Out of Time 2/3

[mentholpixie]

Out of Time

Summary: In which a thirteen year old Sam finds himself in a strange bunker with a fever of what feels like a million degrees and a stranger claiming to be his brother. Set during the Trials.

Chapter Two
Sam lets himself be led down unfamiliar hallways. He's light-headed and floaty, everything seems totally surreal, and he's not sure whether what he's feeling is shock or the mystery illness the man who might be Dean still hasn't explained. All he knows is that he doesn't ever remember feeling quite the same kind of horrible as he does now as he drips down the corridors, leaving wet footprints behind him and shivering despite the thick bathrobe he's wrapped up in. He's too tired to do anything other than comply when the man nudges him down onto the edge of a bed he doesn't recognise.

“Where am I?” he asks. This isn't a motel.

“Home,” Dean says. (God, he hopes it's Dean.) It's not a house either. Sam feels claustrophobic despite the high ceilings and the long winding hallways he glimpsed on the way here, and it takes him a while to realise that it's the lack of windows that unsettles him. Are they underground?

“Here.” Dean's holding a thermometer out to him. “Take that and then get those wet clothes off. You don't need pneumonia on top of everything else.”

Sam hesitates, tugging the bathrobe tighter around his chin. Maybe it's really Dean but maybe it's not and either way he's not willing to take his clothes off around the guy.

“I'll find you something else to wear,” Dean says, pressing the thermometer into Sam's hand. “Stop looking so terrified, I'm not asking you to perform a strip-tease.”

“I'm not terrified,” Sam denies immediately. “If you try and touch me I'll kick your ass.” Maybe they both know that Sam can't kick Dean's ass right now but saying it makes him feel better. He's not about to let the guy pull anything without putting up a fight.

“Just take your temperature, Sammy.” Dean rolls his eyes a little and starts rummaging through a set of drawers. Sam notices that he doesn't fully turn his back on him this time.

“What's wrong with me?” Sam's gaze wanders to the night stand Dean had taken the thermometer from. It bears the telltale signs of sickness being treated in this room; a cloth resting in a bowl of water, crumpled tissues stained red that remind Sam of the metallic tang creeping up his throat earlier, bottles of water and small containers of pills.

“For one thing, you can't follow simple instructions.”

Sam tosses the thermometer down on the bed defiantly. “I want to know what's going on.” Something more than the blunt fact that he's apparently sick and younger than he's supposed to be. He wants to know what illness he has, what this place is, how they got here, where Dad is, everything.

“Join the club,” Dean shakes his head and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'stubborn damn teenagers' but he stops searching through the drawers and turns to face Sam. “So you saw that store room, right? Where I found you, with all the shelves? I'm guessing fever-brained Sammy went and found something shiny to play with while I was filling up the tub. And there's, like, a million cursed objects and old spell books in there so I'm gonna have to go figure out which pretty, sparkly thing caught your eye and turned you into mini-you. And how to change you back. Until then - and I know this isn't your strong suit - you just need to do what I tell you.”

Sam huffs petulantly. Dean has that effect on him, especially when he's hiding things and giving Sam half-truths. Nothing he's said has explained anything more than what Sam's already been told, and he's pretty sure that was deliberate. “I was coughing up blood.” Explain that.

Dean doesn't. He turns and starts rummaging through the drawers again. “You're sick,” he says shortly, which, duh, Sam's figured out that much himself. He opens his mouth to press for more details but Dean cuts him off with another roll of his eyes. “Your throat's just torn up from all the coughing you've been doing,” he says, but he doesn't quite look Sam in the eye when he says it. Sam's throat doesn't feel torn up. The pain seems to come from somewhere deeper, in his lungs. “Now get that thermometer in your mouth because I decide to take your temperature the hard way.”

Sam quickly sticks the thermometer under his tongue, which makes Dean smirk. Sam glares at him.

“We're gonna have to get creative with your clothes. None of this is even going to come close to fitting you yet.” Dean holds up a pair of sweatpants that look like they could fit a Sam in each leg. “Got any safety pins in here? Oh, never mind, you wouldn't know.”

