Who The Hell..... 1/3
This was originally posted on hoodie_time. I was reading the fantastic story "How To Break Dean Winchester" where Dean keeps calling Sam "Dean", and I wondered what if something happened to Sam like in my Monkees story "Identity Crisis" where he genuinely thought he was Dean? What would happen to Dean if he was forced to be Sam for not weeks (as in "Identity Crisis") -- but months? So, this story came into being. The title is taken from the cleaned-up-for-radio edit of the last few lines of the Who's "Who Are You".
It was the phone call that alerted Bobby that something was seriously wrong. Since reconnecting, they'd never been out of touch for this long. They'd been out of pocket for nearly two months, three in Sam's case, and now out of the blue, Sam called.
Except he didn't sound like Sam. His voice was gruffer, harder. But the words on the voicemail were definitely him.
"Bobby, we need medical care, we're heading your way! Sammy needs you!"
Why in the sam hill did Sam refer to himself in the third person?
It made no sense.
And that meant something was horribly wrong.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He was on the porch, Rumsfeld dozing at his feet, when the dog perked up and started barking - his tail wagging at the same time. Bobby blinked at the reaction, then burst into a grin when he heard the throaty rumbling purr of the Impala turning off the road. "Make yourself scarce, boy," he said, scritching the dog's head and watching him take off around the side of the house.
Bobby was carrying his shotgun and when they grew closer, he saw a larger shouldered form behind the wheel. "Sam?" he breathed, amazed that Dean would let Sam drive.
The Impala drew up with a screech of brakes and a cloud of dust and then the engine was off, the door creaked as it opened, and Sam flew out of the driver's seat and dashed around to the passenger side, reaching in and helping his brother out of the shotgun seat.
When they turned toward Bobby, he knew at a glance something was definitely very, very wrong.
'Need a shower in holy water' wrong.
Bobby hadn't seen Sam's hair that short since he was seven years old. He still had bangs, but they were very short and curled along the top of his forehead. His ears were fully exposed, and there was a focused, nearly insane look in his eye that would have scared the shit out of Bobby.
If the battered leather jacket, jeans and t-shirt so tight they were practically painted on, and bulls-head amulet swinging from his neck hadn't already done that.
Sam was dressed exactly like Dean.
As for Dean himself... Bobby's heart did a funny little squeeze at the sight of him, clearly bleeding from his side. He wore a too-large blue plaid shirt over his jeans, and both it and the light-grey Army surplus jacket was stained with blood. He was leaning heavily against Sam as they walked, and he was gritting his teeth against the pain.
But the clothes weren't the strangest part for Bobby. He couldn't stop staring at Dean's hair. The stick-straight dark-blond hair hit Dean's eyebrows and completely covered his ears, flopping down around his neck. He slowly raised pain-glazed eyes and managed a weak smile. "H-Hey....Bobby.....sorry for....droppin' in....like this..."
"How about we save the social graces until your blood's not leakin' out, huh, Sammy?" Sam snarled. "He forgot to duck and the damn bullet's still in him."
Bobby's brain whirled for a second. Sammy? Sam called Dean....Sammy? Then he nodded. "On the couch."
He followed them in and as soon as Sam laid Dean on the couch, he threw a shot of holy water in Sam's face. Sam closed his eyes against the onslaught, but there was no other reaction.
Bobby nodded and poured another shot of holy water over Dean's wound. No demonic reaction, but he did hiss in pain at a purely human level.
"You wanna explain how you two swi--" Bobby suddenly noticed Dean dragging a finger across his throat, shaking his head violently. ".......idjits let this happen?"
"Stupid, stupid," Sam snarled. "We just walked into a store and the robber cold-cocked him with a bullet!"
"Go get the supplies," Bobby ordered. "You know where they are." Sam nodded and went at a quick run, and Bobby bent to help Dean remove his shirts and jacket. "No hospital, huh? Because of who you... look like?"
"Because of who I am," Dean corrected, his voice infinitely tired. "I'm Dean Winchester, Bobby. 100% me. No soul exchange. I'm me."
Bobby blinked. "Then why--" he reached out and flicked Dean's long bangs by means of finishing that sentence.
"Sam," Dean whispered. "He.... He's lost. And if I act like me, it hurts him." His eyes closed. "Tell you what....patch me up and when he's out after, I'll tell you everything."
"Why not now?"
"Cause I'm losing the fight with the sleepies. And he's gonna hover till I'm okay again. After all..." He opened his glazed jade eyes - just a slit - and smiled a small, sad smile. "That's exactly what Dean would do, isn't it?"
