Heroes-Revisited

By Ridley C. James, July 2006 re-edited in 2007

Beta & contributor: Tidia

Disclaimer: Nothing Supernatural belongs to me.

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Chapter 9/13

“To be loved deeply by someone gives you strength; to love someone deeply gives you courage.” -Lao Tsu

He was dreaming.

At least that's how it seemed. There was a diaphanous feeling; the sense images weren't quite as sharp or solid as they should be. The missing pain in his ribs and mangled wrists were also giveaways he wasn't fully conscious. The fact he was sitting in a restaurant in Salt Lake City, Utah where he hadn't been in almost seven years was another indication Mac's plan had worked.

The diner was crowded, the smell of fried food hung in the air almost as heavy and oily as the grease layered on the Formica table top. A flash of color caught his eye and he glanced down to find a well-worn Spider Man comic resting beneath his fingers. Sammy.

Voices were mumbled and low around him, an annoying buzzing background noise. He couldn't understand anything being said, possibly because it wasn't important, but the metallic clang of the bell attached to the front door drew his attention immediately. And despite the sudden intense pain that flared behind his eyes, Dean felt a modicum of relief as Caleb entered the establishment his own freaky unconscious had conjured. The teen winced, squeezing his eyes shut to hold off the pressure building in his skull.

"Just breathe." Caleb’s voice forced him to look up, and the tension eased considerably, allowing him to do as the older hunter said. "The pain will go away if you don’t fight."

“How Jedi Knight of you, Obi Wan.” Dean smirked, finding it quite humorous that Caleb was dressed in tan robes and sporting a light saber at his side. "You hop a ship from Tatooine?”

Caleb took a seat in the booth. "I'm just glad that I didn't emerge from a swamp all green and sporting pointy ears."

Dean rubbed at his head again and groaned. "Speaking of green, I feel like I could seriously hurl, and I haven't even eaten anything yet."

Reaves nodded. "Sorry, dude. It comes with the territory. Mac says it has something to do with temporal stimulation. It sucks, but it isn’t fatal.” Caleb smiled. “Although if you tell anyone about this get-up you conjured, I’ll kill you.”

"So-I'm asleep. Right?"

"Yeah. Like a baby." Caleb looked around the small restaurant. "I thought we might end up at a bar or strip joint.”

Dean glanced around with a shrug. "I lost Sammy at this dive when he was about six. Actually, he was hiding from me, but it was the first time…" The teen hesitated.

"That you felt like you couldn’t protect him," Caleb finished the teen’s thought. "It makes a weird kind of sense you’d end up here.” Reaves knew exactly where his unconscious would have taken them-to Griffin Porter’s cabin on a snowy mountainside in North Carolina. He pushed the thoughts away. “So…you ready to do this?”

Dean felt uncomfortable as the reality of what was taking place sank in. "What happens now, Damien?" he asked to avoid thinking about the freakiness of the situation.

"Now you find Sam." Caleb held the teen's gaze. "I want you to think about him and nothing else. Where did you find him the last time you were here?"

Dean frowned. "In a supply closet in the women's restroom. Why?"

"Then that's where we'll start."

"You think he'll be there?" Hope flared in Dean's chest, wishing it was that easy.

Caleb’s slight chuckle echoed his own thoughts. "No, but it will be a good place to cross that proverbial bridge we were talking about earlier. The mind doesn't do anything without a reason, Deuce.” He gestured to his Star Wars attire. “Your unconscious is looking for a link to Sam."

Dean didn't understand one damn bit of what was going on, but he felt the need to find his brother with every fiber of his being. "Then let's take a trip to the little girl's room."

Caleb followed him out of the booth, past the other diners into the room marked Broads. The psychic groaned. "Tell me that wasn't your idea, dude."

Dean smiled. "No, that really was on the door back then."

"Tasteful place."

"Five stars in John Winchester's ratings."

Caleb smiled as he watched Dean step over to the wall and press on the wood, triggering the mechanism that would open the hidden door. "And how long did it take you all to find Sammy?" Reaves was surprised he didn’t remember the particular incident.

"Hours," Dean replied. "Although at the time it felt like days. Dad nearly killed me for losing the little shit."

