Hello! remember me? A little fill for ohsam's annual fic challenge for Samsicle's birthday, this year's theme is fix-it. The prompt was: What if Jack didn't heal Sam in Game Night?

The bunker gained several new corridors and doorways since he was last here. A turn to the left should take him to the kitchen but he ends up in the garage. His bedroom is number 21 but the second he steps foot inside he's in a closet he never knew they had.

He's getting better, Dean says. Sam will be good as new in no time, he tells everyone else. These people who come and go and hug him like they know him, but Sam can't even think of a name to match the face.

His fingers crawl up to his head, curious things that they are, sniffing around his hairline where his skin has been stapled back together. Only a few strips of metal holding what's left of his brains inside his head. Sam tries not to scratch at it as he navigates his way to the kitchen. A left turn, he's sure of it.

He turns left and finds another corridor lined with numbered doors.

It feels like someone is inflating a balloon in his throat and his cheeks burn hot as fresh tears drip down his face. This happens a lot and he's learned not to be embarrassed when the smallest thing sends his emotions hurtling through the roof. He stays there for a few moments until he can catch his breath and wipe his face dry on his sleeve.

He goes back the way he came and turns right. The lights in the war room are overwhelming, as if each lamp has turned to focus on him, gaping at the tragedy that is Sam Winchester.

"Sammy?" Dean says, and stands up from where he'd been emptying a glass of whiskey into his mouth. He sets the glass down on North Dakota and inches closer to Sam. "You okay?"

"Fine," Sam replies. Dean's face says he doesn't buy it, but he nods anyway.

"Cas called," Dean says. "Our friend, the angel," he elaborates at Sam's blank stare.

"Right," Sam nods and takes a seat at the table, tracing the edge of Texas with his finger. "Trenchcoat, intense. I know."

"Yeah, so he thinks he might have a trail on Jack."

Jack... Sam should remember this. The devil's kid, went of the rails around the time Sam's head was bashed in by the devil's former vessel, although the two events are not connected. Jack did something bad enough to warrant being hunted down, but Sam doesn't remember what it was.

"I think I'm going to head out to help him," Dean concludes. He looks anxious, lips pressed together and he looks unblinking at Sam.

"Okay," Sam replies. The look hasn't eased off Dean's face so Sam adds, "I'll be fine. Do what you need to do."

"I'll call someone in to keep an eye on things," Dean says. Fucked up brain or not, Sam still speaks fluent Dean. When he says things he really means Sam. They're quiet for a long moment and Sam almost wonders if he's dreaming, if this hazy, endless bunker is just the twisted setting of his unconscious mind.

He looks down and sees a girl with her eyes burned out of her skull. He blinks and sees only the concrete floor.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?" Sam asks.

"I don't know, Sammy, but I'll call every day. Got to make sure you remember to stay medicated," Dean replies with a weak laugh. He pats Sam on the shoulder. "I should go pack up."

He gets to the doorway before Sam pipes up, "What did Jack do?"

Dean sighs and rubs his eyes before turning around. He doesn't quite look Sam in the eye when he speaks. "We've been through this before. He did something bad and we'll leave it at that, okay?"

Sam bites the inside of his cheek. "Stop that!" he says, but it comes out as more of a yell. "I get that my head is seriously fucked up, but don't treat me like an idiot, Dean. Just treat me like I'm still me."

"Sammy - " Dean begins, but he cuts himself off with a shake of his head. "I'm sorry. Look, man, you barely remember the kid so why does it matter?"

"Because..." Sam says. Why does it matter? He's not entirely sure. He settles for, "Because I think maybe he was important to me from before. Because maybe this time I won't forget."

"He killed someone we loved," Dean says after a pause. "And he's dangerous."

"Who did he kill?" Sam asks desperately. "Why is he dangerous?"

Dean finally looks Sam in the eye. "Sam, when I find Jack I'm not going to kill him. Not at first. I need him to fix you. When you're better, I'll put a bullet in his head."

Sam can remember bits and pieces; black eyes, red eyes, yellow eyes. A blowtorch inching towards his bare feet. A scar on the palm of his hand. A tear like a streak of lightning and the burned out world on the other side. And he remembers a kid that doesn't look like a kid, with soft eyes and chocolate caught on the corner of his mouth and a grin on his face as he sends a pencil flying through the air.

I moved the pencil.

"Dean," Sam says. "Don't kill him."

Dean scoffs. "You don't even know the kid, Sam. You don't know what he's done."

"But I do know him," Sam insists. "Somewhere in here," he taps the side of his head. "It's all in there, just... jumbled around. Don't kill him, I know that much."

Dean sighs so deeply he deflates. "I have to go Sam."

He leaves the room and Sam is left with an empty glass and empty chairs. He clenches his hands together, knuckles clamped with frustration as he tries to remember why he came into the room in the first place.

Thanks for reading, pls leave a review if you feel like it and also don't forget to check out ohsam's birthday fix-it challenge on livejournal!