Supernatural: Here's Looking at You
Title: Here's Looking at You
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for Explicit Sexual Content (deflowering of virgins abounds!), Underage (Sam is 16, Dean is 31, also implied that they were together when Sam was 16 and Dean was 21), Suicidal Thoughts and Intentions, Alcohol Use, and Language
Word Count: 8,880
Author’s Note: Written for the awesome super_disney challenge where I claimed an obscure Bruce Willis movie (The Kid) because older bald men need love, too. And because jailbait!Sam/Dean is up my alley, I am a trashy bitch, etc so forth. A million thank yous to my sweet beta deirdre_c who I dropped this on last minute (as I am wont to do) and who was a perfect darling anyway (as she is wont to do). I also want to thank Doctor Who for helping me figure out how to end this. Hopefully the ending I wrote doesn't only make sense in my head. ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eos_rose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: AU after 5x22: Sam's last request before he jumped into the Pit was for Dean to keep living without him. Dean finds his promise impossible to keep, but just before he can call it quits, he gets a visit from a 16-year-old Sam, who is understandably curious as to what circumstances have led to his brother being alone and as miserable as he clearly is. Together they try to understand why Sam is there and how to send him back to his own time, but they discover a little more than that along the way.
This is how the story ends: Dean dies in Stull Cemetery on May 13, 2010. He dies and the world ends. Everything he and Sam fought so hard for goes out between one breath and the next.
No, it's worse than that. The world's still there, but it's over. Dean has to pick himself up and keep going.
There's an ache-not just in his chest or the places where Lucifer broke his bones. Everything aches. Everything. Dean lost his everything; he shouldn't still be able to feel it.
He has nothing now except six feet of empty flesh, a hole in his heart so big his stupidly giant little brother fell right through it, and a promise he never should have made. A promise he doesn't want to keep.
He can't die. He can't give up. He didn't take the chance to jump in after Sam while he still could. He's supposed to knock on the door of a woman he doesn't know and ask to fuck up her life-her kid's life-just like he did Sam's.
He made that promise. To Sam. To his little brother Sam. His little brother who just saved the world for him. Dean said he'd keep going. He'd try to be happy. It's all Sammy wanted.
Dean was never good at keeping promises.
_______________________________________________________________
There isn't even a body.
Dean takes a swig from his bottle. He doesn't know what he's drinking. He can't taste it. How could he when he's stone cold dead? It's not helping, anyway, but Dean doesn't get much satisfaction when it hits the wall and shatters.
He's in a room with two beds. Sitting up by a bedside instead of trying to sleep. Just like the last time this happened, when Sam was dead and Dean had a body and, more importantly, an easy solution. It hadn't seemed so great at the time, but it got the job done. Like a goddamn fairytale. Kiss the right person, bring Sam back to life. He'd give anything for a demon this time. He's been to Hell. He remembers the pain. Dean knows what's worse.
But the demons won't deal with him; he doesn't have to bother summoning them to know that. Their boss wants Sam. Lucifer wants Sam. Dean's little brother to punish. Dean's stupid little brother, whose feet made the whole damn room smell after a hunt, and who snored when he slept on his back, and who always had to do the right thing, even when it meant getting locked up in the Pit and leaving Dean behind.
If Sam would just come back, Dean would kick that moron's ass.
But Sam's not here-he's extremely fucking not here. Dean can't make him sorry this time. He left and Dean's tried every lead he or Bobby could find, but there's no saving him. No getting him out. Castiel can't even do it. He tells Dean to just give up, because that's what Sam would have wanted.
It is what Sam wanted. Dean spent his entire life giving Sam what he wanted, and look how that turned out. Sam's burning and Dean's stuck in a ditch somewhere between alive and so very, very dead.
He knows exactly what Sam didn't want. He's going to do it anyway. It's not like he'll live to regret it.
Dean puts his favorite 9mm in his mouth, closes his eyes tight, and stops dead before pulling the trigger.
"You really planning to leave that mess behind for the cleaning staff?"
He's hearing things, he knows that. If he turns around, he'll see nothing (nothing, not even a body, he doesn't even have a goddamn body). But he'd know his little brother's voice anywhere; he even knew it in Hell. That is it.
He lowers the gun and turns slowly. Sam is sitting across the room, watching him with a mix of amusement and worry. He's leaning against the doorway to their (his, there is no their anymore) motel room, and Dean wonders if that's how Sam came in and why he didn't hear it open. Then he remembers that's fucking crazy.
He doesn't say anything. What do you say to your dead little brother when he catches you trying to kill yourself?
Sam crosses the room in a few long strides and sinks to his knees next to Dean. He covers Dean's wrist with his fingers, and Dean lets him take the weapon out of his hand without a struggle. He's too confused to resist. Sammy doesn't look right, but Dean can't figure out why. He's so damn beautiful that Dean can't think straight.
"Just do it," he says. "Whatever you are, I don't care. I don't want to fight. I got no reason left. Just kill me."
Sam's eyebrows draw together and he reaches up, touching Dean's face gently. Dean expects him to break his neck, whatever shifters do for fun. It's not a demon, Dean's pretty sure. He bothered to salt the door and windows for some reason he can't quite figure out.
"Dean," Sam says, like he's not sure that's Dean's name. "Dean, what are you talking about? How are you-?"
"Don't do this. I promise I'm not fighting. I want you to do it. It'll be better. He didn't want me to." He feels his throat closing up and shakes his head. "But don't do it like this."
"Do what? Dean what's going on?"
"You're not him. You're not real. This isn't real."
Sam leans closer, his eyes scanning over Dean's face. "How old are you?"
Dean laughs, taken off guard by the absurdity of the question. "71. 31. Four and a half. Pick a number."
Sam shakes his head. "This isn't possible."
"Anything is possible these days," Dean mumbles. "I hear some idiot jumped through the world last week. Fell right into lava. I tried to tell him he wouldn't like the weather, but the little fucker never listened."
"You're drunk," Sam says.
Dean nods absently. This hallucination isn't quite as sharp as Sam was, but then Dean probably can't be picky right now.
"Dean, what is going on? How are you drunk and over 30 and trying to kill yourself right now? You just stepped out to get some-"
"So many questions," Dean replies. "So damn curious for a figment of my imagination."
"I'm not a-" Sam grabs Dean again, and Dean sways forward as he tugs. "Dean, I'm real, can't you feel me? Come on, pull yourself together. We have to figure out what happened."
"I know what happened. You-" He doesn't say it, lets his mouth hang open instead.
Dean blinks a few times as Sam lets go of him. It takes a few seconds to regain focus, but once he does, he finally sees Sam close enough to realize what about him was off.
He's a kid. Not a kid, exactly. But he's not the man that jumped into that hole. He's not broad-shouldered and strong and too grown up and miserable and leaving. He's sitting right next to Dean like he's got no intention of going anywhere.
Dean recognizes him as soon as he looks close enough. He's Sam the night Dean kissed him for the first time. He remembers fisting his hands in this threadbare mustard colored t-shirt and getting his fingers caught in the knots of Sam's hair and that Sam looked at him exactly like this, like he was a fucking superhero, so it was impossible not to kiss him. He just doesn't know if this is Sam the moment before Dean leaned in and fucked him up for life or Sam the moment after.
Either way, it's not hard to understand why his brain would pick this Sam to imagine. He's so alive-maybe he's not happy, but he has no idea just how bad things are going to get. He has a whole miserable decade of life ahead of him before Dean pushes him off the edge of the world. He hasn't lost everyone; he never tasted blood and had to feel guilty about it; he hasn't even ditched Dean for school yet.
"Sammy." Dean sobs it. He would deny it if there were anyone left to deny it to, but there isn't. The whole world is empty except for Dean and his guilty conscience. "Sam. Sam."
"It's okay," Sam says, as if Dean needs to see that he's lying to know just how okay it isn't. "Dean, it's okay. Whatever happened, it's going to be okay. I'm here. I've got you."
Dean wants to tear his hair out, scream until his throat bleeds, bang his head on something so hard he never has to think again. But he can't summon the strength, so when Sam takes both of his hands and pulls him up, Dean follows his delusion, unable not to.
"You need to get some rest," Sam is saying as he fusses with the covers on one of the beds. "You need to sleep so you can wake up tomorrow and be of some use to me."
Dean shakes his head, trying to protest. He can't go to bed; he was just about to do something important when Sam showed up. Of course, Sam never stops to think that Dean has plans of his own.
"Shh, Dean," he whispers, and Dean remembers this tone from when he had to put their father to bed after a long night of drinking. He shudders, turning over in bed, his back to Sam. He doesn't want Sam to think of him like that, not even a pretend Sam.
Sam sits on the bed just next to Dean, and when Dean finally gives up, unable to resist the urge to see him, even if he's not really there, he turns to find that Sam is staring at him. Still sitting right there, just watching him like he's fascinating instead of just another drunk loser he has to put up with.
"What?" Dean asks. "What are you looking at?"
"You're so beautiful now." Sam shakes his head sadly, reaching out to brush his fingers along Dean's jaw. Dean closes his eyes and leans into the touch, because it feels real and that's as good as it gets. "You look like shit."
Dean huffs out a laugh, still holding Sam's palm against his cheek. "Well, which one is it?"
Sam doesn't hesitate. "Both."
Dean falls asleep thinking he's finally catching a break. A good dream instead of a nightmare. It doesn't sound like much, but it feels better than Heaven could ever hope to, so maybe Dean chose a good day not to pull the trigger.
_______________________________________________________________
Dean wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache and a broken heart. Nothing new there. What is new is the hand on his forehead, soothing his hair back.
"Drink this," says his brother's voice at his side.
Dean blinks his eyes open slowly, letting the horror of the situation sink in. He can see Sam there, still fresh-eyed and scrawny with his too-long hair and his baby face, holding up a cup of water expectantly. It wasn't a dream or an impressively vivid drunken stupor. This is really happening.
"You don't hate me this much," Dean says.
Sam's face scrunches up in that stupid way he has when he's confused, and it looks so ridiculous Dean nearly wants to laugh. Pull the kid in and give him a noogie. He'd forgotten it looked even more unattractive when Sam was a teenager than it did when he was a full-grown idiot.
"Are you still drunk?"
Dean sits up, shaking his head. "Look, I get it. I'm a bastard. I kill things all the time, usually without pausing to question it. I'm not even sorry. I don't know who you are or what I did to you, but I'm sure I deserve to die." Dean can feel his voice begin to slip away from him and he grasps out for it, desperate just to get his plea across before he falls apart. "But whatever I did, I don't deserve this. However much you hate me, you don't understand, this is more than that. No one hates anyone this much."