“Yeah.” Caleb’s grin faded. He could imagine how his mentor would have reacted and understood all too well why Dean hadn’t mentioned it. John tended to let his emotions rule him. He was fierce about everything whether it was protecting those he cared for or punishing those who had disappointed him. Caleb had been on the receiving end of both. “Maybe…”

Dean cut him off. “Damien, you can’t change things in my reality. Remember?”

The older hunter sighed, slightly chagrined by the younger man’s ability to read him so well. Caleb was the psychic after all. Reaves grudgingly accepted the truth and peered into the small utility closet. "I think this will work."

Dean rubbed his temples. "So, what do I do exactly?" He dropped his hands to his side when he realized Caleb was watching him with a look of concern.

"How's your head?"

Dean stepped back as the other man reached out to touch him. "I'm good."

Caleb rolled his eyes. "Would you tell me if you weren't?"

"Let's do this." Dean gestured towards the closet. "Sam's waiting for me to come find him."

"Okay." Caleb felt unsure. It felt wrong, going against the grain, rebuking that tiny voice that had kept him out of a lot of trouble over the years. "I need for you to focus completely on Sammy." He nodded towards the closet. "Think about finding him as you go in."

Dean looked skeptical. "That's it?"

"I'll do the rest," Caleb assured. "You concentrate on Sammy and try to relax," he added, the gnawing worry in his gut grew. “Just think of it as your own personal Narnia wardrobe.”

Dean’s typical shit-eating grin appeared. "No problem, Obi Wan. I'll be back before the six suns of Tattooine set."

Caleb motioned the younger hunter into the tiny room with a wave of his arm. "You’re mixing metaphors, smartass."

Dean started towards the closet, then hesitated. He looked at the older hunter. "Caleb, once I find Sam, how do we actually get out of all this?"

"Like I said, it will be up to you to convince Sam that he has to come out of hiding. All you need to do is to get him to wake up, and this whole thing will be over." Reaves hoped it was that simple.

"Like a bad dream," Dean said thoughtfully.

Caleb nodded. "Exactly." He wanted nothing more than for this particular nightmare to be over. Reaves pushed his own fears aside and gave Dean a reassuring look. “You’ve pulled Sammy out of plenty of tight spots over the years. You can do this.”

“Yeah. A piece of cake.” The teen took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay, Master. I'm ready."

The psychic watched Dean enter the closet. Yeah. A piece of cake. Caleb cleared his throat. “Remember what I said, Deuce. Get you both out of there as quickly as possible. No playing hero.”

To Caleb’s surprise Dean didn’t give his typical wisecrack or mock the psychic’s concern. Instead he met the older hunter’s solemn gaze with one of his own. “If something goes wrong…I just want you to know…”

Reaves reached out and clasped the teen’s forearm, felt Dean return his fierce grip. “Nothing’s going to go wrong, Deuce.” His lip twitched. “The Force will be with you.”

Dean snorted and let him go. “Right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Caleb grinned. “But just in case…the feeling’s mutual.”

The teen shook his head. “Close the door, Damien.”

Reaves did as the kid asked, finding the hollow sound of the latch catching too ominous. It had all the finality of a concrete tomb being sealed. The psychic laid both his open palms on the door and closed his eyes.

Within seconds Caleb felt the connection he was looking for and not for the first time sent a quick silent prayer up to anyone listening. Calming his own mind, he took a deep breath and reached out for his father, whom he knew was holding onto Sam and at the same time delivered a metaphysical push to Dean.

He felt the expected ‘mental’ loss of connection with Dean immediately like a swift punch to the gut. Caleb was assuaged only by the fact he could still sense his physical contact with the teen. After all, as hard as it was to imagine, he was at the hospital, sitting by Dean’s bedside, still holding his hand. And on the psychic side of things, even though Caleb was now alone he took comfort in the fact that Sammy wasn’t.

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Dean barely adjusted to the darkness of the closet when the feeling of an electrical current surged through his body. It was painful. His knees betrayed him. He braced himself against one of the walls to keep from falling. Dean bit his lip to keep from crying out and laying even more guilt on Caleb’s plate. He also feared his friend might completely back out of the gig, leaving Sammy to his own devices, which was not an option.