“Are they mine?” Sam asks around the thermometer, which makes it come out sounding more like 'A'dey'ine?' but Dean has always been able to understand him. It's like a test, seeing as Sam can't think of anything else to do other than gather evidence to either convince him that it's really Dean or that it's really not, but also, he really wants to know if he actually grows big enough to fit in those pants.

“Sure are, shorty.” Dean doesn't skip a beat. “You're about to hit the first of many, many growth spurts.”

“Am I taller than you?”

Dean shoots him a look that says don't enjoy this too much. “Slightly.”

“How much is slightly?”

“How hard is it to shut up and take your damn temperature?”

Sam rolls his eyes. The thermometer beeps and Dean snatches it from Sam's mouth before Sam has time to raise a hand to his lips.

“I can read a thermometer, you know,” he says crossly. Has Dean always treated him like such a little kid? No, there's more to it than that; Dean's trying to hide something.

“So can I,” Dean says, infuriatingly, frowning at the thermometer. “Well, it's better than it was earlier, at least. You feeling less scrambled?”

Sam glares. “Tell me what's wrong with me.”

Dean slips the thermometer into his pocket. “Nothing, Sammy, it's just the 'flu.”

“Stop lying to me!” Sam demands. Dean won't look him in the eye and he won't let him see the numbers on the thermometer and there's no way this is just the 'flu. “Where's Dad? I want to talk to him.” Maybe if Dean won't tell him the truth, Dad will. Dad's never been one to sugar coat things.

“He's not here,” Dean dodges.

“So call him. Tell him to get here!” Why is Dean being so difficult?

“Sam, he...” Dean stops himself and turns away from Sam to take a clean t-shirt from one of the drawers but not before Sam sees his expression and he knows, he knows by the drop in his stomach before Dean can even try to think up a lie.

“Dad's dead?” His voice doesn't sound like his own. He feels curiously like he's floating just outside his body, separate from the hands that clutch the bathrobe tight against his stomach as if recoiling from a kick to the gut. He's not entirely sure whether he's breathing or not.

Dean turns back to him, grief and regret darkening his features. “Sam.” His hands on Sam's shoulders feel distant and his voice seems even further. “Don't freak out. It's not... This is all... out of context, okay? It's probably better if you don't ask questions. The answers aren't going to make sense. It'll just...”

“He's really dead?” There must be some sort of mistake. Dad is too damn stubborn to die, too strong, too determined to take down every monster out there. It's impossible for the world to be going on without him in it. Sam suddenly and desperately wants nothing else but to close his eyes and find himself back in his own time, with Dean the right age and Dad using up all the hot water in the shower. He tries it but it doesn't work. He's still in an unfamiliar bedroom and the Dean sitting next to him with an arm cautiously curled around his shoulders is in his thirties and Dad is... Dad is gone.

“I'm sorry, Sammy,” Dean says gently. “This is messed up, even for us, but I'll fix it, okay? Change you back into grown up Sam and get your memories back and...” Dean falters a little. “... and it won't seem so bad,” he finishes lamely. Sam gets the impression that a lot of the memories he's missing aren't good ones.

It's weird, being comforted by a stranger, even if that stranger is meant to be his older - much older - brother. At first, the shock of Dad's death pushes any other thought aside and he barely notices the arms around him, but there's some part of him, a tiny spark of rationality, that warns him not to break down just yet, reminding him that he's in a strange place with a potential enemy. If Dad... if Dad was here, he'd tell Sam not to lose his head. He needs to focus and come up with a plan. There's no real proof that Dean is Dean and his first priority should be changing that. Maybe it's not Dean at all and Dad's still out there somewhere with his real brother, looking for him. Is that really a crazier thought than being de-aged and effectively dropped into the future?

Dean seems to sense the change in his thoughts because he pulls away a little warily. Sam realizes that he's tensed up and immediately tries to loosen his muscles. It would be better to let the man think he trusts him, or at least that he doesn't outright distrust him. He tries to think of something to say that might help this cause but Dean stops him by standing up and dropping the clothes he'd gathered into Sam's lap.

“Here. I'll, uh, give you some privacy to get changed. And I'll look for some safety pins so you can stop looking at me like I'm some sort of pervert.”