Sam shakes his head. "Dean?"
Dean gets a sob caught in his throat. He'll beg. He'll cry. There's no reason to be proud and no one left to try and hold himself together for. He'll be as pathetic as this thing wants him to be if it'll convince the creature not to wear his baby brother as he does this. "Please, not him. Someone else, not Sammy."
Sam frowns, sitting for a few thoughtful moments. He reaches out, and Dean thinks he's a dead man, but he keeps going past Dean's face and slides his hands under Dean's pillow. He pulls out two of the weapons Dean keeps stashed: a flask of holy water and a silver knife, takes a shot from the first and then slices a thin line onto his hand with the other.
Nothing happens in reaction to either except a contrite look on Sam's face.
"I'm me, Dean," Sam says, holding the two objects out. "Now you."
Dean accepts them, completely at a loss. Apparently this is a hallucination, and it seems a little silly that Dean's imagination is asking him to test his own humanity. But Sam is watching him. Dean doesn't want to risk disappointing him and making him retreat back into Dean's memories where he technically belongs.
Dean passes the tests. Sam takes the flask and knife when Dean is done with them and sets them aside. "Okay. Now that we have that settled, quit creeping me out. Get dressed. We have a lot to figure out here, and we're gonna need breakfast."
Dean is too overwhelmed to question it.
_______________________________________________________________
Rule Number One of being crazy: you don't talk to your delusions. Dean doesn't have a book on this or anything, but he's pretty sure he could write one by now.
It encourages them. Dean's known this since he was a kid. He grew up watching his dad and Bobby and Pastor Jim. He's heard a million one-sided conversations, the names of wives that only get whispered after too many shots of whiskey, the controlled but just-as-harrowing way Jim Murphy used to pray for God to forgive his mother for the things that demon did with her body.
If you talk to them, hallucinations won't leave. They won't ever leave. Dean tried to use this to his advantage once upon a time. There's no counting how many conversations he attempted to start when Sam was at Stanford, hoping he'd hear his brother respond and see him sitting in the passenger's seat. The only answer he ever got was the radio blasting music much louder than he would have been able to if the person he was trying to imagine were really there. He'd been too sane for it back then. Just barely, probably.
Now, though, not so much. Now he's got an impressively vivid little figment sitting in Sam's spot, rambling on about research and asking Dean questions about what he remembers and so on.
He ignores it. Doesn't look, doesn't speak. He can't encourage this one. If he talks to Sam, if Sam starts hanging around and Dean's brain keeps making him as convincing as he is right now, Dean will really start to believe it. He'll pull himself together-for Sammy's sake. He'll stay alive.
And as great as that will be, Dean knows even lunatics have their moments of clarity. There will be days and days that Dean will go through contentedly, pretending his little brother is 16 and healthy and nothing is coming for him. But every now and then he'll remember through the fog where Sam really is and what's being done to him, and he will feel exactly like he does now.
He's not risking it.
"Seriously?" Sam snaps after half an hour driving. "Are you actually giving me the silent treatment? You're 30 years old, Dean. Grow up already!"
Dean turns his head to gaze out of the window. This is how it always starts with Sam. First he plays along, acts like he hasn't noticed and it's not bothering him. That was the last thirty minutes. Now he's getting angry and pissy-that's okay. Dean is good at ignoring this part. It's the next step that's going to take all his strength to ignore, the part where Sam's voice stops being bitchy and starts being weak and scared and sad, when he starts begging for Dean's attention. One thing Dean can say for his brother, he knows how to play dirty and there's no reason to think Dean's hallucination won't be just as good at it.
He sees a diner advertising all-day breakfast. It's past noon, but Sam had said he wanted breakfast. Not that Dean is going to do anything for him, because this isn't Sam, Sam is dead.
But somehow he ends up pulling into the parking lot anyway.
"We're not going to get this problem solved if you don't talk to me," Sam says, all teenage angst and still making good sense under it. Dean always hated that he could do that. It's easy to look right past him as he parks the car.
"I don't even know why you're mad at me." Sam's voice is quieter this time, still trying to sound strong and angry but with a soft undercurrent of hurt.
Ignore it, Dean tells himself. Ignore it, ignore it.
He gets out of the car and slams the door, hearing Sam rush to follow behind. He's sure Sam's making one of those sour lemon faces at the back of his head, nostrils flaring wildly in the wind. Only no he isn't, because Sam doesn't exist anymore when Dean isn't looking at him.
The sign at the door says "Seat Yourself," so Dean stumbles his hungover ass into the nearest booth, collapsing into the cushiony red seats and pretending not to see when Sam does the same across from him.
"Can I get you anything to start? A drink?"
The waitress is an older lady with her curly gray hair pulled up into a messy bun. She looks supremely bored, so Dean doesn't bother trying too hard to be charming.
"I'd love a cup of your strongest coffee," Dean says, cradling his head just to get his point across.
The woman looks slightly more amused, nodding sympathetically.
"Can I have coffee, too?" Sam asks, looking up at Dean hopefully.
"How about just an orange juice?" The waitress says kindly, angling her body a little more in Sam's direction. "You're a little young to be picking up habits from your uncle here."
Dean's head snaps up, and he stares from her to Sam and back again. "You can see him?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Well, he's sitting right there, isn’t he?"
Dean looks at Sam, who is making another one of those faces. Oh god, and he's really there, really making that face.
"So, coffee?" Sam reminds him.
Dean swallows hard and looks up at the waitress. "Give him anything he wants."
_______________________________________________________________
"Where am I, anyway?" Sam asks.
They've done all the talking about Dean and Dean's memories of how he ended up where he was that he thinks he can stomach. By the time they finish breakfast, Dean's told so many lies and omitted so many truths, he knows he isn't helping Sam figure out what happened at all.
He doesn't want to. He wants to keep his little brother. Screw whatever version of him is having a panic attack over Sam's absence in some other universe.
So he takes Sam out and wanders around whatever town they've ended up in for a bit. They walk until they find a park and Dean tries to keep his brother focused on every insignificant thing that isn't finding a way to "set things right," as Sam keeps calling it. What it boils down to is Sam leaving. Again.
Sam's got an ice cream cone held tight in one hand, the pink melting down over his fingers, and if he thinks he's getting into Dean's car with that thing, he's fucking crazy.
Dean raises an eyebrow and lets out a laugh that's almost a quack. "Right there," he replies, pointing to Sam. "I remembered you being smarter than this, kiddo."
"Don't call me that," says Sam in a bitchy tone that makes Dean take a step toward him, about to grab his brother into a headlock and mess up his hair. Sam braces himself as if he's anticipating it-maybe even hoping for it, and it's that hope that makes Dean rethink it. He drops onto the bench next to his brother instead, leaving plenty of room between them.
No touching Sam. Not this young. Not this innocent. Not even if he looks at Dean with dark eyes and makes Dean not want to die for the first time in weeks and would taste like Sam if Dean took his sweat on his tongue or-no. None of that. Those thoughts need to stop.
Sam watches Dean out of the side of his eyes, licking suggestively at the strawberry dripping down the cone, and then he laughs. "You never change, do you?"
Not like you, Sammy. Dean knows he'll see a hundred different Sams before this one turns into the Sam who jumps into that pit. His Sam. They'll all be so different but so similar at the same time; they'll all be much more complicated than Dean or Dean's ability to really understand them. Even now. 16 years old. Who told this kid he was allowed to see so much and look so smug about it?
"Finish your dessert," Dean mumbles.
"Just keep wanting. I thought by 30 you'd have learned how to take."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he lies, and then he snatches the cone from his brother's grip and takes a big bite out of it. Sam's eyes are locked on his mouth when he hands it back, so Dean turns his head away, wiping his lips on the sleeve of his jacket.
"I meant, where am I in this world? Time. Whatever this is. If you're here and you've lived so much longer than my Dean, why am I not with you?"
Dean's throat tightens. "California."
Sam's eyebrows draw in but he doesn't say anything, just waits for Dean to continue. Dammit, here goes another lie. Here's hoping Dean can keep them all straight.
"You're a lawyer. You went to school there and you met a girl, so you stayed and married her. You've got a nice house and a lawn and kids. You're happy. Normal."
Instead of the joy Dean is bracing himself for, Sam just looks more confused. Not unhappy exactly, but confused. "No, I'm not," he says, almost laughing. Like it's a joke. "I wouldn't leave you."
Little bastard. In a year he'll be filling out applications while Dean isn’t looking. In two he'll be whispering the word Stanford against Dean's bare chest and expecting Dean to be proud instead of miserable. In three, Dean will be sleeping in a motel room with two beds and no one to care if he's bleeding to death in a ditch.
In ten years, Sam will be dead and Dean will want to be dead, and some goddamn 16-year-old with his little brother's face will look him in the eye and say, without a drop of irony, that he would never leave.
When does it change? What fatal mistake does Dean make along the way? This is a second chance. If he can figure it out, he can fix everything.
Except he knows what it is, and he can't stop it. He kisses Sam. He kisses Sam and everything goes wrong because of it, and still, Dean knows there's no universe in which he does not or will not do it. Even now, knowing what it leads to. He's almost twice this Sam's age. Dean was perverted enough the first time-whose sick idea was it to give him a second chance? All he can do is worse.
Maybe he should help Sam figure out how to get back after all. Let the 20-year-old version of him ruin Sam, before he gets a chance to do it himself.
"Yeah well," Dean mutters, standing up and keeping his back to his brother. "Finish that thing and wipe off. We have work to do."
Sam shrugs, chucks the rest of the cone into the garbage can next to him, and stands up.
They get a little work done over the rest of the day. What research they can on their own, Dean doesn't want to bother Bobby with this until he's got more details. Right now all he has is a steaming pile of crazy, and Bobby would assume exactly what Dean did when Sam first showed up, that Dean's gone batshit and needs to be supervised.
Probably, Dean needs to be supervised for entirely different reasons, but it's that same dirty part of him that makes him want to keep Sammy to himself just a little while longer.
They find a motel around 8 o'clock, when the sun has gone down and there's no real hope of getting anywhere with a library that will be both useful and open. Dean pulls into the first motel off the highway and they watch the television on low for a few hours.
Dean waits for Sam to fall asleep to get the bourbon out, which is why it's really fucking surprising to him when he feels his bed dip under someone else's weight and his little brother's long fingers curling around the edges of his face.
Lips on his.
Dean is starting to get somewhere near drunk, but he is not that drunk. He shoves Sam back. "What the fuck?"
Sam laughs, a playful little boy without any of the innocence. "Don't act like this is new."