Dean gasped, his breath catching in his chest as lights danced behind his tightly clenched eyelids. The agony rushing through his head was quick and sharp, but mercifully receded like an ebbing tide rushing back to the sea.

Blinking, he felt only a residual, dull ache, a prickly pins and needles sensation. He was no longer in the tiny utility closet, but in a hallway of a house. It took only a fraction of a second for his scrambled brain to recognize it. Dean was in his childhood home of Lawrence, Kansas.

The painful flood of memories was worse than any physical suffering the mental trip had cost. Dean stared at the faded, flowered wallpaper and stained, wooden molding lining the upstairs hallway. He longed for the cramped confines of the closet he had come from. He had a fleeting childish wish that Caleb was still there with him before steeling himself for the mission at hand. Sam was in the house somewhere- waiting for him.

The hardwood floor was solid beneath his feet, but Dean felt unsteady. Smoke hung in the air, the scent of burnt wood and flesh mixing in a way that had his stomach jumping anxiously. He took a cautious step towards the first door on his right.

It was intact, but charred black. He reeled back after laying his hand against its surface. Intense heat bit at his skin. "What the hell are you doing here, Sammy?" he whispered, his own choked voice seeming extremely loud in the eerie silence.

Dean swallowed the flash of irrational fear, and forced himself to move forward, further down the hallway. Each door was closed and desecrated by fire like the first, but he moved past them, pulled by instinct he couldn't explain. This was Sam's world and from the looks of it, the kid was not in a happy place.

A safe place.

The words echoed through his mind in Caleb's deep baritone, and Dean found himself facing a door that did not belong in the nightmare. No scars from the past breached its surface, only paint and glass. There was a dopey-looking grizzly encircled with a collage of smiling bees and butterflies.

"Sammy?" The teen lifted his hand and when he touched the door it unlocked and swung open, beckoning him to come inside. Dean didn't hesitate. Echoes of laughter and soft whimsical music surrounded him as he stepped into the brightly lit classroom.

It was just the way he remembered it. His eyes instantly went to the coatroom at the far side, magically transported to the entrance of the Bear's Den without remembering having taken one willful step. The sounds of soft crying brought him inside, feeling a measure of anticipation at having finally found his kid brother. It all made sense now.

Sam started having nightmares about the fire that claimed their mother when he turned six. The following winter, he started first grade at Kodiak Elementary. His little brother flourished there, despite the Mother's Day crisis.

Everything came easily for his brother, and Dean and the rest of their extended hunting family protected Sam from anything that might shake his confidence. The first time Sam encountered a crisis he could not handle, he sought refuge. So Dean finding him at the Bear's Dean should not have been a shock. But finding him in the exact same spot as all those years ago, clutching the same stuffed bat, and not looking one day over six staggered the seventeen-year-old.

"Sammy?" Dean blinked, hoping he was imagining things. He had secretly wished his teenage brother could somehow revert back to the child he had been, but not once had he wanted a physical morphing. Had his own subconscious picked up on his brother's mental state? Was that why he'd ended up in Salt Lake? The coincidence was somewhat unnerving.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, looking up hopefully, his dark eyes shining with tears. But upon seeing the teen, he clutched the stuffed toy he was holding tighter to his chest and backed away until his back touched the wall.

Dean took a tentative step forward only to incur a soft whimper and flinch from his brother. He held his hand out in a calming manner. "Sammy, take it easy. It's me."

Sam didn't look convinced but his body seemed to relax. Dean hoped his brother recognized him on some "essential" level, as Mac had put it. Because if Sam was seeing him how he was pretty sure he was seeing Dean two feet taller and sixty or so pounds heavier. "It's okay, kiddo. Really. It's me, Dean."

Sam didn't move away this time as Dean edged closer, kneeling down on the floor beside the little boy so they were almost eye to eye.

"Dean?" Sam stared at him, a look of pure concentration replacing the one of fear, easing the sick feeling in the older Winchester's gut.

Dean smiled. "Yeah, Sammy. It's me. "

The little boy tilted his head. "What's the code word?"

