[fanfic] SPN "Do Dandelions Roar" Chpt 1 Title: Do Dandelions Roar: Chapter One Author:kuwamiko Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John, Bobby Rating: R-NC17 Spoilers: nothing major (set in pre-series AU) Summary: Two years ago Dean disappeared. Now John and Sam have gotten him back. But how will the three of them deal with the unexpected changes his trials in the time between have effected? Warnings: Nongraphic references to non-con sex and underage prostitution. Violence. Language. Incest (duh). Author's Note: This is AU, utter self indulgence, and has massive Dean!whumpage. Will contain Wincest eventually. Set about a year before the pilot, with some major differences. [chpt 1] [chpt 2] [chpt 3] [chpt 4] [chpt 5] [chpt 6] [chpt 7] [chpt 8] [chpt 9] [chpt 10] [chpt 11] [chpt 12] [chpt 13] [chpt 14] [chpt 15] [chpt 16] [chpt 17] [chpt 18] [chpt 19] [chpt 20] [chpt 21] [chpt 22] [chpt 23] [chpt 24] [chpt 25] [chpt 26] [chpt 27] [chpt 28] [chpt 29] [chpt 30] [chpt 31]
Totally and completely AU. Let's say that the YED was taken care of before Sam left for Stanford, with a little less chaos and considerably less Winchester deaths. That said, this is complete and utter self indulgence. Other people have done these sorts of things better, but maybe this one will be a little bit unique. At least in parts. =^_^=
Wank wank wangst. ^.^
"Do Dandelions Roar"
- Chapter One - by KnM
It wasn't really a party -- if it had been he wouldn't have been there -- but rather, a gathering of friends and friends of friends. Everyone knew everyone, or at least knew of everyone, and it was comfortable. A group meeting of minds, where debates might spark but arguments were unlikely to break out. That was the purpose of college, after all.
Sam Winchester was in attendance for only one reason, though, and her name was Jessica Moore. She was blonde, beautiful, smart, and had already directed him to call her Jess. He wasn't sure where this was going, but he had to admit that he was more than a little captivated by the curves along the way.
The not-quite-party was being held in someone's house; it was large and spacious, with plenty of places for people to lounge and converse. Fallout Boy was playing on the stereo, a little louder than Sam liked, but not so loud as he was used to, so he missed hearing his cell phone ring. It wasn't until he pulled it out to check the time that he noticed the waiting voice mail.
He was never sure, after, why he decided to listen to the message right then rather than waiting until later, but for some reason he went and found a corner of the house that was a little more quiet, hitting the green button.
"Sammy...." It was his father's voice, raw and husky. There was a pause, and Sam felt his heart thud against his breastbone, his stomach twisting. It had to be-- "Sammy," John Winchester rasped, "I've found him."
Three simple words, and suddenly everything was sucked out of him. He was bleeding, breathless, his legs giving beneath him. He was vaguely aware that he had sunk down to the floor, on his knees, his phone clutched to the side of his face. Jess was beside him, asking if he was okay, and the answer was, of course, "no", but he was trying to remember how to breathe, hoping that his heart would keep beating, and then his father's voice said, "Call me."
The voice mail was over. It had been short. Seven words in total. And it had changed everything.
"Sam! Sam, what is it?"
Jess sounded panicked, her concern echoed by those around them who had noticed his collapse, but he couldn't focus on anything more than the message from his father, the chill in his limbs, the tightness in his chest. He felt like he might die, and yet he thought that this was the first time he had truly been alive in two years.
"Sam, what's going on?" Jess begged. Her fingers were on his face, searing into his bloodless cheek, and her blue eyes were huge, searching his with an intensity that would have been flattering in any other situation. "Are you okay? What is it?"
