Title: "Winchesterland"

Summary: In another life they would have been twins. As it was, they were soul mates. Season 14. Hurt/Comfort.

Disclaimer: I don't own the show or any of its characters. Some of the paragraphs are taken from John's journal.

Warnings: Rated T for bad language, mentions of violence, abuse, child neglect, bullying and injuries. Spoilers up to season 13.

A/N: Hey guys. A while ago I wanted to do a rendition of a fic I took inspiration from, but my end product turned out quite similar to the original. I took the story down for this reason and talked it out with the author. I apologized, we hashed things out. It was never my intention to copy someone else's work but I realize that unwillingly or not, that's what I did by keeping parts of the original content. I don't approve of plagiarism and I didn't mean anyone any harm. All stories you find on my profile are 100% my own and they will continue to be my own in the future. That being said, I'm kicking the new season off with a fic that is very-much made up entirely by my spn-deprived mind.;) Hope y'all enjoy!

"Winchesterland"
by
Titivillus

Sam without Dean wasn't really Sam.

It took Mary one hour to figure that one out after Sam and Jack returned to the bunker without Dean by their side. The changes in her youngest were so sudden and so unfitting to Sam's character that it scared her a bit.

The way Mary had come to know her youngest, he was kind-hearted and intelligent, with a sense of justice and empathy so strong it amazed her after everything he'd lived through. He had an air of innocence to him that reminded her of a child and yet he was one of the most capable, most lethal hunters Mary had ever known. His natural urge to put faith in others - his will to belive in the general goodness of people - was something that Sam had somehow managed to keep up despite all the terrible things that had happened to him throughout his life and Mary admired him for it. She knew Dean played a significant role in how Sam had turned out. In fact, she was sure that Dean had made it his life goal to protect that softness at the bottom of Sam's eyes, that sparkle of innocence there, the gift to see only good in others. Sure, Dean may roll his eyes and scold Sam for being naïve or trusting, but beneath all the brotherly banter, Mary knew her oldest had traded his own childhood so that Sam could have one and he had done it gladly.

It wasn't just that Sam was the youngest family member, but it was this genuine purity, this bone-deep goodness in him that made him special, that made him vulnerable. Mary caught it quite early on, saw it in the way Dean always entered a room two steps ahead of Sam. She noticed it in the way Dean spoke for them both in important discussions, in the way he called Sam 'Sammy' and got away with it while others got a scowl in response. Yeah, Dean was older. Yeah, he'd taken on the role as a parent. But it was more than that. It was about Dean protecting Sam, always, every day, in the most mundane situations. He did it automatically, subconsciously. Holding out a hand to stop Sam from crossing the road like a mother would do to protect their inattentive child from oncoming traffic. Dean preparing Sam's favorite food, making sure he ate enough. Dean swiping Sam's unruly bangs from his forehead, checking his temperature. Dean, Dean, Dean. Sam was going on forty and he was very capable of taking care of himself, but he never complained, never fought for dominance with his older brother because it came natural to him to shadow Dean, backing him up, looking up at him despite being nearly a head taller than Dean. It was his role and he took it naturally – falling in step behind Dean because he'd done it his whole damn life.

So when Sam stood in the bunker's mapping room with an expression carved out of stone, not a glimmer of softness or empathy in his beautiful eyes, Mary had known. Sam wasn't Sam without Dean. Just as Dean hadn't been Dean without Sam after their encounter with the vampires in that tunnel. She'd felt it in the stiffness in Dean's bones when she hugged him, in the vacant expression in his emerald eyes. Dean had gone through the motions, but something had been broken irreversibly inside him and neither Mary, nor Cas or any of the others would have been able to fix it.

Maybe Mary was only beginning to understand now, how deep her boys' connection really ran.

-oOo-

"Sam, it's getting late." Mary tried to use her mom-voice, but the words didn't really register with her youngest who seemed deeply engrossed in whatever lore he had dug out from the bunker's archive.