Dean's relief faded and his brows drew together. Great. It was a habit engrained in Sam from the earliest age. Never speak to or trust anyone who didn't know the code word. The only problem being Dean was pretty sure their current safe phrase of Kill Kenny was not going to register with his six-year-old little brother, who still liked his cartoons more on the milder side.

He could only hope a generic oldie would suffice. "Pancakes?"

The little boy frowned. "That was last month."

"Give me a break here, Sammy." Dean sighed. "How about dinosaurs? Transformers? Christopher Robin?" Hell, maybe Dad's favorite one, "Semper Fi?"

Dean knew the instant his brother believed him. A tear slipped past his lashes, the stuffed bat was discarded. Dean suddenly found his arms full as the six-year-old barreled into his chest, clutching to him like he was the last life vest on the Titanic.

"I didn't know what to do." The familiar words were sobering and Dean brought his own hands up to hold his little brother. "I was so scared, but I knew you'd come. I knew it."

"I'll always come for you, Sammy," Dean whispered, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu.

"Everything's going to be okay. I'm here now. I've got you."

It was a little unsettling to be able to comfort his brother in a way he had been denied for the last few years. Teenage Sam shrank away from physical touches these days, barely engaging in conversation unless it was absolutely necessary. Dean, admittedly, dodged chick-flick moments. They both had changed over the years, building barriers all boys endure to become men, but Sam's distancing had caught Dean by surprise and had hurt more than he'd realized until that exact moment.

Showing affection and concern had become awkward between them. Touches and hugs had dwindled, replaced by punches to the shoulder and affectionate slaps to the back of the head. Not to mention endearing, albeit derogatory, insults and nicknames. It was the natural way of things, but Dean had not been lying when he'd told Caleb things were a whole lot easier when Sam was little-when hugs and whispered words of comfort could chase away the ugliest of things. Just like now.

"How'd you get so big? You’re as tall as Caleb."

The question and astute observation brought Dean back to the moment, and he held the boy tighter. "That's a long story, kiddo."

Sam pulled back some, wiping his too long bangs out of his face with the back of his arm. "That's okay, I like your stories."

Dean smiled. "I know you do, but we really don't have time for that now. We need to get out of here."

"No!" Panic raced across the too-young features. "No, Dean! The fire monster is out there."

Dean placed his hands on the small shoulders. "Sammy, there is no such thing as the fire monster. It's only a dream."

"Are you just a dream?"

Dean sighed. "I'm real, Sammy, but the thing from your nightmares isn't. It can't hurt you."

Sam's head bobbed up and down. "It can hurt me, Dean. See?"

The six year-old held out his arm. Dean noticed the tears in the long-sleeved shirt his brother was wearing. On closer inspection the rips were scorched holes and beneath the charred material there lay three long red marks where Sam's tender skin had been burned.

"Damn," he swore as he gently took hold of his brother's arm.

"That's a bad word," Sam pointed out, wincing slightly as his brother carefully pushed the sleeve up and away from the blistered skin.

Dean glanced up at him. "I can say bad words now, I'm all grown up."

"Daddy is still bigger than you."

"Yeah, well, Dad's not here."

"I wish he were here. He'd kill the monster." Sam glanced around, nervously. "He'd protect us."

The seventeen-year-old looked at Sam. "It's not going to hurt you again, Sam. I won't let it."

When Sam met his gaze with pain-filled eyes, Dean ghosted a hand through his hair. "Close your eyes, Sammy."

The little boy frowned but Dean squeezed his shoulder. "Trust me, kiddo."

With only the slightest hesitation, Sam complied.

Dean lifted the little boy's injured arm, and gently pressed his lips to the wound. Just as he suspected, the redness started to fade immediately, the blisters disappeared, and when Sam opened his eyes, astonishment replaced the hurt. "Wow." The six-year-old looked from his arm to the grown-up version of his big brother. "You made it all better."

The teen grinned. "Magical kisses. Remember?" Dean knew there was a time when Sam believed he could do anything; even heal skinned elbows and banged-up knees with a simple touch. It was about the same time his little brother thought he wore a cape. This Sam obviously still believed all those things to be true.