"He found him," Sam gasped, a little surprised to discover that he could still speak, the words breaking from him unbidden. The wonder was too great to be contained, the joy and the fear and the unknown overwhelming him. He was trembling and there was wetness on his face, tracking over his cheeks. "Oh, God. Dad found-- He found--"
"Found who?" Jess asked, her smooth brow creasing. Not that he could blame her. He'd never mentioned family before, the pain too deep-rooted and invasive. "Sam?"
"My brother," he choked, and before he knew he was moving he was on his feet, stumbling toward the door, his phone clenched in one trembling hand.
"Brother?"
But Jess was left behind him, his past and his future before him, and he gulped the cool evening air, his fingers shaking as he moved to call his father back.
His entire life had been turned upside-down and he knew that things would never be the same again, even though nothing had happened yet. If his father had found....
The phone rang. Once. Twice. And Sam thought that he might pass out while he waited. Then his father's hoarse, familiar voice was in his ear.
"Sammy."
"Dad!" He sucked in a deep breath. "Dean?"
"I found him," John repeated, sounding as bruised as Sam felt. "I know where he is, Sam. I need your help. Can you come?"
"Where?"
And it was that simple. For three years he'd been living his dream. But today he could walk away from it all. Because two years ago his brother had gone missing. And for his brother, Sam would do anything.
It was only fair. Since Dean had given up everything for him.
***
He had been at Stanford for almost half a year when it had happened. The sunshine of California kept the darkness of his childhood and adolescence at bay. He had known that bad things still happened, that things still went bump in the night, but nothing had happened within the little universe that was the college campus and Sam had been able to pretend.
Dean had been to see him twice, not seeming able to stay away. A part of Sam had wished for a clean break, like the snap that had separated him from their father. After their last fight Sam and John might as well not have existed to one another.
But it had always been different with Dean. Even though they drove one another crazy, even though Sam often wanted to throttle or at least gag his older brother, even though Dean would never understand Sam's desire for a better life and Sam couldn't understand Dean's blind devotion to their father and the Hunt... even with all their differences there was something comforting about Dean's presence in his new beginning. Dean had been the one constant in Sam's life, the only thing he had always been able to count on. So, even though a part of Sam had hated seeing the dark shadow that Dean's leather and scars had cut on the face of Stanford's brightness, another deeper part of him had been aware of just how much he needed his brother. Even if only for a few hours.
It wasn't until the third time that Dean had shown up that things had gone all to hell. Unlike the previous visits, this time Dean had actually spoken of Sam's desertion, had begged him to come back, had demanded to know how Sam could walk away from all the people who needed them.
Sam had tried to make Dean understand, but they had been too different. There had been no common ground and Dean had stormed off, angry and frustrated, just before Sam could kick him out. And Sam had thought that maybe this was the final break, the parting that would be permanent. And it had hurt, had almost killed him, but he had known that he could go on.
He had ignored it when Dean had called five times that evening and night, deleting what had undoubtedly been increasingly drunken voice mails without even listening to them. He had convinced himself that this cut would be better for Dean as well, even if Dean didn't know it, couldn't admit it.
He had thought that Dean had given up. Would leave him to his sunlight and schoolwork. Dean had always given him everything he had ever needed -- Sam knew this even though he would never admit it aloud -- so why should this time have been any different?
There had been no more messages the next day, and Sam had felt a mingling of relief and agony. It wasn't like Dean to just give up, but it was for the best. Dean had to know that.
A weekend trip to the beach had seemed like the perfect way to shake the last of his troubles from his mind, and the weather had been clear and bright. Sam didn't make friends easily, but there had been a few people he could go with.
Half Moon Bay was only about half an hour from the school. Jimmy had owned a van and it was a cheerful, comfortable trip. Sam had found it surprisingly effortless to carry his part of the conversation, reveling in the discussion of music, art, and philosophy. And he had almost managed to not dwell on the thought that this trip would have been a lot less entertaining with Dean. Too-loud cock rock, endless teasing, and crude comments about the girls that they passed; that was what his brother would have subjected him to.
