Agh, SPN owns my soul.
For serious. I think Supernatural is going to kill me, because I have about a million bunnies and a million old things to update and aggh. Sam and Dean will be the death of me, and then darkenedsakura will laugh her head off.
Guh.
Please. I need some feedback, because I've been working on this one for a while and I have twelve pages...and it's only part one. So I need to know if it's worth considering, mmkay? Mmkay. And also, can I re-iterate how much I hate using LJ with a proxy server? I SUCK at HTML and it takes forever and I just want to be able to use enriched text again, sobbb.
Title: tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Rating: PG-14ish.
Disclaimer: It's not my sandbox. One of these days, Kripke...one of these days! *shakes fist*
Warnings: None.
Pairing: None, gen.
Spoilers: General season two, but not past 2x19 Folsom Prison Blues...at least for the moment.
Summary: Dean and Sam get a couple of blasts from the past when a hoodoo spell goes haywire.[Wee!Chester fic, slightly cracky]
A/N: Can anything really be called crack in the SPN universe? Seriously--pretty much anything seems to go, and I love to take full advantage of that. Heh heh heh. This particular little story came out of nowhere and I love it. I'm already working on part two. Feedback is greatly appreciated!
Part One
It was so humid Dean thought he might actually drown in his own sweat.
Seriously, there was no place on earth more miserable than mid-July in deep-south Louisiana, especially when there was no air conditioning, and especially when you had to share a bed with your geeky little brother, who had absolutely no concept of personal space, with his damn bony legs and equally bony arms thrown all over the place.
Dad said go to sleep, Dean reminded himself, turning over onto his stomach and trying to edge as far away from Sam as it was possible to go without falling off the rickety cot of a bed. Dad said go to sleep and he’ll be back in the morning and then everything will be fine.
This was a familiar mantra, one he’d often found himself repeating over and over in other uncomfortably tiny beds, in other decrepit, rented houses (but usually on slightly cooler nights). Just like always, the mantra had no effect whatsoever, and eventually, it drove Dean to his feet, away from Sammy and to the chair he’d shoved by the grimy excuse for a window.
He’d wait until he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala, Dad’s heavy footsteps on the creaky stairs, the bang of the screen door, and then maybe he’d be able to rest. Dean always got nervous like this when Dad went off and left them alone. It made him worry about Dad and even worry about Sammy, because if something happened to them while Dad wasn’t here, Dean wasn’t sure he’d be able to protect them properly. Illogical, seeing as how Dean was more than capable when it came to self-defense of any kind, but he was a worrier by nature, a dweller. He needed absolute reassurance that Sam was safe, that Dad was safe, before the pessimist in him quit its ceaseless yapping, the part of him that Dad-and only Dad-was capable of shutting up.
Perched on the splintery chair, Dean peered out into the darkness of the sweltering summer’s night, listening to the cicadas and mosquitoes hum in a comforting sort of harmony, the strangest of lullabies. The shack was surrounded by huge oaks, dripping in Spanish moss, and in the dark they loomed eerily; if Dean had been a normal kid, it probably would have been enough to rattle his nerves a little. As it was, Dean barely noticed the scenery, eyes fixed on the bumpy dirt road, waiting for familiar headlights. Dad had to have been gone five, maybe six hours now…surely it would only be a matter of moments before he was back…
“Dean?”
He started a little, turning to face his worried little brother, who had sat up sleepily in the bed and was rubbing the back of a hand across his eyes wearily.
”Go to sleep, Sammy,” Dean directed, taking a slow, deep breath to steady his rapidly beating heart. “I’m right here.”
“You don’t have to wait for him, you know,” Sam pointed out after a moment, sighing a little. “He always comes home.”
“I know.”
“It’s really late.” Sam sounded about as sanctimonious as a half-asleep ten-year-old possibly could. “Dad said go to sleep.”
“I tried that,” Dean snapped. “I’m just not tired.”
“Are too.” Sam yawned widely. “Dad’s gonna be home soon anyways, Dean.”
“Well, then I guess I’ll be in bed soon.” Dean yawned, subconsciously copying Sam, and stretched a little. “Look, you’re right. It’s late. Go back to bed and don’t worry about it.”
“Well, if you’re not tired, then I guess I’m not either,” Sam announced, rolling off the bed and bounding over to prop himself up on the windowsill. “I’ll wait with you.”