Dean shakes his head. "I never kissed you," he says in a stupid, drunken rush. Not yet, he's sure of it. From the way Sam's been acting all day-Dean remembers when Sam was this age. There was Sam pulling out every trick to seduce him and then there was Sam, quiet and content, triumphant because he'd gotten Dean to give him what he wanted and knew he could have it forever. This was not confident Sam, this was desperate for attention. Dean's drunk, but he can still keep his Sams in order, thank you very much. "You don't kiss me."
"I wasn't planning to," Sam says, pulling back to sit on his knees next to Dean. "Not until I found out I die without ever getting this."
Dean knows the face he makes is too stunned to make his words convincing. "You're not dead, you're in-"
"California?" Sam asks flatly. "Dean, I'm 16. Not five, and not stupid. I know the difference between you grieving me leaving and you grieving me."
Dean's lips pull together tightly and he looks away. "Leave me alone, Sam."
"I don't get it," Sam says. "God, I thought you were going to break any day. Did I really spend my whole life waiting for you to kiss me?"
If only. "Go to bed."
"I'm in bed," he whispers, leaning in to press his mouth to the side of Dean's face. "Dean, look at me. I know you want me. It's okay. You shouldn't have to die without it just because I did."
Dean doesn't even see it coming when he snaps forward, grabbing Sam's arms and holding him still. "Stop saying that. Stop saying he's dead."
Sam doesn't flinch, doesn't bat an eye. He stares forward, resigned and mature, like no kid his age should ever be in the face of death. "But I am, though. Aren't I?"
Dean feels something stronger than bourbon race through his veins, making him suddenly more sober than he thinks he's ever been. The fight leaves him as quickly as it came, his hold on Sam becomes weak and his arms drop. He nods, trying to stop himself from crying. He hasn't said it out loud. "He's dead. My little brother is dead."
Sam's response is muted, completely unsurprised. Dean tried so hard to be convincing all day, to pull himself together and smile for Sam. He wasn't supposed to have to know this.
"How?" Sam asks. "How do I-?"
"Shouldn't tell you that," Dean answers, which of course means, I don't want to talk about it.
"Don't be cruel," Sam says quietly. "Don't be cruel. I shouldn't be here, but I am. I shouldn't know at all, but I do. At least tell me why I died-Jesus, I'm not even thirty yet."
God help him, he does. The words pour out of him like blood, thick and bubbling from his lips, tasting like death. He tells Sam almost everything, leaving out a few minor details about deaths and deals and Hell and demon blood. He tells Sam the part that matters: you saved the world, and, kid, I hate you for it.
Sam sits quietly through it all, listening and nodding every now and then, but not questioning. When Dean reaches the end of the story, Sam nods and lies down next to him, his head on Dean's chest and an arm slung around. Dean gathers him up in his arms the best he can and listens for what feels like hours as Sam cries.
Frightened little boy. Too grown up. Never getting to grow old. How could Dean tell him the truth?
Finally, Sam sits up, wiping at his eyes, and Dean watches him, waiting to see what he'll do next. What he'll need, as if there's any way he can make Sam feel better now.
"I want to go home," he says, looking up at the ceiling as if that's ever done anyone any good. "Please, I want to go home."
"Shh, Sammy," Dean whispers. He reaches out and brushes stubborn brown bangs away from his brother's face, because they're sticking to the wetness on Sam's cheek, and Dean can only imagine that's annoying. "I'll get you home, it's okay."
Sam shakes his head, pulling away from Dean's touch. "I don't want you. You scare me."
Dean yanks his hand back. He could have killed himself yesterday and never lived to hear that.
"I want my brother," Sam says petulantly. "I want my big brother. You're so unhappy, Dean. I don't want you to be him. I don't want any of this, I wanna go back."
"I'll get you back to him," says Dean. "I swear I'll get you back to him."
Sam looks down at Dean. He's not crying anymore. He somehow looks 80 years old under the weight of everything Dean's just told him. "Tell me we-" He stops, looking away like he's ashamed. "I know that's the wrong thing to ask now. But it's the only thing that will make it even kind of okay."
Dean will say anything to make him feel better right now. "Yeah, Sam. We do."
His head rises just enough for Dean to see him, and Dean reaches out for him, pulling him down. Sam lets him, until Dean has him close and safe. He presses his lips to Sam's forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, Sammy, you shouldn't have to know this."
Sam lifts himself onto his elbows. "Dean," he says, crawling up a bit to press a quick kiss to Dean's lips. Dean lets it happen, but he doesn't return it. "Dean, can you-?" He stops, licking his lips. "Make me forget. Please, just for a little while. Make me forget."
Dean knows what he's asking for. His dick, starting to harden and press up against Sam's, definitely knows what he's asking for.
"No," he says. "No way."
"Please." Sam sounds so sweet when he begs. He lost that at Stanford. Dean had forgotten about it. "Please, please. You're all I wanted and I don't wanna-Dean. Please."
Dean now. Dean at twenty. The demon who killed Jess. Dad. Yellow Eyes. That kid who cut through his spine. Ruby. Lilith. Lucifer. Lucifer. Lucifer. What does it matter who ruins it for him? Sam's not getting a house in California. Someone's going to screw him up.
Might as well be Dean. Might as well be now. Might as well make him feel good for a few godforsaken minutes-and that, that is something Dean can do, whether he should know how or not.
He swallows his brother's pleas. Sam is greedy, his hands snaking up Dean's shirt for skin, hips working up for pressure. Needy. Virgin. No, no. Don't think about that. Just make Sam feel good.
Dean pulls his shirt off over his head to make things easier for Sam, and Sam returns the favor, though Dean almost wishes he wouldn't. He's so skinny, so much bone to break and so little muscle to protect him. He looks nothing like Dean is used to, and it would be one thing if this Sam didn't turn Dean on, but he does, so Dean really shouldn't be looking at it.
"What are you staring at?" Sam asks.
Dean looks down at his hands, as if he needs to focus very hard on getting his jeans open. "You're scrawny. Did you know that?"
"Yeah." Sam laughs. "You tell me all the time."
Sam sits up, pulling Dean's pants down so Dean can focus his attention on Sam's.
"Do I fill out then?" he asks excitedly.
Oh, just a bit. "Nope," Dean replies. "And you don't get taller, either."
Sam hums disinterestedly, choosing to spend his energy elsewhere. In a few seconds he's pushed his jeans and boxers down past his thighs and has kicked them off the rest of the way. Dean tosses his own to the ground and lowers himself, kissing Sam again.
"Tell me what you want, Sammy," Dean murmurs in his brother's ear.
He feels a warm smile form against his neck. "Want you to teach me. Want you to make me feel good. I want you, Dean."
Just like last time, then. Dean chuckles as he rises from the bed to get lube and a condom, wondering if there should maybe be a limit on the amount of times a guy can take his brother's virginity.
Dean doesn't bother asking the questions he asked last time. He knows what Sam has and hasn't done, what will and will not surprise him. The night is seared into his memory.
One finger. Sam writhes prettily on the bed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he tries to hold the sounds in. Dean can do better than that. Two fingers. Sam cries out like he's happy-a sound Dean's brother should not know how to make, but which he could listen to for the rest of his life. The whole thing is like watching a replay, but it's not like this could ever get old.
Dean slides into him once he's ready. Sam is already a mess under him, and Dean doesn't make the mistake of touching him, even as Sam is begging him for it. Kid's gonna come as soon as his dick gets the slightest relief, and Dean doesn't intend for that to happen until he's made Sam feel a whole world better than this.
"Dean," he gasps, rolling his hips up onto Dean's cock. "Jesus, what is that? Keep-keep."
"I know, Sammy," Dean says, smiling as he kisses his brother. "Know you like that."
It's not all for Sam after all; he can make Sam feel good, and that's all he's wanted since he lost his little brother in the worst way imaginable. Dean has every nerve ending in his brother's body mapped: the way to twist his hand on Sam's cock, the flick on his nipple that always pulls out the same moan, the cut where those slender hips meet his ass and the way Sam loves a good, bruising grip there. Dean didn't know those things the last time he took Sam's virginity, but then Sam didn't need to be distracted as much back then.
He leaves Sam fidgeting under him, moaning and muttering obscenities as he fucks down into him just right. There's a bottle of bourbon still waiting on the nightstand, and Dean reaches out, taking a hit straight from it. Sam laughs under him, moving up and kissing all over Dean's shoulder as he reaches out to settle it back down.
He swallows, then smiles down at his brother. "Wanna taste?"
Sam nods. Dean crushes down, pressing his mouth to Sam's without any delicateness. Sam licks away the taste of the whiskey, and Dean just hopes the alcohol will help Sam more than it helped him.
He holds Sam down after that, because he knows his brother will try to jerk himself off if he doesn't. He's a stubborn sonofabitch. But Sam finds other ways to take some control, wrapping his long, long legs around Dean and using all that strength to thrust himself up onto Dean's dick. He's good, but he's not as strong as Dean's brother, and he's not pulling the dirty tricks Sam would to bring Dean off.
He grabs Sam and strokes his cock, and when Sam moans out his orgasm, Dean closes his eyes and thinks of big, big shoulders and someone fighting back under him and the tender words Sam used to whisper into Dean's ear sometimes when he came, the words Dean always pretended not to hear. It's wrong-so wrong, he knows. This is Sam's first time and Dean is thinking of someone else, in a way. But he sounds just like Dean's brother did the night before the devil stole him.
And maybe-probably-Sam is thinking of his Dean, too.
He comes with that cry in his ears and the image of his Sam in his mind. Sam is already panting through his aftershocks, thrusting idly for the pleasure but with no real intent. Dean pulls out of him, pressing a kiss to his brother's sweaty hairline.
"I'll get you a towel," he says.
He comes back to find Sam sitting up, looking subdued but not unhappy. Not like before. Dean counts it as a win because he'll hate himself even more if he admits it was nothing but selfishness that pushed him into Sam.
He wipes Sam off and Sam thanks him, looking up at Dean with quiet affection. "I really do love you, you know," he says. "Every version of you."
Dean smiles even though it hurts and tries to keep his voice playful. "You don't outgrow that, either."
_______________________________________________________________
He wakes up the next morning with his little brother in his arms, smiling in his sleep. It makes Dean feel good, like he did something right, though he knows that's almost definitely not the right answer.