Sam had managed to convince himself that this was something he never wanted again. He and Dean were different people, bound by blood and a shared childhood but nothing else.
The Jetty had been as much fun as Sam had anticipated. There had been booze, snacks, friendly girls in bikinis, and for once Sam hadn't been embarrassed to shed his baggy jeans for a pair of shorts and a tank, confident in his body. His muscles had been sculpted by an upbringing that kept him in constant shape, a father who had been a Marine, years of Hunting, and an older brother who had constantly ridden his ass.... For the first time ever Sam had been grateful for all these things; especially when he had seen the envy and reluctant awe in the other guys' eyes, and the hunger in the girls' faces.
He hadn't really paid attention to the gossip concerning the beach's local legend. Not until that evening, next to the campfire on the sand, when a petite little brunette with dark eyes and a smiling mouth had earnestly related the tale to him, excited and horny. Told him all about the siren, the succubus, the sorceress -- no one could really seem to decide -- and the way a handful of beach-goers went missing every year. All young males, all attractive and virile.
Then she had climbed into his lap and done her best to crawl down the front of his damp swim trunks, and he had completely forgotten every word she had said.
He should have been pissed off to discover that Dean had followed him. He had been, for a split second after realizing the fact. But two years of guilt and dread and regret had sapped him of all anger. Because if Dean hadn't shown up uninvited it would have been Sam who had vanished without a trace.
***
The next morning had been chilly and overcast. Most of the group had still been wallowing in bed, nursing hangovers or getting to know their bedmates all over again. But Sam had found himself brimming with energy and itching for an early run. Slipping unnoticed out of the beach house they had all rented was almost embarrassingly easy -- especially when he could practically hear Dean's voice in his ear, scoffing at these college students that Sam sort of labeled as friends -- and he set off for the sand.
Usually when he jogged, Sam slipped quickly and easily into the rhythm, the beat of his heart, the huff of his breath, the pounding of his feet. But that morning it had been different. As he had run, the urgency had only increased. What urgency, he hadn't been able to pinpoint. When he had first decided on the run and set off alone for the beach, he had thought that it had been all his idea, his own desires. But the further he had gotten into isolation, leaving the few daring beachcombers behind until all he could hear was the swooshing of the waves, the hissing of the salt breeze, and the laboring of his own breath, the more he had begun to think that maybe this had been a bad idea from the beginning. It had seemed less a simple everyday decision and more an overwhelming compulsion. And Sam had always hated being compelled to anything.
So it should have been common sense, right? It turn around and jog back the way he had come, have a shower and a cup of coffee.
And yet Sam had not been able to make himself do it. He had just kept right along his course, until there was nothing but sand and water and scattered rocks. He hadn't thought that there could be a place like this so near Half Moon Bay. And yet there it had undoubtedly been. And there he had been. Confused and disturbed but there.
He had just been telling himself how freaking ridiculous this was, had been convinced that he was going to turn around and no force on Earth could prevent him, when he had come to a stop. Just stopped, standing there, puffing and panting, feeling the wind washing chill against his perspiration- drenched muscles. His bangs had blown in his face, stinging in his eyes like tears, and when he had blinked his sight clear, he had seen her.
She hadn't been at all what he would have expected. For half a heartbeat he had taken her for nothing more threatening than a fellow beach-goer. She hadn't looked much unlike the pretty brunette he had somehow failed to hook up with the night before. Except that her hair had been much longer and thicker and a vivid shade of blue-green. Except that she had been naked. Except that her large wide-set eyes had been ages old and had held a hunger that a horny college freshman with a skinful of tequila and a hot young man in her sights would never have been able to match.
Sam actually hadn't felt panicked. He had been aware that he should have been, had known good and goddamn well that he had been facing a creature of supernatural origins, one without his best interests at heart, one who -- if his almost bedmate from the night before had been correct -- had been responsible for numerous disappearances along this shoreline, of young men fitting his description.
