Sam, resigned to whatever this was, licked his lips and leaned against the recliner's back, stumped. He brushed his hair back, stressed, and let out a long sigh, watching the still, crippled angel on the floor.

"So. What is this?"

Ezekiel scrutinized his surroundings, eyes creased in thought.

"Mm. It is hard to say. You had a dream once. Something happened here."

Sam squinted.

"What?"

"I cannot figure it out yet," the angel said apologetically, then looked up to Sam. "We will get there, Sam," he promised meaningfully.

Sam ticked his head to the side in annoyance.

"You say my name too often. I'm the only one here."

"You do not like the sound of your name?"

"No. It's just unnecessary," Sam replied, irked. Ezekiel nodded with understanding and Sam made a face, knowing the angel wasn't buying it.

"You gonna let me outta here?"

"When the time comes, Sam."

Sam swallowed his irritation and gave a frustrated sigh. A few moments of silence passed.

"Would you prefer 'Sammy'?" Ezekiel asked lightly. Sam visibly recoiled, looking at Ezekiel like he'd just been slapped.

"No," Sam warned coldly.

Ezekiel broke into a genuine smile, further angering the youngest Winchester.

"Listen-"

"-It is good you have not forgotten that," the angel murmured, staring at Sam and looking... proud?

Sam winced at the angel's blatant display of pleased satisfaction but couldn't bring himself to insult or otherwise delve deeper into Ezekiel's cryptic words.

Whatever this was, Sam was getting the distinct feeling that the angel's words held meaning... held truths that would ultimately destroy him. So, he resolved, let this thing (douchey angel Dean would say) keep scratching surfaces because Sam was a fighter and fighters don't give their enemies ammunition.

Sam kept his mouth shut.

"What was Hell like?" Ezekiel asked, blankly curious. Sam's breath caught.

"It sucked," Sam replied with dead eyes, channeling his brother.

"You met my brothers," the angel stated. Sam swallowed, a spark of fear flickering through his expression before clamping down on it - his own trained, precise poker face settling in. "Fate does not often touch humanity."

"There's no such thing," Sam blurted, suddenly furious.

"I understand why you would think that," Ezekiel acknowledged calmly. "But, you see, if there was no such thing as fate, Sam," the angel ignored Sam's flinch, "then you could have made better choices. Been a better man. Prevented your loved ones from ever having-"

"Shut up," Sam rumbled, smoldering and shaking with hatred.

"What did your brother say in the church, Sam?" Ezekiel's eyes blazed. Sam stared daggers back at the angel.

"What did he say? What did your brother say?" Ezekiel kept pressing slowly, delicately, and above all with genuine kindness.

"What did he say, Sam?"

Sam's jaw clenched tighter.

"Sam. Answer me. What did he say?" The angel pushed gently. "Say it," he urged quietly. Sam's eyes teared.

"What did he say?"

Sam flashed back to remembering that night, remembering Dean's words...

I'm willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of you. Don't you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you!

"He..." Sam stopped, then began again, "he said he'd keep evil alive," Sam paused to swallow his trembling voice, blinked and a tear slid free, "be...because of me," he whispered.

Ezekiel straightened, facing the storm before him dead on.

"No, Sam. That is not what he meant."

Sam wiped his face and pulled himself together, anger rising back.

"Who the hell are you?" He bit out, still shaky.

"I am not you," Ezekiel replied evenly.

"Stop with this arcane bullshit. I've had enough of it," Sam spat back.

Ezekiel heaved up and stretched his shoulders back. The angel's blackened, charred wings drew up behind him and Sam held his breath in awe at the sight. The angel closed his eyes as the wings twitched and folded back in, a brief pained expression flashing by before he settled and closed his eyes in silent meditation.

"How do I get out of here?" Sam whispered, unsettled by the angel's display of withered power.

Ezekiel shook his head slowly, his eyes still closed.

"You do not," he replied simply. Before Sam could argue, the angel spoke up, "The slippers. You were nine. In the hospital from..." the angel's face screwed up in concentration, then changed tacks, "you were scared. Vulnerable."

Sam listened, his face expressing those exact sentiments as Ezekiel continued piecing the broken memory together.

"Dean... 'D,'" Ezekiel gave a sweet, wan smile, his eyes still closed, "held your hand but your father was not there."

Ezekiel opened his eyes and tilted his head, staring into Sam's.

"Where was your father, Sam?"

Sam gulped and flinched his head to the left, breaking Ezekiel's gaze. Please don't go there.

"Ah," Ezekiel sighed softly, nodding. "I see."

Ezekiel paused, thinking.

"Neglect is insidious."

"I wasn't neglected," Sam argued, his tone surprisingly loud and clear. Ezekiel's eyes lit up as they opened and drilled into Sam's.

"No you were not," Ezekiel replied immediately, causing Sam to give an inward cringe. "Were you?"

