it was coming from the frail and tiny body of his pre-teen self.

"Please."

It took precisely three seconds for Mike's resolve to crumble under the strain of his pitiful pleading. He deflated, hand coming up to ruffle Sam's hair messily. He gritted his teeth and endured, struggling tooth and nail against the violent urge to smack Mike's hand away. As he was growing, Sam always hated when people put their paws all over his hair, something he grew out of quickly, but it was particularly awful during his early teens when other kids his age used to make fun of him for it. He supposed the goofy haircut attracted both positive and negative attention. He grew into it over the years, but it was something he definitely hadn't missed when he was younger.

"I guess I can drop you off before I head home for the day. You gonna be alright to wait for me outside? It shouldn't take us more than ten minutes to close the place up."

He shook his head and headed outside. Thirteen minutes later, Mike was waving at the two other staff and locking the front door. Two minutes later, they were on the road. It roughly took them about twenty-five minutes, appreciating the comfortable silence in the car during the ride. When Mike stopped near the edge of the road, Sam made sure to thank him once again before stepping out and waving him goodbye.

Sam shifted his weight on his feet once he turned, eyes fixated on the front door of The Black Spur, the sign on the establishment turned off. It couldn't be later than seven in the morning. Approximately three hours since he last tracked Dean's location. It would certainly be a miracle if he passed through the front door and found his brother waiting for him, but he wasn't one to delude himself with false expectations.

A little bell rang while he pushed the door open, eyes scanning the area from corner to corner.

"We're closed."

He glanced over at the man wiping down the bar, the only person currently present. His shoulders sagged, an unconscious part of him that stubbornly held out hope wilting. A heavy lump formed in his throat, getting choked up, and suddenly, inexplicably, Sam felt the irrational urge to cry. They've had their fair share of fallout throughout the years, and this twinge of hurt was not unfamiliar by any means, only this time, getting abandoned by his brother felt as if the world was ending. He had always been more openly emotional and in tune with his feelings in the family, but these uncontrollable outbursts were only ever a thing of puberty, thankfully.

He paused at the thought, angrily rubbing at his eyes. God, was he about to go through puberty again? It made sense, in a way. Perhaps his mind was still that of an adult, all memories and knowledge intact, yet his body was that of a 12-year-old, which entailed puberty and demanding physical needs, among other things. No wonder he felt so drained and sick. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't even remember the last time he slept more than three hours per night and had a normal meal. Usually, Sam would have no issue powering through on little to no hours of sleep for days, but now, his body was screaming in protest for some much-needed rest. Great. This was just getting better and better.

With a sigh, he slowly approached the bar, struggling not to shrink away from the bartender's scrutinizing eyes.

Even if Sam had missed his window of opportunity, his brother couldn't have gone far solely on the fact that Dean wasn't actively running away from him, per se. Avoiding him so he wouldn't have to deal with Sam's 'futile' attempts at bringing him back to the bunker and trying to cure him, maybe, but he knew his brother better than anyone else. If Dean wanted to stay gone, there wouldn't be a soul on this earth that could track him down. And that's why he held out some semblance of hope that maybe, just maybe, a part of his brother's humanity that still resided beneath the influence of the Mark of Cain wanted to be brought home just as much.

"Hello, sorry to bother-"

"Didn't you hear what I said? Get lost, kid."

Swallowing down the hurt, Sam took a moment to regulate the lashes of humiliation and indignation licking at his vocal cords. He sucked in a shaky breath when he noticed the specks of dried-up blood over the man's left brow, a fresh bruise already forming over the jagged skin.

"I'm just looking for my brother. He said he'd meet me at this bar. Maybe you've seen him?"

"Sorry, kid, can't help you. I think it's best you go back home now."

And it was evident now that he was looking; the edge in the man's tone, an erratic spasm at his fingers as he cleaned the surface of the bar in choppy, terse movements, eyes darting toward the back door every few seconds.

"It's okay. Thanks anyway."

Sam strolled out not to raise any suspicions and then, once the front door was closed behind him, he hurried on his short and quick steps around the back. He slowed down when voices reached his ears, flinching when the sound of a sickening crack rippled down his spine.

"Do it!" A man's voice crying out, a snarl of fury incarcerated. "Fucking kill me already and be done with it."

He stepped around the corner, every muscle in his body seizing up. And there he was- Dean, Dean, his brother, alive and thriving, whom the last time Sam had seen him four weeks ago, he was nothing more than a cold, rotting corpse on his arms, laid out peacefully on his bed, a screwed up mess of cuts and bruises and blood that had grown stale, run dry.

"Well, I guess I changed my mind."

There was something tangible in the fear that gnawed at his insides, ears buzzing with blood, an overwhelming feeling that flooded and clogged his lungs. It felt irrational, unfamiliar to have such a response at the sight of his brother, his protector and caregiver, and his small body was suffocating on it. Sam recognized danger from a mile away, a hard-trained and ingrained instinct to sniff out predators from prey. He knew his brother was a feared hunter, his name whispered among the people of their world with something akin to reverence and unease.

He had seen it in Walt and Roy's hesitation, an underlying eeriness caused by the words of a dead man. He had seen it in Gordon when Dean had dared to look at Sam as if he was the answer upon everything unholy, as if he would let the world and the skies above crumble and burn all in the sake of a little brother, a split-second flicker in Gordon's eyes, one twisted enough to love the bearer of sin and catastrophe, the Antichrist's guardian.

And now, he was seeing it in the nameless man's expression of gut-wrenching shame and inferiority, a speck of dust, a wretched insect underneath Dean's heel. There was a sizzling wrath, a decade-old festering malice bubbling underneath that man's flayed skin and black-beaten eyes. By sparing this man's life, he thought it was mercy, a small victory for Sam's endeavors.

He could now see that death's mercy would leave the man a casket of lifelong humiliation, an unwilling devotee at Dean's feet with the knowledge that his blood was not even worth tainting the blade of his hedonistic judgment.

Sam never had a reason to be afraid of his brother- the thought was simply outlandish. However, whatever it was that stood before him was not entirely his brother. The embodiment of the Mark towered over the poor soul that tried to reap vengeance, a biblical calamity soon to be dealt with for eternity.

For the first time, Sam got a lick of the taste of standing at the receiving end of Dean's retribution, loathing his small body for cowering and trembling with trepidation.

He sucked in a breath, lips parting, taking in the shape of his brother's name- and Dean was turning, the nameless man forgotten and buried, his soul seeking the likeness of his other half, flesh and blood spilled, seeking the image of Abel in this vessel.

"Dean," he breathed, a bit grim, a bit faithful, voice soft but squeaky and wrong. His brother blinked, the confusion palpable on his face before he threw his head back in a piercing bark of laughter, and he couldn't help but wonder how something so gleeful could sound so sinister.

"Wow. Just… wow. And who are you supposed to be, hm? Shape-shifter demon to lure my ass out? One of Crowley's, I presume?" Dean lazily twirled the First Blade in his hand as he sauntered closer. "I must say, the resemblance is quite-"

"Dean." He stressed, refusing to back down, needing every ounce of strength in his 4'7" body to face the impending danger in those green eyes head-on. "It's me."

His brother froze, hand clenching and unclenching around the Blade. He blinked, and that's all it took before Dean was upon him in a flash, eyes having turned pitch black, unforgiving fingers pressing blooming bruises into his jaw, neck craned back, straining, a throbbing crack as he was forced to look up at the overbearing divinity of his brother.

"Lie to me again and I'll paint the wall with the innards of your skull."

He grappled at Dean's wrist, grip ironclad and vicious, and it was- unsettling, scary almost, how his now small and feeble hands uselessly fought against the inevitable, completely at his brother's mercy. Honestly, he didn't know what he expected to happen. He only knew that Sam couldn't allow his brother's trail to wind up cold, couldn't give up on him so easily. But then again, addled with this damned aging spell, his presence could be more damaging than helpful. Sam continued on his quest on faith alone, believing in his brother not to bring upon him irreparable harm, but he could see now that in his quick judgment, he might have doomed them both.

"At least have the guts to recognize your brother before you choke him to death." He snarked, and really, this whole 'going through puberty again' thing was getting ridiculous because where in Hell was he finding the sudden, stupid bout of courage to play witty?

Dean stopped, his face mere inches away from his own, harsh breath fanning over his forehead. He blinked, his eyes flickering back to the familiar green. "Sammy?" His eyes were wide, searching, and for a brief, fragile moment, his big brother was staring down at him.

"De-"

Dean shoved him against the wall, jerking himself back as if the mere touch, the mere sight of him burned. He dragged a hand over his mouth, a peak through the cracked surface of his demeanor, looking more human than he'd ever been. The smooth, carved wood of the First Blade gleamed under the glaring sun, an extension of his arm. It was a dangerous thing, hope. Despite everything that transpired in the last few hours, Sam had been banking on it. He believed in fate, in destiny, in the solitary path engraved in stone. Fate exceeded coincidence, a blessed karma rebounding back to him. The Mark could hurt the adult and adept hunter Sam. For innocent and defenseless Sammy, on the other hand, Dean would go to the ends of Earth to protect and shelter him from harm.

As underhanded as it may be, Sam would use any weapon available in his arsenal. If it meant bringing his brother home, there was nothing he wouldn't do.

"There was a witch. By the time I noticed that something was off, it was too late. She nicked everything I had on me and left me like… this as a parting gift." He said, vaguely gesturing at himself.

After a mockery of a contemplative hum, from the looks of it, they were he was right back at being played like a fiddle between Dean's fingers. He watched closely as his brother carried his weight on one side, casually, as if becoming blasé with the absurdity of the situation.

"And what was your game plan, exactly? Did you think we'd share a little heart-to-heart, cry on each other's shoulders and you'd magically pull me back from the dark side?" Dean laughed, a mean and hollow sound, the entrails of his voice stabbing at Sam's heart. "But you were stupid enough to trail after me and offer yourself up like a lamb to the slaughter. For that, I am deeply grateful. Tell me, Sammy, how on God's green earth did you honestly think this was gonna play out besides me ripping you apart?"