“Sammy-”
“Not negotiable,” Sam deadpanned, scowling sternly, but after a moment or two his dimples flashed as he giggled despite himself. Dean had to grin at his brother’s near-perfect imitation of their father; lately, it seemed like Dad’s catch-phrase was either, ‘Not negotiable,’ or, ‘Dean, look after your brother.’ Dean, at any rate, heard and obeyed both of these commands several times a day.
“Fine then, you little brat,” Dean capitulated grudgingly, ruffling his brother’s hair affectionately. “But don’t tell Dad. He wouldn’t like you being up so late.”
“Duh.” Sam rolled his eyes as if this were the most obvious thing in the world before turning to rest his forehead against the glass. “It’s hot,” he announced after a moment or two. “Really, really hot.”
“No dip, Sherlock.”
“How come we don’t have a fan?”
“Because…” Dean squinted, thoughtful. Why didn’t they have one? “…because…real men don’t need fans.” Sam frowned.
“Why not?”
“What?”
“Why don’t real men need fans? Everybody gets sweaty, Dean.”
“Real men are tough enough to make it through a hot night without whining about getting a little sticky,” Dean declared.
“But I’m not a man,” Sam pointed out sensibly. “And neither are you.”
“I’m almost a man,” Dean corrected his brother importantly. “Dad says so. He let me drive the car on Monday, remember?”
“Only to park it,” Sam said, “and anyways, you ran over my Hot Wheels.”
“Maybe if you weren’t dumb enough to leave your stupid toy cars lying around I wouldn’t have squished it.”
“Maybe if you were a real man you would learn how to park a car without running over people’s stuff.”
“Maybe if you weren’t a pain the-”
”Dean.” Sam’s voice was small and scared when he cut his brother off mid-insult, and at first the only thing Dean could think to feel was annoyed, because this was so typical of the smart-ass little brat, thinking he could win by turning on the Puppy Dog Pout (the sad part was, he usually could).
“What?” Dean snapped.
“There’s somebody in the yard.”
“What?” His hand immediately went to the gun beside the chair, his other one to Sammy’s elbow as he yanked his little brother from the windowsill and down onto the floor. Dean quickly slid off the chair and onto the floor beside Sammy as he loaded the rifle, then poked his head up so he could peer out the window and get a better look.
Sam was right. Standing beneath the tree closest to the shack was the creepiest-looking woman Dean had ever seen in his life-and that was saying a lot. She was short and incredibly skinny, all protruding bones and huge, unblinking eyes. It was impossible to determine her age, because she looked neither old nor young, and her dark hair fell in thick, messy dreadlocks. Her eyes were narrowed, her bony fists clenched around something, and she was muttering, her mouth moving soundlessly as the wind whispering through the trees picked up considerably.
But none of that was what scared Dean. What scared him was that he had seen her before, just that afternoon, when he’d caved and taken Sammy for an ice cream in town. They’d been sitting side by side on an old wooden bench on the sidewalk outside the ice cream parlor when Dean had looked up and there the woman had been standing, her eyes fixed on them, the evilest smile in the history of the world playing across her lips. He’d blinked, and she’d been gone.
Now, Dean did lots and lots of blinking, but-aw hell-the woman wasn’t going anywhere.
“Who is that?” Sam raised his head a little, attempting to see over his brother’s shoulder.
“Stay down, Sam,” Dean directed, pushing the kid back down to the ground forcefully. “I…I think she’s…”
“She looks kinda like a witch.” Sam was back on his knees, the top of his scruffy head just barely visible as he peeked out the window. “See? She’s chanting something.”
“A witch?” This thought had oddly not occurred to Dean. “Hey-Dad’s hunting a witch! Some hoodoo priestess or whatever.”
“Well, maybe that’s her,” Sam suggested, edging a little closer to Dean in obvious nervousness. “Maybe if we go to sleep she’ll go away.”
“Dad must be coming,” Dean reassured his brother. “He’s probably waiting out in the trees somewhere. He’ll get her, Sammy, don’t worry.” Sam looked uncertain, and frankly, Dean didn’t feel all that confident himself. How were you supposed to waste a witch? She was still human; as far as Dean knew, all Dad was doing was burning her altar or something. What if she tried something and Dad didn’t show up in time and-
“Dean!” Sam’s voice rose higher, his hand clenched down on Dean’s arm. “She’s not there anymore!”
