Smells Like Teen Spirit 2/3
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Summary: Dean says that the world outside the bunker is far too dangerous for a thirteen year old Sam Winchester to wander about in but thirteen year old Sam is dying of boredom and honestly, what's the worst that could happen?
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Chapter Two
A short chase, an even shorter scuffle, and then an unknown amount of time spent unconscious is enough to convince Sam that yes, he really should have listened to his brother.
He'd give anything to be back in the Men of Letters' bunker right now, making awkward conversation with Dean's angel friend or meandering down lonely grey hallways, going out of his mind with boredom. He'd give anything to be anywhere other than here, tied up in what he's pretty sure is an actual sewer. It smells like a sewer. It's dark and cold and filthy enough to be a sewer. Why do monsters have to be so gross?
“I had to see it for myself,” the Shifter cackles, unpleasantly gleeful. “Little Sammy Winchester - actually little again. What happened? You piss off the wrong witch?”
Sam sets his jaw and stubbornly looks away, as if he has answers to withhold.
Of course Dean would be right. Of course there actually are monsters that want to get back at Sam Winchester. It isn't that he thought Dean was lying to him - the world is a dangerous place and hunters' kids have been known to be targeted before - but the idea that he was really worth a monster's time and effort, that one really would go out of it's way to hurt him in particular? It just seemed so ridiculous. It's not like he ever excelled at target practice or hand-to-hand or any of the other skills Dad had tried so hard to drill into him. According to Dean, Sam's older self even quit hunting and went to college for a while, so how good could he have been? Dean says that Sam was an incredible hunter but, well, Dean is his big brother. Of course he says that. Sam didn't think that the monsters actually agreed.
The Shifter isn't bothered by Sam's lack of response. “And out for a walk all by your little self,” it continues, shaking Dean's head and 'tsking' tauntingly. “After I warned you about how dangerous that could be.”
“You're not my brother!” Sam spits. He wishes the creature would take a different form. Suddenly, a terrible thought occurs to him. “Where is Dean? If you hurt him-”
The Shapeshifter barks out a laugh. “You'll what? Stick your tongue out at me?”
Sam glares, which feels annoyingly close to sticking out his tongue, but he has no rebuttal. The reassuring weight of his blade in it's ankle-holster is gone. He's been trying to loosen up the bindings around his ankles ever since he woke up and has so far only succeeded in giving himself rope burn. His wrists are bound equally tight and tied to a rusted pipe that runs along the wall above his head. Already his fingers are numb, either from the cold or a lack of circulation, and he's definitely concussed. His head is throbbing and a tender spot at the base of his skull seems to be the cause of both the pain and the non-consensual nap. What exactly does he think he's going to do?
“Where is Dean?” he repeats anyway, which only makes the Shifter laugh again.
“You're too adorable! Where is Dean?” the monster mimics him squeakily, reaching out and squeezing his cheeks together, like he's a toddler, and, worse, like the real Dean would do if he was teasing Sam for acting like a toddler. Sam shakes his face free angrily.
“Don't touch me!” He sounds infuriatingly similar to the Shapeshifter's imitation.
“Don't touch me!” The Shifter punctuates it's mockery with a slap that snaps Sam's head to the side and re-opens his split lip. He swallows a yelp of pain along with a mouthful of blood and grits his teeth, furious and frustrated and seeing stars. At least he knows one thing - Dean must be okay. If he wasn't, Sam is sure that the Shifter would be dying to tell him so. The knowledge calms some of the terror currently crawling up his throat.
“What do you want?” Sam asks the creature, mostly just to keep it talking and distracted while he tries to wriggle free. His swollen fingers aren't cooperating though and he can't get them to twist and bend the way he needs them to.
“Honestly? I haven't even decided yet.” The Shapeshifter narrows Dean's green eyes, regarding Sam thoughtfully. “The possibility of a baby Winchester to play with seemed worth the road-trip but I didn't think the rumours would actually turn out to be true. What should I do with you?”
Sam isn't about to come up with suggestions so he stays quiet as the monster considers him, tapping Dean's chin in an uncomfortably familiar gesture. It really does look exactly like Dean. It sounds exactly like Dean. The only thing wrong are the eyes. Something is missing from them. Whatever it was that helped Sam to recognise his brother when he found himself facing a Dean two decades older than the one he remembered - it's gone. This copy of Dean is cold and malevolent and it's malignant stare makes Sam feel like bugs are squirming over his skin. He thinks it's the malignant stare. Maybe there really are bugs crawling on him.
