Summary: Sam wasn't the only Winchester infant infected with the Demon's blood.

Disclaimer: If you've read this far, then you know I don't own them.

Little Boy Lost, Part 2 of 2


"I'll be damned," Bobby Singer says quietly later as he stands over Sam. Shoulders slumped, Sam sits wearily with his back up against Rebecca Gentry's headstone.

"I'll be damned," Bobby says again, softly.

"I probably am," Sam says hoarsely as he looks up at Bobby. Sam looks old, tired around his eyes. "Bobby, I lost Dean."


That buzzing sound gets into his head, digs deep into the aching soft grey matter of his brain, and he's so damn tired his bones ache with it. All he wants to do is just lay there on his side, in the grass, underneath that deep black sky, curl up and sleep, but he knows he can't. There's too much going on inside that head of his, all those images running loose, colliding with each other.

Mom burning on the ceiling, the weight of Sammy in his arms.

Dean's too small, so scared, but he runs, he runs like Daddy told him to.

The sweet smoky smell of his mother's burning flesh.

Two of his ribs snap like dry kindling wood as he's thrown into a wall by a fugly for the very first time.

Sam's face twists with hate as he shoulders his duffel, slams the Impala's door way too hard. "You want to waste your life being Dad's brainwashed little toy soldier, Dean, then that's fine by me. Don't call me at school. Don't come by."

Dean can smell the dusty dead air of Roosevelt Asylum, heavy in his lungs. His chest aches. His mouth fills with the acid taste of fear.

"No, the rock salt won't kill you," Sam snarls, and he's smiling, "but it'll hurt like hell."

Dean's face hurts. Blood runs from his nose, down into his mouth, and Sam hits him again.


Sam draws back his fist again, and his knuckles are slick with Dean's blood. Sam's smiling, wide and easy, and Dean wonders who's really driving in there, wonders exactly what he did to make Sam hate him so much.

"You're worthless, you know that? I can see it in your eyes, Dean…"

The side of his face hurts, and he sees Sam standing there with the Colt in his hand.

"Dean, I didn't mean to hurt you---"

And Dean doesn't believe a word of it.

He wonders why every time Sam hurts him, Sam seems to enjoy it way too much.

He wonders why he lets Sam hurt him.


That taste, that sweet hellish taste floods his mouth again, but this time every muscle in his body clenches and tightens up, and he rolls over onto his hands and knees. That's as far as he can get. His brain throbs against his skull like it wants out in the worst way.

m'a freak…

The ground underneath Dean trembles, ripples outward from his body. Trees nearby shake violently, thick ancient branches snap like twigs. Heat radiates outward from his body, shimmering in the air around him, and the grass around Dean scorches, goes from green to charred black in a matter of seconds.

..and everyone who loves me, leaves me…

Dean's mouth opens in a silent scream as he claws the ground underneath him. He's lost everyone. Everything.

Mom died, and whatever she did, good, bad, or indifferent, she did for him.

Dad made that damn deal with that fucking demon, and died in Dean's place.

His brother hates him, hurts him, leaves him every chance he gets, and Dean can't understand why. Can't understand what he did to make Sam hate him so, can't understand why he needs them more than they need him.

Can't understand why he can't make them stay.

Yellow heat rises up behind his eyelids. Dean struggles to pull air into his lungs. His heart contracts once, twice, as the adrenaline rush hits him hard.

He thinks of his Mom tucking him in at night. She kisses his forehead, and her lips are soft against his skin. He thinks of his Dad, can even smell that faint spicy aftershave he'd always wear, and his heart aches as he remembers the strength in those arms whenever Dad hugged him.

Long slim fingers caress the side of his face. Dean startles violently. Vision's a blur. He can't see who this is. He smells a familiar clean scent, but it can't be, it just can't, and can't focus just yet. Everything swims around him in a slow smeary blur.

When his sight sharpens to crystal clarity Dean forgets to how to breathe.


And Dad.

Dean kneels there, shaking and shivering, and he flinches backwards as John raises one large hand towards him. Dean stares at the hand fearfully, the whites of his eyes too bright. He glances at Dad, and their eyes lock.

Dad…you're scaring me…

The skin around John's eyes crinkles slightly, his lips upturned into a slight smile.

Don't be scared, Dean.

Dad drops his hand onto Dean's right shoulder, and God, that feels so good, so right, he'd missed this, and it costs to much to even fight whatever this is anymore, to even wonder what the fuck is going on. Dad's broad fingers tighten, familiar and comforting, and Dean leans into the touch, wearily, gratefully, as Mary smiles and comes towards him.

Mary cradles Dean in her arms and she murmurs softly as she brushes his forehead with her lips. Dean settles into her embrace and it's like coming home.

They're here. They're really here. He didn't screw up after all.

"It's all right, baby," Mary whispers in Dean's ear. "It's okay. No more hurt, I promise. No one will ever hurt you ever again."

"We'll never leave you, son," John rumbles softly. "Never."


Sam parks the Impala at a distance away from the house. He waits until Bobby's gone into town some hours later before he can finally unlock the door to the backbench and pull that pot-bellied pig out by the rope around its neck.

He drags it kicking and squealing to the farthest part of the yard, near the chain link fence next to the woods. Sam ties it to the fence and scratches out the sigil in the dusty brown earth. He slashes the pig's throat with Dean's Bowie knife, and douses the triangle with the blood.

Sam runs his thumb along the ultra-sharp blade of his own Kershaw knife, and sprinkles his blood over the pig blood. He sets fire to the small bundles of wormwood and mugwort set at the three corners of the sigil, and then he stands back and waits.