“Shit,” Dean hissed, scrambling to his feet, gun in his hands. “Shit-okay, Sam get in the bed.”
“Why?”
“Just do it! Pretend to be asleep, and pull the covers over your head.”
“But-”
“Now, Sammy!”
Sam practically flew back into the cot, burrowing under the covers and curling into a ball. Dean didn’t know if the witch disappearing was a good thing or a really, really bad thing, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He went to the door, peered out into the living room, and saw…nothing. Sighing in guarded relief, Dean shut the door, yanked the chair over and propped it up under the handle so that it couldn’t be opened, and turned to go back to his brother.
The witch was on him so fast he didn’t even see her.
“Dean!” Sam’s voice squeaked, as the witch’s bony fingers clawed into his shoulder. “Dean!”
“Sammy!” Dean hollered, fighting to get the witch off of him. “Get out of here, now!”
“Ah now,” the witch hissed in a hoarse rasp of a voice, her Creole accent thick, “stay still like a good li’l one, cher, t’will not be long…”
“Get off my brother!” Dean heard Sam yell, and the witch yelped as something hard hit her in the back of the head.
“Sam, go.” Dean took the opportunity to hit the witch in the face and scramble to his feet, panting, searching for the gun.
“Your father is a stupid man,” the witch spat, recovering with inhuman speed. She waved a claw-like hand at Sam, who was beating a path towards the window, and he froze in his tracks. Dean had already pulled the trigger of the gun when she murmured a few words under her breath, freezing the bullet in midair. Another few mumbled syllables, and Dean found himself pinned to the wall.
“Let my brother go,” Dean managed, surprised to find he could still speak. “You can take me.”
“Non, non!” The witch’s smile widened, exposing blackened teeth. “Dis is much more fun, cher.”
“What do you want?”
“For your father to let me be. He t’inks he’s got me trapped in de closet, foolish bastard. I found you, I already know his weakness.” Dean strained against the spell, grunting in pain as sharp, needle-like spasms ripped through his chest. “Now, now. Dis need not be painful.”
“What are you gonna do to us?” Sam spoke now, his voice small and scared.
“Make your father t’ink twice ‘fore he crosses swords wit’ de likes o’me again, cher,” the witch hissed.
And then, Dean was struggling some more and she was muttering some more and there was a flash of light and suddenly Dad’s voice screaming, another bang, someone chanting Latin, more light and-
And then it was just black, and everything went quiet.
-|-
Dean woke up to somebody elbowing him in the side.
“Cut it out, Sammy,” he muttered, trying to roll away from his brother. “Seriously, I’m really tired.”
“Dean!” Sam’s voice hissed. “You gotta get up, c’mon.” Dean was exhausted, and recently hitting puberty wasn’t doing anything for him either. Never in his life could he remember craving so much sleep all the time.
“Sam, I swear to-”
“Dean, I don’t know where we are.” Sam’s voice rose in panic, squeaking a little. “That witch took us somewhere. Somewhere away.”
“What?” Dean sat bolt upright, breathing hard. “The witch? I thought…”
“I thought it was a dream, too,” Sam said miserably, meeting Dean’s eyes. “But then I woke up and looked around and saw…” He paused. “Them.”
”Who?”
“The two scary guys,” Sam whispered, voice small and afraid. “They didn’t see us. They were arguing.”
Dean now took the time to get a better look around. He and Sam were curled up side by side on the floor of what looked like a motel, behind one of the beds. The room was dark and quiet, and when Dean got on his knees and stared around some more, he realized they were alone.
Which was kind of a relief.
“Okay, Sammy,” he said calmly, shifting into big brother mode, “here’s what we’re going to do. Let’s get up, wash up, and see if we can’t call dad. Then we’ll go wait for him to get us outside or something. Okay?” Sam nodded, eyes wide.
“What if the guys come back?” Sam asked uncertainly. “Do you think they’ll be mad?”
“I don’t know.” Dean paused. “What were they arguing about?”
“One of them swore a lot.” Sam made a face. “More than you, even.” Dean whacked him upside the head. “Ow!”
“Focus for me, Sam.”
“Okay, okay.” Sam scowled, folded his arms. “They were fighting about salting-and-burning some bones tonight or waiting and doing more research. One of them said he wasn’t totally sure it was even a haunting, but the other one said, no he was pretty damn sure because the EMF went off every time they got near the freaking place.”