Sweat formed rivulets across his body, allowing the lethal sincerity in those words to sink into his skin. Sam stepped sideways, parallel to the wall beside him, a wide arc around Dean in hopes of catching his eyes. Deliberate or not, Dean seemed to move with him, denying the attempt at eye contact.

"Because you're my brother, Dean." He admitted with a bleeding heart, heat crawling onto his face because, apparently, the genuine proclamation was too much for his teenage body to handle, feeling flustered, of all things. "And I- I need you. I guess now more than anything."

Before he began drowning in the surging mortification, the moment was ruined when an arm slithered around the front of his neck, forearm jammed up against his windpipe. And really, how could he have completely forgotten about the injured man who, only minutes earlier, had attempted to gut Dean? An underestimation on his part, having to face the consequences as the sharp end of a knife painfully nudged against his back. A sense of deja vu zapped at his head, a repeat of his death ten years prior as the knife dug into the very same, sensitive spot of his spine. Funnily enough, the scar never truly faded away. It somewhat healed over time, but a faint outline of the mark remained etched onto his flesh.

When the man climbed to his full height, his feet came off the ground. Sam was never overly fond of his huge height. It definitely came with its fair share of perks, but he was already missing the time when manhandling him was anything but a walk in the park.

"Well, ain't this touchin' and all. I'd hate to step on your moment, but you know how it is, business and all."

Sam chewed harshly on the inside of his cheek as the knife dug deeper, making him arch his back in a grueling angle to avoid as much damage as possible. He hated this. He despised feeling so delicate and frail and vulnerable, his small, chubby hands uselessly pawing at the man's death grip on him, scratching and clawing.

It was ridiculous. It was beyond humiliating having to battle with this pandemonium of uncontrollable emotions, all of which were heightened over two hundred percent. He was a man in his thirties, for fuck's sake, but true to his previous words, he was gripped by this inherent need for his brother, his body reaching out to what's familiar, seeking consolation, knowing that Dean would make all evil and all the hurt disappear. Just like he used to do when Sam would climb into his bed and his brother would wrap his brave little arms around him, lips pressed over the crown of his head in a promise of forever.

The exhaustion, the ache in his bones and the searing pain on his back- it proved to be too much. Everything happened within seconds. Something cut through the air, followed by a nauseating crunch somewhere above his head, and suddenly, the arm around his neck was slipping, the agonizing pressure against his spine vanishing. Sam stumbled, turning just in time to see the man lifelessly collapsing to the ground, the First Blade piercing through the front of his right eye socket and cleaving straight through the back of his skull.

Then, he swayed on his feet, eyes rolling back. He never saw Dean's silhouette rapidly approaching. He was out cold before he even hit the ground.

Sam's eyes snapped open with a gasp, his body spasming as if awoken from a disturbing nightmare. There was softness, dipping and taking the shape of his body as if cradling him. Once his mind caught up to the present, he rubbed the bleary sleepiness away from his eyes and surveyed the room he found himself waking up to, his mind needing two seconds to connect the dots and come to the realization that this was his room at the Bunker.

He untangled his legs from the covers and rushed to his feet, nearly toppling over from the sudden vertigo that struck his senses. He leaned his weight against the edge of the bed, hand coming up at his temples. With a shuddering breath, Sam willed his body forward and across the room, yanking the door open. A frantic pulse, heart leaping to his throat, he bee-lined for Dean's room. He nearly crashed through the door, coming to a skidding halt when he found the room completely empty and just as untouched as four weeks ago.

He couldn't just- be gone, right? Why would he bother with a 12-hour drive to tuck Sam into his bed, safe and sound, only to bail on him again? Under normal circumstances, this would be normal- expected of him, even, but the reformed Dean, the Dean that claimed to be no longer human, the Dean who was Marked, more demon than mortal, would never fucking bother with Sam. Throat slit and the empty casket of his meat-suit discarded onto the disgusting alleyway- that should have been his fate by the Mark's hand, and yet, his brother went against all odds and brought him back. Brought him home.

Eyes darting back and forth in the empty hallways, Sam headed for the war room in short and hasty steps. He threw a brief glance at the opening of the library, and the silence that weighed on his narrow and bony shoulders was crushing, deafening. Then, he climbed up the steel stairs and set foot into the outside world. The Impala was gone, and with it went his last withering petal of hope. He turned heavenward and pushed the heels of his hands against the hot tears of frustration in his eyes until white spots appeared in his vision, refusing to break.

Fine. Fine. If Dean wanted to be gone, then he could stay gone. That was, until Sam figured out a way to successfully undo the effects of the spell and get his body back to normal. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, attempting to chase after his brother as he was now was suicide. Accepting the second chance he was given and putting it to good use was the least he could do.

Sam dragged his legs back inside the bunker and wasted no time in getting to work. For days, he buried himself deep into endless research, getting his hands on any book he could find related to witchcraft and spellwork. Unfortunately, it was going excruciatingly slower than usual since his attention span was now abysmal. No more than half an hour into reading through a past documented case, and suddenly the words seemed to be blending into each other, nearly losing all interest as if he couldn't be bothered to get himself out of this predicament. To make matters worse, his head was already nodding off at the four-hour mark, having exhausted all his mental energy. Frankly, it was beyond infuriating. Pushing himself through sleepless nights was out of the question, thus yielding to his body's needs and sneaking in a few hours' naps before resuming his research.

The other irritating change he had to deal with was his laughably below-average height. Until the unforeseen growth spurt around the age of sixteen, he was exceptionally small and short for a kid his age. The first time he tried to make himself something to eat, he had to climb onto the kitchen isle to reach the cookware stashed above. Then, with a single glare thrown at the enormous spice rack, he dragged over a chair and picked out the necessary ingredients. There was no one to bear witness, a small blessing, but the embarrassment lingered as he chewed in silence.

On the fourth night spent in solitude, Sam took a slightly different route for the night and ended up standing outside of Dean's bedroom. The decision was impulsive, barely giving it much thought as he stepped in and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. His legs guided him on their own, making him cross the room and clamber onto Dean's bed. He lay on his left side and vacantly stared at the brick wall. A few moments later, he turned his head and guiltily buried his face into his brother's pillow, smelling faintly of a familiar ghost, and curled into a fetal position. It was a piss poor excuse of comfort, edging on the right side of weird, yet he couldn't care less. Trapped close to two stories beneath the surface of the Earth and all alone, he fell asleep with his ribcage caving in on itself.

The following morning, he called Cas.

"Cas, hey, how are you holding up?"

The other side of the line fell silent, the faint sound of a running engine and whistling wind slipping through. "Who is this?"

He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't blame him when the voice of a child responded from his number. "Cas, it's me. It's Sam."

"Sam…? Why do you sound-"

"Ah, y'know. Witch. Spells. And now I'm suddenly 12 again." He blew out a breath and leaned back against the wooden chair, pulling his legs close and crossing them. "But I'm working on that. How are things on your end?"

"Slow." Cas replied, pausing for a moment. "Are you sure you're okay, Sam?"

He pursed his lips and allowed this past week's fatigue to wash over him, unconsciously leaning closer against the phone. "Uh, no, actually. It's Dean, he… the Mark turned him into a demon."

"It can't be," Cas said in disbelief. "I didn't even know that was possible. This certainly complicates things."

He snorted, "Yeah, you don't say."

"You know what you have to do, right?"

"Yeah." He said quietly. "That's why I called you. There's not much I can do in my current state and Dean is gone. Again. Do you think you could snag some blood bags and have them purified?"

"Okay, I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Cas. I owe you one."

He ended the call and craned his head back, staring at the ceiling. He fiddled with the phone, blunt nails picking at the upper right, chipped corner of his phone. The whole process was slow, but steady. Sam knew he was getting closer, only missing the last pieces to fit the puzzle of the mystery that was the spell. Dean's whereabouts, however, were still unaccounted for. Since the installed GPS in the Impala had been ripped off weeks ago, and with no other functioning device on his person, Dean was impossible to trace. Perhaps there was a chance he could have banded up with Crowley again. There was no way of telling, especially after the King of Hell had ratted him out and just up and vanished into thin air.

On the fifth night, he gathered enough information to pinpoint the origins of the specific spell. It was complicated, strong magic, unlike anything they've ever encountered before. From the few documented reports, there was only one known way to undo the effects. Unfortunately for him, it was something he was hoping to avoid. The curse could only be lifted by the caster themselves. From what he could tell, it was eerily related to binding magic since the spell seemed to be linked with the witch's life force and will. If the witch was to be killed while the hex was still in effect, not only would he not be freed from it, but it would solidify as a permanent seal over his soul. If anything were to go wrong and the hex backfired, Sam could be in danger of being stuck in his 12-year-old body forever.

Which meant he simply needed to track down this witch and threaten her into undoing it. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't raise any issue as it was no different from their usual, everyday hunt. Now, he hardly reached the gas pedal, much less be able to see clearly over the steering wheel. Whether he liked it or not, he was grounded. He despised having to ask for more, but Cas was his only form of help right now.

Sam went to sleep curled under Dean's bedcovers once again, promising himself that he'd call Cas first thing in the morning.

He must have woken around midnight, maybe an hour or so after. These days, when he went to sleep, he usually slept through the entirety of it. Be it war or the damn apocalypse, his adolescent body just knocked him out cold. That's why, when Sam was oddly roused by nothing at all, eyes sluggishly blinking, propping himself up on his elbows to see Dean standing at the doorway, he knew he was dreaming.

It was instant, really, the way his eyes welled up and he got all choked up, throat clogging. Maybe it was the way Dean was leaning against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed over his chest, head tilted in that familiar gesture of silent fondness. Maybe it was the safety provided by the figment of his imagination as he pushed his legs off the edge of the bed and didn't think twice about throwing himself into his brother's arms. Head barely reaching above Dean's sternum, Sam clung onto him like a lifeline.

This, he could have. This, a desperate construct of his mind to pacify the wail of loneliness, he welcomed with open arms. A selfish, fragile need of his big brother when it used to be the two of them holed up in crappy motels, lungs stuffed with the stench of alcohol and of gunpowder. And if no one but Sam would bear witness to this moment of weakness, all inhibitions were automatically stripped from his sense of pride.