Sam tries to wipe whatever look he has off his face but it doesn't matter, Dean's heading for the door. Sam's heart leaps into his throat (is he really being left alone?) as the footsteps recede down the hallway.

He should forget about the dry clothes and just run, but he's still shivering even with the robe and his desire for warmth temporarily overcomes his better judgement. Quickly, he sheds the robe and kicks off the damp sweatpants, dragging the fresh pair on before peeling off the t-shirt that's clinging uncomfortably to his chest like a second skin and replacing that too, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable and exposed the whole time. He looks like he's playing dress-up. There's no way he can fight in these clothes. Sam thinks for a moment, then pulls the belt out of the discarded robe and ties it around his waist, cinching the sweatpants tight. With the pant legs rolled over half a dozen times the outfit is more manoeuvrable, at least, but his only chance will be making his way out undetected. He could do it. Dean's always telling him how sneaky he can be when he wants to. Once he's out he can find a phone he knows how to use or something to confirm the date, anything that might either corroborate or disprove the man's story.

But he turns to the door only to find that the man is already back, leaning against the door jamb with one eyebrow raised accusingly.

“Going somewhere?” he asks dryly. He looks annoyed but resigned, as if Sam's doing exactly what he expects him to do.

“Where would I go?” Sam scoffs a denial anyway, frustrated. He should have just left. Dean and Dad wouldn't have wasted time changing clothes, not even if it meant getting pneumonia. “I just want to look around.”

“Right,” Dean says flatly. “Because you couldn't possibly just listen to me when I tell you that you're too sick to be out of bed. You know that's what got us into this mess in the first place, right?”

“How would I know that?” Sam asks, sitting back down on the bed in a vague attempt at proving that he wasn't trying to escape. “I'm not old enough for it to have happened to me yet.”

That makes Dean pause. His forehead creases into a frown as he tries to figure out whether Sam's making sense or not - Sam's not sure himself - before he seems to give up with a shrug. “Whatever. I couldn't find any safety pins but it looks like you sorted that problem already.” Green eyes flicker to the makeshift belt and Sam twists his hands in it self-consciously, making sure it's still tight. “I got you something else instead.”

Dean steps into the room, holding up what looks like a black, flat rectangle. Sam frowns at it dubiously as it's pushed into his hands.

“What is it?” he asks, flipping it over to inspect it from other angles in case they decide to give up the object's secrets. Maybe it's one of the cursed items Dean says are stashed in this place.

Dean chuckles, reaching out to turn it back over. “Watch this.” He pushes a tiny button in the top right corner that Sam had missed and the rectangle suddenly lights up, just like Dean's phone did, a screen appearing on the impossibly flat surface.

“It's a computer!” Sam exclaims in amazement, pulling it closer so he can study the icons on the screen - he was kind of too busy feeling his world crashing down to appreciate the technology of Dean's phone earlier - and because it's so strange and unexpected, and maybe because he still feels vague and unbalanced from the fever, he completely messes up by forgetting to keep his eyes on the potential threat until he feels something cold slide around his wrist and by then it's too late. The handcuffs latch with a soft click and Dean snaps the other end around the bed frame.

“Hey!” Sam protests, already swinging, planning - if he can just make contact maybe the man will be dazed long enough for Sam to search his pockets for the key - but Dean moves like he can read Sam's mind, ducking out of his reach before the blow can even come close. The tiny computer clatters to the floor as Sam jumps up but Dean's too quick and the handcuff snaps taut around Sam's wrist as soon as he's upright, pulling him off balance. He falls back against the side of the bed, knocking a couple of pill bottles off the night stand on his way down. They rattle across the carpet as Sam's head spins, cursing himself internally, and apparently his lungs really object to yelling because they constrict and burn and suddenly he can't stop coughing. This is not the 'flu. This can't just be the 'flu. Sam curls into himself, folding his arms around his chest as if cradling the pain, and feels hopelessly like giving up and having that breakdown he talked himself out of earlier. If Dean isn't Dean, Sam is totally screwed now.

“Sorry,” the man says when Sam manages to catch his breath, what feels like an eternity later. He's watching Sam warily from a few feet away, one hand half-raised as if he wants to help but is holding himself back. “I knew I wouldn't get away with that without you throwing a punch.”