It had been hard to say what he had felt. Not fear, not eagerness, not desire. It had been like what had brought him here; a compulsion that was so deep-seated that it had almost seemed to be his own idea. But it hadn't been. He was here against his will, and the three steps he took toward her were not anything that he chose.
Inside, he had known that he had been in deep shit, that he had let his guard down, and that his father would never forgive him -- if John Winchester ever found out what had become of his younger son. Sam hadn't even left a note before heading out on his run. He would be just another mysterious disappearance, a footnote to the legend, and if he was lucky Dad or Dean would come to get vengeance for his death.
Although, he hadn't been so sure that death was what she'd had in mind for him. And whatever it had been that she wanted, it would probably make death seem like a blessing.
Even as he had been drawn ever closer, Sam's brain had been working frantically, trying to figure out what she had been. Siren, succubus, kelpie... none were quite right, and all were close to the truth.
Then there had come a sudden shout and a blast of gunfire that had sent her spinning like a ripping ragdoll, dark blood flying. The thrall had been broken and Sam had turned to see Dean bounding over the sand dunes toward him, smoking shotgun in one hand and a warning on his lips.
Anger had flared in Sam, strong with relief and resentment -- don't you trust me, why did you follow me, what the hell are you doing here?! -- and then his brother's words had registered and Sam had realized that he was not out of danger yet.
It had looked as though Dean was too far away, he would never be able to get there in time, and she had already been on her feet, reaching for Sam, and no longer looking quite as pretty with half her face in ruins....
And then somehow Dean had been there, between them, and then tossing Sam behind him as though he weighed nothing, and Sam had hit the sand, hard.
There had been screaming and Dean had bellowed his name and Sam'd had sand in his eyes, and there was more screaming, and by the time Sam had blinked his sight clear and figured out which way was up and levered himself onto his elbows, he had been alone on the beach.
The sand had been churned up. There had been blood, both black and crimson. Dean's familiar charm on its leather cord and his silver ring had been gleaming at the edge of the waterline and Sam had gathered them up numbly, before the reality of the entire situation had hit him.
He had wasted several unproductive hours roaming up and down the beach, lost, panicked, trying to find his brother, trying to find the thing that had taken Dean, just trying to find some clue, but all he had found was a whole load of nothing.
Eventually he had made his way back to the beach house. He'd been distraught, incoherent, and had generally added to the aura of "freak" that he had spent much of his time in Stanford thus far trying to get shed of. Ignoring the increasingly concerned queries he had called his father, leaving a frantic voice mail that John had responded to gratifyingly swiftly. But then, it had been for and about Dean.
There had been no room for bitterness, for lingering resentment. John had gotten there in under three hours -- Sam had never asked him how -- and together they had combed the coast.
With absolutely no results. His father had grilled Sam for details, dragging more out of him than he had thought he remembered, and after doing some additional research John had been able to put a name to the being.
Melusine. Not quite a succubus. Not quite a siren. But something similar. It had been a small comfort, knowing that she wasn't going to kill Dean right away, was going to feed off of him. It had meant that they had a chance.... But the more time that had passed, the more hope Sam had lost.
Finally, after a long, fruitless week, John had sent Sam back to school. Sam hadn't wanted to go, had fought his father tooth and nail, but John had been adamant. With the hard-won and implicit promise that his father would contact him immediately if anything came up, Sam had let himself be convinced to return to Stanford. Using a family emergency as his excuse -- and his haggard, drawn, bloodshot appearance certainly backed that up, as well as the note John had jotted down for him quickly -- he had settled back into the routine of schoolwork and awkward socializing.
John hadn't called, but Sam had phoned his father often enough that he'd known what was -- or wasn't -- happening. There had been no news for the longest time. John had called in every favor that he'd been owed in the search for his firstborn, had made new contacts and new contracts, had undoubtedly come out of it owing even more debts than he had before. Sam knew that Bobby Singer had spent an entire half a year concentrating exclusively on finding the Melusine.