“I could get you to take me to this 'batcave',” Shifter-Dean muses. “That sounds interesting. Dean knew it was only a matter of time before you found a way out. A secret door somewhere? Another magic key?”
Oh no.
“I'm not taking you anywhere,” Sam says defiantly.
“I could make you.” The Shifter leans in close enough that Sam can feel it's breath on his face and suddenly, a blade is pressed against his cheek, just below his left eye. Sam freezes. The Shifter smiles. “Or I could just hurt you for the fun of it.”
The blade is so sharp and Shifter-Dean's movement is so quick that the pain doesn't sink in right away. First, Sam feels a warmth spill down his face, a ticklish trickle of blood, and then he feels his skin split, tugging apart along a path carved across his cheek. Before he can do more than gasp, the Shifter raises the knife again and adds a matching slash just below the first. The pain hits faster this time and Sam yelps, panic swelling in his chest. He turns away, pressing his face into his outstretched arm, curling into himself against the wall.
The blade skitters across his collarbone.
“Stop!” Sam cries, but the Shifter doesn't, of course. Sam tries desperately to tug his hands free, to kick the rope from his ankles, twisting and screaming and trying, fiercely and fruitlessly, to get away, away, away from the knife and the pain and the monster with his brother's face.
“Feel like changing your mind?” Shifter-Dean asks, finally pausing. “Wanna take me on a tour of your bunker?”
Sam blinks back tears, shuddering and struggling to catch his breath. His shirt is damp with blood.
“Screw you!” he gasps, and the Shifter smacks him across the face, hard enough to bounce his head off of the concrete wall behind him. The sewer blurs, darkness fizzing at the edges of his vision. Sam sags, head lolling as the world spins. The Shifter fists a hand in his hair and forces his head back.
“Being stubborn is pointless,” Shifter-Dean growls in Sam's face. “I can take your form. I can take your memories.”
Sam squints the Shifter's features back into focus. “Why don't you then?” he asks, wincing as the Shifter's tight grip threatens to tear hairs from his scalp.
“Because, Sammy” - Shifter-Dean spits out the nickname like it's something distasteful - “why would I want to be you? Look at yourself. No wonder Dean spends all his time trying to turn you back into a brother that's actually worth having. Maybe he won't even bother coming to look for you.”
It's not Dean. He knows it's not Dean. But somehow hearing this in Dean's voice is like another blow.
Dean does spend a lot of time researching how to make Sam grow up. A lot more time than he spends with Sam. In fact, sometimes Sam gets the impression that Dean doesn't even like hanging out with him, just puts up with it, like he's just going through the motions until he gets his real brother back.
“That's not true,” Sam argues anyway. “Dean's coming and he's gonna kick your ass.”
“You sure about that?” The Shifter releases Sam's hair, leaning back to look Sam up and down, quirking a disdainful eyebrow. “You really think you're worth the trouble? All I see is a brat who can't follow orders. Can't hunt, can't watch your brother's back... you can't even look after yourself. Honestly, kid, I think I'd be doing Dean a favour if I just got rid of you.”
“Stop it,” Sam demands.”You're lying. I know you're lying.”
“Am I though?” Shifter-Dean asks slyly. “How well do you really know Dean? This Dean - not the punk teenager that beat up your bullies back in high school. Do you really think he wants to be stuck raising you all over again?”
“Stop.” It sounds like a plea this time. A slither of doubt is worming it's way into Sam's certainty. What if the Shapeshifter isn't lying? Maybe he really is nothing but a burden like this. If they can't find a cure for unexpected adolescence, what will Dean do with him? What if Dean sends him away somewhere for someone else to deal with? Would being kicked out be worse than being locked up in the bunker until he's old again?
Maybe... maybe it really would be better for Dean, better for everyone, if Sam just disappeared.
XXX
Sam is summoned back to consciousness by Dean's voice, sternly demanding that he wake up. Sam tries very hard not to because being awake hurts and unconsciousness is by far the easiest way to rebel against the Shifter's wishes.
“Sam.” Shifter-Dean insists. “C'mon, Sam, open your eyes.”
“Nuhh,” Sam refuses. He presses his face into his arm, hoping to sink back into the darkness.
“Damn it,” the Shifter breathes. “Sam, wake up!”