He'd held a speech earlier. A speech about fighting Michael and getting Dean back and his voice had shaken with a single-minded determination that she hadn't thought Sam capable of. She had felt his desperation in her very core, had felt it crackle through the staffy bunker air like an electric current, setting everyone's blood on fire. It was almost funny, how everyone had looked up at him for directions the second Dean wasn't around to do the job. Sam had expected it. He had poured his heart out to the group and elicited a fire in them, a will to fight with everything they had – to death, if necessary. Then the group had dispersed and Sam's shoulders had sunk. A few hours later, Mary had found him in the library, eyes red and puffy in a way that Mary didn't know how to address.

She swallowed thickly and reached out to cover his hand with hers, squeezing it gently. He blinked and looked up at her, startled as though he hadn't even noticed she was there. Mary thought that, yes, Sam had been quite oblivious to everyone and everything ever since he came back. He hadn't even really looked at her once since losing Dean to Michael. "Sam…" Mary tried to smile, but it must have come off twisted. "You can barely keep your eyes open. I'll take over from here, alright?"

He shook his head before she had a chance to finish . "I'm okay."

"Sam—"

His hand vanished from her grasp and the half-smile slowly wilted on Mary's features. Sam's expression was vacant and withdrawn but in the half-second he'd looked up at her she had seen the grief in his features – etched into his drawn eyebrows, into the hard edge of his jaw bone. He was putting on a brave front for all o them, but Mary was his mother. She could see the crippling fear of losing his brother to Michael behind Sam's carefully maintained composure.

"Go to sleep, mom." He didn't look up at her, his voice rough from lack of use. It was deeper somehow, deeper than she'd ever heard it before and laced with an authority that she'd attributed to Dean before.

"Sam—" Mary tried one last time, unsure of what to do to make him listen to her.

Sam slammed the book he was reading shut with an audible 'flap' and turned to stare at her with a look that sent a shiver down his spine. It was a threat and a plea at the same time. 'Quit asking' and 'you're not the boss of me' and 'how dare you give me the mom-voice when you've been gone for my entire life?'

Mary pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded because what the hell was she supposed to say to that. It was true. All of it and she had never felt so out of depth before, so inadequate and out of place. "Alright. Just… you're not alone in this, Sam. He's my son. I want him back just as much as you do."

She felt the sting of the words as soon as they left her mouth.

There was a fire in Sam's eyes that sparked at the notion that anyone could even begin to understand what he was going through. And Mary realized it then and there, that she would never truly know – couldn't even guess, really – how much these two needed one another to survive. Yes, Dean was her son. But to Sam – Dean was everything.

She swallowed thickly. "Come get me if you need anything," she whispered and leaned down to press a kiss to Sam's temple. "We'll get him back, Sam. We will.".

-oOo-

December 4, 1983

Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side – or from his brother. Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he's trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.

-oOo-

Mary found John's journal in a drawer in Dean's room. Her hands started shaking when she ran them over John's neat handwriting. He'd always been gifted with his hands – be it when he was working with cars or with pen and paper. There were hastily scribbled notes in different types of ink, there were sketched out monsters – many that Mary had never encountered herself and sometimes, in between hunts, he wrote a paragraph or two about the boys. Her eyes didn't start watering until Dean's name came up on page 15. 'Dean still hardly talks'.

She thought about what happened in the alternative universe and the memories slammed back into her with enough force to steal her breath. The way Dean had stood rigid in her embrace as though his body wasn't his own. The way his mouth had opened but no words had made it past his lips. The vacant look in his eyes – so much like Sam's now.

Dean still hardly talks…

Her death had taken his voice away. Selective mutism wasn't uncommon for traumatized children. Mary wasn't an expert in these things, but she knew enough to realize how damaging her death must have been for her oldest.

John's obsession with her death had never been more evident than in this very moment – a journal filled with frantic notes and stained with blood and tears – a whole legacy built on the desperate attempt to avenge her death. And at what expense? Five paragraphs about the boys, that was all she could find in nearly twenty years' worth of John's meticulous research.

They'd grown up orphans.

Her boys had grown up without a real home and without anyone to take care of them but one another.

It wasn't until the realization fully hit her that the first tear tumbled down her cheeks.

