This story takes place in the universe begun in "Semper Familia". It takes place shortly before the events of "To All a Good Night".

It's just supposed to be training.

They're out in the woods by the shooting range that Dean's bought a membership to—which, okay, a little weird to be doing something so legit, but it makes him kind of proud to be providing for himself and Sammy like that. Like they don't have to sneak in. They belong there. They've got cards and everything.

Well, maybe not in the woods, but there's no place to practice throwing knives at the range.

It's crisp outside, edging into cold, and the November wind slips its fingers under Dean's collar and makes him shiver. He glances sideways at Sammy, who's bundled up in a coat that's probably a size too big for him but Dean knows that it won't be for long. Kid grows like a damn weed, and he's starting to fill out just the smallest bit, too. His shoulders are getting broad, and Dean can see that he's gonna be a big guy when he's done growing. Maybe bigger than Dean. Eats like a horse, too, and maybe Dean's mother-henning a little bit but he likes to see it. He likes to see the kid eat, likes to see him outgrow shoes and coats and jeans, likes how he doesn't have to look so far down to meet his eyes and he likes how he can't see Sammy's ribs anymore when he changes his shirt.

Sammy's getting better in other ways, too. His hand-eye coordination has gotten good enough that Dean thinks he's ready to move up from hand-to-hand, and Sammy is always excited when he lets him try a new weapon, so he's letting the fact that it's knives be a surprise. He takes him out and Sammy's fine, he's okay, he's edgy but in a good way. Eager. They parked the Impala at the range and it's a mile walk or so into the woods, to a nice clearing where the light is good.

Dean brings out the knives.

And Sammy freezes.

Dean turns to him, beaming, about to offer him his choice of weapon when he sees that glassy, distant look in his brother's eyes that he knows means that he's not there anymore. Dean puts the knives down, slowly, keeping his eye on Sammy the whole time, and raises his empty hands. "Hey," he murmurs. "It's okay."

Sammy just hyperventilates.

Dean doesn't like approaching him when he's like this. It doesn't happen a lot anymore, but it still happens sometimes, and it's rarely helped by physical contact. Nightmares, crying jags, nights when it gets too cold and he remembers having to sleep outside or on the floor, those he can help with touch. A hand on the shoulder, a tight hug. But when Sammy's gone like this, when it's in the field, Dean knows he's remembering being hurt, not being neglected.

He also doesn't want his brother to pass out, so he walks up slowly, hands up the whole time, and he says, "Breathe with me. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four."

The fact that Sammy obeys immediately doesn't bode well for what's happening, but it does help quell the physical symptoms of the panic attack. Once he's sure Sammy's staying conscious, he backs off again. "Who'm I talking to?" Dean asks.

Sammy yelled at him a lot about that question—I don't have split personalities, Dean, Jesus—but it's become code for them now. There's an element of truth to it, literal truth, Dean is pretty sure. Luke might not be an alternate personality, but he is a voice in Sammy's head. A strong, loud voice.

So when Sammy whispers, "Luke," Dean's heart sinks.

"Hey, Luke," Dean says, clearly and firmly, looking at Sammy's eyes even though his brother isn't looking back.

"Hi, Dean," Sammy breathes. His eyes flick towards the knives.

When Sammy was still Luke, he wasn't this bad of a poker face, Dean is pretty sure. But luckily for him, when Sammy goes Luke now, he's got some really clear tells. He always stares at whatever has panicked him, can't take his eyes off of it.

"The knives are on the ground," Dean says, and Sammy stares at him, spooked like he thinks Dean read his mind. "Hey. Woah. I'm not touching them. My hands are empty."

Sammy's eyes shift between Dean and the knives, like he's gauging the distance.

Dean understands, and steps sideways, away from the knives but not closer to Sammy. He keeps stepping until he sees Sammy release a bit of the tension from his shoulders, until Sammy is closer to the knives than he is.

"Want to talk?" Dean asks. Sammy will say no. He always does. Luke never wants to talk, and Sammy won't be back until they get home. Which will leave Dean with the always fun task of coaxing Luke into the car, getting him to buckle up, listening to the whispered pleas for leniency that make Sammy's face turn red when he's back and remembers what he's said.

But Sammy surprises him by murmuring, "He said you were good with knives."

Now it's Dean who goes still, staring at his brother. "What?"

Sammy flinches, and Dean winces, too, in sympathy. He goes to apologize but Sammy's already talking. "Master—my old master. I mean. Walt. He—he said you were good with knives."

"Walt talked to you about me?" Dean asks, trying to modulate his voice, trying to keep it soft when all he wants to do is barrel into the past and kill Walt Hamilton all over again. Some of that anger must have seeped into his face because Sammy folds in on himself a little bit more, and Dean can feel his heart break. "Aw, Sammy. Come on, please—"

"Sometimes he would tell me he was gonna sell me to your dad," Sammy mumbles, and Dean furrows his brows. Your dad. Sammy almost always calls John Dad now, even though they still don't get along very well—understandably. That's not a good sign. "He'd tell me that if I screwed up another hunt, he'd sell me to John Winchester, and that Mr. Winchester would let his son...that he'd…"

Dean doesn't say anything, but folds his legs and sits down, putting himself lower than Sammy. Less of a threat.

Sammy sucks in a breath and says, "He said that Mr. Winchester would let you practice your knives on me. He said you were good with knives."

Dean doesn't trust himself to speak for a long moment. He looks down at the ground, and it isn't until he sees Sammy join him on the ground that he says, "That's what you thought I was? When you learned my name?"