He thinks maybe this really is a second chance. Maybe Sam's not down in Hell anymore-he got spit out or God finally learned to pay attention. Maybe he brought him back at this age so Sam wouldn't remember all the things that went wrong. A clean slate. Dean has him here now, Sam before the shit hit the fan. He can fix everything. Dean can take care of him a few more years, and then Sam can go to school for real. Dean won't ever touch him again. He can meet a girl like Jess, but there won't be any Yellow Eyes to ruin it. No Apocalypse. No angels. Sam is free to be happy and normal. And safe. Most importantly, safe. Dean was never particularly good at keep Sam safe, but no one can say he hasn't tried. This time-maybe.
Yeah, and maybe Dean's been having an elaborate nightmare since he was four years old and he'll wake up tomorrow with a mom and dad and a brand new little brother to play with. As if life ever works out that way for him.
It was a nice thirty seconds, though.
"Hey, wake up." Dean shakes Sam, and Sam blinks his eyes open grumpily. "We gotta figure out how to get you home."
"I hate you," Sam mutters, turning his head into his pillow.
Dean laughs. "All the more reason to crack this case, huh?"
Sam sighs and sits up, rubbing at his eyes. "You know I don't hate you, right?"
"Please, no more girl talk."
Sam nods and his expression dims. "I do want to go home, though."
Dean was expecting no less. If Dean thought he could get his brother back, he'd be just as eager to say goodbye. Problem is, in Dean's time, it's already too late for that.
They spread the books and photocopies they'd gathered the day before and dive back into them. It's completely quiet for a couple of hours, until suddenly Sam moves quickly, grabbing for the knife they've left resting in the middle of the table, and Dean jerks, looking around.
"Who the fuck are you?" Sam asks.
"I'm not usually a fan of chocolate," the horseman answers. "But the bakery down the street makes some truly commendable fudge." He holds the package out toward Sam and Dean. "Would you care to try it?"
"Death," Dean says wearily. "What are you doing here?"
"Mmm," Death says, holding a hand up to signal that he'll answer when he finishes chewing. Once he's swallowed, he looks from Dean to Sam and then back to Dean with a meaningful look. "Interestingly, I came to ask you the same question."
"I…" Dean tilts his head. "We're trying to figure out how to get Sam to-"
"Ah, yes. I am, you'll be surprised to find, not actually that dull." He smiles, and Dean shivers. "I mean what is your dear little brother doing here in the first place? I've had some clever humans-by their standards of course, not mine-try to claim their loved ones from me before, but I have to say, you're the first to not even bother asking for permission. Now, I know those angels puffed up your ego quite considerably, but I thought I made our deal perfectly clear."
Sam looks over at Dean, his mouth hanging open, and Dean shakes his head, motioning for him to stay quiet.
"I did this?" he asks. "How did I do this?"
Death sighs wearily. "It's even more annoying when you do it by accident."
"Tell us how to fix it, then."
Death points to one of the two empty chairs across from Sam and Dean. "May I?"
"Definitely," Sam says. "I'd love to hear where this is going."
Death nods at him. "You look different. Have you done something with your hair? I can't say I like it."
"He's about ten years younger."
Death stares at Sam for a few seconds, blinks, then shrugs. "Interesting how that makes a difference for you." He folds his hands together on the table. "Now then, enough of that small talk. You've caused an inconvenient situation for me. Hell is rather upset, and the last thing I want is their attention on me again."
"You're telling me this is really Sam and he's really out?"
"In a manner of speaking," Death replies.
"Okay, but what does that mean?" Sam asks, temper flaring. Dean wishes he'd had a little prior notice, a chance to explain who and what this is and just how much pissing him off is not a good idea. Then again, at Sam's age, who listens?
"Sam is in Hell as scheduled, but also not. Do you see now?"
"Not at all." Dean smiles. "Humans, remember? Gonna have to spell it out for us."
"Well, you've saved some of Sam. Enough for Lucifer to realize it's missing, but not nearly enough to stop him from having plenty of your brother to lash out against."
Dean shakes his head. "No. What?"
"Souls," Death says, sitting forward, "are so much more complicated than your minuscule mind can begin to comprehend, but I should think you had a slightly better understanding of that by now, considering your history."
Dean worries Sam might ask what he means, and then Dean will have to tell him all the things he so deliberately left out the day before. But Sam is enraptured, and they both stare at Death, waiting for him to continue.
"Your soul and your brother's have a connection that is, I confess, despite how boring I find your species to be, rather fascinating. Of course it gets complicated by the deals and all that nonsense, but at the end of the day, your brother has had a good chunk of you down in Hell. I'm sure you've noticed it missing."
Dean nods.
Death laughs calmly. "And did you think that was unique to you?"
He stares ahead, not quite sure he understands the question. Death looks amused as he shakes his head. "I can see you did."
"Okay, so-so, this isn't Sam when he was 16, it's just-"
"Oh, it is him. It's the piece of Sam's soul inside of you. I'm guessing you were trying to do something stupid your brother would not have approved of-"
"Kill himself," Sam mutters.
Death extends a hand toward Sam. "Like that, for example. And the piece of Sam's soul that was with you reached out to the rest of itself to stop you. Apparently it was easier to yank the rest of him from that past than from Hell, but the point of the matter is that Lucifer would like his toy back."
"You gotta-"
Death raises an eyebrow.
"I mean, look, you don't have to do anything. But he helped you. He got you off the Devil's leash. You can't leave him down there." He points to his brother. "You can't toss him back in. He's a kid for crying out loud."
Death sits quietly for the longest minute of Dean's life, and then he stands up. "Ignoring the part where you presumed to tell me what I can or cannot do, I don't owe your brother anything for releasing me from a situation I was only in because of his own mistakes."
Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Death holds up a hand to silence him. "That said, I never would have found that fudge if it weren't for this mess, so I'm feeling generous. The way I see it, things cannot be left how they are. It's simply too much chaos. Not the way things are done. I don't like it. Either all of your brother must be up here or all of him must be down there. Now I don't really care which it is, but I suspect you have an opinion about this."
"I want him up-"
"Yes, I know. I think we all know. Everyone in Heaven or Hell is rather tired of hearing about it."
"So are you gonna save him?"
"I'll do the part you need me for. I'll bring him up here. Of course, this," he gestures to Sam, "will be no less of a problem once he's back. It might even be more of one. You humans are all hard enough to tell apart as it is, I can't imagine how you'll do it with two of him."
"You can't send him back?"
Death turns sharply. "Of course I can. Shall I pick up your dry cleaning when I'm finished?"
"I just meant-"
"The process is simple enough, you just need to find a way to reunite the parts of Sam that I bring back with the chunk of his soul that brought this one here. That should repel him back into his own time and leave you one complete Sam to deal with." Death frowns, almost even looks like he feels sorry. "He will not be a very stable complete Sam, you understand. Not after what's been done to him."
"Whatever. Fine. How do we reunite them if it's so easy?"
"You work on figuring that out. I'll go save your brother."
"Fair enough," Sam says.
Dean nods and Death disappears in the blink of an eye. "Back to the books, then?"
Sam's eyes widen, and he gestures for Dean to turn around.
Standing behind him are Death and Sam. His Sam. Sam is staring at him with big wet eyes. He's bruised and bloody and looks hysterical, but he's Sam.
Death snaps his fingers and suddenly Sam stands up straighter. He's clean and healed, but he still looks dazed and terrified. "That should help a little. His mental state will not be much to speak of, but from what I could tell, it never was."
"Thanks," Sam says beside him.
Death claps his hands together. "Well, then. Have you figured out the ritual for reconnecting the souls yet?"
Dean blinks. "You were gone for like a second," he says.
"Ah, yes. Mortal time." Death nods and then smiles around the room. "Well, that's all the enthusiasm I can muster for your petty problems. Do feel free to finish the fudge."
He vanishes and Dean rushes to Sam, grabbing him into his arms. "Goddammit!"
Sam hugs him back. "It's okay, Dean," he murmurs. "It's okay."
Dean pulls away to get a look at him. His Sam. His Sammy. "You look like shit."
Sam smiles weakly."I feel worse, I promise."
"He said-he said a piece of your soul was missing."
"Yeah," Sam says, exhaling slowly. "Yeah, I can feel that."
"He didn't say how to fix it. Fuck, I don't know where to even-"
Sam laughs, waving his hand at the chair across the room where Dean and the younger Sam had stacked the books they thought might be helpful the night before. "Grab the fourth one off the pile and open it to page…" Sam rubs at his temple, making a pained face. "Shit, what page was it? 83? 84?"
Dean opens to page 83, then flips it. "Holy shit," he says.
Staring up at him is exactly the ritual they need.
"How'd you know, Sammy?"
Sam smiles out of one side of his mouth. "I remember me telling you," he gestures at his teenage self, "from when I was him."
"You…remember…" Dean slams the book shut. "Are you trying to say you knew all of this was gonna happen? You let me think you were-"
"Shh, Dean," Sam says. He reaches out for Dean's wrist to take the book and reopen it, and when Dean feels how weak his grip is, he remembers Sam's soul is still torn right now. He'll kick his ass after they fix that. "I didn't before I jumped into the hole. I do now."
Dean waves his hands in the air. "That doesn't make any sense."
"It's hard to explain. I remember everything, our whole lives, two ways. The way I know it happened and the way it must have actually happened. Like, I don't know. Like my past actually changed while I was in the cage. I swear, I didn't know before I jumped. But now I remember growing up knowing a lot of things you-you told me."
Dean frowns. He should have kept his mouth shut and his hands to himself, but Sam just rolls his eyes. "Look, there's nothing to feel guilty about. You were in a bad place."
"Now you're going to be-"
"No worse off than I was going to be otherwise, I assure you." He turns to the other Sam. "Alright, kid. You ready to go back in time?"
Sam slides right out of his chair and onto his feet. "God, yes."
"You have to read the ritual out," Sam says, turning to Dean. "The words are going to intimidate you but don't worry. I promise you do it right."
Dean shrugs and opens the book. Latin. Of course. His favorite. He reads out the chant seven times as instructed and Sammy begins to glow slightly, a faint gold under his skin. Dean closes the book now that he's finished and watches his brother-both of him-as they approach each other. Theoretically, Sam's soul should latch back onto the missing piece as soon as they touch and the extra one should disappear.
Sam pauses before he makes contact though, turning to Dean. He walks to him slowly putting a glowing hand around the back of Dean's neck. "You lied about me not getting taller," he says.
Dean gets about one second to look sheepish before his brother kisses him. He pulls back then and Dean sees his Sam watching them with a warm smile on his face. He holds his hand out. The other Sam only hesitates a moment longer.
"I can’t wait to see you again," he says, smiling at Dean. "Goodbye for now."