And then, strong arms were sliding under the back of his thighs and behind his back, lifting him up. The Dean of his dream carried him to the bed, his bed, and laid him over the covers. When he began to pull away, Sam's hand shot out, snatching Dean's wrist. He tugged weakly, too exhausted and drowsy to truly care about the heat rushing to his cheeks and the constriction in his chest. He didn't need to say anything. When Dean angled his body closer, he allowed himself to fully relax with a heavy exhale through his nostrils, eyes falling shut. He was out in a matter of minutes.

The room was empty when Sam woke up seven hours later. He dragged himself out of bed and headed for the showers. Half an hour later, after having showered and brushed his teeth, he went to make himself some breakfast with a towel hung around his shoulders, drying his damp hair. He whipped up two peanut butter and banana sandwiches, no crust, and made his way to the library.

Now that he knew what he needed to do in order to dispel the hex, he supposed he could try his hand at digging up any recent witch activity in the surrounding areas near Beulah. He had a name and a hazy description for a profile, which, in retrospect, wasn't much to go on, but Sam knew their kind. Overzealous and entirely too arrogant. She was bound to make a mistake. Besides, Bobby's network of hunters touched international levels. If he couldn't find any reports on federal radio, he was sure that at least some hunters must have picked up a trail of the unusual.

He walked up the three stairs, stepping into the library. He was about to set the plate down when he caught a glimpse of a silhouette beneath the bangs that fell short over his eyes. Sam looked up, the world around him coming to a screeching halt as he took in the Carolina brand boots perched upon the table, up to the washed-off jeans and burgundy flannel, eyes leading up to Dean, leaning back in a chair with a half-empty beer in his hand.

He lost his grip, half of the plate landing on the edge of the table and tipping over, dropping to the floor with a resounding crash.

"Dean?" He gasped, trepidation seizing his heart. "What… What are you doing here?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow, fingernail trailing a path down the beer bottle's neck. "What, no hug, no heartfelt tears for your big bro? You sure looked the part yesterday."

He blinked, brows twitching in a frown. "Yesterday? What are you talking-" His mouth clamped shut at the flash of images, of memories that surfaced to the front of his mind. His brother standing at the mouth of his own room, the crashing wave of desperation, Sam's surrender to the itching need of comfort, and finally, the familiar weight of Dean's arms around his smaller body.

"I thought that was…" he trailed off, hands grasping at his jeans. His pulse kick-started at the sharp, knowing look in Dean's face. He averted his eyes, focusing on the grime and dirt underneath the boots' soles and tried to seize the rumbling chaos in his head. "What are you doing here, Dean?"

"Can't a guy swing by his house every now and then? Sue me."

Hurt blossomed into indignation at Dean's frivolous comment. "No, Dean. Not since you made it abundantly clear that you didn't want anything to do with me anymore. Not when you'd rather hitch a ride with Crowley, of all people."

"Maybe I left to save myself from your bitchy fits. God, you're even more insufferable now."

Sam breathed harshly through his nose, chest rising and falling rapidly. He took a moment to study his brother and think. Dean wouldn't simply waltz back home in his current state, not unless he wanted something. Killing Sam was the first, obvious reason that popped into his head. Although more dangerous than he's ever been, right at this moment, with the Blade out of sight, Dean's laid-back demeanor reeked of anything but murder intent. And if what he said was true and Dean had been here the previous night, slitting his throat in his sleep would have been no more difficult than swatting a fly. Maybe he needed the thrill of the conscious kill, Sam argued, to see the life seeping away from his little brother, and if so, why hadn't he already? They were less than ten feet apart. Dean could have killed him the moment he set foot in the mouth of the library.

This form of his brother had shown nothing but apathy, perhaps contempt, as much as striking emotion was concerned. If not to kill him off, then what?

But Dean had saved him, he thought hysterically. Back at The Black Spur, if not for him, Sam would have been dead meat at the hands of that man. He went completely out of his way to bring him back without so much as a scratch on him. Maybe there was truth in Dean's claims, but it was far from the full story.

"I don't believe you." He said, and that seemed to tick Dean off, a twitch in his jaw, the muscles on his neck straining ever so slightly. Now, he looked something akin to the predator that was lurking underneath the meat-suit of a human. The air grew thin as he waited for the other shoe to drop, half-expecting Dean to surge out of the chair and wrap his hands around his throat. Seconds leading up to minutes, a suffocating silence as they continued to look at each other.

When he was about seventy-five percent certain that Dean wouldn't make a move on him, he knelt and began cleaning the mess, gathering the shattered ceramic from the plate he had dropped. Despite the spate of emotions and accusations thrown at Dean's face, Sam was deeply happy and thankful to have him back, for however long that was. His sudden appearance meant that Crowley had moved on for good, and he wasn't about to start complaining when his brother was in his sights. In fact, this could work in their favor. If he managed to keep Dean grounded long enough for Cas to bring the purified blood, they might have a legitimate shot at this.

He hissed at the sudden prickling pain, quickly snatching his hand back. A sharp-edged piece had nicked the base of his index finger, and although the cut looked superficial, he was beginning to bleed quite profusely. Blood dripped down his palm, reaching the beginnings of his wrist. He clutched at his hand, about to get up and rush to the kitchen, when a shadow loomed above him. Fingers closed around his wrist, pressing against his pulse point. Dean was crouched merely a foot away, big and tall and imposing. Once, before his freakish growth spurt, Sam used to be shorter than Dean. Somewhere down the line, he had entirely forgotten how it felt; weaker, lesser. Powerless. His brother's hand, now wholly engulfing his, was a jarring reminder of those old and buried memories.

"I'm fine, it's not even-" he choked on his words as he watched Dean lean down and drag his tongue over his palm, lapping up the trickle of fresh blood. Instinctively, he tugged at his hand, but the fingers around his wrist merely tightened in silent warning. Lips trailed up to cover the open wound, a sudden pressure developing as Dean sucked at the cut.

His body began to tremble, gut coiling with something unspoken, leaving him breathless and dizzy. A faint memory scratched insistently at his frontal lobe. It was a glimpse of the past, a memory long since buried but relevant, freakishly enough. Once or twice, when Sam was young and reckless, no more than 5 or 6, trouble seemed to seek him out. The first time he got hurt badly, he had found one of Dean's knives and figured, Heaven knows why, that it was a toy.

Of course, it didn't end well for him. As soon as his wails pierced the motel room, Dean was barrelling through outside the bathroom door in a flash, 9 years old and 65 pounds soaking wet, prepared to take on the world.

"Dean, enough." He tried, another futile attempt at yanking his hand. Dean was unmoving, his words falling on deaf ears. Sam's heart violently jumped when those green eyes snapped up to meet his. A second later, Dean stepped back, Sam using this opportunity to jerk his arm back, cradling it close to his chest.

"See? Don't say I never did anything for you. I can play nice." Dean sauntered back to his chair and sprawled back, hand reaching for the beer once more. "Don't forget to clean up your mess."

Dazed, his mind still reeling, grasping at the world around him to make some sort of sense of what just happened, Sam slowly stood up as if his body was moving in autopilot and went to the kitchen. True to his words, the bleeding had actually stopped. He cleaned it for good measure, slapped a band-aid over it and he was as good as new. After he had quickly cleaned up and safely thrown away the broken plate (mourning the perfectly good breakfast that he, unfortunately, had to throw in the trash), he reluctantly returned to the library.

It would be a lie if he said he wasn't surprised to find Dean still there, alive and real, neither a figment of his imagination nor a manifestation of his rapidly deteriorating psyche. There were a million questions he wanted to throw at Dean's direction and more, pent-up frustration, relief, trepidation, and a tender ache all boxed together, fizzling underneath his skin. He wanted to scream, he wanted to take Dean by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. He wanted to look at Dean and not feel this uncanny eeriness of something that closely resembled his brother, but was far from. He wanted things to go back to normal- as normal as humanly possible for them, he mused humorlessly.

But, maybe, just this once, he shouldn't push it. Sam hated to think of it this way, but Dean was a bombshell ready to explode, its trigger and its origins completely unknown. Anything could set him off. Anything that didn't seem entertaining enough or worthwhile, anything that could potentially piss him off. Until Sam had his body back and Cas' help, he needed to play smart at this. If not, he risked losing Dean again, and this time, maybe for good.

Something had brought him back to Sam, and he was going to cling onto that with everything he's got.

He grabbed his laptop and took a seat opposite Dean, quietly resuming his work when there was no visible shift in Dean's demeanor. Every few seconds, his eyes would dart above his laptop screen, restless and jittery. His brother had pulled out one of his special magazines and was leisurely flipping through it, occasionally disrupted by brutish sounds or a clearing of the throat. If Sam were to close his eyes and lose himself in the disgustingly familiar ambiance, he'd almost think that the last month was merely a part of his nightmares and this was another, usual Thursday for them. He tried to reserve an idea of the sanctum of peace, but the Mark of Cain that was etched onto Dean's upper forearm, sleeve rolled up to the elbow and proudly bared for the world to see, posed as a reminder that this momentary 'truce' was nothing but a fragile illusion.

He tensed, fingers freezing over the keyboard when Dean suddenly got up and walked out. Every fiber in his body was screaming at him to get up and chase after him as he braced to hear the distant sound of the exit doors slam. No more than a minute later, Dean was back with an unopened bottle of whiskey in his hand.

"You found a case yet?"

He blinked and looked up, caught off guard at Dean's attempt at small talk. "Uh, no. I'm researching." He said, clicking onto the live feed of one of the local cameras one mile off The Black Spur before skipping to the next one.

"Alright, geek-boy. About?"

This wouldn't work. Even if he sat here for hours, he doubted he could catch anything. He needed access to the logs of the exact date and time when the witch was present at the same time as him at the bar.

"How to undo the spell." He closed the window and propped his chin on his left hand, tapping his finger on the base panel. Maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to blatantly lie to Dean through his teeth, but Sam couldn't trust him or his intentions when those pitch-black eyes still adorned his face.