It emphasizes this order with a shake that revives Sam's injuries. Torn nerves come to life and wail their complaints, letting loose a flood of pain. Sam chokes back a moan, twisting away from the monster.
“Don't,” he pleads. He can't do this anymore. Everything hurts. He just wants to go to sleep. “Lemme alone.”
“Sam, it's me. It's Dean.”
“Y'r not Dean,” Sam mutters, keeping his eyes stubbornly closed. “Go away.”
“Hang on,” the Shifter says. Something scrapes across the pipe above Sam's head and then he's crumpling sideways, the rope that had held him upright suddenly slack. Hands reach out and grab him, halting his descent.
“Hey.” One of the hands cups Sam's face, lifting his chin. Hesitantly, Sam cracks one eye open.
Dean's face lights up. “There you are.” He grins. “One sec.”
Dean is holding a knife, Sam realises, stiffening, but the blade carves through the remaining bindings, not flesh, and Sam relaxes again.
“Did you get it?” he asks, carefully flexing his newly-freed fingers. The rush of blood is hot and prickly.
“The Shapeshifter? Yeah. Don't worry about it.” Dean untangles the rope from Sam's ankles and tosses it aside. “Think you can walk?”
“Mmhm.” There's no way he's letting Dean carry him. Needing to be rescued is embarrassing enough. It's difficult - his limbs are heavy and wooden and his balance is shot - but Sam makes it to his feet with minimal help from his brother. Once he's upright, he's too unsteady to do anything other than allow Dean to take his elbow and steer him through the sewer system. The hardest part is the ladder leading to the surface. Sam's deadened limbs aren't particularly cooperative and his fingers struggle to grip the rungs but Dean stays close behind him and somehow, Sam makes it through the manhole without falling.
The sun has sunk below the tree-line and the darkened sky is splattered with stars. The days warmth has dissipated, replaced by a sharp wind that bites at Sam's wounds. He wraps his arms around himself, shivering, and looks up and down the empty street.
“Where's Castiel?” he asks. The curve of the road and the trees that flank it block his view of everything other than his immediate surroundings but Sam had expected the angel, and Dean's car, to be nearby.
“Huh?” Dean climbs through the manhole and brushes his hands off on his jeans. “Oh, he's back at the bunker. Come on.”
To Sam's surprise, Dean takes off into the forest. Apparently, they're walking. The bunker must be close. Sam hurries to catch up before Dean's longer strides take him too far ahead. He has no desire to be alone outside anymore.
“So,” Dean says flatly, once Sam reaches his side. “You found a way out.”
Oh. Dean is mad at him. Of course Dean is mad at him. Dean must have spent who knows how long searching for him. Dean must have just fought and killed a Shapeshifter, all by himself. A Shapeshifter with Dean's own face. That can't have been fun. And none of it would have happened if Sam had just done as he was told. No wonder Dean is pissed off.
“I'm sorry,” Sam offers meekly, wincing as he ducks around an outstretched branch. A lengthy cut across his ribcage tugs painfully as he twists. Dean is walking fast. Sam bites his tongue and resists the urge to ask him to slow down. “I just...” His reasoning seems so stupid in retrospect. “I just wanted to go outside.”
Sam risks a glance up at his brother's face but Dean is impassive, striding quickly through the trees.
“How'd you do it?” Dean asks, in a tone that leaves no room for argument.
Sam doesn't feel like arguing though. The fantasy of a secret escape tunnel has lost it's magic and he has no energy for anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. Even that is becoming a real struggle.
“There's a passageway,” Sam explains. “In one of the storage rooms. It comes out in the woods.”
Dean comes to an unexpected halt. “Where?” he barks.
Sam stops, too, taken aback by the abrupt question. He looks around, trying to catch his breath, and his bearings, in the moonlight. “Um...”
They've arrived in a small clearing, indistinguishable from any other, until Sam looks up and recognizes the space between the tree-tops - the wonky octagon of sky he had spent his brief glimpse of freedom staring up at.
“Is this where the Shifter found me?” he asks, confused. He's so tired; he's not sure he can remember how to get back to the tunnels entrance.
“Which way?” Dean insists impatiently, obviously frustrated by how slow Sam is being.
Sam looks around, somewhat desperately this time, searching for his path through the trees. He hadn't paid as much attention to his route as he maybe should have but he also hadn't done anything to avoid leaving a trail of footprints and disturbed foliage that would have been easy enough to follow in the daylight, but now, in the dark...