"I remember," the little boy whispered.

"Sammy, do you remember how you got here?"

His little brother nodded. "The bad thing chased me. I didn't know what to do-where to go." Sam's eyes filled again. "I was so scared."

"You don't have to be scared anymore, Sammy. I'm with you, and as long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you."

"Can't we just stay here- together?" Dark eyes held his. Dean had to wonder just how much that request had to do with little Sammy's monster versus whatever demons his thirteen year-old brother had been facing.

Even realizing how wrong it was, Dean was tempted by the illusion-the security and simplicity it offered. Here, Dean could protect Sam from anything, heal every hurt, solve every problem with a story or a hug. The real world allowed no such comfort.

"We have to go home now, Sam." Dean forced himself to release the little boy, and stood up. There were others to consider. "Dad's waiting on us. Mac and Caleb, too. They’ll be sad if we don't come back."

Sammy glanced around the coatroom, uncertainty and dread easily read on his young face. Finally, he heaved a much put upon sigh and bent down to retrieve Stellaluna. "Okay," he said simply, reaching out and wrapping his hand around Dean's much larger one. "I don't want them to be sad. Daddy needs us."

"That's my boy." Dean bit back a smile, not missing the irony that this Sammy would do anything to make his father happy, whereas hormone-riddled Sam seemed to live to piss off the old man.

They made it to the door of the classroom where Sammy cast one more furtive glance over his shoulder towards the Bear's Den before looking up at the teen. "I'm afraid," he said, sounding smaller than his six years.

Dean felt his protective instincts kick into overdrive, even though there was nothing to fear beyond the door. Nothing except for the cruel and stealthy enemies of time and space. Both of which had proven to be formidable enemies to them so far. "I know." He squeezed his little brother's hand. "But it'll be okay. I'll be with you the whole way. We'll do it together."

Sammy's face changed, losing some of its innocence. "Promise?"

Dean swallowed hard, found the words elusive, but managed to get his head to cooperate with an affirmative nod.

Sammy took it to heart, and lifted his hand to the door knob at the same instant the painted frame shook and then shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, peppering them with minute shards of glass.

The seventeen-year-old moved instantly, reflexively using his own body to shield his baby brother. Both of them were flung to the floor from the impact, as a sudden surge of heat washed over their tangled bodies.

Dean swore as he heard Sam whimper beneath him. He fought with his own surge of panic as he felt the bite of hot flames lick at his back and arms. "Sammy!" he ground out through the pain. "This isn't real! Do you hear me? Stop it. Now!"

"Dean!" Sammy cried. "It's the monster! He's going to take me!"

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, because it was impossible to escape what Sam carried inside. Dean pushed himself up on his elbows, not giving into the temptation to look over his shoulder, to face the beast his little brother's psyche had conjured, which was very possibly the thing that had killed their mother.

"Sam! Listen to me!" He managed to get his hands on either side of the distraught little boy's head. He forced his brother to meet his gaze while keeping his body between Sammy and the flames pressing closer to them. "This is just a dream, baby brother," he whispered. "Wake up, Sammy, and it will all be over. Dreams can't hurt you. Just wake up!"

The overhead fluorescent lights shattered, sending more glass raining down, casting them in darkness except for the eerie glow of the flames around them. The whole place was burning to the ground. The blood he felt dripping down his face, sliding across his lips was all too real, as were the nicks and scrapes on his brother's face. "Sammy!"

"I can't!" Sam screamed. "I don't know how, Dean! I'm scared."

The roar of the fire was growing as it fed on the structure it was consuming. The intense heat was agonizing and Dean could swear he could feel his clothes smolder. "Yes you can, little brother." He fought to keep his voice calm. "I know you can."

"NO! I'm afraid." Sammy's lip trembled. "I'm too afraid."

"Of what, Sammy?" It sounded ridiculous to his ears, considering everything going on around them, but like Caleb had said, things weren't always what they seemed. This was Sam's movie, and Dean had to follow the script.

"Of losing you," the little boy whispered, and then before Dean's very eyes, six-year-old Sammy morphed into thirteen-year-old Sam. "I'm afraid I'll lose you…you big jerk," he choked out, closing his eyes as tears slipped unbidden.