"Uh-huh. Any leads?" Dean drawled, taking a swing of the whiskey.

He nodded, "Yeah, maybe. I think I'm onto something, but it's still a work in progress."

His response was met with silence. Sam glanced up, breath hitching in his throat at the intensity behind Dean's heavy gaze. He clenched his hand into a fist, nails digging insistently at the fresh cut. The twinge of pain was minuscule, but it served its purpose, although barely, needing an anchor, a distraction to keep him levelheaded.

"What?"

"Nothing, I'm just thinking how it feels to be going through puberty twice. Sweet sixteen, am I right?"

He scoffed at the suggestive look Dean threw his way.

"Man, I wish. Nothing beats being twelve again."

"Eleven."

Sam paused, looking at Dean with a slight frown, confusion playing at his features.

"You're back to being eleven, not twelve. You remember your birthday back in 1994? You have that same stupid face when dad gave you that computer. A Macintosh Performa. You wouldn't shut up about the thing."

"Yeah, right," he mumbled, but he remembered the lingering feeling of the blurred memory. He remembered John's disappointment, eyes dimming when his answer for a birthday present was a computer and not a Beretta. "As if there's a difference."

"I can tell the difference."

There were a lot of things Dean was, a hundred more at the moment under the influence of the Mark, but the hardened flatness in his tone spoke of nothing but sincerity. There was something in that look, something in that jagged gleam, frenzied and unadulterated, something that caused him to shift in his chair and cower, lowering his attention back on the laptop screen, staring blankly, incapable of concentrating when he was the sole focus under Dean's predatory eyes across the table. His brother was intense, always was, but this… this was something different, leaving Sam fumbling in the dark.

The rest of the day passed slowly. They ate- well, he did, at least. It could hardly be called eating when Dean mostly stuffed his mouth-hole with whatever artery-clogging and cholesterol-filled processed food he found available. They hardly talked. Dean looked bored out of his mind, twitching uncontrollably as if there was a bone-deep itch he could not scratch. Half the time, Sam thought his brother was one breath away from leaping across the space between them and slamming his head onto the table.

When the big clock hit eleven, Sam closed his laptop and stood up a tad too quickly.

"Alright, I'm gonna hit the hay."

With his laptop tucked under his armpit, he looked at Dean from the corner of his eye who, apparently, didn't even bother to acknowledge his departure- if he had heard him at all. Shockingly enough, the day had rolled by more smoothly than he had initially expected. Almost too good to be real.

He walked down the hallway, faltering in his steps when he passed his brother's bedroom. He spared the door a glance before he picked up his pace again, hurrying along to his own room. Once inside, he paused with his hand around the door handle. Three beats later, he turned the lock in place with a quiet click. Perhaps he was being too paranoid about this. Dean had about a hundred different opportunities to hurt him up until now, yet Sam was still in one piece. However, just this once, he figured it wouldn't hurt to go with his gut instinct.

Going to sleep in his own bed had never felt so alien, so wrong before. He highly doubted Dean needed much sleep these days, but for both of their sakes, he endured. Things were already fucked up as it were. He didn't need to go and make it any weirder.

Hours later, his sleep-addled brain barely registered the weight upon his head. He hummed, a quiet, huffy sound, shifting restlessly in his bed.

"Shh," a voice shushed, low and tender. "Go back to sleep, Sammy. That's my boy." His body reacted immediately, the tension in his muscles draining, melting back into the mattress. The weight returned, and that's when he realized, faraway and detached, that the comforting warmth was fingers carding through his hair, lulling him back under. Unconsciously, he leaned against the touch, hands closing around the covers as if trying to keep the presence near.

Only seconds later, his chest was steadily rising and falling in deep slumber. Green eyes never left his face, a ferocious heat of something instinctual and primal, possessive in the way his bangs were swept away from his face, lips brushing over his brow. The touch lingered, drifting closer, a thumb stroking the softness of his round cheek.

"I'm sorry."

Soon after, the door fell shut, leaving him none the wiser.

On the following morning, Sam woke up with a foreboding, a caustic stirring in his stomach that only worsened when he found the door unlocked. He knocked on Dean's bedroom, waiting a few seconds for no response. When he pushed the door open, the room was empty. He made rounds; the kitchen, the war room, the library. Searching anywhere Dean could be passed out at to no avail.

He was gone.

The realization shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. He had been bracing himself for it ever since Dean showed up two days ago. It was only a matter of time, after all. Sooner or later, he was bound to skip town. Sam just didn't expect that sooner would be quite so soon.

For the rest of the day, he kept busy. He called up the only person he knew who could hack into anything and get access to the CCTV footage he needed from two weeks before. Only fifteen minutes later, a notification popped up on his laptop with an incoming email from Charlie. Four separate videos were attached. After a quick thank-you text and a promise to take her out when all this nightmare was dealt with, he pressed on the first video. He watched through all three videos at least twice before capturing the best shot. Even if Sam might have some trouble remembering the details of her features, he could tell that the unsuspecting face turned towards the camera was the witch from that night.

He ran a facial recognition program and found a hit only ten seconds later. He pulled up the profile of a woman named Isabella Edwards, age 24, origin of birth St. Charles, Missouri, no official home address cataloged. The interesting part was her criminal record; aggravated assault, armed robbery, and arson, among other things. This was another case of a forged identity since the woman in the video looked to be at least in her mid-thirties, but he had something solid to work with in tracking down this run-of-the-mill Jane Doe.

The next day, he woke up sick.

He supposed he had no one to blame but himself since the early signs were there (uncontrollable sneezing that promptly led to the start of a sore throat), yet he chose to ignore them and soldier on. But really, it wasn't as if Sam had been neglecting himself these past weeks. If anything, he'd say that he managed to catch up on all the missing hours of sleep for the past ten years. He hadn't even come into contact with anybody, much less taken a step into the outside world to somehow contract the flu. But then again, he thought miserably as he sat hunched over the table, muscles aching and his body shaking terribly from the chills, perhaps the deprivation of vitamin D did not sit well with his 11-year-old body, now more susceptible to infections. Whatever. Give it a day or two, and the symptoms will go away by themselves.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

He was woken up near sunrise by the violent rumbling in his abdomen, nausea building its way up his throat. His first instinct was to call out for Dean. His brother would come running by his bedside, calloused and gentle hands that had nursed him back to health numerous times in the past. He'd know what to do. He knew how to make Sam feel better, a sixth sense when it came to taking care of his little brother.

As soon as Sam parted his lips, he leaned over the edge of the bed and puked all over the floor, pungent and bitter, acidic bile burning the walls of his esophagus. And it didn't stop for a long while, even after he had thrown up all of his stomach's contents and his body had nothing left to give, he kept retching and dry heaving, his abdomen cramping, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. When his gagging eventually eased to the occasional hiccups, he all but collapsed, deathly pale and shivering from the cold because Dean was not coming.

However, Sam refused to sleep next to his own pool of vomit, so to make matters worse, he forced himself onto wobbly feet to go and fetch the mop and bucket and clean his mess up. Once he was done, albeit with a sloppy job, he curled into a tight ball under the covers and tried to fall asleep. He spent the rest of the day alone and in pain, blinking in and out of consciousness.

On the second day of continued suffering, Sam felt like he was one step inside the grave. He could hardly see through the white spots flashing in his vision, eyes sensitive and irritated from the hammering headache. His throat felt like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper, and with each coughing fit, he was certain he would eventually hack up a lung. He barely remembered the last time he ate, his stomach churning with nausea at the thought of consuming anything edible. He needed to get some water in his system, if only to alleviate the dryness in his throat.

The walk from his bedroom to the kitchen was pure torture. He instantly regretted it as soon as he attempted to get out of bed and make himself vertical. Sam made about six different stops to catch his breath before resuming dragging his feet, weight supported by the walls. Almost fifteen minutes later, he all but collapsed against the kitchen counter. He grabbed a dirty cup from the sink, finding himself incapable of caring for hygiene as he struggled to fill it up with tap water, his hand trembling terribly. Sam tried to drink in slow, measured gulps, knowing that if he got too greedy, he would only end up puking the water up.

His clothes, the only ones that fit him since they got shrunk alongside him, clung to his body from the sweat and grime, most likely adorned with dried stains of vomit he was unable to smell since his nose clogged up to hell. He breathed harshly through his chapped lips, head tilted to the side. There was a faint murmur beyond the buzzing in his ears, something eerily similar to a voice. Sam snorted as he set the glass back into the sink. Hallucinations, huh? He hasn't had those for a while, now. Can't say he missed them much, to be honest.

Then, a weight on his shoulder, whipping him around.

"How the fuck did you manage to get sick?"

He squeezed his eyes under the strain of the light on the ceiling before squinting to look at the blurry face above him, managing to make out familiar stubble, sharp jaw, green eyes, and, really, wasn't this just the real kicker? Sam had sunken so low that he was hallucinating his brother. Again.

"How do you think? Certainly no thanks to you." He grumbled and tugged at his hand. "Let me go."

"You reek. I leave for two days and you decide to have an early slumber party with death?"

The dam burst from the lightning bolt of rage that coursed through his veins, wrenching his arm away with all the remaining strength he had left in his small body. For being the sickness's phantom, the Dean in his head damn well knew how to get under his skin. "Fuck you, Dean! I'm tired of your bullshit. Don't you go start pretending you give a shit about me, not now, now when you're- this."

He sighed heavily and brought a hand up to cover his eyes, the relentless pounding snuffing out the flames of his anger within a blink. What was he even doing, sitting around and arguing with himself? All it did was make him feel worse. "You know what? Just leave me alone. You've done a great job at it so far."

The silence that followed was a moment's blessing before his bubble was brutally burst. A hand caught his wrist in a brutal grip, the bones inside his thin arm grinding together as he was dragged forward. He shouted, looking up in alarm, quickly coming to terms with the fact that this was no hallucination. Sam fought a rising panic at the quiet storm in Dean's steel expression, a poorly-restrained anger reaching its tipping point. They bickered and argued and fought to the point of exchanging blows, but this scary expression on his brother's face was something else entirely.