And find her Bobby Singer had. But not Dean. Because by the time Bobby had tracked down the Half Moon Bay legend, she had already been dead. Taken out by another creature, they could only assume, shortly after she had taken Dean. Bobby had been able to discover that the Melusine had been feeding off of Dean, and that he had still been alive, if not well, when she'd been destroyed.
That had been the extent of it for a long time. Whatever had killed the Melusine had taken Dean, they knew that, but that had been all that John and Bobby had ever been able to ascertain.
And there things had stood for two years. Sam had never forgotten Dean, had never completely given up. But after a while the lack of information had had numbing effect. Sam's schoolwork had suffered some, but not enough to get him kicked out. Jess had captivated him; her presence in his life not a distraction but a bright and exciting possibility.
Sam had known that his father hadn't given up on finding Dean, had known that he wouldn't, that he couldn't. And yet it was too exhausting to keep hoping. He had stopped waiting for the call. And so it had been that much more of a shock when it had come.
John had found Dean. Sam would get there as quickly as he could. And they would get his brother back.
Somehow Sam doubted that Stanford and a career in law would be in his future any longer. And he found that he just could not bring himself to care.
Because if he got Dean back.... That would be everything.
***
Sam wasn't sure what he was going to say to his father when he stepped off the plane. It had been two years since they had seen each other, though they had spoken on the phone. Before Dean's disappearance they had spent most of their time fighting. Afterwards... well, they'd had a shared goal, but stress and fear and helpless rage had certainly taken a toll on their relationship. They had exchanged harsh words more often than either liked; it had just been too easy to lash out at one another, even though both had wanted nothing more than to get Dean back.
The way John had insisted Sam return to school, stay out of the search when he couldn't help and would only get in the way, had hurt Sam. And he couldn't prove it, but he thought that the fact that he had done it, had gone back to school without insisting on staying with John, might have pissed his father off a little, even though it had been the man's own idea. John always had been contrary.
Sam still didn't think that going back to school had been the right thing for him to do, but he and his father would have likely killed one another if they'd continued hunting for Dean together. So he'd made the sacrifice, stepping out of the seemingly-futile search. He just doubted that his father saw things that way.
He didn't want to fight with John. Not now. Not when they were so close. It was as though Dean's absence held him back far more than his presence ever had, even when he had so often tried to keep his father and his brother from battling.
It turned out that words were not needed. As soon as he caught sight of his father -- face more haggard than he remembered -- waiting for him in the airport terminal, Sam's throat locked up.
John didn't say anything either. Just folded his son into a painfully tight hug; one that Sam returned just as intently. John smelled like Sam remembered, smoke, salt, sweat, a hint of Old Spice, and the faintest tang of blood. Sam buried his face in John's shoulder, losing himself in the scent, his father's warmth, the feel of his aged leather jacket, unashamed of how close he was to bursting into tears.
"Where is he?" Sam asked when he could finally speak without his voice shattering. That was the question that had been burning in his brain all the way here, something that John would not tell him over the phone. He'd had to board the plane to Seattle, Washington on nothing but faith. Fortunately for his sanity it hadn't been a long flight.
"In a church," John answered, his own voice hoarse. He led the way to the baggage claim.
Sam blinked. That was unexpected. It ruled out vampires, demons, and a good half of any other beings that he had contemplated on the way here.
"Then what's got Dean?" he asked, stumped.
John's mouth twisted bitterly and Sam suddenly noticed that his father had grown a short beard. It was silver in spots and made John look older. Or maybe John just looked older. "It's not a supernatural creature," he informed his youngest son, the words sounding as though he was spitting them out. "They're humans."
"Wh-what?!"
That was so far outside the range of anything Sam had envisioned that he was stunned, unable to process the words for several minutes.