“Don’t cuss,” Dean directed, more out of habit than anything, but his mind was working furiously, replaying the guys’ conversation. “Good,” he said after a moment. “They’re hunters. So we can explain to them if they catch us that we need help.”
“Why did we end up here?” Sam asked, standing and going to turn on the lights. “This doesn’t seem so bad, really.”
“Dad’s probably worried,” Dean said, getting up as well. “Maybe the witch thought if she got us far enough away, she’d give him a scare.”
“That seems stupid,” Sam observed, sitting down on one of the beds. “Why wouldn’t she just kill us or something?” Dean glared at his brother.
“Jesus, Sammy!”
“I’m just saying.” Sam shrugged. “I mean, we’re not dumb. We can get back to Dad easy-peezy, lemon-squeezy.” Dean burst out laughing.
“Dude, where did you pick up that lame-ass expression?”
“Greg says it all the time,” Sam said defensively, referring to his current pal back in Baton Rouge.
“Honestly, I thought I’d taught you better,” Dean chuckled, rolling his eyes as he crossed the room to tousle Sam’s hair. “Okay, kiddo. Go wash your face, use the toilet, whatever you need. I’ll call Dad.”
“’Kay,” Sam agreed, and wandered off into the bathroom, closing the door with a snap. Taking a couple deep breaths (because he was seriously more freaked out than he had any right to be), Dean sank down onto the other bed, and made a grab for the phone.
Gonna be okay, he told himself, trying not to panic. Just call Dad and he’ll come get us. He’ll make it okay. You can handle it until then. Trembling, Dean dialed the number of the phone they had for the shack, the one Dad had made them memorize backwards and forwards like he always did when they settled in a place for more than a week. It rang three times, and then someone picked up.
“Hello?” The woman on the other end sounded sleepy, annoyed.
“Um, sorry,” Dean said quickly, trying to decide whether to hang up or not. “This is kind of an emergency. I…I think I dialed the wrong number.” He waited for her to scream at him, but instead she said,
“Are you in some kinda trouble, sweetie?” She sounded more awake now. He could hear her fumbling with the phone, murmuring something, probably to her husband or boyfriend.
“Yeah,” Dean choked out, voice hitching a little. “My brother and me got lost. We’re trying to call my dad. I’m positive this is the number he told me to call if we got separated.”
“Tell me what the number is,” the woman said gently. “I’ll tell you if you dialed wrong.” It seemed kind of stupid to Dean for her to humor him, because obviously he had hit a number wrong in his haste to get to Dad, and seriously, he was just some strange kid who had woken her up in the middle of the night. Nonetheless, he appreciated her kindness.
”255-756-3762,” he told her, squeezing his eyes shut, praying she would tell him he’d changed a number around or something.
“I’m sorry,” she told him, “but that’s the number you called. Are you sure it’s right?”
“Yeah,” Dean managed. “Positive.”
”Listen, do you want me to call the police or something? I can have them go find you and look for your dad from there.”
“No, it’s okay,” Dean said. “I’ll try calling my uncle.”
”You do that,” she said. “Good luck, sweetie.”
“Thanks.” Dean’s throat felt dry. “Sorry for waking you up.”
“Not a problem,” the woman said warmly. “Good night.”
And then she hung up. Dean blinked, trying to remember the last time a stranger had been so nice to him, especially one he’d woken up late at night, and came up with a blank.
Shaking his head, he snapped himself out of it and tried to focus on the bigger issue: he had no way to get a hold of Dad. Okay, no biggie. He could call Caleb, Pastor Jim, maybe Bobby-Dad had made him and Sam memorize their numbers, too. Determined, he dialed the number for Pastor Jim’s church, but came up with a recording, and Caleb’s number was out of service, which was weird. Sam came out of the bathroom and sat beside him on the bed, looking worried when Dean shook his head and punched in Bobby’s number.
The phone rang and rang until finally a machine picked up.
“You’ve reached Bobby Singer,” the deep, familiar voice intoned. “Can’t come to the phone. If this is an emergency, call Ellen Harvelle, 098-470-8823. She’ll set ya up with someone else. Any other business, leave it at the tone.” There was a loud beep.