-oOo-

December 11, 1983

Sammy has finally started sleeping through the night, and now that Dean shares a bed with him, he's out like a light as well. But me… I close my eyes and she's there.

-oOo-

Tomato-rice-soup was Dean's favorite and it was one of the only things she still remembered how to make. On the third day after Dean vanished, she spent about an hour tinkering in the kitchen. The outcome was only mediocre considering how much effort she put into it, but the kitchen had taken on a rich scent of tomatoes and by the end of her cooking session, Mary's own stomach was grumbling in anticipation.

She carried the tray with a steaming bowl of soup to the library and set it down next to Sam with a hopeful little twinkle in his eyes and a sense of accomplishment in her chest. She couldn't offer him much these days, but this – this she could do. "I know it's not much, but I thought—" She broke herself off when she noticed how pale Sam had gone in the span of three seconds.

Before she knew it, Sam had gotten up from his chair, pushing away from the desk with a loud screech. Without a word, he was moving past her, through the mapping room, vanishing down the bunker's hallway. The echo of a slammed door made her flinch, heart sinking deep into her chest.

It wasn't until she felt Cas' presence beside her, the angel's warm fingers gently squeezing her shoulder that she managed to breathe again."Give him time."

Mary didn't think time was what Sam needed, but she said nothing in response.

-oOo-

About two weeks after they had lost Dean, Sam found Mary sitting on Dean's bed in his room, carefully sifting through a box of photographs. They were old, some of them old enough to have her in it. The ones that were most worn-out and dogged-eared were the ones that had Sam on them. It warmed her heart to think of how many times Dean must have looked at them, remembering better times – times spent with his brother.

"What are you doing?" Sam's voice had her whirling around, heart kicking up in her chest.

Sam had grown a beard since Dean had left. He looked older somehow, but it was more than just his appearance, he acted older too, without Dean to take the lead, without his big brother to call the shots, Sam had taken on the role of a leader – a caretaker and a war commander. He spent most of his days researching or following leads and the beard did little to hide the sharpness of his cheekbones. Mary knew that he wasn't eating much. Or sleeping much, for that matter. He had been running on fumes for two weeks now and nothing Mary or Cas ever said to him got through to him.

"Just…" Mary cleared her throat. She shook her head with a wistful smile on her lips and nodded down at the photographs in front of her. "Looking at old pictures."

Sam leaned against the doorway as though he couldn't bear to walk inside Dean's room. Mary's heart gave a painful squeeze at the thought. "There's plenty of room if you want to join me." She patted the mattress beside her with a soft smile. "Unless you think it's uncool to look at old photographs with your mom, that is."

Sam's lips twitched in response. It was more to acknowledge her attempt to ease up the tension than an actual smile, but Mary took whatever she could get these days. She patted the mattress again when Sam slowly eased his large frame off the doorway and into the room, walking up to the bed. He didn't actually sit down beside her, but his gaze swept over the pictures and that was all she could ask for.

"I like this one," she said pointing at a picture of Sam and Dean against the Impala. They couldn't have been older than in their mid-twenties. Dean had his head thrown back in one of these full-belly-laughs and Mary's heart ached for a Dean she would never get to know.

When Sam was quiet, Mary glanced up to see his expression and her heart stopped beating in her chest. There it was again – that lost softness, the innocence, the purity that Sam seemed to have lost in the past weeks. His expression was wavering, his usual calm suddenly shaken to the core. "I…" he broke himself off, blinking hard. His Adam's apple bobbed as he struggled for words. "It was a good day." He said in a more or less steady voice and it broke her heart to see him so shaken.

Mary's hand shot out to wrap around Sam's lax one. She curled her fingers into his. "I found some old frames in the attic."

"No." Sam's fingers vanished so fast from her grasp she had no chance to prevent it. His expression changed again, eyes dancing like fire in the wind as he bore holes into her. "When he comes back, he's gonna want for his things to be the way they were."