He fumbled and tripped over his own feet trying to keep up, losing balance and tripping, knees scraping against the floor. He clawed at the hand around his wrist, tugging frantically and apologizing, tumbling over his words demanding to be let go. He nearly puked twice on the way, feeling bile rising to his throat from the excessive shaking, managing to somehow swallow it down before giving another reason for Dean to be furious. They finally seemed to reach their destination as he was shoved forward, rubbing at the already forming bruise around his wrist. A brief glance to take in the showers, his features clouding with confusion and something akin to mounting dread.

"Strip."

The blood froze in his veins, stumbling around to look up at Dean like a gaping fish.

"No." He objected albeit weakly. Dean's eyes narrowed, glinting with something dangerous.

"I'm not gonna say it twice."

He squared his narrow shoulders, latching onto his own irritation. Anger he could deal with. "And I said no. What the fuck, Dean? I'm not a little kid-"

The backhand that caught him across the cheek was strong enough to sting, his head snapping to the side. His left cheek throbbed, the skin flushing red. Sam's eyes were wide and vulnerable as he touched his face, lifting his head up. Their playful tussling was often a hundred times more painful than a mere slap across the face. Besides, he wasn't one to yield so easily under the strain of pain (having undergone decades of endless torture at the hands of the devil himself), yet he could hardly explain the lump that swelled in the back of his throat and the strain in his lungs, suddenly feeling as if the pain was unbearable.

"You don't wanna listen? Fine."

He was given no warning as Dean got up into his personal space and- and began tearing at his clothes, the collar of his shirt choking him for a second before it got pulled off. Then, when Dean's fingers groped for the buttons of his jeans, that's when he started fighting back. It was pathetic, really. Punching and kicking with all he has, though there never was any winning chance to begin with since Sam had been unfairly drained with fatigue over the past few days, but the panic that settled into his gut was real and overwhelming, crying out in protest when his brother wrapped an arm around his midsection, pinning his arms to his sides and effortlessly lifting him up to yank down his jeans and underwear.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard the hiss of the shower turning on. Moments later, he was forced under the cascading water, yelping and writhing at the frigid temperature that hit his skin, thousands of needles stabbing at his body. With a hand roughly scrapping the back of his neck, Sam was kept under the stream until he was soaked through, trembling and teeth chattering.

However, the real torment began when the valve was turned off and the shampoo cap was popped open. It was humiliating. Emasculating in a way that Sam had never experienced before. And there was nothing to do but grit his teeth as he felt Dean's hands scrubbing him down, shoulders and arms, working his way down his torso and over his crotch, choking on a strangled sound when fingers worked around and under his small, flaccid dick. The white-hot shame that burst within his ribcage flayed him alive, drenching his entire body in sizzling heat. The same, efficient movements, trailing to his spine and upper back, another touch at the dip of his waist, holding him still as a hand slipped between his ass. Sam fought against the stinging behind his eyes, blood roaring in his ears, thinking that suffocating on his own vomit would have been less humiliating than this.

He kept silent while Dean scrubbed him down to his skinny legs, calves and underneath his soles. A few seconds, water ran down his body with a slightly less agonizing temperature, a small mercy. There were no words exchanged throughout this whole ordeal. This time, Sam knew to keep his mouth shut and endure the command of his big brother's hands.

It felt like eons had passed before Dean was done shampooing his hair, rinsing him down for good, and drying him up with a towel. He stepped out, leaving Sam standing and freezing his ass off alone in the showers for no more than a minute or two. He refused to look at his brother, but he could make out from the corner of his vision a bundle of fresh clothes. Then, he knelt down and tapped at Sam's ankle. Stubbornly, he lifted his foot but barely. Just because the fight was drained out of him didn't mean he was going to make this easy.

He cursed at the harsh pinch on his thigh, head automatically snapping down to find green eyes silently seething, glaring up at him. Lifting his other foot, he allowed Dean to pull up the shorts and tie them as tightly as possible. Even so, since they weren't his size, they hung loosely on his hips, but tight enough not to slip down his legs. With a tap on his bicep, Sam raised his arms above his head for a long-sleeved shirt that his scrawny body was swimming in. He peered down at himself, his heart lurching when he finally noticed that these weren't his clothes.

Even though he could barely stand, eyes beginning to droop, he would be caught dead before admitting that the shower made him feel slightly better. He half-expected to be dragged back, the scorching flames of shame having stilled to a low simmering, more so lost in Dean's unpredictable behavior.

Suddenly, he was being lifted off the floor, his hands instinctively batting out for support, clutching onto Dean's shoulders. Sam was propped on his brother's hip like a toddler, fingers tightening when the silence was broken by cheerful whistling. They bypassed his bedroom and headed straight for Dean's. He was laid down over the covers, thinking that this was his ticket to a fleeting salvation. Sam could clock out and welcome the creeping void that was crawling up his limbs, making his body heavy and numb, a reprieve from having to go through the motion of everything that transpired. He closed his eyes, settling in when the mattress behind him dipped from the added weight. He tensed, flinching at the warmth that cocooned him from behind, Dean's larger frame enveloping him completely.

He squirmed, grasping the pillow, working himself up to it. A sharp, shaky exhale, and then he slid his legs further upon the bed, hoping to put some distance-

A hand shot out, closing around his thigh in a firm, assertive grip. A silent warning. After a few, agonizing seconds, Dean's hand moved from his thigh, marking its way over Sam's throat, thumb stroking the skin under his pulse.

Seconds turned into minutes. The chest pressed against his back rose and fell in sync with his own breathing pattern; heavy and deep, a tempting lullaby. He was beginning to lose himself into it, a false sense of safety. There was no place on earth quite as secure and as damaging as his big brother's arms. In this place, he could experience the birth of something sacred yet deviant, an opportunity for something new. A clean slate, past mistakes overwritten. He didn't think himself capable of sleep when the monster of volatile impulse loomed over him. Despite the future promise of unease, Sam was out like a light.

In the dead of the night, a pair of eyes watched him, the igniting sparks, flickering into an impending flame. The kiss upon the crown of his head was the final act, sealing a pact made of blood.

Sam woke up feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. The lingering effects of the flu were still battling in his system and his body was aching all over. At least he didn't feel like he was approaching imminent death. He yawned and moved to stretch his limbs, but was constricted by a familiar weight holding him captive. His precious moment of respite was shattered, snapping him back to reality.

The absence of sound beyond his own breathing was jarring. Body still like a statue, and if he didn't know any better, if one wasn't looking for it, it was near impossible to feel the inaudible second set of breathing.

"Did you sleep?" He croaked out, staring at the brick wall across him.

"I don't sleep anymore." The answer was clear and lucid against the back of his head. Not that Dean would have any reason to lie about this, but it served as confirmation that Dean had spent the entirety of the night unmoving and in complete silence, holding him and simply… existing. Frankly, he didn't know how he should be feeling. A part of him was, insanely enough, touched. For some unfathomable reason, though downright creepy and violating about a dozen boundaries between them, his brother still cared. In his own, twisted and fucked up way, he seemed to latch onto Sam, imprinting on him.

Dean's hand was spread over his sternum, firm and secure, caressing him in slow, circular movements. Sam's treacherous body all but settled back against his brother's chest, loosened and floating. Then, he remembered yesterday's humiliation ritual, evasive touches, the sting of hurt, and suddenly, he was wide awake and wanted to get as far away as possible.

"Dean, let me up." He pressed when the arms around him refused to budge. "C'mon, I need to brush my teeth, my mouth tastes like death. Unless you want me to puke all over your face, and I will, I suggest you get going."

Two seconds later, he wriggled around to look up at Dean, his lips parting in another oncoming retort. The words withered on his mouth when he saw the stiff and- contemplative look on his face as if he was mentally weighing the pros and cons given the ultimatum.

"Dean." He insisted with an odd squeak to his strained voice.

"Alright, jeez, stop being such a baby. Here," then, the pressure was gone but before he could push himself up, he was being lifted again, disoriented and struggling to find the right words bred by another wave of chagrin. Dean set him down on the edge of a sink and stepped closer with a thigh near between his legs. He reached behind Sam to grab the toothbrush and paste when it finally clicked in his head.

"Absolutely the fuck not." He objected and was about to hop off the sink when an arm snapped down to grip the right side of the sink, boxing him in.

Dean tutted, "Language. Don't make me get the soap, Sammy."

"Dean, you can't be serious."

"Sure am. Now open up for me."

There was a smudge of toothpaste on the brush as it was brought closer to his mouth. He drew back and petulantly turned his head away, somewhere in the back of his mind grasping onto the fact that this used toothbrush was not Sam's. Dean seemed hellbent on going through with this, emotion swelling in his chest getting the best of him, thus slapping his brother's hand away and lashing out.

"I can brush my own goddamn teeth! I'm not an invalid."

He didn't see it coming. Even if he did, had Dean been aiming for him, he couldn't possibly have hoped to dodge it fast enough. Sam only heard the sickening crunch of glass shattering and flinched away, eyes wide in muted alarm. A shrilling noise pierced his ears, every inch of his body crawling with dread, a battle of will as he battled to keep still. Dean pulled his arm back, from the now broken mirror, deliberate in brushing against Sam's neck. With that same hand, fresh blood smeared upon the knuckles but without any hint of bruises, Dean gripped his face, fingers trembling from the lingering penchant for violence, digging into his mushed cheeks.

"Open your mouth."

The hold on his cheeks relaxed, and he did, reluctantly, unwillingly, opening his mouth wide and fixing his eyes on the ceiling. Dean began with the upper teeth, using small, circular movements. With gentle and slow strokes, he raised the toothbrush at an angle to brush Sam's gums. Then, his head was tilted for easier access behind the inside surface of his teeth. His brother followed the same process for the lower teeth, the hand on his chin sliding back, cupping his nape. The silence that caged them was sweltering. Sam struggled to breathe normally through his nose, fingers uncontrollably twitching, clenching in a vice grip around the edges of the basin.