Dean raises a hand and waves and then he's temporarily blinded by the bright flash of light as his two Sam's collide. When the light dies away, Sam is there, standing straight and tall and whole.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for Explicit Sexual Content (deflowering of virgins abounds!), Underage (Sam is 16, Dean is 31, also implied that they were together when Sam was 16 and Dean was 21), Suicidal Thoughts and Intentions, Alcohol Use, and Language
Word Count: 8,880
Author’s Note: Written for the awesome super_disney challenge where I claimed an obscure Bruce Willis movie (The Kid) because older bald men need love, too. And because jailbait!Sam/Dean is up my alley, I am a trashy bitch, etc so forth. A million thank yous to my sweet beta deirdre_c who I dropped this on last minute (as I am wont to do) and who was a perfect darling anyway (as she is wont to do). I also want to thank Doctor Who for helping me figure out how to end this. Hopefully the ending I wrote doesn't only make sense in my head. ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eos_rose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: AU after 5x22: Sam's last request before he jumped into the Pit was for Dean to keep living without him. Dean finds his promise impossible to keep, but just before he can call it quits, he gets a visit from a 16-year-old Sam, who is understandably curious as to what circumstances have led to his brother being alone and as miserable as he clearly is. Together they try to understand why Sam is there and how to send him back to his own time, but they discover a little more than that along the way.
This is how the story ends: Dean dies in Stull Cemetery on May 13, 2010. He dies and the world ends. Everything he and Sam fought so hard for goes out between one breath and the next.
No, it's worse than that. The world's still there, but it's over. Dean has to pick himself up and keep going.
There's an ache-not just in his chest or the places where Lucifer broke his bones. Everything aches. Everything. Dean lost his everything; he shouldn't still be able to feel it.
He has nothing now except six feet of empty flesh, a hole in his heart so big his stupidly giant little brother fell right through it, and a promise he never should have made. A promise he doesn't want to keep.
He can't die. He can't give up. He didn't take the chance to jump in after Sam while he still could. He's supposed to knock on the door of a woman he doesn't know and ask to fuck up her life-her kid's life-just like he did Sam's.
He made that promise. To Sam. To his little brother Sam. His little brother who just saved the world for him. Dean said he'd keep going. He'd try to be happy. It's all Sammy wanted.
Dean was never good at keeping promises.
_______________________________________________________________
There isn't even a body.
Dean takes a swig from his bottle. He doesn't know what he's drinking. He can't taste it. How could he when he's stone cold dead? It's not helping, anyway, but Dean doesn't get much satisfaction when it hits the wall and shatters.
He's in a room with two beds. Sitting up by a bedside instead of trying to sleep. Just like the last time this happened, when Sam was dead and Dean had a body and, more importantly, an easy solution. It hadn't seemed so great at the time, but it got the job done. Like a goddamn fairytale. Kiss the right person, bring Sam back to life. He'd give anything for a demon this time. He's been to Hell. He remembers the pain. Dean knows what's worse.
But the demons won't deal with him; he doesn't have to bother summoning them to know that. Their boss wants Sam. Lucifer wants Sam. Dean's little brother to punish. Dean's stupid little brother, whose feet made the whole damn room smell after a hunt, and who snored when he slept on his back, and who always had to do the right thing, even when it meant getting locked up in the Pit and leaving Dean behind.
If Sam would just come back, Dean would kick that moron's ass.
But Sam's not here-he's extremely fucking not here. Dean can't make him sorry this time. He left and Dean's tried every lead he or Bobby could find, but there's no saving him. No getting him out. Castiel can't even do it. He tells Dean to just give up, because that's what Sam would have wanted.
It is what Sam wanted. Dean spent his entire life giving Sam what he wanted, and look how that turned out. Sam's burning and Dean's stuck in a ditch somewhere between alive and so very, very dead.
He knows exactly what Sam didn't want. He's going to do it anyway. It's not like he'll live to regret it.
Dean puts his favorite 9mm in his mouth, closes his eyes tight, and stops dead before pulling the trigger.
"You really planning to leave that mess behind for the cleaning staff?"
He's hearing things, he knows that. If he turns around, he'll see nothing (nothing, not even a body, he doesn't even have a goddamn body). But he'd know his little brother's voice anywhere; he even knew it in Hell. That is it.
He lowers the gun and turns slowly. Sam is sitting across the room, watching him with a mix of amusement and worry. He's leaning against the doorway to their (his, there is no their anymore) motel room, and Dean wonders if that's how Sam came in and why he didn't hear it open. Then he remembers that's fucking crazy.
He doesn't say anything. What do you say to your dead little brother when he catches you trying to kill yourself?
Sam crosses the room in a few long strides and sinks to his knees next to Dean. He covers Dean's wrist with his fingers, and Dean lets him take the weapon out of his hand without a struggle. He's too confused to resist. Sammy doesn't look right, but Dean can't figure out why. He's so damn beautiful that Dean can't think straight.
"Just do it," he says. "Whatever you are, I don't care. I don't want to fight. I got no reason left. Just kill me."
Sam's eyebrows draw together and he reaches up, touching Dean's face gently. Dean expects him to break his neck, whatever shifters do for fun. It's not a demon, Dean's pretty sure. He bothered to salt the door and windows for some reason he can't quite figure out.
"Dean," Sam says, like he's not sure that's Dean's name. "Dean, what are you talking about? How are you-?"
"Don't do this. I promise I'm not fighting. I want you to do it. It'll be better. He didn't want me to." He feels his throat closing up and shakes his head. "But don't do it like this."
"Do what? Dean what's going on?"
"You're not him. You're not real. This isn't real."
Sam leans closer, his eyes scanning over Dean's face. "How old are you?"
Dean laughs, taken off guard by the absurdity of the question. "71. 31. Four and a half. Pick a number."
Sam shakes his head. "This isn't possible."
"Anything is possible these days," Dean mumbles. "I hear some idiot jumped through the world last week. Fell right into lava. I tried to tell him he wouldn't like the weather, but the little fucker never listened."
"You're drunk," Sam says.
Dean nods absently. This hallucination isn't quite as sharp as Sam was, but then Dean probably can't be picky right now.
"Dean, what is going on? How are you drunk and over 30 and trying to kill yourself right now? You just stepped out to get some-"
"So many questions," Dean replies. "So damn curious for a figment of my imagination."
"I'm not a-" Sam grabs Dean again, and Dean sways forward as he tugs. "Dean, I'm real, can't you feel me? Come on, pull yourself together. We have to figure out what happened."
"I know what happened. You-" He doesn't say it, lets his mouth hang open instead.
Dean blinks a few times as Sam lets go of him. It takes a few seconds to regain focus, but once he does, he finally sees Sam close enough to realize what about him was off.
He's a kid. Not a kid, exactly. But he's not the man that jumped into that hole. He's not broad-shouldered and strong and too grown up and miserable and leaving. He's sitting right next to Dean like he's got no intention of going anywhere.
Dean recognizes him as soon as he looks close enough. He's Sam the night Dean kissed him for the first time. He remembers fisting his hands in this threadbare mustard colored t-shirt and getting his fingers caught in the knots of Sam's hair and that Sam looked at him exactly like this, like he was a fucking superhero, so it was impossible not to kiss him. He just doesn't know if this is Sam the moment before Dean leaned in and fucked him up for life or Sam the moment after.
Either way, it's not hard to understand why his brain would pick this Sam to imagine. He's so alive-maybe he's not happy, but he has no idea just how bad things are going to get. He has a whole miserable decade of life ahead of him before Dean pushes him off the edge of the world. He hasn't lost everyone; he never tasted blood and had to feel guilty about it; he hasn't even ditched Dean for school yet.
"Sammy." Dean sobs it. He would deny it if there were anyone left to deny it to, but there isn't. The whole world is empty except for Dean and his guilty conscience. "Sam. Sam."
"It's okay," Sam says, as if Dean needs to see that he's lying to know just how okay it isn't. "Dean, it's okay. Whatever happened, it's going to be okay. I'm here. I've got you."
Dean wants to tear his hair out, scream until his throat bleeds, bang his head on something so hard he never has to think again. But he can't summon the strength, so when Sam takes both of his hands and pulls him up, Dean follows his delusion, unable not to.
"You need to get some rest," Sam is saying as he fusses with the covers on one of the beds. "You need to sleep so you can wake up tomorrow and be of some use to me."
Dean shakes his head, trying to protest. He can't go to bed; he was just about to do something important when Sam showed up. Of course, Sam never stops to think that Dean has plans of his own.
"Shh, Dean," he whispers, and Dean remembers this tone from when he had to put their father to bed after a long night of drinking. He shudders, turning over in bed, his back to Sam. He doesn't want Sam to think of him like that, not even a pretend Sam.
Sam sits on the bed just next to Dean, and when Dean finally gives up, unable to resist the urge to see him, even if he's not really there, he turns to find that Sam is staring at him. Still sitting right there, just watching him like he's fascinating instead of just another drunk loser he has to put up with.
"What?" Dean asks. "What are you looking at?"
"You're so beautiful now." Sam shakes his head sadly, reaching out to brush his fingers along Dean's jaw. Dean closes his eyes and leans into the touch, because it feels real and that's as good as it gets. "You look like shit."
Dean huffs out a laugh, still holding Sam's palm against his cheek. "Well, which one is it?"
Sam doesn't hesitate. "Both."
Dean falls asleep thinking he's finally catching a break. A good dream instead of a nightmare. It doesn't sound like much, but it feels better than Heaven could ever hope to, so maybe Dean chose a good day not to pull the trigger.
_______________________________________________________________
Dean wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache and a broken heart. Nothing new there. What is new is the hand on his forehead, soothing his hair back.
"Drink this," says his brother's voice at his side.
Dean blinks his eyes open slowly, letting the horror of the situation sink in. He can see Sam there, still fresh-eyed and scrawny with his too-long hair and his baby face, holding up a cup of water expectantly. It wasn't a dream or an impressively vivid drunken stupor. This is really happening.
"You don't hate me this much," Dean says.
Sam's face scrunches up in that stupid way he has when he's confused, and it looks so ridiculous Dean nearly wants to laugh. Pull the kid in and give him a noogie. He'd forgotten it looked even more unattractive when Sam was a teenager than it did when he was a full-grown idiot.
"Are you still drunk?"
Dean sits up, shaking his head. "Look, I get it. I'm a bastard. I kill things all the time, usually without pausing to question it. I'm not even sorry. I don't know who you are or what I did to you, but I'm sure I deserve to die." Dean can feel his voice begin to slip away from him and he grasps out for it, desperate just to get his plea across before he falls apart. "But whatever I did, I don't deserve this. However much you hate me, you don't understand, this is more than that. No one hates anyone this much."