"Sam," Mary spoke slowly as though approaching a cornered animal. She kept her gaze soft, her words gentle. "I'm sure Dean wouldn't mind—"

"He's not dead," Sam snapped, cutting her off harshly. He was breathing heavily now, nostrils flaring and for the first time ever Mary became aware of Sam's large size – of the way he towered over her broad-shouldered and determined. "Dean's out there somewhere, sitting passenger in his own body while Michael's doing god-knows-what and you got no idea what that's like. So don't you dare tell me to put his picture on a damn wall."

"Sam, I didn't—"

"I'll get him back." Sam said it like there was no other option, like it was crystal clear. He reined in his emotions and swallowed thickly, shifting his gaze away from her. "No matter what."

Right.

Mary nodded.

No matter the cost, no matter the sacrifice.

It seemed to be a common thing between these two.

"He'd do the same for me." Sam sniffed and with that he was gone, striding out of the room and leaving her behind nothing but some old photographs and a heavy heart.

-oOo-

One day, about three weeks into their search for Michael, Jack walked up to Mary and hugged her tight enough to cut off air supply. She was a bit startled by the unexpected onslaught of affection but then again, she had gotten used to out-of-place displays of love while being surrounded by angels and nephilims and a whole bunch of people from a different realm of the universe.

Jack's breath was warm against the side of her neck and his skinny arms wrapped around her middle felt like the only thing holding her together. "He doesn't mean it." Jack's word, whispered against the shell of her ear took a moment to fully register with her. Was he talking about Sam? About the way Sam had just coldly dismissed her arguments during the latest strategic meeting? She couldn't say for sure. "He's just sad because he misses Dean."

Mary felt the sting of tears in her eyes and squeezed Jack back for all she was worth. "I know."

-oOo-

December 25, 1983

Mary will never see Dean hit a home run. She'll never see Sammy walk, or hear him say his first words. She won't take Dean to his first day at school, or stay up all night with me worrying the first night he takes the car out. It's not right that she's not here, and that's all I could think about today. I'm so angry I can barely see straight – I want my wife back.

-oOo-

Sam was a messy drunk.

While Dean took to Whiskey to calm his frayed nerves, it seemed that hard liquor had a reverse effect on her youngest. It was as though Sam kept all his issues carefully bottled up and chronologically sorted in a dusty shelve in the back of his mind. And as soon as he drank alcohol, those bottles got stirred up and the glass started cracking until, eventually, all the issues tumbled out in form of an emotional breakdown.

Everyone else had already gone to sleep when Mary found Sam in the kitchen, hugging a half-drained bottle of Whisky to his chest. His eyes were red – and not the kind of red that came from drinking. Mary felt her throat close up on her when she saw the shiny wetness on Sam's cheeks.

Turns out everyone had a breaking point. Four weeks of 'squat' on Michael's whereabouts and half a bottle of Whiskey were what finally did Sam in.

"Sam. Hey…" She approached him carefully, unsure of what to do. He was slumped over on the table, barely with it enough to react to her presence. His shoulders were hunched forward and shaking. Mary felt so out of her depth it made her dizzy.

"Sam," she whispered, clamping a hand down on his shoulder. Sam jerked in her grasp, the bottle of Whisky hitting the floor with a loud clutter, spilling brown liquid everywhere – the sharp scent of it hitting her full force and making her wince. Sam looked up at her with welled-up eyes, so full of grief and helpless desperation that it took her voice away.

"Mom…" he slurred out, more of a plea than anything else. His cheeks were flushed and his bangs were falling into his eyes, making him look younger than his years. Mary thought about all the times Dean had taken care of a drunk or sick Sam in her and John's absence. She thought about how Sam always leaned into Dean's touch without even noticing, how they both sought the other's presence like a planet gravitating toward the sun. "I need to save 'im. I need to—"

"It's okay," Mary hushed, using Sam's inebriety to her advantage and pulling Sam against her chest. He slumped against her as though he'd been falling this entire time, waiting for someone to catch him.

"I miss him." Despite Sam's drunk state, the words came out clear as a bell. Mary closed her eyes, burying her nose in Sam's hair and hugging him close.

"I know," she whispered, feeling him shake in her arms. She thought about how many times Sam's heart must have been broken – how often he'd cried in his life and about how – each and every time it happened – Dean must have been the one to carefully stitch it back together, piece by piece. "But we'll get him back, just like you said."