It was affectionate. Intimate. The two of them grew up tangled in such irredeemable ways, a bond laced in suffering and love, its meat hooks cutting identical slits through their hearts, connecting them as one. It was all predestined. The night of the fire when Dean's small but secure arms carried him out of fate's churning ashes had been nothing but the final act, the beginning of the end. Everything that followed was inevitable. Normalcy was never their reality.

The extent to which they would go for each other, the sins committed in the name of blood and family would not go unpunished because when total annihilation was neigh and the water ran red and the underworld reaped its necessary justice over the skies, they would always choose each other. There was once a time when Sam denied the truth, from himself and from the world. But the truth remained one and the same; there was nothing he wouldn't do for this brother, even if it meant his hand would be the one to throw in the matchstick and watch the world burn.

And this, he thought, this warped, play-pretend stemmed from something damaged and forsaken within Dean, revealing the soul's innermost desire through the absolution of mortal inhibitions. His brother had given him the world, the moon and stars if Sam were to so much as ask. Maybe, just maybe, until things were back to normal, Sam could give back. He could give him this.

"Tongue." Dean said, and he obediently stuck out his tongue, resisting the urge to gag when the coarseness of the toothbrush cleaned the surface and the sides. When Dean seemed satisfied enough, Sam hopped down and spat the remaining toothpaste in the sink before rinsing out his mouth with water.

"Thanks, De," there was a waver in his voice, as the nickname he hadn't used since he turned eight, fell with choked emotion from his lips. It was terrifying how right it felt in the moment. The reaction was instant. Dean went rigid beside him, feeling the phantom creak in his own neck from the whiplash as he snapped his head down. The smoldering ferocity in his eyes, raw and primal, the way it brutalized Dean's expression should have provided all he needed for the warning signs to go off in his head. And yet, against better judgment, Sam could only see the uncontainable elation taking shelter in those eyes.

A hand cradled the left side of his face, thumb lovingly stroking over the redness of his cheekbone. A moment later, when Dean hoisted him up against his hip like a babe, Sam went with no argument, his arms almost automatically reaching around his brother's shoulders. Perhaps he could swallow down the knot of mortification for a couple more days, a small sacrifice hidden from the eyes of the world, and could only pray that when all this was over and done with, for his sake, Dean wouldn't remember a thing.

As soon as he was set down on one of the stools in the kitchen, he knew what was coming. It had been days since his last meal, and with Dean's bustling around the kitchen, it was pretty obvious he was working to remedy the situation. The only thing was, Sam would rather let himself starve from hunger than put anything in his mouth. Sooner or later, he would need to put something edible in his system, but the rumbling in his stomach vehemently opposed the idea. Then again, it's not like he could argue when half an hour later Dean was sliding to the stool next to him, a bowl of chicken noodle soup on the table.

He sucked in a breath, staring at the soup in spite. The savory aroma invading his nostrils had the opposite effect, a wave of nausea rippling through his insides. I'm not hungry, the words tangled on the tip of his tongue, but a cautious glance at Dean's face was more than enough to have him swallowing down any protest. It wouldn't do him any good. One wrong word, one wrong movement, and the violent outbursts could get really ugly real soon.

Sam watched as his brother stirred the soup for a moment before he scooped up a hint of broth with the spoon, blew on it and then brought it close to his face. He parted his lips and sipped on the soup, the warmth sliding down his esophagus. He waited for a beat, smacking his lips ('cause damn did it taste fucking delicious), and when it didn't seem like anything was going to come up his throat, he leaned closer to accept the next spoonful. Twenty minutes later, the bowl was nearly empty and his belly felt full. Dean reached up, swiping his thumb over his lips to wipe off any excess food from his mouth and stood up to put the bowl in the sink.

That night, he fell asleep tucked under Dean's chin again.

Despite his actions, Sam was under no false illusion. That's why, when he awoke to a cold bed once more, he wasn't surprised. The twinge of hurt, however, was difficult to stifle. He went about his day, grateful that he was nearly back to perfect health, nothing more than the lingering effects of a headache and a sensitive stomach following him throughout the day.

He grabbed his phone and dialed in Garth's number, his thumb pausing an inch above the call button. To save himself the explanation of his predicament, he put his phone down and turned on his laptop. He emailed Garth all the information on the witch in question, Isabella Edwards, alongside the footage Charlie provided him. Since his hands were pretty much tied up, he knew he could trust Garth with this case. Strictly recon, no contact. Sam emphasized the last part lest Garth do some irreparable damage by killing her before he had the chance to undo the hex. Better to play it safe and gauge the level of threat they were dealing with before engaging. Besides, he would need Cas to zap them to the witch's location and be the one to ensure that she wouldn't pull any shady business. He only hoped Cas had enough angel mojo to go through with the teleportation.

Eight hours later, the sound of the exit door to the bunker being pushed open reached his ears, making him perk up in his seat. The descent on the stairs came in slow, measured steps. Clunk, clunk, clunk. One after the other. When Dean appeared at the entrance of the library, his heart plummeted to his gut. He was covered from head to toe in blood, fresh and dark, clothes soaked with it. He didn't think. Sam's body moved on its own, running up to Dean's side in short, hasty steps, panicked hands patting down his body, searching for the open injuries. In his brother's macabre silence, he found his answer.

Sam took a step back, his own hands smeared with blood. Even if Dean had suffered any physical wounds, all traces would be long gone by now on account of his demonic healing factor. He knew better than that. The blood his brother was bathed in, the blood that now stained Sam's hands- it belonged to some poor, unfortunate souls. He resisted the urge to wipe his palms against his pants, eyes flickering up to Dean's face.

What could he possibly say? A fool he was not, but the youthful naivety inside him wanted to believe otherwise. How many? How many innocents were added to the body count? A couple of dozen? More? He didn't voice any of these accusing questions. After all, he was the last person to preach and pass judgment.

"Was it quick?" Was the question that slipped out of his lips instead.

"Sure." A detached look of quenched hunger followed in suit after the lazy lie.

Dean walked past him toward his personal stash of booze, grabbing three bottles of whiskey before sprawling back onto one of the chairs, legs slamming over the table. And then, the First Blade was set beside the bottles, the sharp, smooth surface of the carved bone doused in crimson. The first bottle of whiskey was downed in a matter of seconds. He watched his brother destroy himself, indulging in the wells of unmanning hedonism.

"You can't keep doing this. You've gotta let me help you. Please." He pleaded in a quiet but firm tone, but really, there was no way to delicately breach the topic of curing Dean from the Mark.

"And how do you plan on doing that, exactly?" He said with a belittling smile.

"You know how."

Dean snapped his fingers in mock delight, "Ah, yes, through purified blood! Tell me, Sammy, do you plan on strapping me down and handling business yourself? Children shouldn't be playing with sharp objects, but you're more than welcome to try."

He gritted his teeth, the conviction inside his small body boiling. He inhaled, holding it for two seconds before letting the emotions wash out of him. "Not today. Maybe not tomorrow, either, but when I get my body back, I promise you, I'll try my damn best. I'd say enjoy this while it lasts because I will get you out of this, Dean. I will get my brother back, even if it's the last thing I do."

The smile slipped from his face, but the gleam in those green eyes was ominous and knowing, reeking of truth untold. Not that he expected Dean to roll over without putting up a fight, but as time passed, the lines began to blur into each other. This wasn't his brother, not truly, not where it mattered, but it was still his big brother in every sense of the term when Sam was sick and dying and there was no one for him but Dean.

He saw movement, but his brain barely had the time to catch up, to shield himself while the empty bottle of whiskey was hurled against the wall next to him. First, came the sound of glass shattering. Then, followed a sharp, stinging pain over his right cheek and arm. He touched over the ache on his cheek, staring down at his shaky fingers, an addition of his own blood to the mix.

"Seriously, I was having the best goddamn day. Scored a few, hit all my shots. And I said- well, think I'll reward myself by getting hammered, veg-out in front of the TV, see if there's anything solid." He flinched at the slam of the second whiskey on the table, heart picking up pace at the rising, hot-blind anger in Dean's voice. "But I've had about enough of your bitching Sammy, and sorry's not gonna cut it this time."

He hadn't missed this at all. A raging alcoholic, a short-tempered drunkard, passed out on the couch with the TV playing too loud and too bright, spit-fulls of orders and hardened looks, a heavy hand of discipline when correction was in order. Perhaps there was no hope of escaping the past, not when it defined them. And now, with his back going ramrod straight and the nostalgic pit in his stomach, biting down on the knee-jerk reaction to grumble sorry sir, he saw the bitter reflection of John Winchester in his brother.

"Come here."

He went, moving in slow, measured steps. Sam stood in front of Dean and fixed his eyes on his open collar, a part of the fabric unblemished from blood. Fingers tilted his chin up, a tender, possessive graze upon the cut on his cheek- not in silent apology, but as a reminder. He had always been Dean's. In every shape or form, in all universes, in all realities. His brother's keeper and guardian. His everything. His. And Sam knew, had known of this indisputable fact ever since he took his first steps towards his big brother's open arms.

"But what the hell- you know what? I'll forgive you and forget all about your little tantrum. Even when I want to bash your skull in, I can't stay mad at this cute face." Dean huffed, fingers at his chin, affectionately shaking his head from side to side. "How about it, hm? Won't you give your big brother a little kiss to make it all better?"

It was universally known that Dean got off on finding new ways to embarrass Sam. In fact, thinking that it couldn't get any worse than being forced to act like an infant, denied all agency and autonomy, was naive. It was even more foolish to believe that the bottomless pit of unbridled hunger in his brother would fail in creativity or be satiated so easily.

He remembered how Dean used to kiss his forehead when he was no more than a couple of years old, a loving gesture that ceased altogether when Sam was old enough to carry his own firearm. Over the years, physical affection between them became something of an old, lost lover. Besides the occasional smack on the expanse of their backs and brushing of shoulders, the near-death or postmortem hugs were the only form of connection they shared. On more than a few instances, Sam found himself yearning for the soothing weight of his brother. It was weird, of course it was, especially when it was coming from an overgrown, 6'4 adult, but nothing between them was ever going to be normal. And Dean— the repression of anything remotely emotional— was a form of self-flagellation, a type of love he did not know how to accept.