"Damn, Sammy." Dean let his hands slip from his brother's face to brace himself against the floor.

"It's Sam," the teen whispered, forcing his eyes open, holding his brother's concerned gaze. Despite the transformation, the fire still raged around them, parts of the roof fell down, and Dean once again placed his arms over the other boy's head, offering a meager shelter.

"Sam!" Dean tried again, lifting his body enough that he could see his brother's face. "I'm not going anywhere. You aren't going to lose me."

"You can't say that." Sam sobbed, as windows from across the room exploded. "You can't say that," Sam shouted. "You don't know…"

"Everything?" Dean interjected, catching his brother off guard, causing him to falter.

"No-I don't, but I do know about this."

"How? How can you know?" Sam asked, miserably.

"Because…" Dean grabbed his brother's hand, grasping it tight. "I won't let go. Ever."

Sam glanced at their entwined grip. "I'm sorry, Dean. For everything I said...I don't hate you. God, I mean…I …you know."

"No problem, kiddo." Dean's mouth twitched. "I do know…and the feeling is mutual."

Sam snorted. "Right."

"Just wake the fuck up, Francis, so we can get the hell out of this freaky head of yours."

Sam laughed. He was about to ask his brother exactly what he meant when the world fell in around them, crushing them beneath its weight. Sam heard his brother cry out, felt his weight collapse onto him. Then a blinding pain ripped through his head, causing him to gasp for his stolen breath."Dean!"

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"Sammy!" John was at his son's bedside as the thirteen year old jackknifed into a sitting position and called his brother's name.

Mac jerked back as if he'd been slugged. He released the teen's hand, looking almost as out of sorts as Sam, but quickly steadied himself.

"Sammy," John said again, having practically crawled onto the mattress with his son, cradling the boy's head in both his trembling hands. "Talk to me, kiddo. Are you okay?

"Dad?" Sam rasped. He blinked in confusion and looked dazedly around the dimly lit hospital room. "What's going on?"

"Sam? Can you tell me where you are?"

"Mac?" Sam blinked again, unsure if he could trust what he was seeing. "When did you get here?"

Mackland smiled patiently, keeping his fingers pressed against Sam's wrist. "Where's here, Samuel?"

The teen frowned, realizing the man was taking his pulse. "West Virginia?" Sam wagered, casting an unsure glance to his father.

John nodded, but Mac spoke again. "Can you tell me your full name?"

"Samuel Jonathan Winchester," Sam pushed out, pulling his arm back into his lap.

"And how old are you?"

"How old am I?" Sam parroted, a far off look crossing his face. Images flashed before him, and sudden panic swept over him. "Dad!" He turned on his father. "Where's Dean? Where's my brother?"

"Sammy, take it easy." John placed both hands on the boy's shoulders. His son's breath was coming in harsh pants, anxiety and fear slowly closing their tendrils around him as he tried to get off the bed. "Dean's fine. Just breathe, okay."

"No!" Sam shook his head, continuing to struggle. "I want Dean."

John and Mackland shared a look and both turned towards the other bed. Caleb’s eyes were still closed, his hand entwined tightly with Dean’s. But distress was etched on both their young features.

Mackland quickly moved to his son’s side, hesitating momentarily before laying his hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “Son?”

"Dean!" Caleb gasped, his eyes snapping open.

Ames’s kept a hand on his son as the younger man nearly tumbled off his chair. “Easy, Caleb. Take it easy.”

Caleb shook off his touch. “Something’s wrong.” Dean's hand was cold and clammy, and Reaves eyes searched the older teen's face. All eyes in the room followed his gaze. Mackland's harsh intake of breath and the curse that slipped from John's lips were muffled by the roar in Caleb’s head. “Dean?”

Dean didn’t react to Caleb’s voice or his distraught brother shouting his name over and over again. Caleb roughly grabbed Dean's too pale face; he pulled back blood smeared fingers coming from Dean's ear. "Damn, Deuce," Caleb whispered. He noticed the droplets of red splattered on the pillow case. Mackland leaned over him, pushing the call button.

"What the hell did we do?"

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