Bobby squeezed his shoulder as his eyes closed. "Yeah, you would. You big idjit."
Dean huffed a soft laugh as Sam came back at a run, his arms loaded with bandages, tools, and other supplies.
"Let's get that bullet outta your brother," Bobby told him, standing up. "Set that stuff there. I'm gonna need your hands."
Sam nodded. "Just tell me what I gotta do. We gotta get Sammy well."
Yeah, Bobby thought. We sure do. But let's get Dean patched up first.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The bullet was out and Dean was sewn up expertly. He'd had an antibiotic shot and several antibiotic pills to take, courtesy of one of Bobby's medic friends.
And he'd been right - Sam hovered. He sat by Dean's bed - the one Sam himself had slept in as a boy when they stayed there - and pushed sweaty bangs off his forehead. He talked to him in a low voice, memories of their childhood. Of their father. Of them since Dean came for him at Stanford.
And all from Dean's point of view. Filtered through Sam's mouth.
It was too bizarre to watch.
Dean finally woke, blinked up at Sam, licked his lips and Bobby - watching from the doorway - could almost see the quip forming. But then Dean's eyes widened slightly as they looked at Sam, and his eyes closed for a moment.
When they opened this time, they were full of warm concern and his left hand came up, grasping at his brother's arm. "You...okay, Dean?"
Sam huffed out a laugh. "Am I okay - I'm not the one with a new ventilation shaft."
"Ooh, don't make me laugh....hurts...." But he was chuckling softly. "Go get something to eat, dude. You look exhausted."
"I'm fine."
"Dean." The voice was all little-brother concern. "Seriously. If you wanna help, go get me some broth or something."
"And then go shower," Bobby said from the doorway. "You're ripe, boy."
"Fine, fine." Sam stood. "I feed you and then I shower."
"Flip those," Dean said. "You really need to shower first. Or you might contaminate the broth."
Sam made a disgusted noise, but he gathered his clothes and headed out. "I'll be back with broth in about twenty minutes!"
"Can't wait," Dean said, smiling warmly as Sam exited the room. The smile faded as Bobby came in and sat beside him. "Help me sit up?"
Bobby did so, then said, "He's not here. Explanation time."
Dean took a deep breath. "Remember when Sam vanished for a month?"
"You were frantic. Then you both vanished."
He nodded. "Because Sam had been.... he'd been ambushed by a Trickster. He lived for six months - relative time - in a world where I was dead."
Bobby drew in a sharp breath.
"When it was over...." Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. "He was different. Harder. Colder. He'd just....stare.... at me for hours on end. Then he just - walked out of the hotel room and didn't look back. A month later, he shows up, cool as a cucumber, with a jacket that's a copy of mine and an attitude to match, demands 'his' jewelry back and tells me that playtime is over, it's time to get back to work."
Bobby just stared.
"Whenever I'd argue with him and try to tell him that I'm Dean - he'd get horrible headaches. Part of him does seem to realise that he's really Sam and I'm really Dean, but I'm just not sure how to reach it. It took me this long - and getting shot - to convince him to get me here."
"You think I can help?"
He nodded and damn, if those huge green eyes weren't shining with Sam's own hope in them.
"Dean - I know supernatural things. Things that can be fixed and things that can be treated. This... this is insanity, Dean. This is just a mind that has snapped. I don't know how to treat that."
"I've been trying to," Dean said. "I've been acting like Sam and trying to snap him out of it." He took a deep breath. "But dammit, Bobby, it feels good to be me again. Even for a few minutes."
"Wait, you've been with him like this for how long?"
"Two months. Why?"
Bobby took a deep, ragged breath and ran his hand along his mouth and chin. "When'd you decide to grow your hair out?"
"When I realised I'd have to be Sam awhile. Long hair's a Sam thing, so it would just follow that....B-Bobby, why are you lookin' at me like that?"
"Those clothes - they're your size. Not his."
"I know. He got them for me. What the hell are you getting at?"
"Dean --- I don't wanna scare you."
"Well, you're doing a hell of job of scarin' me, Bobby!"
"Dean." He leaned forward, his voice low and intense. "You gotta hold onto yourself. You've gotta be Dean."
"B-B-Bobby?" And shit, that was a Sam scared/confused reaction from Dean.
"Dean - two months is more than enough time to get habits established. You're losin' yourself, boy. You're slowly goin' just as mad as Sam is."