Sam scowls, swiping the back of his free hand across his lips. A bright red smear appears against his pale skin and he does his best to ignore it, even though the sight sends a hum of panic through his veins.

“Why'd you do it then?” he asks, tugging experimentally on the cuffs. There's no give. The cold metal is snug against his wrist. He can feel the man's eyes on the streak of blood and when he looks up, he catches a glimpse of what might be guilt and fear etched into the grooves of Dean's forehead, a promise of some terrible secret in the drawn eyebrows. It's gone before Sam can figure it out though, swapped for a shit-eating grin.

“Like you're not a flight risk,” Dean scoffs. “Get real, Sammy. I taught you half the shit you know and you think I can't tell when you're about to rabbit?” The grin fades. “It's what me and Dad told you to do, isn't it? That if you ever found yourself alone and outnumbered you should keep your head down and take the first opportunity to ditch and come find us, right? I remember that.”

“I'm not outnumbered,” Sam points out, mostly because he doesn't know what to do when the guy talks like that, like Dean. It's creepy and comforting and confusing all at once and he just can't.

“Dude, it's me verses you, and you're sick and half your usual size,” the man scoffs. “You only count as, like, half a person right now so yes, you are outnumbered.”

Sam's scowl deepens. “If you were really Dean, you'd know that handcuffs can't hold me forever.”

“They don't have to,” Dean shrugs. “I just need you to stay put long enough for me to go check out that storage room.” He steps forward and Sam shies back against the bed, bracing himself. If Dean comes close enough, Sam might be able to sweep his legs out from under him and get hold of the key to the handcuffs.

Dean pauses, frowning at him reproachfully as if he can read Sam's thoughts, and Sam feels suddenly and ridiculously guilty for hurting the guy's feelings. He doesn't let himself relax though, not even when Dean simply reaches down to pick up the flat computer - carefully staying out of Sam's range the whole time.

“It's called a Tablet,” he says conversationally, as if he didn't just handcuff Sam to the bed. “And it's yours so try not to break it or you're gonna end up pissed off at yourself, or pissed off at me for letting you break it.”

Sam glares at him. He's not interested in the Tablet. He wants to leave, to find his own proof about what's going on.

The man sighs. “Look, I'll make you a deal. I'll give this back to you and you can knock yourself out reading about some of the crazy monsters we've run into over the years. You - older you, normal you... oh, whatever, you've been building this database or something.” He selects one of the icons by touching the screen with his fingertip and a page of text appears. “It's pretty much just facts about Supernatural stuff but I'm guessing it'll be more interesting than staring at the walls. But you need to skip the Houdini act. I have to figure out how to fix you and that's going to be a hell of a lot easier if I don't end up needing to chase you around town first. So how about it? You think you might be able to just... trust me for a while?”

“Why don't you take the cuffs off and trust me to stay here?” Sam counters sarcastically, which makes the man twitch like he wants to start tearing his own hair out. Whatever. Sam has no inclination to stay put and read about monsters if he can help it. Blind trust has never been his strong suit.

“I forgot what a fucking brat you used to be,” Dean growls, without any heat. Maybe even with a hint of pride. He stares Sam down assessingly. Then he laughs and tosses the Tablet onto the bed - not coming any closer to Sam than he has to. “Have fun with that. And if you do manage to get out of those cuffs, at least try to remember how to get here so you can find your way back when you figure out what an idiot you've been.”

Sam scowls again. He's being mocked and he can't figure out if the teasing coming from this stranger makes him feel more or less safe but it definitely pisses him off. That and the fact that he's not so sure if he really can get out of the handcuffs. He's done it before, with Dad or Dean's guidance, with some sort of tool provided for him, but there's no guarantee that he can do it again in these conditions.

“Can't I come with you to the store room?” he tries. “I can help figure out how to fix me.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, or you could knock me out when my back is turned and take off.” He laughs ruefully, once again displaying that uncanny ability to read Sam's mind. “In the last hour you've pulled two separate knives on me and thrown I don't know how many punches. Out of the two of us, I think I'm in more danger than you are right now.”

“What, are you scared?” Sam taunts. Maybe a blow to the ego will work. It would've worked on the brother Sam remembers.