Sam shakes his head. "Dean?"
Dean gets a sob caught in his throat. He'll beg. He'll cry. There's no reason to be proud and no one left to try and hold himself together for. He'll be as pathetic as this thing wants him to be if it'll convince the creature not to wear his baby brother as he does this. "Please, not him. Someone else, not Sammy."
Sam frowns, sitting for a few thoughtful moments. He reaches out, and Dean thinks he's a dead man, but he keeps going past Dean's face and slides his hands under Dean's pillow. He pulls out two of the weapons Dean keeps stashed: a flask of holy water and a silver knife, takes a shot from the first and then slices a thin line onto his hand with the other.
Nothing happens in reaction to either except a contrite look on Sam's face.
"I'm me, Dean," Sam says, holding the two objects out. "Now you."
Dean accepts them, completely at a loss. Apparently this is a hallucination, and it seems a little silly that Dean's imagination is asking him to test his own humanity. But Sam is watching him. Dean doesn't want to risk disappointing him and making him retreat back into Dean's memories where he technically belongs.
Dean passes the tests. Sam takes the flask and knife when Dean is done with them and sets them aside. "Okay. Now that we have that settled, quit creeping me out. Get dressed. We have a lot to figure out here, and we're gonna need breakfast."
Dean is too overwhelmed to question it.
_______________________________________________________________
Rule Number One of being crazy: you don't talk to your delusions. Dean doesn't have a book on this or anything, but he's pretty sure he could write one by now.
It encourages them. Dean's known this since he was a kid. He grew up watching his dad and Bobby and Pastor Jim. He's heard a million one-sided conversations, the names of wives that only get whispered after too many shots of whiskey, the controlled but just-as-harrowing way Jim Murphy used to pray for God to forgive his mother for the things that demon did with her body.
If you talk to them, hallucinations won't leave. They won't ever leave. Dean tried to use this to his advantage once upon a time. There's no counting how many conversations he attempted to start when Sam was at Stanford, hoping he'd hear his brother respond and see him sitting in the passenger's seat. The only answer he ever got was the radio blasting music much louder than he would have been able to if the person he was trying to imagine were really there. He'd been too sane for it back then. Just barely, probably.
Now, though, not so much. Now he's got an impressively vivid little figment sitting in Sam's spot, rambling on about research and asking Dean questions about what he remembers and so on.
He ignores it. Doesn't look, doesn't speak. He can't encourage this one. If he talks to Sam, if Sam starts hanging around and Dean's brain keeps making him as convincing as he is right now, Dean will really start to believe it. He'll pull himself together-for Sammy's sake. He'll stay alive.
And as great as that will be, Dean knows even lunatics have their moments of clarity. There will be days and days that Dean will go through contentedly, pretending his little brother is 16 and healthy and nothing is coming for him. But every now and then he'll remember through the fog where Sam really is and what's being done to him, and he will feel exactly like he does now.
He's not risking it.
"Seriously?" Sam snaps after half an hour driving. "Are you actually giving me the silent treatment? You're 30 years old, Dean. Grow up already!"
Dean turns his head to gaze out of the window. This is how it always starts with Sam. First he plays along, acts like he hasn't noticed and it's not bothering him. That was the last thirty minutes. Now he's getting angry and pissy-that's okay. Dean is good at ignoring this part. It's the next step that's going to take all his strength to ignore, the part where Sam's voice stops being bitchy and starts being weak and scared and sad, when he starts begging for Dean's attention. One thing Dean can say for his brother, he knows how to play dirty and there's no reason to think Dean's hallucination won't be just as good at it.
He sees a diner advertising all-day breakfast. It's past noon, but Sam had said he wanted breakfast. Not that Dean is going to do anything for him, because this isn't Sam, Sam is dead.
But somehow he ends up pulling into the parking lot anyway.
"We're not going to get this problem solved if you don't talk to me," Sam says, all teenage angst and still making good sense under it. Dean always hated that he could do that. It's easy to look right past him as he parks the car.
"I don't even know why you're mad at me." Sam's voice is quieter this time, still trying to sound strong and angry but with a soft undercurrent of hurt.
Ignore it, Dean tells himself. Ignore it, ignore it.
He gets out of the car and slams the door, hearing Sam rush to follow behind. He's sure Sam's making one of those sour lemon faces at the back of his head, nostrils flaring wildly in the wind. Only no he isn't, because Sam doesn't exist anymore when Dean isn't looking at him.
The sign at the door says "Seat Yourself," so Dean stumbles his hungover ass into the nearest booth, collapsing into the cushiony red seats and pretending not to see when Sam does the same across from him.
"Can I get you anything to start? A drink?"
The waitress is an older lady with her curly gray hair pulled up into a messy bun. She looks supremely bored, so Dean doesn't bother trying too hard to be charming.
"I'd love a cup of your strongest coffee," Dean says, cradling his head just to get his point across.
The woman looks slightly more amused, nodding sympathetically.
"Can I have coffee, too?" Sam asks, looking up at Dean hopefully.
"How about just an orange juice?" The waitress says kindly, angling her body a little more in Sam's direction. "You're a little young to be picking up habits from your uncle here."
Dean's head snaps up, and he stares from her to Sam and back again. "You can see him?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Well, he's sitting right there, isn’t he?"
Dean looks at Sam, who is making another one of those faces. Oh god, and he's really there, really making that face.
"So, coffee?" Sam reminds him.
Dean swallows hard and looks up at the waitress. "Give him anything he wants."
_______________________________________________________________
"Where am I, anyway?" Sam asks.
They've done all the talking about Dean and Dean's memories of how he ended up where he was that he thinks he can stomach. By the time they finish breakfast, Dean's told so many lies and omitted so many truths, he knows he isn't helping Sam figure out what happened at all.
He doesn't want to. He wants to keep his little brother. Screw whatever version of him is having a panic attack over Sam's absence in some other universe.
So he takes Sam out and wanders around whatever town they've ended up in for a bit. They walk until they find a park and Dean tries to keep his brother focused on every insignificant thing that isn't finding a way to "set things right," as Sam keeps calling it. What it boils down to is Sam leaving. Again.
Sam's got an ice cream cone held tight in one hand, the pink melting down over his fingers, and if he thinks he's getting into Dean's car with that thing, he's fucking crazy.
Dean raises an eyebrow and lets out a laugh that's almost a quack. "Right there," he replies, pointing to Sam. "I remembered you being smarter than this, kiddo."
"Don't call me that," says Sam in a bitchy tone that makes Dean take a step toward him, about to grab his brother into a headlock and mess up his hair. Sam braces himself as if he's anticipating it-maybe even hoping for it, and it's that hope that makes Dean rethink it. He drops onto the bench next to his brother instead, leaving plenty of room between them.
No touching Sam. Not this young. Not this innocent. Not even if he looks at Dean with dark eyes and makes Dean not want to die for the first time in weeks and would taste like Sam if Dean took his sweat on his tongue or-no. None of that. Those thoughts need to stop.
Sam watches Dean out of the side of his eyes, licking suggestively at the strawberry dripping down the cone, and then he laughs. "You never change, do you?"
Not like you, Sammy. Dean knows he'll see a hundred different Sams before this one turns into the Sam who jumps into that pit. His Sam. They'll all be so different but so similar at the same time; they'll all be much more complicated than Dean or Dean's ability to really understand them. Even now. 16 years old. Who told this kid he was allowed to see so much and look so smug about it?
"Finish your dessert," Dean mumbles.
"Just keep wanting. I thought by 30 you'd have learned how to take."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he lies, and then he snatches the cone from his brother's grip and takes a big bite out of it. Sam's eyes are locked on his mouth when he hands it back, so Dean turns his head away, wiping his lips on the sleeve of his jacket.
"I meant, where am I in this world? Time. Whatever this is. If you're here and you've lived so much longer than my Dean, why am I not with you?"
Dean's throat tightens. "California."
Sam's eyebrows draw in but he doesn't say anything, just waits for Dean to continue. Dammit, here goes another lie. Here's hoping Dean can keep them all straight.
"You're a lawyer. You went to school there and you met a girl, so you stayed and married her. You've got a nice house and a lawn and kids. You're happy. Normal."
Instead of the joy Dean is bracing himself for, Sam just looks more confused. Not unhappy exactly, but confused. "No, I'm not," he says, almost laughing. Like it's a joke. "I wouldn't leave you."
Little bastard. In a year he'll be filling out applications while Dean isn’t looking. In two he'll be whispering the word Stanford against Dean's bare chest and expecting Dean to be proud instead of miserable. In three, Dean will be sleeping in a motel room with two beds and no one to care if he's bleeding to death in a ditch.
In ten years, Sam will be dead and Dean will want to be dead, and some goddamn 16-year-old with his little brother's face will look him in the eye and say, without a drop of irony, that he would never leave.
When does it change? What fatal mistake does Dean make along the way? This is a second chance. If he can figure it out, he can fix everything.
Except he knows what it is, and he can't stop it. He kisses Sam. He kisses Sam and everything goes wrong because of it, and still, Dean knows there's no universe in which he does not or will not do it. Even now, knowing what it leads to. He's almost twice this Sam's age. Dean was perverted enough the first time-whose sick idea was it to give him a second chance? All he can do is worse.
Maybe he should help Sam figure out how to get back after all. Let the 20-year-old version of him ruin Sam, before he gets a chance to do it himself.
"Yeah well," Dean mutters, standing up and keeping his back to his brother. "Finish that thing and wipe off. We have work to do."
Sam shrugs, chucks the rest of the cone into the garbage can next to him, and stands up.
They get a little work done over the rest of the day. What research they can on their own, Dean doesn't want to bother Bobby with this until he's got more details. Right now all he has is a steaming pile of crazy, and Bobby would assume exactly what Dean did when Sam first showed up, that Dean's gone batshit and needs to be supervised.
Probably, Dean needs to be supervised for entirely different reasons, but it's that same dirty part of him that makes him want to keep Sammy to himself just a little while longer.
They find a motel around 8 o'clock, when the sun has gone down and there's no real hope of getting anywhere with a library that will be both useful and open. Dean pulls into the first motel off the highway and they watch the television on low for a few hours.
Dean waits for Sam to fall asleep to get the bourbon out, which is why it's really fucking surprising to him when he feels his bed dip under someone else's weight and his little brother's long fingers curling around the edges of his face.
Lips on his.
Dean is starting to get somewhere near drunk, but he is not that drunk. He shoves Sam back. "What the fuck?"
Sam laughs, a playful little boy without any of the innocence. "Don't act like this is new."