“Bobby, hi,” Dean said quickly. “It’s Dean Winchester. I…something happened to me and Sammy. It was a hoodoo witch, I think, and we’re…really kind of lost and I can’t reach Dad or Pastor Jim or Caleb or anybody. I’ll call back later, and if you could help that would be really…really great.” He paused. “Uh, bye.” As he hung up, Sam frowned over at him and asked,
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, Sammy,” Dean admitted, but grinned, trying to put on a brave front so as not to scare the younger boy. “Everyone’s probably just asleep.”
“What’re we gonna do?”
“Well, I’m thinking we could wait here for the guys who have this motel room,” Dean said. “I bet they could help us out. Maybe they know Dad.”
“I hope so.” Sam folded his arms and sank down onto the bed beside Dean. “Maybe we can sleep?” he asked.
“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, and stretched out widely. “You stay on your side,” he added, grin widening. “Don’t want any of your Sam-cooties on me.”
“Meanie,” Sam huffed, lying down next to Dean.
“Wow, that hurt,” Dean said sarcastically. “You can’t come up with anything better than that?” Sam thought for about half a second, then declared, more loudly,
“Butthead.”
“Dorkface.”
“Lizard breath.”
“Chicken shit.”
“You said a bad word!”
“Baby.”
“I am not a baby, you…you…”
“Meanie?”
“Deeean!” Sam whined, pouting mightily.
“Okay, okay,” Dean laughed, reaching a hand out to push Sam’s bangs out of his eyes. “Just go to sleep, Sammy. I’ll keep a lookout till those guys get back.”
“G’night,” Sam offered sleepily, turning on his side.
”You too.”
Sam was asleep within minutes, and Dean very suddenly realized how not tired he was. How familiar. He paced the room, considered watching TV and thought better of it, poked around but decided not to touch anything in the two large duffle bags sitting by either bed in case the hunters would get pissed if he looked through their stuff.
It was so damn annoying. Here he was, cursed somewhere, no way to call Dad, no answers, just him and Sammy and an empty motel room. He didn’t know what to fucking do, and that scared him. He was only just fourteen, and not nearly old enough to be on his own, without Dad here. What if there was no way to get back? What if he and Sam would be stuck here forever?
No. No, if it was the last thing Dean ever did, if he had to hitchhike his way across the country, he’d do it. He’d get them back to Dad.
It was at precisely that moment Dean heard voices outside, somebody laughing, footsteps headed their way. Mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure these guys would be on their side, and partly out of instinct as well, Dean dived to where Sam was sleeping, grabbed him, and pulled him onto the floor on the other side of the bed. Sam woke with a start and sleepily began to ask,
“Wha-?” but Dean covered his brother’s mouth, whispering,
“Be quiet. I’m gonna scope ‘em out and see if they’re okay like Dad always says to do.”
“Okay,” Sam agreed, just as the door banged open.
“-thing was fugly, man,” a loud voice announced.
“I know,” a second voice said dryly. “You don’t have to keep repeating it every five seconds.” A pause. “Hey, didn’t we leave the lights off?”
“Dunno,” said the first voice, “and don’t care.”
“Whatever. I call dibs on first shower.”
“Too bad, ‘cause I’m taking it anyways, dibs or no,” the first voice said bossily.
“What! No fair!”
“Way fair. I’m older. I deserve it more.”
“You suck, you know. Like, a lot.”
“Aww, poor little-” There was an abrupt pause, the sound of plastic crackling. “Hey. Come here.” Dean frowned from his cramped position behind the motel bed, shot his little brother a sidelong glance. Sammy grinned, looking smug for some reason.
“What is it?” the second voice was saying. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s been in here,” the first voice said quietly, but sound carried in the room enough that Dean and Sammy heard it just fine. Dean tightened a hand on Sam’s wrist, shook his head and mouthed, Stay put. “There’s water all over the counter. Wasn’t there when we left. And look, half my M&Ms are missing! Dude, I hadn’t even opened those.”
“Brat,” Dean hissed under his breath, fighting the urge to slap his little brother upside the head.
“And the light wasn’t on,” the second voice was saying slowly. “What the hell?”
“Let’s just look around, see if they took anything else.”
Crap.
Dean was thinking now might be a good time to pop up and introduce themselves, and Sam apparently was having similar thoughts, if the way he was poking Dean in the side was any indication. Dean was just about to sit up straight and say hello when a guy leaned over the motel bed, caught sight of them, and yelped.