Sam shudders as the wind slips cold fingers down his t-shirt. Why can't Dean just take him back to the bunker? Couldn't they do this another time, when Sam doesn't feel like a walking bruise?
A sense of unease creeps up on him, slowly raising the hairs on the back of Sam's neck. Would Dean really make him stagger through the forest in the middle of the night, injured and exhausted?
Uncertain, Sam looks up at his brother. If it is his brother. What if it's not his brother?
“I...” What if it's not his brother? Sam takes a small step backwards, wavering. “I'm not sure,” he hedges.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Screw it,” he says. “We'll do it the hard way”
He reaches out, closing vice-like fingers around Sam's wrist, and twists. The bone snaps with a sharp crack.
Sam screams, dropping to his knees. He tries to tug his arm free but the grip is unbreakable, and when he looks up, the face in front of his is changing. Skin softens and rearranges itself like putty on a shrinking skull. Dirty blonde hair turns chestnut brown and grows several inches to flop over darkening eyes. Within seconds, Sam is staring at a perfect copy of himself, unmarred by cuts and bruises, and smirking back at him.
“I'll find it myself,” the Shapeshifter says with Sam's voice. “I'm sure Dean will be pleased to see me.”
“No!” Sam gasps, horrified. He can't let it find it's way into the bunker. He has to do something.
But he can't. He can't do anything. He can't stop the monster. He can't save his brother. Dean - the real Dean - was right. Sam should have listened to him. None of this would be happening if he had just hung out in the bunker and caught up on the years of movies and TV shows that Dean keeps recommending for him. Why does he always have to act like such a brat? Why can't he ever just do as he's told?
“Time to say goodbye,” the Shifter says.
“Goodbye,” a new voice says, an old familiar voice, somewhere to Sam's left. Sam flinches at the sudden gunshot that splits the air and the Shifter jerks, eyes widening in shock. It starts to turn, releasing Sam's mangled wrist, and three more shots follow the first, each one slamming into the creature's chest. It staggers back a step, then drops, thudding to the ground. Sam watches as the life drains from his own face. The moonlight glints off of flat, empty eyes.
“Sam. Hey, don't look.” If the Dean that crouches down between Sam and the dead Shifter isn't the real one, Sam is too tired to care. He crumples forward, obediently closing his eyes on the gory sight, and Dean's arms wrap him up and hold him in a way that's somehow both incredibly gentle and possessively tight.
“Cas, get over here!” Dean yells over Sam's head.
A moment later, the angel is crouching at Dean's side. Sam doesn't hear the approach - like always - but he feels new hands reaching out for him, trying to move him. He cringes away with a whimper of protest, pressing his face against Dean's chest.
Dean tangles a hand in Sam's hair, cradling the back of his head so carefully that Sam barely flinches when fingers brush over the tender knot at the base of his skull.
“Let Cas help,” Dean says. “Trust me.”
Reluctantly - he keeps trusting Dean and it keeps biting him in the ass - Sam turns to face the angel. Castiel looks even more solemn than usual, the edges of his mouth turned unhappily down. He lifts a hand and presses two fingers to Sam's forehead.
A hazy warmth spreads through Sam's body, rolling over him like a wave, erasing injuries as it goes. The thumping in his head fades, slashes knit themselves back together, and the throbbing pain in the wrist Sam clutches defensively to his stomach vanishes as the bones realign. When the angel pulls back, all of Sam's wounds have healed like magic.
“Better?” Dean asks.
Sam flexes his fingers in astonishment, raising a hand to touch the unmarked skin on his face, suddenly self-conscious of the damp tear-tracks that remain. He ducks his head, quickly palming them away, and hopes that Dean and Castiel will do him the favour of pretending not to notice. Not that he deserves any favours, after what he just put everyone through.
Sam bobs his head in response to Dean's question, running his tongue over his freshly un-split lip.
“'m sorry,” he murmurs. He doesn't know what else to say. The trees around them are starting to move, quivering unsteadily.
“What for?”
Dean sounds far away.
“Sam?”
And getting further. And there are so many things that Sam needs to apologize for but they're all slipping away. Dean and Castiel and the forest are fading into an encroaching darkness. Sam grabs at one last thought.
“For making you carry me,” he manages to say, before he gives in and lets the darkness swallow him completely.
Chapter Three