Dean's reaction was to lean back on the pillows, go paler than milk, and close his eyes. His left hand came up and shoved the hair off his forehead, tangling in it and tugging slightly like the small pain would help him think. His mouth twitched, going flatter instead of pursing.
Bobby went cold all over. Those were Sam's reactions to emotional pain.
It might already be too late.
Part Two
It was the phone call that alerted Bobby that something was seriously wrong. Since reconnecting, they'd never been out of touch for this long. They'd been out of pocket for nearly two months, three in Sam's case, and now out of the blue, Sam called.
Except he didn't sound like Sam. His voice was gruffer, harder. But the words on the voicemail were definitely him.
"Bobby, we need medical care, we're heading your way! Sammy needs you!"
Why in the sam hill did Sam refer to himself in the third person?
It made no sense.
And that meant something was horribly wrong.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He was on the porch, Rumsfeld dozing at his feet, when the dog perked up and started barking - his tail wagging at the same time. Bobby blinked at the reaction, then burst into a grin when he heard the throaty rumbling purr of the Impala turning off the road. "Make yourself scarce, boy," he said, scritching the dog's head and watching him take off around the side of the house.
Bobby was carrying his shotgun and when they grew closer, he saw a larger shouldered form behind the wheel. "Sam?" he breathed, amazed that Dean would let Sam drive.
The Impala drew up with a screech of brakes and a cloud of dust and then the engine was off, the door creaked as it opened, and Sam flew out of the driver's seat and dashed around to the passenger side, reaching in and helping his brother out of the shotgun seat.
When they turned toward Bobby, he knew at a glance something was definitely very, very wrong.
'Need a shower in holy water' wrong.
Bobby hadn't seen Sam's hair that short since he was seven years old. He still had bangs, but they were very short and curled along the top of his forehead. His ears were fully exposed, and there was a focused, nearly insane look in his eye that would have scared the shit out of Bobby.
If the battered leather jacket, jeans and t-shirt so tight they were practically painted on, and bulls-head amulet swinging from his neck hadn't already done that.
Sam was dressed exactly like Dean.
As for Dean himself... Bobby's heart did a funny little squeeze at the sight of him, clearly bleeding from his side. He wore a too-large blue plaid shirt over his jeans, and both it and the light-grey Army surplus jacket was stained with blood. He was leaning heavily against Sam as they walked, and he was gritting his teeth against the pain.
But the clothes weren't the strangest part for Bobby. He couldn't stop staring at Dean's hair. The stick-straight dark-blond hair hit Dean's eyebrows and completely covered his ears, flopping down around his neck. He slowly raised pain-glazed eyes and managed a weak smile. "H-Hey....Bobby.....sorry for....droppin' in....like this..."
"How about we save the social graces until your blood's not leakin' out, huh, Sammy?" Sam snarled. "He forgot to duck and the damn bullet's still in him."
Bobby's brain whirled for a second. Sammy? Sam called Dean....Sammy? Then he nodded. "On the couch."
He followed them in and as soon as Sam laid Dean on the couch, he threw a shot of holy water in Sam's face. Sam closed his eyes against the onslaught, but there was no other reaction.
Bobby nodded and poured another shot of holy water over Dean's wound. No demonic reaction, but he did hiss in pain at a purely human level.
"You wanna explain how you two swi--" Bobby suddenly noticed Dean dragging a finger across his throat, shaking his head violently. ".......idjits let this happen?"
"Stupid, stupid," Sam snarled. "We just walked into a store and the robber cold-cocked him with a bullet!"
"Go get the supplies," Bobby ordered. "You know where they are." Sam nodded and went at a quick run, and Bobby bent to help Dean remove his shirts and jacket. "No hospital, huh? Because of who you... look like?"
"Because of who I am," Dean corrected, his voice infinitely tired. "I'm Dean Winchester, Bobby. 100% me. No soul exchange. I'm me."
Bobby blinked. "Then why--" he reached out and flicked Dean's long bangs by means of finishing that sentence.
"Sam," Dean whispered. "He.... He's lost. And if I act like me, it hurts him." His eyes closed. "Tell you what....patch me up and when he's out after, I'll tell you everything."
"Why not now?"
"Cause I'm losing the fight with the sleepies. And he's gonna hover till I'm okay again. After all..." He opened his glazed jade eyes - just a slit - and smiled a small, sad smile. "That's exactly what Dean would do, isn't it?"
Bobby squeezed his shoulder as his eyes closed. "Yeah, you would. You big idjit."
Dean huffed a soft laugh as Sam came back at a run, his arms loaded with bandages, tools, and other supplies.