He was seriously tall, with dark floppy hair and a kind face, and he dropped the gun in his hands almost immediately.
“What the-how’d you get in here?” he demanded.
“Um,” Dean began, but never got the chance to finish his sentence because the next thing he knew someone was calling,
“Who’s there?” and he and Sammy were being yanked out from behind the bed so that they were both in plain view. The first guy they’d seen merely looked confused and a little annoyed, but the second guy-this one a little shorter, but who looked older and a lot tougher, merely seemed shell-shocked, his eyes going wide as dinner plates as he stared at them. The strangest part of the whole thing, Dean decided, was that both men seemed really familiar. Almost creepily so.
“What the hell?” the shorter guy demanded.
“We’re sorry,” Dean said at once, knowing it wouldn’t be good to get into a fight with these two.
“Did you guys go into the wrong room?” Tall Guy asked, glancing from one to the other with a strange look on his face.
“Sam,” said Shorter Guy in a strangled voice. “Sam, look at them. Holy fuck, look at them!”
”You said a bad word,” Sammy admonished before Dean could stop him.
“Sammy,” Dean hissed, “now is not the time. Shut up.”
Now Tall Guy’s eyes were wide too, and he fell back a step, almost stumbling as Shorter Guy caught his elbow, supporting him a little.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No way.”
“What?” Dean couldn’t help but ask, a little exasperated. “Look, we…um, you’re hunters, right? We…we think we got cursed or something. There was a witch…and we don’t know where we are.” They just stared at him. “We sorta need help,” Dean added. “Because our Dad is probably really worried.”
“Christo,” Shorter Guy suddenly barked, and Dean blinked.
“What…? We’re not demons,” Dean said in some exasperation. “Seriously. My name’s Dean Winchester, this is my little brother, Sammy.”
“Hi,” Sammy offered, turning on the Puppy-Dog eyes.
“Maybe you know our dad?” Dean prompted when the idiots continued to gawk at them. “John Winchester?”
“Okay,” Tall Guy said suddenly, seeming to snap out of whatever trance he was in, “okay...look guys, we’re sorry.” He still looked really shaken, and he kept glancing at Sammy for some reason. “Uh, this is kind of awkward.”
“And hard to explain,” Shorter Guy said, staring openly at Dean. “But we already knew who you were.”
“What?” Dean frowned. “What’s going on?” He was now beginning to suspect these losers were simply too stupid or too messed up to be of any use; they still hadn’t stopped gaping at him and Sammy, and he was this close to grabbing his brother and running when Shorter Guy spoke.
“Well, ‘cause I’m Dean Winchester,” he informed them, and nodded over at Tall Guy. “And this is my kid brother, Sammy.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Sammy (the younger one, that is) burst into tears.
-|-
Sammy was simply too tired to really process anything anymore, and Dean wasted no time settling him back into the bed, tucking him in.
“Sorry,” Sammy mumbled. “I didn’t mean to be a baby.”
“You weren’t a baby,” Dean whispered, acutely aware of the fact that they were both still being stared at. “You’re tired, and this is kinda scary. Go to sleep.”
“But-”
”Go to sleep now and I promise I won’t make fun of you about this tomorrow,” Dean added, voice getting a bit of an edge to it. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“Mmkay.” Sammy was already turning over, half-asleep. “G’night. Again.” Dean waited a few minutes until he was sure his brother was sleeping, then slowly turned to face…well, himself. And a much, much different Sam.
“Okay,” Dean’s older counterpart said after a moment. “Let’s go talk, kid.” Dean nodded wordlessly, following the two guys out of the motel room, and into the Impala, which he was unsurprised to see waiting in the parking spot closest to the door. Sam got into the passenger seat and Dean got into the back while the other him took the driver’s seat. For a minute, they all just sat there, and then Dean asked,
“What the fuck is happening?”
“Honestly? We don’t know.”
“This never happened to us,” Sam added helpfully, staring at Dean in the rearview mirror. “That’s why we’re so confused.”
“I don’t get it,” Dean said grumpily. “I didn’t know hoodoo magic was this powerful.”
“It’s not,” his older self said. “That’s the thing.”
”We don’t know that for sure, Dean,” Sam said.
”I think we can be reasonably positive that some backcountry hoodoo priestess couldn’t catapult us into the future, Sammy! Especially since you and me have absolutely no recollection of this whatsoever!”