Sam gave the angel a look of disgust. Nonplussed, Ezekiel closed his eyes again.

"D woke you up one morning in the hospital room, excited to show you something. Do you remember?"

Sam felt something tug in the corner of his mind, pulling harder and harder as Ezekiel spoke.

"Balloons," Ezekiel said simply, starting to quirk a smile and suddenly the memory rushed and slid into the forefront of Sam's mind.

A sterile, bland room in the back of a clinic that may as well have been a utility closet for how small it was but Dean hadn't known where to go and they couldn't enter a real hospital without a guardian (CPS would've called in) but somehow Dean had figured out Sam could be treated under the table there and so they were hidden away from the rest of the outpatients and Sam was treated like a secret, like he wasn't supposed to be there and none of the nurses held anything but disdain for having burdened the kind-hearted elderly doctor that ran the clinic out of pocket but Dean was there. And that one morning he'd woken Sam up, thrilled, rubbing Sam's shoulder and brushing his hair back and whispering Sammy! Sammy! Look, dude, check it out! like it was Christmas morning in any normal child's life but Christmas had passed a little under a month ago and instead it was January 24th and it was grey and sleet and slush outside with a perfect view of the dilapidated gravel parking lot with dead trees in the back and broken glass from careless drunkards out the dust-coated window. A perfect view of all that... were it not for the bright posters of Godzilla (Dean's favorite) & The NeverEnding Story (Sam's) plastered across it today.

The room was splashed with brightly colored balloons bobbing gently along the low ceiling and paper mache streamers were duct-taped all across the walls. The retina-searing fluorescence of the overhead light had been turned off & replaced by little twinkly white lights that lined the edges of the ceiling and cancelled out the color-bleaching dawn, giving the room a soft, warm quality Sam would never have imagined was possible.

Dean's chair was gone, replaced by a small black & white 12-inch on a metal tray that looked suspiciously like the tables used during surgeries but Sam didn't care; Sam didn't care because his brother was still trying to pull him out of it to appreciate all his hard work and Sam felt the oxygen mask strapped over his nose and mouth when Dean accidentally brushed against it and it was scary but Sam blinked up and squeezed Dean's hand and Dean squeezed back and Sam saw the mask fog up with his own breath as he looked around, shocked and happy and excited and overwhelmed. A couple more breathless inhales from Sam as he kept looking around the room, eyes wide with wonder, and Dean's thrilled expression morphed to worry as he noticed the kid having trouble.

Okay-okay-okay relax, breathe, Sammy... Dean had started to murmur, pulling Sam up a little bit so he could settle in next to him. He put his arm around Sam's shoulders and jostled him closer until Sam's head leaned against Dean's chest. At that, Sam's head angled naturally towards the posters on the window. Sam weakly reached over Dean to point. Falkor's my favorite, Sam had wheezed under the mask and felt Dean pull him up closer, going yeah dude we're gonna watch our favorites today.

Sam smiled and his laugh turned into a cough and Dean rubbed his arm with one hand as he turned the TV on with the other. Sam got over his fit and looked down towards the foot of the bed where the television was, only to see a pair of bright pink fluffy bunny slippers tilted towards Dean's legs because Sam was angled against him.

Sam made a defeated whining noise, pointing at them, and felt the laughter against his big brother's chest before it sounded out around the small room. Sam couldn't help but smile until his eyes wandered to his own outstretched wrist. The jagged scrapes and cuts he'd gotten were no longer wrapped in gauze but rather...

Sam brought his arm closer to inspect the patterns on the band-aids: My Little Pony and...

Sam jerked up from his brother's arms feebly, staring at his other arm. Rainbow Bright.

D... Sam had rasped plaintively while Dean kept laughing, watching Sam's reactions with uninhibited amusement. Sam huffed. He didn't even have to say, Unfair! anymore.

Once he got over it (meaning, really, once Dean stopped laughing), Sam leaned back against his brother and made sure to look away so he couldn't see him huff a laugh into the mask.

You're mean Sam had murmured playfully, giving his brother a lame jab to the ribs.

Nah ah can't say anything mean to me today Dean replied, pressing play on the VCR with the second remote that laid on the bed between his legs. Sam settled in again against Dean with a sigh, Dean helping him to move like it was nothing and Sam looked up to Dean with wide, sick eyes and whispered Happy birthday Dean and Dean grinned down at his little brother, his love for Sam so unashamedly clear in those bright green eyes... and then told him to shut up and pay attention to the movie.

Ezekiel grinned, at peace, and opened his eyes to look at the thirty year old version of that boy. His expression shifted to confusion at Sam's grief-stricken expression.

"Why do you look like you have lost something?"

Sam bit his lip and gave a sharp shake of his head.

"Don't... do that... again, okay?" Sam asked brokenly.

"Do not lose that memory, Sam, and I will not."

Writer's Note: Thank you for reading! Please please comment/review if you can spare the time!