"Let's get that bullet outta your brother," Bobby told him, standing up. "Set that stuff there. I'm gonna need your hands."
Sam nodded. "Just tell me what I gotta do. We gotta get Sammy well."
Yeah, Bobby thought. We sure do. But let's get Dean patched up first.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The bullet was out and Dean was sewn up expertly. He'd had an antibiotic shot and several antibiotic pills to take, courtesy of one of Bobby's medic friends.
And he'd been right - Sam hovered. He sat by Dean's bed - the one Sam himself had slept in as a boy when they stayed there - and pushed sweaty bangs off his forehead. He talked to him in a low voice, memories of their childhood. Of their father. Of them since Dean came for him at Stanford.
And all from Dean's point of view. Filtered through Sam's mouth.
It was too bizarre to watch.
Dean finally woke, blinked up at Sam, licked his lips and Bobby - watching from the doorway - could almost see the quip forming. But then Dean's eyes widened slightly as they looked at Sam, and his eyes closed for a moment.
When they opened this time, they were full of warm concern and his left hand came up, grasping at his brother's arm. "You...okay, Dean?"
Sam huffed out a laugh. "Am I okay - I'm not the one with a new ventilation shaft."
"Ooh, don't make me laugh....hurts...." But he was chuckling softly. "Go get something to eat, dude. You look exhausted."
"I'm fine."
"Dean." The voice was all little-brother concern. "Seriously. If you wanna help, go get me some broth or something."
"And then go shower," Bobby said from the doorway. "You're ripe, boy."
"Fine, fine." Sam stood. "I feed you and then I shower."
"Flip those," Dean said. "You really need to shower first. Or you might contaminate the broth."
Sam made a disgusted noise, but he gathered his clothes and headed out. "I'll be back with broth in about twenty minutes!"
"Can't wait," Dean said, smiling warmly as Sam exited the room. The smile faded as Bobby came in and sat beside him. "Help me sit up?"
Bobby did so, then said, "He's not here. Explanation time."
Dean took a deep breath. "Remember when Sam vanished for a month?"
"You were frantic. Then you both vanished."
He nodded. "Because Sam had been.... he'd been ambushed by a Trickster. He lived for six months - relative time - in a world where I was dead."
Bobby drew in a sharp breath.
"When it was over...." Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. "He was different. Harder. Colder. He'd just....stare.... at me for hours on end. Then he just - walked out of the hotel room and didn't look back. A month later, he shows up, cool as a cucumber, with a jacket that's a copy of mine and an attitude to match, demands 'his' jewelry back and tells me that playtime is over, it's time to get back to work."
Bobby just stared.
"Whenever I'd argue with him and try to tell him that I'm Dean - he'd get horrible headaches. Part of him does seem to realise that he's really Sam and I'm really Dean, but I'm just not sure how to reach it. It took me this long - and getting shot - to convince him to get me here."
"You think I can help?"
He nodded and damn, if those huge green eyes weren't shining with Sam's own hope in them.
"Dean - I know supernatural things. Things that can be fixed and things that can be treated. This... this is insanity, Dean. This is just a mind that has snapped. I don't know how to treat that."
"I've been trying to," Dean said. "I've been acting like Sam and trying to snap him out of it." He took a deep breath. "But dammit, Bobby, it feels good to be me again. Even for a few minutes."
"Wait, you've been with him like this for how long?"
"Two months. Why?"
Bobby took a deep, ragged breath and ran his hand along his mouth and chin. "When'd you decide to grow your hair out?"
"When I realised I'd have to be Sam awhile. Long hair's a Sam thing, so it would just follow that....B-Bobby, why are you lookin' at me like that?"
"Those clothes - they're your size. Not his."
"I know. He got them for me. What the hell are you getting at?"
"Dean --- I don't wanna scare you."
"Well, you're doing a hell of job of scarin' me, Bobby!"
"Dean." He leaned forward, his voice low and intense. "You gotta hold onto yourself. You've gotta be Dean."
"B-B-Bobby?" And shit, that was a Sam scared/confused reaction from Dean.
"Dean - two months is more than enough time to get habits established. You're losin' yourself, boy. You're slowly goin' just as mad as Sam is."
Dean's reaction was to lean back on the pillows, go paler than milk, and close his eyes. His left hand came up and shoved the hair off his forehead, tangling in it and tugging slightly like the small pain would help him think. His mouth twitched, going flatter instead of pursing.
Bobby went cold all over. Those were Sam's reactions to emotional pain.
It might already be too late.
Part Two