And boy, this was going to get confusing.
Sam had opened his mouth to reply, but Dean cut him off, saying,
”Hey, what do I call you guys anyways?” Sam studied him for a moment, then suggested,
“How ‘bout you call me Sam and we call your little brother Sammy? You can call him”-here, Sam prodded the older Dean in the shoulder-“Uncle Dean.”
“That’s just weird,” both the younger and older Dean snapped in unison. “And so was that!” they added, still in sync. Sam hooted with laughter.
“Not funny, Sam,” Dean said darkly, folding his arms. “I’m still your older brother. Bet I could kick your ass if I wanted.” Sam scoffed, but looked fondly amused.
“I’d like to see you try,” he said, grinning.
“Uncle Dean sounds stupid,” the older Dean said, not even really paying attention to the others’ conversation.
“Well, how are we gonna know who’s talking to who?” Sam asked. “It could be a while before we sort this whole thing out.” He paused for a moment of thought. “How about Big Dean and Little Dean?”
“No,” both Deans said at the same time.
“I’m not seeing a whole lot of options-”
"Not Uncle Dean, got it? Just no."
“Okay, how ‘bout I call you DJ,” Dean offered from the backseat, “since our middle name is Jonathan and all.” DJ snorted, looking disgusted.
“Dude, this is so not cool,” he moaned. “It’s really creepy seeing a couple of walking, talking blasts from the past.”
“Try getting a look at your future,” Dean grumbled. “It’s not that cool, either.” DJ narrowed his eyes at his younger self.
“Hey, I was a cocky little smart-ass, wasn’t I?” he asked wonderingly. Dean made an indignant noise but Sam merely laughed his head off again.
“I want to go home,” Dean sighed. “I want to see Dad.” Sam stopped laughing. DJ looked pained.
“We’ll try to break the curse,” Sam said cryptically. “For now, it’s probably better to get a good night’s sleep. Maybe the spell will lift by morning.”
“Doubt it,” the Deans said together. “Dude, stop doing that,” they added, scowling at each other.
Sam started laughing again, and Dean huffed irritably and scrambled out of the car.
-|-
Dean crawled into bed beside Sammy, finally tired enough to want to sleep and prayed that this whole damn thing would be over in the morning, like Sam had suggested. He rolled over onto his side and couldn’t help but gape at his little brother-it was almost impossible to imagine that this scruffy little kid would grow up to be the huge, hulking guy who was standing in the bathroom brushing his teeth.
DJ-and God, it was so freaking messed up to think of himself as anything but Dean-joined Sam, and Dean could hear them murmuring together, voices deep and low and grumbly like Dad’s. Dean closed his eyes and pretended they were just a dream, a glimpse at the future; something he could laugh with Sammy about in the morning.
“You took really good care of me, Dean,” Sam was saying, his voice low as they both walked into the bedroom. "You still do." Dean could feel them looking at him, gauging if he was asleep or not before DJ responded,
“I try, Sammy.”
“Seriously.” A pause. “I mean, I dunno if I ever…”
“Dude. No chick-flick moments, mmkay? Let’s just go to bed.” The mattress of the other bed creaked and one of them leaned over to flip off the reading light; the room was now completely dark. ”Hey, stay on your side! Do I look like I need any Sam-cooties?”
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
“Ouch, don’t kick me, dumbass. And do me a favor, keep it down or you’ll wake us up!”
”Heh heh.” A brief moment of silence. “Okay, I’m going to sleep. You better not stick any of those pointy elbows of yours anywhere they don’t belong, capiche?”
“Shut up.” The muffled thump of a pillow, yet another pause, and then: “G’night.”
”G’night, Sammy.”
Over in the opposite bed, Dean smiled into his pillow. It was sorta nice to know that some things, at least, never change.
So?? Like it? Hate it? Think it's worth continuing? Let me know!
Guh.
Please. I need some feedback, because I've been working on this one for a while and I have twelve pages...and it's only part one. So I need to know if it's worth considering, mmkay? Mmkay. And also, can I re-iterate how much I hate using LJ with a proxy server? I SUCK at HTML and it takes forever and I just want to be able to use enriched text again, sobbb.
Title: tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Rating: PG-14ish.
Disclaimer: It's not my sandbox. One of these days, Kripke...one of these days! *shakes fist*
Warnings: None.
Pairing: None, gen.