The words must have knocked something loose inside Sam's chest because all of a sudden whatever little restraint he'd still had was gone and Sam's breath started hitching. Somewhere in between his tears and the choked gasps, Dean's name made it past Sam's lips and Mary had never been more aware about how inadequate her presence was. She wasn't what Sam needed. Maybe she used to be, a long time ago. But not anymore.

"We'll get him back," she vowed and in her heart, she made a solemn promise to herself to see to it that her boys would be reunited. Even if it meant dying, even if it meant sacrifice. She owed them that much. "I promise, Sam."

-oOo-

She found a box in Sam's room. As soon as she opened it, she knew she shouldn't have done it. One glimpse at the yellow-tinged pictures of Sam and Dean as kids, the horned, golden little penchant, a deck of cards, the flyer of the retirement home and Mary's throat closed up. She slammed the box shut so quickly she startled herself and left the room in such a rush she nearly tripped over the threshold, heart lodged somewhere in her throat, making it hard to breathe.

Five weeks and still no sign of Dean.

-oOo-

Well into the sixth week, she found Jack completely engrossed in a novel on a chair in the mapping room. "What are you reading?" she asked, sitting down opposite of him.

He looked up at her with that omnipresent little frown on his forehead and she found herself smiling at the look of concentrated confusion she'd come to know and love.

"It seems to be a book based on Sam and Dean's life. I found two of them in the archive. Couldn't stop reading."

Now it was Mary's turn to frown. She couldn't help herself. Leaning over the table, she snatched the dog-eared book from Jack's grasp and turned it over in her hands. The cover page had two bulky-looking trash-novel-characters with ridiculous hair and clothes hoisting flare-guns and pistols. The title read 'Episode 11: Scarecrow' published by 'Flying Wiccan Press', written by Carver Edlund.

Mary opened it and started reading, her eyes flying over the words so fast, it gave her a damn headache. No way. No fucking way was there a series of books based on her boys' lives. But the words and actions rang too true to be made up, their characters sounded too real to be fictional, their connection palpable, even on paper.

So Mary read on… and on… and on.

"I'm talking one week here, man, to get answers. To get revenge."

"Alright, look, I know how you feel," Dean said in an appeasing tone, lifting his palm in surrender.

"Do you?" Sam snapped, voice rising. "How old were you when Mom died? Four? Jess died six months ago. How the hell would you know how I feel?"

Mary slammed the book shut with wide eyes. She didn't dare to breathe, mind racing to catch up with the fact that there was everything she'd missed in her boys' life captured in a series of novels. Black on white. 'Episode 11' must mean that there was episode 1-10, probably even more than that.

"Jack…" she said slowly, her expression dead-serious as she looked at him. "I need you to show me where you found this."

-oOo-

When they got Dean back, it was almost anticlimactic.

Everyone was immensely relieved to have found Dean – probably more so because they were becoming slightly anxious by unhinged Sam had become without his brother by his side, rather than for the sake of having Dean back. But they were happy nonetheless, welcoming him back with open arms and warm smiles.

Cas and Jack had hugged Dean and he'd only seemed mildly reluctant to the open display of affection, eventually returning the embrace with a small, private smile that Mary knew was reserved for people he considered family.

Mary had mostly just watched her oldest with eagle eyes, unable to take her eyes off him out of fear that he would vanish again.

And Sam… Sam was oddly quiet and withdrawn the whole time, never straying far from Dean's side, but never openly showing his elation at having his brother back, either. Maybe he was half-afraid that it wouldn't last, that Michael was only waiting for an opening before snatching Dean away again. Or maybe his mind took a little while to catch up with the fact that Dean was really, honestly, finally, back again. Mary couldn't say. But it didn't matter.

The next morning, Sam came into the kitchen freshly-shaved and looking ten years younger. The dark circles beneath his eyes had vanished practically overnight and the pure, empathetic sparkle in his eyes glowed with a brightness that softened Mary's heart. Sam walked into the kitchen with a newly found energy and his eyes latched onto Dean the second he came down the stairs.