Dean shakes his head. "I never kissed you," he says in a stupid, drunken rush. Not yet, he's sure of it. From the way Sam's been acting all day-Dean remembers when Sam was this age. There was Sam pulling out every trick to seduce him and then there was Sam, quiet and content, triumphant because he'd gotten Dean to give him what he wanted and knew he could have it forever. This was not confident Sam, this was desperate for attention. Dean's drunk, but he can still keep his Sams in order, thank you very much. "You don't kiss me."
"I wasn't planning to," Sam says, pulling back to sit on his knees next to Dean. "Not until I found out I die without ever getting this."
Dean knows the face he makes is too stunned to make his words convincing. "You're not dead, you're in-"
"California?" Sam asks flatly. "Dean, I'm 16. Not five, and not stupid. I know the difference between you grieving me leaving and you grieving me."
Dean's lips pull together tightly and he looks away. "Leave me alone, Sam."
"I don't get it," Sam says. "God, I thought you were going to break any day. Did I really spend my whole life waiting for you to kiss me?"
If only. "Go to bed."
"I'm in bed," he whispers, leaning in to press his mouth to the side of Dean's face. "Dean, look at me. I know you want me. It's okay. You shouldn't have to die without it just because I did."
Dean doesn't even see it coming when he snaps forward, grabbing Sam's arms and holding him still. "Stop saying that. Stop saying he's dead."
Sam doesn't flinch, doesn't bat an eye. He stares forward, resigned and mature, like no kid his age should ever be in the face of death. "But I am, though. Aren't I?"
Dean feels something stronger than bourbon race through his veins, making him suddenly more sober than he thinks he's ever been. The fight leaves him as quickly as it came, his hold on Sam becomes weak and his arms drop. He nods, trying to stop himself from crying. He hasn't said it out loud. "He's dead. My little brother is dead."
Sam's response is muted, completely unsurprised. Dean tried so hard to be convincing all day, to pull himself together and smile for Sam. He wasn't supposed to have to know this.
"How?" Sam asks. "How do I-?"
"Shouldn't tell you that," Dean answers, which of course means, I don't want to talk about it.
"Don't be cruel," Sam says quietly. "Don't be cruel. I shouldn't be here, but I am. I shouldn't know at all, but I do. At least tell me why I died-Jesus, I'm not even thirty yet."
God help him, he does. The words pour out of him like blood, thick and bubbling from his lips, tasting like death. He tells Sam almost everything, leaving out a few minor details about deaths and deals and Hell and demon blood. He tells Sam the part that matters: you saved the world, and, kid, I hate you for it.
Sam sits quietly through it all, listening and nodding every now and then, but not questioning. When Dean reaches the end of the story, Sam nods and lies down next to him, his head on Dean's chest and an arm slung around. Dean gathers him up in his arms the best he can and listens for what feels like hours as Sam cries.
Frightened little boy. Too grown up. Never getting to grow old. How could Dean tell him the truth?
Finally, Sam sits up, wiping at his eyes, and Dean watches him, waiting to see what he'll do next. What he'll need, as if there's any way he can make Sam feel better now.
"I want to go home," he says, looking up at the ceiling as if that's ever done anyone any good. "Please, I want to go home."
"Shh, Sammy," Dean whispers. He reaches out and brushes stubborn brown bangs away from his brother's face, because they're sticking to the wetness on Sam's cheek, and Dean can only imagine that's annoying. "I'll get you home, it's okay."
Sam shakes his head, pulling away from Dean's touch. "I don't want you. You scare me."
Dean yanks his hand back. He could have killed himself yesterday and never lived to hear that.
"I want my brother," Sam says petulantly. "I want my big brother. You're so unhappy, Dean. I don't want you to be him. I don't want any of this, I wanna go back."
"I'll get you back to him," says Dean. "I swear I'll get you back to him."
Sam looks down at Dean. He's not crying anymore. He somehow looks 80 years old under the weight of everything Dean's just told him. "Tell me we-" He stops, looking away like he's ashamed. "I know that's the wrong thing to ask now. But it's the only thing that will make it even kind of okay."
Dean will say anything to make him feel better right now. "Yeah, Sam. We do."
His head rises just enough for Dean to see him, and Dean reaches out for him, pulling him down. Sam lets him, until Dean has him close and safe. He presses his lips to Sam's forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, Sammy, you shouldn't have to know this."
Sam lifts himself onto his elbows. "Dean," he says, crawling up a bit to press a quick kiss to Dean's lips. Dean lets it happen, but he doesn't return it. "Dean, can you-?" He stops, licking his lips. "Make me forget. Please, just for a little while. Make me forget."
Dean knows what he's asking for. His dick, starting to harden and press up against Sam's, definitely knows what he's asking for.
"No," he says. "No way."
"Please." Sam sounds so sweet when he begs. He lost that at Stanford. Dean had forgotten about it. "Please, please. You're all I wanted and I don't wanna-Dean. Please."
Dean now. Dean at twenty. The demon who killed Jess. Dad. Yellow Eyes. That kid who cut through his spine. Ruby. Lilith. Lucifer. Lucifer. Lucifer. What does it matter who ruins it for him? Sam's not getting a house in California. Someone's going to screw him up.
Might as well be Dean. Might as well be now. Might as well make him feel good for a few godforsaken minutes-and that, that is something Dean can do, whether he should know how or not.
He swallows his brother's pleas. Sam is greedy, his hands snaking up Dean's shirt for skin, hips working up for pressure. Needy. Virgin. No, no. Don't think about that. Just make Sam feel good.
Dean pulls his shirt off over his head to make things easier for Sam, and Sam returns the favor, though Dean almost wishes he wouldn't. He's so skinny, so much bone to break and so little muscle to protect him. He looks nothing like Dean is used to, and it would be one thing if this Sam didn't turn Dean on, but he does, so Dean really shouldn't be looking at it.
"What are you staring at?" Sam asks.
Dean looks down at his hands, as if he needs to focus very hard on getting his jeans open. "You're scrawny. Did you know that?"
"Yeah." Sam laughs. "You tell me all the time."
Sam sits up, pulling Dean's pants down so Dean can focus his attention on Sam's.
"Do I fill out then?" he asks excitedly.
Oh, just a bit. "Nope," Dean replies. "And you don't get taller, either."
Sam hums disinterestedly, choosing to spend his energy elsewhere. In a few seconds he's pushed his jeans and boxers down past his thighs and has kicked them off the rest of the way. Dean tosses his own to the ground and lowers himself, kissing Sam again.
"Tell me what you want, Sammy," Dean murmurs in his brother's ear.
He feels a warm smile form against his neck. "Want you to teach me. Want you to make me feel good. I want you, Dean."
Just like last time, then. Dean chuckles as he rises from the bed to get lube and a condom, wondering if there should maybe be a limit on the amount of times a guy can take his brother's virginity.
Dean doesn't bother asking the questions he asked last time. He knows what Sam has and hasn't done, what will and will not surprise him. The night is seared into his memory.
One finger. Sam writhes prettily on the bed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he tries to hold the sounds in. Dean can do better than that. Two fingers. Sam cries out like he's happy-a sound Dean's brother should not know how to make, but which he could listen to for the rest of his life. The whole thing is like watching a replay, but it's not like this could ever get old.
Dean slides into him once he's ready. Sam is already a mess under him, and Dean doesn't make the mistake of touching him, even as Sam is begging him for it. Kid's gonna come as soon as his dick gets the slightest relief, and Dean doesn't intend for that to happen until he's made Sam feel a whole world better than this.
"Dean," he gasps, rolling his hips up onto Dean's cock. "Jesus, what is that? Keep-keep."
"I know, Sammy," Dean says, smiling as he kisses his brother. "Know you like that."
It's not all for Sam after all; he can make Sam feel good, and that's all he's wanted since he lost his little brother in the worst way imaginable. Dean has every nerve ending in his brother's body mapped: the way to twist his hand on Sam's cock, the flick on his nipple that always pulls out the same moan, the cut where those slender hips meet his ass and the way Sam loves a good, bruising grip there. Dean didn't know those things the last time he took Sam's virginity, but then Sam didn't need to be distracted as much back then.
He leaves Sam fidgeting under him, moaning and muttering obscenities as he fucks down into him just right. There's a bottle of bourbon still waiting on the nightstand, and Dean reaches out, taking a hit straight from it. Sam laughs under him, moving up and kissing all over Dean's shoulder as he reaches out to settle it back down.
He swallows, then smiles down at his brother. "Wanna taste?"
Sam nods. Dean crushes down, pressing his mouth to Sam's without any delicateness. Sam licks away the taste of the whiskey, and Dean just hopes the alcohol will help Sam more than it helped him.
He holds Sam down after that, because he knows his brother will try to jerk himself off if he doesn't. He's a stubborn sonofabitch. But Sam finds other ways to take some control, wrapping his long, long legs around Dean and using all that strength to thrust himself up onto Dean's dick. He's good, but he's not as strong as Dean's brother, and he's not pulling the dirty tricks Sam would to bring Dean off.
He grabs Sam and strokes his cock, and when Sam moans out his orgasm, Dean closes his eyes and thinks of big, big shoulders and someone fighting back under him and the tender words Sam used to whisper into Dean's ear sometimes when he came, the words Dean always pretended not to hear. It's wrong-so wrong, he knows. This is Sam's first time and Dean is thinking of someone else, in a way. But he sounds just like Dean's brother did the night before the devil stole him.
And maybe-probably-Sam is thinking of his Dean, too.
He comes with that cry in his ears and the image of his Sam in his mind. Sam is already panting through his aftershocks, thrusting idly for the pleasure but with no real intent. Dean pulls out of him, pressing a kiss to his brother's sweaty hairline.
"I'll get you a towel," he says.
He comes back to find Sam sitting up, looking subdued but not unhappy. Not like before. Dean counts it as a win because he'll hate himself even more if he admits it was nothing but selfishness that pushed him into Sam.
He wipes Sam off and Sam thanks him, looking up at Dean with quiet affection. "I really do love you, you know," he says. "Every version of you."
Dean smiles even though it hurts and tries to keep his voice playful. "You don't outgrow that, either."
_______________________________________________________________
He wakes up the next morning with his little brother in his arms, smiling in his sleep. It makes Dean feel good, like he did something right, though he knows that's almost definitely not the right answer.