Sammy nods, and Dean can hear his voice, back in that first motel: Winchesters don't take prisoners, and don't make exceptions.

God.

They sit like that, on the ground a half mile outside the shooting range, for a long time. Dean guesses five minutes of silence, but it feels like hours, feels like days. Inch by inch, always checking his brother's reaction, Dean scoots closer, until finally they are close enough to touch. Dean puts his hand, palm-up, on the ground between them: an invitation.

Sammy stares at it.

"It's empty," Dean murmurs. "No knife. No nothing. Just my hand."

Sammy still stares, but his fingers twitch like he wants to, like Sammy wants to, but maybe Luke won't let him.

"Sammy," Dean begs, keeping his voice soft and even. "It's me. It's Dean. My hand is empty, and you're safe."

Sammy's fingers tremble, they shake as he lowers his hand on top of Dean's, and Dean knows that it is nothing but obedience, but he wraps his fingers around his brother's hand and squeezes lightly, rhythmically, seven times.

Sammy's school therapist said it helped ground him, like a password.

(They tried to tell Sammy's school therapist that he had a panic disorder, but she wasn't stupid, and she knew it was PTSD. Luckily Dr. Taylor is a cool chick and didn't ask questions Dean couldn't answer, cared more about Sammy getting better than getting to the bottom of it and could tell that it wasn't Dean who'd done it to him, so they didn't have to move schools.)

The squeezes, they're a password that Walt wouldn't know, that none of the other assholes who hurt Sammy would know. A password that only Dean would know. A password that means he's safe.

Sammy shakes harder, and Dean is about to sigh heavily when his brother's head comes crashing down onto his lap and Sammy begins to sob.

But he can't let it go, not yet, not until he knows Luke is gone, so he says, "What's your name?"

It comes on a sob like a tidal wave, but Sammy cries, "Sam Winchester," and Dean goes a little limp above him with relief.

"Yeah you are, Sammy," Dean says, his fear washing away. "Fucking right you are. Sammy Winchester. You're okay, Sammy, I'm here, your brother's right here."

"I hate it, Dean, I hate it," Sammy says, choked by tears. Baffled, Dean tries to gather him up to his chest but Sammy's arms are wrapped around Dean's leg now. "I hate how I can't get him out of my head. He's dead, why won't he leave me alone?"

"It's normal, Sammy," Dean says, running his hand down Sammy's back, feeling his shirt sweat-damp from the terror. "Doc Taylor says it's a normal part of your recovery. Flashbacks."

"He's dead, he's dead," Sammy whispers. Dean brushes his hair out of his face. "We burned him."

"Yeah, Sammy." Dean shifts, and Sammy's arms loosen from around his leg, and he lets Dean sit him up so that he can pull him into a hug. "Yeah. You burned him."

Sammy nods, taking long, unsteady breaths, and looks over at the knives. Dean tenses a little, ready to restart the whole process if he has to, ready to back away if Sammy needs his space. But Sammy's the one to take his space, standing up and walking to the weapons, picking one up.

Dean walks up to him, staying to his side, staying visible, watching as Sammy turns the knife over in his hands. It's silver, well cared for, and he can see his little brother's reflection in it.

"I don't think I ever really thought you'd hurt me," Sammy says as Dean crouches next to him.

The hesitancy, the many conditions—I don't think I really thought—hurt a little bit. But Dean just smiles as best he can, and says, "I'm glad, Sammy. You know I never would."

Sammy rolls his eyes. "I know that now, stupid."

Dean's smile settles onto his face, and he puts his arm around his brother's shoulders.

"You can put it away," he says. "We don't have to do this today."

Sammy doesn't say anything for a while, just turns the silver knife over in his hands. He runs his finger along the flat of it, peering at it, and Dean wonders what he sees.

What Dean sees his Sammy's reflection: his brave, damaged, resilient little brother, who's taken more hits than anybody Dean knows and keeps on moving, who's going to high school and living in an apartment and keeps trying to talk Dean into letting him get a part-time job and who has a crush on his science teacher and who still wakes up sometimes with nightmares, but not as often as before, and who will wake Dean up when he needs to and doesn't apologize for it more than twice.

"You're making a sappy face," Sammy says quietly.

"Your face is a sappy face," Dean retorts.

Sammy rolls his eyes again.

Dean leans in a little closer. "You don't have to do this today."

"I know," Sammy says, and he puts the knife away. "Maybe soon."

"Only when you're ready."

"I know."

Sammy's smile is something Dean will never take for granted, he thinks. It's not so rare anymore, but it's always a little unexpected.

They pack up their equipment and start their trek back to the car, the trip a wash but with a lot of day ahead of them. They're about halfway out when Sammy says, "Are you?"

Dean frowns. "Am I what?"

"Good with knives."

Dean feels his stomach twist, but Sammy can't fool him much anymore, and the kid sounds like he's okay. He looks at his brother's face and Sammy's meeting his eyes, curious and courageous and okay.

"I'm good at everything," Dean says, and Sammy laughs, bright and genuine.

"You're not good at my math homework," Sammy says.

"You're supposed to do that by yourself. I don't want to enable your laziness."

"But you are? Was he right?"

Sammy's not gonna let it go, and Dean doesn't like it but he sighs and he says, "I guess, Sammy, shit, I worked real hard at learning them. Why?"

"Because—not today, but—I'd like to learn, too. If you can teach me."

Dean looks down—not too far down, anymore, kid's getting tall, after all—at his brother.

Sammy's got a half a smile on his face. "I'd like to be good with knives, too."

Dean slings his arm around his brother's neck.

"Yeah, Sammy. Whatever you want."