"Morning sunshine," Dean muttered into his coffee, voice gruff with sleep and the Dean-typical morning-grumpiness. But there was affection in his voice that Mary detected beneath his carefully layered macho-mannerism. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah, I did." Sam smiled for the first time in nearly six weeks and Mary hadn't realized that Dean had taken Sam's smile away with him when he left. Not until now.

"You hungry?" Mary didn't dare to hope. She was asking more out of habit than anything else, so when Sam met her offer with enthusiasm, she was a bit taken aback by it.

"Starving, actually," he said, grinning up at her when she set down a platter of pancakes between them. Her heart gave a painful tug at the expression of gratitude and sorrow that crossed his face – almost as though he tried to explain away his behavior from the past six week with one look.

Mary gave his shoulder a tight squeeze, hoping to convey that she understood it, now. Much better than he probably realized.

"No wonder you're starving, you've lost like ten pounds or something," Dean grumbled with a disapproving look in Sam's direction. "It's no wonder with all the rabbit food you're eating. Swear to god, you're like one of these mal-nourished puppies that need constant fretting." Dean went on and on about Sam's weird food choices, keeping up a steady stream of words that were only interrupted by Sam's occasional snort or chuckle. Meanwhile, Sam ate a full portion of pancakes and Mary was sure Dean's running commentary was only a means to distract and comfort Sam while he was eating. Dean was an expert in nurturing Sam, after all. It was his default mode.

At one point Dean reached out to ruffle Sam's hair and Sam allowed it. Then Sam stole a piece of toast from Dean's plate and Dean kicked Sam's shin beneath the table and the kitchen erupted into a heated discussion about what breakfast items were considered 'actual food' and which should be banned from the bunker kitchen. Mary watched them with a smile on her face and a sense of longing in her heart. She was never gonna have what they had. Share what they shared. And it was a bittersweet thing to watch your kids' happiness as a total outsider, as a bystander, someone who didn't matter in the broader scheme of things.

She thought about all the books she'd read in the dead of the night, her tears drenching the fading print, blurring words about family and failure and friendship and brotherhood and betrayal and forgiveness. She thought "Bitch" and "Jerk" and "It's my job, watching out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother" and "Yeah I know you. Better than anyone in the entire world" and she couldn't quite keep her throat from closing up with a mix of loss and pride at everything her boys had accomplished and survived together.

What they shared was kind of crazy, but it was the type of affection that withstood anything, time and fate and even death itself. So with the two of them together, come heaven or hell or whatever - Mary knew, they would be okay.

"Yeah, well, I say egg-white omelettes rule. You're just jealous of of my self-discipline, jerk." Already, the worry lines had vanished from Sam's features and the sharpened cut of his cheeks seemed less prominent. Mary had never seen him playful like this before. He rarely ever let his guard down around anyone, but with Dean he could be childish and moody and insensitive and vulnerable. Dean knew every facet of Sam, knew how far to push him, knew which buttons to press to annoy him and how to get him out of his funk. And right now? Dean made Sam smile almost effortlessly, accomplishing a task Mary hadn't been able to pull off in six weeks.

"You know you missed me, bitch," Dean quipped and when Sam's smile fell a bit, the words catching him off-guard, Mary cleared her voice and left the kitchen, giving them the privacy they needed.

She hesitated in the doorway, her back already turned on them, when there was a screech of chairs and a rustle of clothes and she didn't have to turn back to know what they were doing. She could picture it clear as day: Sam with his long arms wrapped tightly around Dean, holding on for dear life, eyes squeezed shut as he buried his large form in his brother's side. Dean, slightly startled, lifting his arms to hug Sam back, first hesitant - then nearly tight enough to leave bruises. Like after Cold Oak and Mystery Spot and every other damn time life had thrown them a curveball, only for them to reunite again, two halves of a whole in every way imaginable.

It wasn't until Mary heard the whispered words, barely loud enough to be caught from where she stood hidden in the doorway, that her own eyes filled up.

"Not even a little." Sam croaked and Dean snorted, hearing the words for what they really were.

Mary's lips formed a smile.

Yeah, her boys were going to be just fine.

The End.