He thinks maybe this really is a second chance. Maybe Sam's not down in Hell anymore-he got spit out or God finally learned to pay attention. Maybe he brought him back at this age so Sam wouldn't remember all the things that went wrong. A clean slate. Dean has him here now, Sam before the shit hit the fan. He can fix everything. Dean can take care of him a few more years, and then Sam can go to school for real. Dean won't ever touch him again. He can meet a girl like Jess, but there won't be any Yellow Eyes to ruin it. No Apocalypse. No angels. Sam is free to be happy and normal. And safe. Most importantly, safe. Dean was never particularly good at keep Sam safe, but no one can say he hasn't tried. This time-maybe.
Yeah, and maybe Dean's been having an elaborate nightmare since he was four years old and he'll wake up tomorrow with a mom and dad and a brand new little brother to play with. As if life ever works out that way for him.
It was a nice thirty seconds, though.
"Hey, wake up." Dean shakes Sam, and Sam blinks his eyes open grumpily. "We gotta figure out how to get you home."
"I hate you," Sam mutters, turning his head into his pillow.
Dean laughs. "All the more reason to crack this case, huh?"
Sam sighs and sits up, rubbing at his eyes. "You know I don't hate you, right?"
"Please, no more girl talk."
Sam nods and his expression dims. "I do want to go home, though."
Dean was expecting no less. If Dean thought he could get his brother back, he'd be just as eager to say goodbye. Problem is, in Dean's time, it's already too late for that.
They spread the books and photocopies they'd gathered the day before and dive back into them. It's completely quiet for a couple of hours, until suddenly Sam moves quickly, grabbing for the knife they've left resting in the middle of the table, and Dean jerks, looking around.
"Who the fuck are you?" Sam asks.
"I'm not usually a fan of chocolate," the horseman answers. "But the bakery down the street makes some truly commendable fudge." He holds the package out toward Sam and Dean. "Would you care to try it?"
"Death," Dean says wearily. "What are you doing here?"
"Mmm," Death says, holding a hand up to signal that he'll answer when he finishes chewing. Once he's swallowed, he looks from Dean to Sam and then back to Dean with a meaningful look. "Interestingly, I came to ask you the same question."
"I…" Dean tilts his head. "We're trying to figure out how to get Sam to-"
"Ah, yes. I am, you'll be surprised to find, not actually that dull." He smiles, and Dean shivers. "I mean what is your dear little brother doing here in the first place? I've had some clever humans-by their standards of course, not mine-try to claim their loved ones from me before, but I have to say, you're the first to not even bother asking for permission. Now, I know those angels puffed up your ego quite considerably, but I thought I made our deal perfectly clear."
Sam looks over at Dean, his mouth hanging open, and Dean shakes his head, motioning for him to stay quiet.
"I did this?" he asks. "How did I do this?"
Death sighs wearily. "It's even more annoying when you do it by accident."
"Tell us how to fix it, then."
Death points to one of the two empty chairs across from Sam and Dean. "May I?"
"Definitely," Sam says. "I'd love to hear where this is going."
Death nods at him. "You look different. Have you done something with your hair? I can't say I like it."
"He's about ten years younger."
Death stares at Sam for a few seconds, blinks, then shrugs. "Interesting how that makes a difference for you." He folds his hands together on the table. "Now then, enough of that small talk. You've caused an inconvenient situation for me. Hell is rather upset, and the last thing I want is their attention on me again."
"You're telling me this is really Sam and he's really out?"
"In a manner of speaking," Death replies.
"Okay, but what does that mean?" Sam asks, temper flaring. Dean wishes he'd had a little prior notice, a chance to explain who and what this is and just how much pissing him off is not a good idea. Then again, at Sam's age, who listens?
"Sam is in Hell as scheduled, but also not. Do you see now?"
"Not at all." Dean smiles. "Humans, remember? Gonna have to spell it out for us."
"Well, you've saved some of Sam. Enough for Lucifer to realize it's missing, but not nearly enough to stop him from having plenty of your brother to lash out against."
Dean shakes his head. "No. What?"
"Souls," Death says, sitting forward, "are so much more complicated than your minuscule mind can begin to comprehend, but I should think you had a slightly better understanding of that by now, considering your history."
Dean worries Sam might ask what he means, and then Dean will have to tell him all the things he so deliberately left out the day before. But Sam is enraptured, and they both stare at Death, waiting for him to continue.
"Your soul and your brother's have a connection that is, I confess, despite how boring I find your species to be, rather fascinating. Of course it gets complicated by the deals and all that nonsense, but at the end of the day, your brother has had a good chunk of you down in Hell. I'm sure you've noticed it missing."
Dean nods.
Death laughs calmly. "And did you think that was unique to you?"
He stares ahead, not quite sure he understands the question. Death looks amused as he shakes his head. "I can see you did."
"Okay, so-so, this isn't Sam when he was 16, it's just-"
"Oh, it is him. It's the piece of Sam's soul inside of you. I'm guessing you were trying to do something stupid your brother would not have approved of-"
"Kill himself," Sam mutters.
Death extends a hand toward Sam. "Like that, for example. And the piece of Sam's soul that was with you reached out to the rest of itself to stop you. Apparently it was easier to yank the rest of him from that past than from Hell, but the point of the matter is that Lucifer would like his toy back."
"You gotta-"
Death raises an eyebrow.
"I mean, look, you don't have to do anything. But he helped you. He got you off the Devil's leash. You can't leave him down there." He points to his brother. "You can't toss him back in. He's a kid for crying out loud."
Death sits quietly for the longest minute of Dean's life, and then he stands up. "Ignoring the part where you presumed to tell me what I can or cannot do, I don't owe your brother anything for releasing me from a situation I was only in because of his own mistakes."
Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Death holds up a hand to silence him. "That said, I never would have found that fudge if it weren't for this mess, so I'm feeling generous. The way I see it, things cannot be left how they are. It's simply too much chaos. Not the way things are done. I don't like it. Either all of your brother must be up here or all of him must be down there. Now I don't really care which it is, but I suspect you have an opinion about this."
"I want him up-"
"Yes, I know. I think we all know. Everyone in Heaven or Hell is rather tired of hearing about it."
"So are you gonna save him?"
"I'll do the part you need me for. I'll bring him up here. Of course, this," he gestures to Sam, "will be no less of a problem once he's back. It might even be more of one. You humans are all hard enough to tell apart as it is, I can't imagine how you'll do it with two of him."
"You can't send him back?"
Death turns sharply. "Of course I can. Shall I pick up your dry cleaning when I'm finished?"
"I just meant-"
"The process is simple enough, you just need to find a way to reunite the parts of Sam that I bring back with the chunk of his soul that brought this one here. That should repel him back into his own time and leave you one complete Sam to deal with." Death frowns, almost even looks like he feels sorry. "He will not be a very stable complete Sam, you understand. Not after what's been done to him."
"Whatever. Fine. How do we reunite them if it's so easy?"
"You work on figuring that out. I'll go save your brother."
"Fair enough," Sam says.
Dean nods and Death disappears in the blink of an eye. "Back to the books, then?"
Sam's eyes widen, and he gestures for Dean to turn around.
Standing behind him are Death and Sam. His Sam. Sam is staring at him with big wet eyes. He's bruised and bloody and looks hysterical, but he's Sam.
Death snaps his fingers and suddenly Sam stands up straighter. He's clean and healed, but he still looks dazed and terrified. "That should help a little. His mental state will not be much to speak of, but from what I could tell, it never was."
"Thanks," Sam says beside him.
Death claps his hands together. "Well, then. Have you figured out the ritual for reconnecting the souls yet?"
Dean blinks. "You were gone for like a second," he says.
"Ah, yes. Mortal time." Death nods and then smiles around the room. "Well, that's all the enthusiasm I can muster for your petty problems. Do feel free to finish the fudge."
He vanishes and Dean rushes to Sam, grabbing him into his arms. "Goddammit!"
Sam hugs him back. "It's okay, Dean," he murmurs. "It's okay."
Dean pulls away to get a look at him. His Sam. His Sammy. "You look like shit."
Sam smiles weakly."I feel worse, I promise."
"He said-he said a piece of your soul was missing."
"Yeah," Sam says, exhaling slowly. "Yeah, I can feel that."
"He didn't say how to fix it. Fuck, I don't know where to even-"
Sam laughs, waving his hand at the chair across the room where Dean and the younger Sam had stacked the books they thought might be helpful the night before. "Grab the fourth one off the pile and open it to page…" Sam rubs at his temple, making a pained face. "Shit, what page was it? 83? 84?"
Dean opens to page 83, then flips it. "Holy shit," he says.
Staring up at him is exactly the ritual they need.
"How'd you know, Sammy?"
Sam smiles out of one side of his mouth. "I remember me telling you," he gestures at his teenage self, "from when I was him."
"You…remember…" Dean slams the book shut. "Are you trying to say you knew all of this was gonna happen? You let me think you were-"
"Shh, Dean," Sam says. He reaches out for Dean's wrist to take the book and reopen it, and when Dean feels how weak his grip is, he remembers Sam's soul is still torn right now. He'll kick his ass after they fix that. "I didn't before I jumped into the hole. I do now."
Dean waves his hands in the air. "That doesn't make any sense."
"It's hard to explain. I remember everything, our whole lives, two ways. The way I know it happened and the way it must have actually happened. Like, I don't know. Like my past actually changed while I was in the cage. I swear, I didn't know before I jumped. But now I remember growing up knowing a lot of things you-you told me."
Dean frowns. He should have kept his mouth shut and his hands to himself, but Sam just rolls his eyes. "Look, there's nothing to feel guilty about. You were in a bad place."
"Now you're going to be-"
"No worse off than I was going to be otherwise, I assure you." He turns to the other Sam. "Alright, kid. You ready to go back in time?"
Sam slides right out of his chair and onto his feet. "God, yes."
"You have to read the ritual out," Sam says, turning to Dean. "The words are going to intimidate you but don't worry. I promise you do it right."
Dean shrugs and opens the book. Latin. Of course. His favorite. He reads out the chant seven times as instructed and Sammy begins to glow slightly, a faint gold under his skin. Dean closes the book now that he's finished and watches his brother-both of him-as they approach each other. Theoretically, Sam's soul should latch back onto the missing piece as soon as they touch and the extra one should disappear.
Sam pauses before he makes contact though, turning to Dean. He walks to him slowly putting a glowing hand around the back of Dean's neck. "You lied about me not getting taller," he says.
Dean gets about one second to look sheepish before his brother kisses him. He pulls back then and Dean sees his Sam watching them with a warm smile on his face. He holds his hand out. The other Sam only hesitates a moment longer.
"I can’t wait to see you again," he says, smiling at Dean. "Goodbye for now."
Dean raises a hand and waves and then he's temporarily blinded by the bright flash of light as his two Sam's collide. When the light dies away, Sam is there, standing straight and tall and whole.