This Dean just laughs though. “Of a thirteen year old Sam Winchester? Most definitely.”

XXX
The first half hour Sam is left alone, he spends searching his immediate surroundings diligently for a paper clip, bit of wire, or a pin, but apparently his older self never foresaw a situation in which he would need to free himself from handcuffs in his own bed because the side table is utterly empty of anything helpful. In fact, the whole room is rather empty other than the drawers that hold his clothes and a small pile of books against the far wall, and Sam's not fully convinced that it really is his room or that he had an older self at all.

The next half hour is spent alternately trying to puzzle out the best way to dislocate his thumb and trying to build up the courage to do it. Dad did it once, he remembers, on one of those nights they had to pack up quick and skip town with the threat of policemen and social workers darkening the mood in the Impala. Sam manages to mangle his wrist a little in his attempts but the cuff is tight and he doesn't even come close to sliding his hand free.

Finally, grudgingly, he picks up the Tablet. Maybe there's something on there that will help him. The screen has turned off while he was messing with the handcuffs but Sam finds the button he saw Dean push earlier and it comes to life under his fingertips. A small pop-up in the bottom right corner tells Sam that the Wi-Fi, whatever that is, has been disconnected. Seeing as the browser Sam opens refuses to load, he assumes it's something to do with the internet. Of course. Dean told him that he shouldn't ask questions and maybe the world wide web holds some answers, or possibly a way of contacting someone, that Dean doesn't think he should have. He mucks around with it for a while but he can't get it to connect. It's disconcerting. Usually, Sam's great with computers but this one is full of icons with words like Twitter and Youtube that are completely foreign to him. And it's so small, he can't even begin to understand how it works. There are no wires so it must have a battery, a tiny one. He's half-tempted to try to take it apart to see what the inside looks like but finding out the devices secrets is unlikely to help him with his current predicament. He doesn't have any tools anyway and if he did, he'd be using them on the handcuffs, not the computer.

Half-heartedly, Sam scrolls through the monster database Dean told him about, just in case there's something useful in there, but it's like Dean said, nothing but factual information. Some of the monsters sound kind of interesting but it's all completely unhelpful and he's too keyed up to focus on it. He resists the urge to toss the Tablet aside in frustration, remembering that Dean said it belonged to his older self, which means he probably shouldn't break it during a temper tantrum...

… which also means there could be things on here that Dean's never seen before, things that Sam's older self might not want to share.

Sam hesitates. Maybe he shouldn't look. Maybe he should just do what he's supposed to, read the monster database and wait for Dean to get back. If he's lucky, Dean will be Dean, he'll have a plan to fix Sam, and none of this will matter anymore.

But if he's not lucky...

He has to know.

Sam is good at hacking, good at following trails of encryption and figuring out passwords or how to bypass them, even on unfamiliar devices. It's not all that different from the computers he usually works on, just smaller, with an on-screen keyboard and his fingertips replacing the mouse. It doesn't take long to track down a hidden text file buried deep inside the system. It looks like a journal, pages of short entries marked with dates years in the future.

Sam smiles, smugly pleased with himself for having finally found some knowledge that even his captor doesn't have. He skims the most recent entry, eyes catching on words like Dean and hunt and some stuff about being sick but it doesn't make much sense without context. He needs to go back.

Still, it's enough to tentatively push him over towards believing that the man - Dean? Yes, he thinks it really might be Dean - has been telling the truth. The phone and computer offer credible evidence to the possibility that Sam's in the future (or he's past-him in the present, whatever) and the hidden journal with references to hunting and his brother seem to prove that Dean is who he says he is.

The thought has Sam glancing furtively at the door to the hallway, just in case Dean has pulled off another one of his silent approaching. Empty. Sam listens but everywhere is quiet. Dean must still be in the store room. He looks back at the computer, suddenly uncertain. He has his proof already, reading the whole journal isn't really necessary, and he can't shake the strange idea that he's somehow invading his own privacy by reading something that he apparently went to decent lengths to hide.

But it's right here, all the answers, right in front of him. And he's never been good at following orders.

Sam scrolls back a couple of months and begins to read about something his older self refers to as the Trials.

Chapter Three