The fingers on his chin fell away. He leaned forward, a smothering heat creeping up his face and all the way up to the tip of his ears, lips lightly brushing over Dean's prickly cheek, a shy of a touch. He drew back, muttering under his breath about needing to get back to work when a hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him forward.

It was innocent, a close-lipped peck on the lips, lingering for a moment of no more than two seconds. By the time his brain had caught up, Dean was already back on downing the rest of the booze, his presence all but forgotten, leafing through one of the vintage editions of Busty Asian Beauties. His fingers hovered over his tingling lips, feeling as if he was about to meet the floor face-first at any possible moment. God, this was a new level of fucked up, even for them. The fact that, once the initial shock had glazed over him, Sam felt cherished and his body buzzed with warmth confirmed all the loose screws in his head. He only knew one thing, though. They needed to speed up this operation immediately. If he stayed any longer in his 11-year-old body, he'd lose all remaining sense of self.

Shoving down everything that came with Pandora's curse, Sam headed into the kitchen and fixed himself up, cleaning and slapping a bandage over the fresh cuts on his right cheek and bicep. By the time he was back, Dean had managed to zonk out, mouth open with a hint of drool at the corner of his lips, snoring obnoxiously loud. He grimaced and was about to grab his laptop when his phone started buzzing on the table. As soon as he saw Garth's contact, he pressed the 'answer' button.

"Garth, hey."

"Sam?"

With a hand over his phone's speaker to muffle the noise, he glanced at Dean's sleeping form. He quietly moved out of the library and into the war room, making sure to keep his voice down. "Hey, yeah, I can hear you. What's your status?"

"Sam, can you hear me? Shit, the signal here sucks. Sam, listen, if you can hear me, I need you to know that it wasn't me, alright? I swear it wasn't-"

Suddenly, the line dropped dead. He stared at his phone for a pregnant moment before rushing to call Garth back. It went straight to voicemail. His pulse jumped, a nasty sense of foreboding catching at his throat. He hadn't failed to notice that Garth sounded alarmed, panicked almost, as if he was running out of time. What if he were in trouble? If anything were to happen, anything at all, it would be on Sam's hands. And if the man was in too deep, it was his responsibility to pull him out. He figured he had sat on his ass long enough.

Within minutes, Sam had his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, albeit a bit heavy, all essentials packed and ready to go. Quietly but quickly, he climbed up the stairs and exited the bunker as he turned on Garth's GPS, waiting for the program to pinpoint his exact last known location. He spared the parked Impala a wistful glance before pressing on forward, walking down the hill, and stepping into the main road. Garth's location was pinned a few towns over when the signal was lost, surprisingly enough, but it was still a three-hour drive. Two minutes later, he flagged down the oncoming taxi, practically diving in and slamming the door shut behind him. Pleasantries cut short, Sam gave the town and address, yet the taxi driver frowned at him through the rear-view mirror before shifting around in his seat to glare at him.

"That's three hours away, kid. You running from someone? Like, say, a parent."

He took out a few hundred dollars' worth of bills from his pocket—around double what the ride would be worth—and smacked them on the center console, giving the driver a long, hard look, though coming from the face of an 11-year-old was anything but intimidating. "Drive."

Three seconds later, the engine roared to life. He made several attempts at contacting Garth again to no avail. Maybe he should have asked for Dean's help on this, but he dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred. On a good day, Dean was cranky as hell if woken up before his time, and now, what with being hammered and completely passed out, any attempt would have probably gotten Sam's head ripped off. Plus, the last thing he wanted was for his brother to get involved in this case. Right now, he couldn't trust him not to snuff out the witch's lights if push came to shove before the spell's binding was broken.

It must have been an hour down the highway when his belly cramped, an inkling crawling up his spine. Suddenly, the car slowed down, slamming on the brakes. He unbuckled his seat belt and moved to the center seat in order to get a better view outside the windshield.

"Hey, what's the hold-up-" the words died on his tongue when he saw the fallen tree across the road, covering both lanes. Then, he looked out of the right window, swallowing dryly. The treeline was set nearly thirty feet away from the road. It would have been impossible for a tree of that small stature to reach that far into the main road.

The window from the driver's side was broken into, a startled shout, and then the taxi driver was being dragged out of the car. With his heart in his throat, Sam fumbled for the knife tucked in his jeans and barreled out of the vehicle just in time to see Dean breaking the man's neck, wrenching his head in a full 180.

"No," he breathed, tightening his grip around the demon knife.

"Was this your plan? String me along, play into the role of the perfect little brother and ditch me? You fooled me, I'll give you that, but no more games, Sam. Where did you even hope to run to, huh? Where? Did you seriously think I wouldn't be able to find you?"

"It's not like that." He declared, but Dean shook his head with a razor-sharp grin, eyes melting into pitch black.

"You've been a bad boy, Sammy, and now I'm fucking pissed. This?" He fisted the taxi driver's hair, holding him up by his broken neck. "This is only the beginning. This is on you." The man's body was discarded on the ground like a broken doll, his head twisted and angled toward Sam, wide, lifeless eyes staring into his own.

"Get over here. Now."

Sam regretted everything in his life as he stubbornly refused to budge and, with trembling hands, raised the knife in front of him. The raging thunder in the tightness of Dean's expression seethed of promised pain, the corner of his lips twitching into something ugly and dangerous. Before he could so much as blink, his vision was engulfed by his brother's torso. Blindly, he went for a blow at his brother's ribs, aware of its futility. His arm was seized in a death grip, the demon knife falling away as he cried out. Grabbed by the root of his hair, followed by exploding pain from his forehead as he was slammed against the side of the car, he was knocked out cold.

He was jarred awake, hands flailing, and his mind reeling. He was in the passenger's seat, the Impala parked right outside the bunker's entrance. The door was yanked open, and with Sam's duffel bag in one hand, Dean hauled him out, his feet dragging against the gravel. The fury was coming off him in waves, muscles taut and straining, a walking land mine waiting to be stepped on. He was brought to Dean's room, unceremoniously shoved forward as he stumbled a few steps, catching his weight on the edge of the bed. He watched his brother drop the duffel bag and round up on him, a presence of impending doom. This was to be his deathbed, then, because whatever was brewing inside his brother, Sam didn't think he would come out of it alive. Fingers grabbed his jaw, rigid and vicious, leaving half-crescent marks behind.

"You will learn to listen. I'll make you listen- and let me tell you, by the time I'm done with you, Sammy, you won't ever think about disobeying."

He filled his lungs with oxygen, anticipating torture; bracing for the cruel edge of a knife, steel knuckles striking the flesh clean off his bones, a makeshift noose around his neck in the form of his brother's punishing hands. He was to be unmade, torn apart and build anew. Pain, he was familiar with. Pain, even from the hands of his brother, he would endure. He would accept.

And then, Dean took a seat on the edge of the bed, dragging him down with him. A hand scruffing the back of his neck, face-first into the mattress as he was forced over Dean's thighs. A hint of an idea banged around in his head, tendrils of panic, the beginning of something constricting, squeezing his chest. Heart pounding and blood rushing, he jerked when his jeans and underwear were yanked down, leaving his backside bare and exposed under his brother's piercing gaze.

"No!" He exclaimed, planting his hands against the bed, struggling to get away. "don't, don't you even think about-"

The first strike came fast and hard, open-palmed across the globe of his left cheek. He let out a half-choked sound of disbelief, a half-strangled laugh, his brain failing to register the fact that he was put over his brother's knee to be disciplined like some unruly fucking child.

"'Don't'? Do you think you're in a position to be giving out orders? I told you how it was gonna go, baby, but you didn't wanna listen. You should be glad I'm not using the belt. There are rules to this, rules you cannot break. I suppose part of the blame is on me 'cause I let you forget your place, but we can't have that now, can we?" Dean's hand lay hot and heavy over his ass, and his ribcage trembled with each labored breath, burning hot at the touch and everything that was about to follow.

"You can cry, you can scream. By the end of it, I'll have my damn respect."

He was ruthless, a heavy hand landing blow after blow, spanking his ass till the skin was irritated red and throbbing. He altered between his left and right cheek, giving him no time to adjust, his body jolting with each strike. Sam clutched at the covers, face buried, hidden away. He didn't want to give Dean the satisfaction, but the more time he spent trapped in this tiny body, the more difficult it became to regulate his emotions, helpless against the warm tears that welled up in his eyes and rolled down his face.

"Are you going to run again?"

"N-No." He said with a stutter, grinding his teeth at the slap that licked the back of his right thigh.

"No?" Dean taunted, voice harsh and demanding, coaxing the answer out of him.

"No, sir." He muttered, and at that moment, Sam couldn't help but hate Dean for it.

His corrective lesson came to an end when both the skin of his ass and the back of his thighs were adorned in aching welts. The pain was nothing in comparison to the humiliation of it, and Sam wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up beneath him and swallow him whole, lost without consciousness. He allowed his brother to pull him up and perch him on his lap, that same hand that delivered the hurt now soothingly rubbing circles, fingers kneading the itchy skin of his backside.

"I don't like hurting you." Dean sighed against the side of his head. "If you'd stop giving me a reason to, all this could've been avoided. But you know better now, don't you?"

He said nothing, arms tucked uselessly between their chests. Dean leaned back and captured his face with both hands, making their eyes meet. Then, he nuzzled Sam's face, kissing up the trail of wetness on his cheeks, lips skimming over closed eyelashes. His underwear and jeans were pulled up, marking the official end of this torment. As he was hoisted up and laid further up on the bed, Dean swept his sweaty locks away from his forehead to press a tender kiss.

"Sleep."

This time, sleep didn't come to him for a while. He lay aware and miserable with his brother's fingers carding through his hair. Eventually, he was lulled down under, the ache falling to a numbing prickle.