They grabbed Sam's duffel bag and John guided him out to the huge black truck in the parking garage. It sat there, shiny and ready for action. Sam was glad to see it.
They'd found the Impala where Dean had left it in Half Moon Bay, his bag in the trunk along with his cache of weapons. Bobby had towed Dean's car all the way back to his lot in South Dakota, and there it sat, awaiting the return of its driver. He'd promised Sam that he would keep it in perfect condition and Sam trusted that he had done so for the past two years.
"Bobby's waiting for us at the hotel," John said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them as he unlocked the passenger door for Sam.
"Dad...."
John raised a hand, his jaw firm, though his eyes were soft and sorrowful. "Please, Sam. I know you have a lot of questions. And we have some answers, though not all of them. But it would be better to wait until we're back to the hotel with Bobby. It's about half an hour away. Can you wait that long?"
It was on the tip of Sam's tongue to ask angrily what difference his reply would make because since when did John tell him anything when he didn't want to?
But they were on the verge of getting Dean back and in-fighting would be counterproductive, could prove disastrous. John's expression was torn; it was clear that he wasn't withholding information out of willfulness or stubborn pride. John always thought he knew best, and it drove Sam crazy. But maybe this once he would give his father the benefit of the doubt.
So Sam swallowed the harsh words and just said, "I've waited two years. I can wait another half hour."
And if his voice was a little bitter, John didn't call him on it, just clapping a hand on his shoulder and then shoving him toward the truck cab.
***
It had been easier thinking that some sort of supernatural creature had been holding his brother. But people?
Sam slouched against the passenger side door, head against the window, watching the miles zip past. John was driving only just enough over the speed limit to avoid being pulled over and no faster.
He'd tried asking one question. "Dad, just tell me that Dean's okay. Is he okay?"
John's grim silence had been an answer of its own and Sam slumped lower. As happened in times of stress, he found himself twisting the thick silver band around his right ring finger.
It was Dean's ring. Sam had been wearing it almost since he had found it on the beach. It was something of a tight fit -- his hands had been larger than his brother's since he'd been sixteen -- but he took an inordinate amount of comfort from its cool weight on his finger. He kept Dean's pendant in his duffel, in a pocket that he never opened, but for some reason having the heavy silver band around his finger made him feel closer to his absent brother.
The trip to the hotel seemed to take forever, though Sam knew from a glance at the clock on the dashboard that it had actually been a little less than the half hour his father had specified. The hotel was small and a little run-down. John pulled the truck into a parking spot next to Bobby's older, more beat-up pickup.
"Come on."
Sam followed his father inside. He wasn't surprised when Bobby rose from where he'd been sitting at a table, loading a gun with nimble fingers, crossing the room and folding him into a tight embrace. Bobby had been the first person John had called after Dean's abduction, and he was the one who had stuck with the search even when hope had seemed lost. It was fitting that he was the one who was here now, ready to help. He was also the one Sam had called for updates whenever John wouldn't -- or maybe couldn't -- answer his phone over the past two years.
Sam clung to Bobby for a moment, finding comfort in the familiar, grateful beyond words that the other Hunter was here to offer aid, and to keep himself and John away from each other's throats. But his need for information quickly won out over his need for reassurance, and he pulled away.
"Good to see you, boy," Bobby gruffed. Unlike John, he looked exactly as Sam remembered. He clapped a hand to Sam's shoulder. "Did you ever stop growing?"
Sam snorted, amused despite the tension singing through his veins. "Actually did, about a year back," he snarked in return, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Believe it or not."
"I'll take your word for it," Bobby grinned, then his good humor faded. "So, how much has your Dad told you?"
Sam grimaced, deliberately avoiding glancing at John as his father stalked into the hotel room. There were two beds, weapons scattered all over, and Sam wondered whether any of them would be doing any sleeping.
"He told me that we're dealing with humans," Sam answered, his brows drawing down. "And nothing else."