They'd always gone a little blue collar, "a little ghetto with the spellwork," and improvising has always worked so far. This was a summoning spell that Sam found in one of Bobby's dusty old books. He went to one of the local farms nearby and paid enough to convince the farmer to part with the animal.

Sam needed something large enough for the ritual.

And besides, he couldn't use one of Bobby's dogs for the ritual. He wouldn't. Bobby was suspicious enough as it was.

Blood may call to blood, but moments later Sam's grateful to whatever gods there are that what answered the call wasn't Dean.

It rocks back and forth on eight long, spindly legs. The head resemblesa shrunken, slightly lopsided baby's skull. Leathery grey skin stretched too tight over the bones of its body, and its glossy black eyes are way too big. As far as Sam can see it doesn't have any ears, just holes in the sides of its head.

The mouth is a wet slick slit, but Sam's not fooled by its goofy, gangly appearance. He sees the flash of sharp, needle teeth inside that mouth as it looks up at him, and he has no doubt that this critter could do him some major league damage if he ever allowed it to latch onto him.

It tilts its head down, folds those long legs downward, like a giraffe taking a drink at a waterhole. It laps delicately at the blood splatter, closes its eyes, and sighs happily.

"You taste good," it chirrups.

"My brother," Sam says slowly. "Why isn't he here? What the hell are you?"

The fugly blinks long eyelashes at him. Its voice is shrill, high-pitched, deceptively child-like. "…pretty little lost boy…thinks he's with his mommy and daddy. Doesn't wanna talk to you. Doesn't wanna get hurt again. Pretends not to listen. La-la-la-la…." It sticks the ends of its two front legs into the holes on the sides of its head and rocks back and forth from side to side.

It unstops its ears and looks up at Sam as it sticks its chin out proudly. "I got many mouths to feed. We came up from the hot place. We follow him around, and he pretends he doesn't see us. We hide. Pick up the scraps. Wet stuff. Burned stuff. Bits and pieces of the souls he shreds. Good eating. Best provider we've ever had. Follow him around forever."

That's about as good as it gets. The damned thing either can't or won't tell Sam where Dean is now, and Sam gets tired of it rather quickly.

And even though he won't admit it, being around this critter is freaking him out. Big time.

The thing squeaks and bares its teeth when Sam grabs it with his mind and snaps its neck. He can't stand the slick oily feel of its skin against the surface of his mind, and it's finally a relief when the lighter fluid catches as he salts and burns the carcass.


Special Agent Reidy drops the folder down on Victor Hendrickson's desk and just stands there.

Hendrickson looks up and quirks an eyebrow at him. "What's this?"

"Got somethin' for ya. Look at it."

Hendrickson idly leafs through the folder, sees the crime scene photos, and sighs. He doesn't see either Dean or Sam Winchester's dead faces staring up sightlessly at him, so he promptly loses interest. "So?"

"Twelve guys. Twelve dead guys in the last three weeks. Different states, different cities. Same MO each time. Necks were broken, twisted all the way around so that the head is facing backwards."

"I'll say it again. So?"

"It's a weird thing, used to be done to traitors, back in ancient times. It's weird. Your boy Dean does weird."

"Yeah. Got any witnesses?"

Reidy sighs. "No."

"Any evidence that Dean is even connected to this?"

"No." Reidy tries again. "Another weird thing, though."


"The general description of all the vics match Sam Winchester. White males. Tall. Shaggy dark brown hair, hazel eyes."

"But it's not Sam."


"Nice try. Bring me something I can really use, huh?"

Damn, Reidy thinks to himself as Hendrickson turns away. He sure does get bitchy early in the morning without his coffee.


They spend a glorious month at a condo down in the Florida Keys during the summer. Dean's tanned, his hair bleached by the sun. He's relaxed and happy, and he looks like he belongs.

He waves at the next door neighbors when they see him. They're friendly enough. Nice couple, with two kids and a dog. He feels bad when he visits them the night he and Mom and Dad leave, but he's not about to leave any live witnesses behind.

Dean wipes the place clean of prints before he starts fires in both houses.

Dad decides that they'll stay down south for a while, out of the cold. It's all good.

Dean goes out on hunting trips with Dad, but it's not exactly the same as it was before. Dean does live captures now, less killing, but he still does that on occasion.

He brings in beautiful blonde females for Mom and burly, dark-haired males for Dad. Their bodies wear out and get damaged sometimes and they have to be replaced.

Dean's happy to do it.

Some of the ones he captures try to lie their way out of it. They tell Dean that there's no one there. They beg him to stop.

He never listens to them because it does bother him sometimes, and just when he begins to doubt himself Mom is standing there beside him, radiant as an angel, and Dad is right beside him. Dean can feel Dad's hand on his shoulder, solid, rock steady.

Dean ignores the things he sees out of the corners of his eyes. They scurry around low to the ground and he knows they're things that he and Dad and Sam used to hunt.

Dad and Mom don't notice them, so Dean ignores them too.

It's his life now. It might be different from what Dean remembers before, but it's all he has, and it's more than enough.

Mom and Dad are back. Dean doesn't understand why or how, but he doesn't question. They're back, and they're not leaving.


For the first time in his life they need him more than he needs them, and he does whatever they ask of him, willingly, eagerly.

But the ones on the street that look like Sam, well, that's something Dean does for himself.

Ungrateful bitch. Sam hurt him. Sam left him, so Dean makes Sam leave.

Over and over again.