He woke up alone, the insistent twinging pain from his lower body serving as a humiliating reminder. Sam stared blankly at the ceiling for a few minutes before covering his face with his hands, grinding the heels of his palms against his eyes until he was seeing white spots. Behind his eyelids flashed a broken neck and dull, barren eyes, wide and empty. Guilt spread and festered like a disease, cleaving through bone and marrow.

Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the blood was on his hands. He could not put the entire weight of the blame on Dean, not when he was a slave to the Mark. Sam's amateur mistake of letting his guard down that night weeks ago cost them everything. All the spilled blood and innocent lives that were lost since then were on his hands. Had he not gotten into that mess, he would have cured Dean long since.

Suddenly, through the absence of sound, a faint echo reached his ears. He slowly sat up on the bed, a scowl furrowing between his brows. It sounded like… distant screams. He pushed himself off the bed and headed for the door, meaning to follow the noise when the familiar ringtone of his phone began buzzing from inside the duffel. Crouching and unzipping the front pocket, he rummaged through his things. Once he found it, he snatched it and hurried outside the room and down the hallways. With a glance, his eyes widened at Garth's contact flashing on the screen.

"Garth, you're alive," he blurted, staggering relief washing the weight off his shoulders.

"Yeah- wait, why wouldn't I be?"

"The line fell dead and when I tried to call you back, I couldn't get through to you. You sure you're alright?"

"Of course, man." A pause came from the other line before Garth pressed on. "Hey, uh, what's wrong with your voice? You sound a bit… off."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's… kind of a long story. Don't worry about that."

"Okay. Anyway, that's not why I called you. Listen, the witch you assigned to me? Somebody already got to her, dude."

Sam descended the stairs and made his way to the dungeon behind the filing shelves, the agonized grunts and groans growing stronger, followed by another, the distinct sound of Dean's voice putting a hitch in his step.

"What do you mean?" The voices were closer, audible, belonging to both Dean and Cas. When he reached the open door, he paused at the opening. The shelves were parted, and in the center of the devil's trap, his brother was strapped in the chair, slumped forward and panting heavily. Cas stood to the side, a bunch of empty syringes scattered on the metallic table. Cas must have finally gotten to the bunker when he was asleep, and was already through the process of curing Dean of the Mark's demonic clutches according to the ritual. And maybe that's why, eyes fixed on his brother's trembling shoulders, beads of sweat rolling down his temples, Sam failed to register the next words that came out of Garth's mouth.

"Sam, she's been dead for weeks."

Cas turned, head tilting as curious eyes studied him. Sam's heart plummeted to his gut, fingers clenching around the phone.

"What did you just say?"

"I'm sorry, man. By the time I tracked her down in a motel five miles outside of Burwell, she was already dead. I'm telling you, from the looks of it, her corpse must have been decaying for at least two weeks now. God, the smell."

The finality of his condition slowly crept in, appendages of dread coiling around his lungs. "No. No, that… that can't be right."

He heard Garth speak over the other line, maybe another reassurance or apology, but the blood roaring in his ears muffled all sound. There was movement, and Cas whipped around, hovering, watching. Dean's head lolled, grumbling a curse under his breath. He looked up, and the black drained away from his eyes, leaving behind brilliant green.

"Yeah," he said absentmindedly with a lump in his throat, a sizzling anger he did not know where to channel as he took in his brother's lost look of confusion, etched with profound exhaustion, dark circles, and a near-sickly paleness to his skin. "Alright, yeah. Thanks, Garth. I'll talk to you later."

"Does that mean I can, like, go now or-"

He ended the call, his hand falling limply by his side. He looked down at his short and frail, and gawky limbs, trapped inside this 11-year-old body of his, with no way of reversing or undoing it.

"What do you remember?"

"I don't know, it's- it's all a blur, mostly." A strained pause, metal clinking together. "Cas, what did I do? And where's Sam?"

"Unfortunately, I cannot provide you with an answer. You'll have to ask him."

When Cas turned to look over his shoulder, Dean followed his line of sight, his expression falling slack with shock, eyes taking on a haunted look. He could see it in his brother's eyes; the absence of recent memories, nothing more than a smear on the blank canvas. Perhaps that was for the best. Dean didn't need any more baggage weighing on his conscience. Now that his sanity was finally back, it would be best to leave the past few weeks as forgotten fragments. Sam would carry the burden for both of them.

He shoved the phone in his front pocket and slowly stepped further into the room. "Cas, can you give us a moment?"

A few moments later, Cas was stepping out and closing the door behind him, but lingering near, vigilant. Dean stared at him with open vulnerability, pushing away from the chair, a hand stretched out, awkwardly hovering in the air as if touching Sam would shatter the illusion. His eyes bored into that hand, the very same that spanked him red only a few hours ago, the tips of his ears burning.

"Sammy…?"

"Hey, Dean. Lookin' pretty rough there." He said with a small smile. When his brother continued to gape at him like a fish, he huffed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know. Still haven't gotten used to being eleven again, but at least it's still me. Still got my memories and all."

A stormy sheen fell over Dean's eyes, a wetness that highlighted the sparkling green. He could only imagine what was going through his brother's head right now, seeing him like this, reliving old memories from a life that seemed to belong to another lifetime. Dean needed his support, now more than ever. Just because they found a temporary cure against the Mark's influence, it didn't mean that Dean was free from its clutches; the symbol was still engraved on his upper forearm.

How was he supposed to tell him that this was permanent?

Dean swallowed, pupils flaring. "What happened?"

"A run-in with a witch that ended catastrophically."

"And?"

He averted his eyes, staring at the angry marks around Dean's wrists where the cuffs bit into his skin. "And nothing."

"Sammy." Chided Dean, that firm yet endeared tone he used to use when Sam was an 80-pound ball of anger issues and teenage angst. He bristled and folded his arms over his chest. He knew what was coming. It was unavoidable. Try as he might, keeping secrets from his brother never ended well for either of them.

"The hex is irreversible."

"What?" Dean said in a weirdly high-pitched voice, clearing his throat before continuing. "No, c'mon now, you can't be serious. Nothing is irreversible."

He shrugged a shoulder, "Well, this spell is, apparently. Don't you think I've looked? Don't you think I've already tried everything?"

"Dude, we literally have an arsenal of books on lore and myths. You telling me you got squat from all that?"

"I don't know what else to tell you, Dean. Don't you think I would have found a way to get my normal body back by now if there was a way?"

Silence, tense and stiff, crammed with something unspoken between them. All of a sudden, Dean became restless, hand raking through his hair, a spasm in his brows. He moved two steps to the side, incomprehensible mumbling under his breath before whipping around. And the expression on his face- eyes wide, wild, an epiphany of sorts struggling to break free.

"What- what about the witch? We can hunt her down and make her spill her guts. Boom. Problem solved."

"She's dead." He answered flatly. Dean looked at him like he had grown two heads. "Look, can we just drop this? For now, at least? We're clearly not getting anywhere- besides, we have bigger things to worry about."

"Sam is right."

They turned as Cas appeared behind them, eyes drifting pointedly from Sam to Dean. "Although your brother's condition is… unfortunate, we need to consider our next move, Dean. While you may be temporarily cured, the Mark still remains."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Fuck." He frowned down at the Mark and tugged at his rolled-up sleeve, covering it up. "Alright, what do we got?"

And with that, the incredibly short elephant in the room was forgotten for the time being.

Being the object of his brother's attention was second nature. His role as the big brother was something sacred and treasured, written and sealed in blood. It wasn't out of the ordinary, and yet, Sam couldn't help but notice the way Dean's eyes remained glued upon him, fervently watching, marvelling at him- worshiping. Dean's undivided attention was crushing at times, devastating under the drilling intensity, feeling bare and exposed and defenseless. And now, he could not escape it. For the rest of the day, his brother's vigilant eyes followed his every move, tracking every word and every breath.

It continued as such for the rest of the week. It was… unnerving. At times when Sam thought he was alone, he would turn to find a looming silhouette from the corner of his eyes, standing still, hovering- watching, always watching. Sometimes, he waited with bated breath, expecting to see the black seeping back into his eyes. When Dean eventually broke the silence with his usual, corny dad-jokes, his shoulders loosened with a sigh of relief.

It was one and a half week later, jarred awake in the middle of the night and standing outside Sam's bedroom, when the first, incriminating crack appeared over the surface. He didn't hear a knock, but he stirred awake, rubbing the drowsiness away from his eyes by agitated rustling outside the door, the soft light of the hallway illuminating the shadows of frantic pacing through the small gap underneath the door.

He groggily called out to his brother, lifting himself on his forearm. The door opened quietly after a few seconds of hesitation, revealing Dean's frame. Shadows danced over half of his face, but the faint light from the hallway illuminated the eyes, plagued by the curse of remembering. He didn't ask because he didn't want to know. Sam merely laid back down and moved closer to the edge, making space for Dean. The door was closed, leaving the room in darkness. Three strides and then, the mattress was dipping from the added weight behind him, strong arms curling around his torso, pulling him back against his brother's furnace of a body.

This is the closest Dean would ever come to asking for help. When he needed to ground himself, when he needed a grasp of control, Dean took care of himself by providing for Sam. That's how his brother had always operated; when tormenting memories and unwanted feelings became overwhelming, Dean was meticulous in tending to his little brother; it started from a small thing as holding the door for him, a secure hand pressed on the small of his back, guiding, ensuring his safety. Cooking healthy and nutritious meals (not without a grimace of contempt) just for him, an hour-long routine of thorough examination after a rough hunt. This was no different.

He was teetering between consciousness and unconsciousness, his eyelids drooping and breathing growing deep and heavy when the tenderness of Dean's voice cracked the silence.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's gonna be okay. We were given a second chance, see? I'll do it right this time. I'm gonna give you the life you always deserved. Gonna give you everything, baby. Keep you safe. Big brother's got you." Lips lay a kiss of promise over the crown of his head, arms tightening ever so slightly around him.

Perhaps Dean never forgot. Perhaps his brother had always been present during these weeks, meticulously orchestrating the unfortunate permanence of this hex. He would never know. Sam sank back into his brother's gentle security of the chains in the shape of his arms.

His big brother knew what was best for him. Dean would keep him safe, always.