Bobby rolled his eyes expressively but didn't comment. Instead he waved Sam toward the table. "Well, sit yourself down, boy. We've got some explaining to get through and some planning to do."
Sam sat as instructed, buoyed by the promise of explanations, but eyeing the firearms warily. They were up against humans.... Sam didn't know if he had it in him to take a life. The yellow-eyed demon had worn a human body that had been destroyed by a bullet to the head, but it had not been Sam's finger that had pulled the trigger on the Colt.
On the other hand, if these people were holding Dean against his will, possibly hurting him, then there was no reason to show mercy.
"I did also tell you that they were holding Dean in a church," John rumbled from where he had slumped on one of the beds, a pistol in one hand, the other hand dragging over his face. He looked inutterably weary, but his dark eyes were shining. Sam knew how he felt and wondered whether his face looked anything like his father's.
"Oh, well, he ought to be able to deduce everything from those two facts," Bobby snapped dryly, throwing his hands up. He remained on his feet, pacing around the small room, his gaze as intent as John's.
"Just tell me," Sam said, trying to sound more exasperated and less as though he was pleading. He was so close to Dean and yet so far, and he needed to know what was going on and what they were going to do about it. "Please!"
Bobby scratched at his beard, his face suddenly going soft and sorrowful. "Well, it ain't quite that easy, Sam," he said. It sounded as though he was choosing his words carefully and Sam frowned. His gaze flickered to his father, but John's eyes were downcast, and he seemed more than ready to let Bobby do most of the talking.
"Start by telling me what happened to Dean after the Melusine," Sam prompted, trying to swallow down his impatience and frustrated rage.
"Actually, it starts before that," John broke in unexpectedly. He set the gun he'd been holding aside and clasped his hands. "You know that the Melusine was feeding off of Dean. But do you know what that actually meant?"
Sam shook his head, feeling a chill rush through him. He'd never considered, never wondered. "I.... No. Was it... was it his energy? Or... his blood?"
"Years," Bobby replied, somewhat cryptically. He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. "She was stealing his years, using them to keep herself young."
Sam chewed on his lower lip. "So, that means... that Dean's older now?" He tried to imagine Dean in his thirties, or forties, or worse, but it was nearly impossible. His heart suddenly thumped hard in his chest, panic filling him. If the Melusine had taken too much, did that mean that Dean's life span would be significantly shortened?!
Bobby was shaking his head "no", though, and Sam was growing increasingly more confused.
"Not like that," Bobby hastened to reassure him. "You'd think so, but here's the weird thing. When she stole his years, it was like she turned back the clock for Dean. He's not older. He's younger. 'Bout fourteen now, near's we can figure without having seen him with our own eyes."
"Whu?"
It wasn't an actual question, more an involuntary huff of air escaping him, but Bobby understood.
"You're the big brother now, Sam." He sounded as though he felt he ought to be amused by this sentence... but he wasn't.
Sam blinked. "But... but that's...." He gave up on trying to wrap his brain around it. He'd deal with the reality once it hit him. Then a horrible thought occurred to him. "Wait. Does that mean that Dean's forgotten everything that's happened to him since he was fourteen?"
Bobby shook his head again. "That, we won't know until we get him back."
Sam scowled, not liking that answer, but unable to demand another. "All right. So what about the church? These people, these humans who have Dean." He frowned at Bobby, at his father. "Obviously it's not some foster family, or you wouldn't need me. You wouldn't need all these guns."
He didn't think he'd ever seen such an anguished look on his father's face, and Bobby's expression wasn't much different. He felt his adrenaline surge, but there was no way to release it. He clenched and unclenched his fists, focusing all his attention on the conversation. Dean. Everything was about Dean. He knew that his father and Bobby felt the same way. That was why they were all here.
"It was...." John sucked in a deep breath, seeming to struggle in his own skin. He faltered, failed, then waved a hand at Bobby, silently asking him to take over.
"How do," Sam began, his voice cracking, clearing his throat. "How do you know that Dean's fourteen if you haven't seen him?"
Bobby looked grateful for the prompt, glad to have something to grasp at, a place to start. "We got someone to create a computer program," he said. "A facial recognition sort of thing, that trawled the Internet for a match."
"To Dean?" Sam asked, then realized that was a dumb question. A better question would be, "Is that even possible?"
"For a genius," Bobby came back, with a crooked grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Took a long time to create it and spent a longer time searching. But it finally came up with a match."
"That means that there are pictures of Dean on the 'Net?" Sam ventured, trying not to see his father flinch out of the corner of his eye.
Bobby's mouth worked for a moment before he could get anything out. "A'yup." For some reason the word sounded muffled, and he lowered his head so that Sam couldn't see his eyes for the bill of his cap.
"Well, can I see them?" Sam asked, frantic for something, anything, some connection to the brother who had sacrificed himself for him.
"No!" John barked, the word violently jerked out of him, loudly enough to cause both the other men to start. He half rose from where he was seated on the mattress before collapsing back onto it.
Sam couldn't even argue, didn't dare to ask why, when he saw the raw anguish, the unmistakable horror on his father's face. And yet, it was Dean. He had to know!
"Trust me, Sam," Bobby said, crossing and clapping a comforting hand on John's shoulder, which the other man shrugged off. "You don't want to see the pictures." Now Bobby's face did look older, his mouth drawn down in distress. "These freaks that have your brother... they been, hum, selling him for sex. That's... that's what the website is about."
It was at this point that Sam's brain simply shut down and adamantly refused to function for a good thirty seconds. He was vaguely aware that Bobby was still talking. He had understood the sentence that had propelled him into this quiet place inside his head. But he just couldn't figure out how those words and the concept behind them applied to his brother, to Dean.
It was a little like being trapped in a bizarre nightmare. Only he knew damned well that he was not dreaming. There would be no waking up and this was really happening.
"So we're going to kill them all," John was saying when Sam's hearing finally began working again. He hefted a gun, his face grim, his eyes almost black with rage and unadulterated hatred. "Are we agreed on this?"
What else could Sam and Bobby do but nod?
Sam felt his uncertainty disappear with a resounding bang. Where before he had wondered whether he would be able to take a human life... now he couldn't wait for the chance. He hoped that his Dad was planning on sharing his guns.
Going back to Stanford was clearly no longer an option. Sam let go the idea -- and his prospective future with Jess -- without a qualm. It just didn't seem important anymore; his "normal". He was going to rescue Dean and then... and then.... Well, he wasn't sure what would happen afterward. He and his father would figure things out from there.
The most important thing now was to get his brother back, to destroy the bastards who had dared to take him, and hold him, and use him, and before Sam quite knew what he was doing he was rushing to the bathroom, falling on his knees before the toilet and throwing up his guts.
"Yeah, that's about the same reaction both your father and I had," Bobby drawled from the doorway as Sam rose and rinsed out his mouth at the sink, splashing his face with cold water. He stood there, arms folded, his eyes sharp but not unsympathetic. "Jest be glad you haven't seen the pictures on the 'Net."
And this sent Sam right back to the toilet, and Bobby was apologizing, and as soon as Sam's guts stopped rebelling, he would demand to know the plan and get geared up, and they'd head out to do some permanent damage and get his brother back.
***
Sam had thought that there would be an actual Plan. He had thought wrong. It turned out that they were just going in, shooting everything up, and grabbing Dean.
He was pretty sure that this wouldn't work, that it was a bad idea. He kept trying to think of something better, something that his father and Bobby would listen to, something that would be safer for them, and for Dean.
He was pretty sure that going in with their guns blazing was a hugely BAD idea.
And he was really quite surprised when they did it and it actually worked.