Spoilers: General season two, but not past 2x19 Folsom Prison Blues...at least for the moment.
Summary: Dean and Sam get a couple of blasts from the past when a hoodoo spell goes haywire.[Wee!Chester fic, slightly cracky]
A/N: Can anything really be called crack in the SPN universe? Seriously--pretty much anything seems to go, and I love to take full advantage of that. Heh heh heh. This particular little story came out of nowhere and I love it. I'm already working on part two. Feedback is greatly appreciated!
Part One
It was so humid Dean thought he might actually drown in his own sweat.
Seriously, there was no place on earth more miserable than mid-July in deep-south Louisiana, especially when there was no air conditioning, and especially when you had to share a bed with your geeky little brother, who had absolutely no concept of personal space, with his damn bony legs and equally bony arms thrown all over the place.
Dad said go to sleep, Dean reminded himself, turning over onto his stomach and trying to edge as far away from Sam as it was possible to go without falling off the rickety cot of a bed. Dad said go to sleep and he’ll be back in the morning and then everything will be fine.
This was a familiar mantra, one he’d often found himself repeating over and over in other uncomfortably tiny beds, in other decrepit, rented houses (but usually on slightly cooler nights). Just like always, the mantra had no effect whatsoever, and eventually, it drove Dean to his feet, away from Sammy and to the chair he’d shoved by the grimy excuse for a window.
He’d wait until he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala, Dad’s heavy footsteps on the creaky stairs, the bang of the screen door, and then maybe he’d be able to rest. Dean always got nervous like this when Dad went off and left them alone. It made him worry about Dad and even worry about Sammy, because if something happened to them while Dad wasn’t here, Dean wasn’t sure he’d be able to protect them properly. Illogical, seeing as how Dean was more than capable when it came to self-defense of any kind, but he was a worrier by nature, a dweller. He needed absolute reassurance that Sam was safe, that Dad was safe, before the pessimist in him quit its ceaseless yapping, the part of him that Dad-and only Dad-was capable of shutting up.
Perched on the splintery chair, Dean peered out into the darkness of the sweltering summer’s night, listening to the cicadas and mosquitoes hum in a comforting sort of harmony, the strangest of lullabies. The shack was surrounded by huge oaks, dripping in Spanish moss, and in the dark they loomed eerily; if Dean had been a normal kid, it probably would have been enough to rattle his nerves a little. As it was, Dean barely noticed the scenery, eyes fixed on the bumpy dirt road, waiting for familiar headlights. Dad had to have been gone five, maybe six hours now…surely it would only be a matter of moments before he was back…
“Dean?”
He started a little, turning to face his worried little brother, who had sat up sleepily in the bed and was rubbing the back of a hand across his eyes wearily.
”Go to sleep, Sammy,” Dean directed, taking a slow, deep breath to steady his rapidly beating heart. “I’m right here.”
“You don’t have to wait for him, you know,” Sam pointed out after a moment, sighing a little. “He always comes home.”
“I know.”
“It’s really late.” Sam sounded about as sanctimonious as a half-asleep ten-year-old possibly could. “Dad said go to sleep.”
“I tried that,” Dean snapped. “I’m just not tired.”
“Are too.” Sam yawned widely. “Dad’s gonna be home soon anyways, Dean.”
“Well, then I guess I’ll be in bed soon.” Dean yawned, subconsciously copying Sam, and stretched a little. “Look, you’re right. It’s late. Go back to bed and don’t worry about it.”
“Well, if you’re not tired, then I guess I’m not either,” Sam announced, rolling off the bed and bounding over to prop himself up on the windowsill. “I’ll wait with you.”
“Sammy-”
“Not negotiable,” Sam deadpanned, scowling sternly, but after a moment or two his dimples flashed as he giggled despite himself. Dean had to grin at his brother’s near-perfect imitation of their father; lately, it seemed like Dad’s catch-phrase was either, ‘Not negotiable,’ or, ‘Dean, look after your brother.’ Dean, at any rate, heard and obeyed both of these commands several times a day.
“Fine then, you little brat,” Dean capitulated grudgingly, ruffling his brother’s hair affectionately. “But don’t tell Dad. He wouldn’t like you being up so late.”
“Duh.” Sam rolled his eyes as if this were the most obvious thing in the world before turning to rest his forehead against the glass. “It’s hot,” he announced after a moment or two. “Really, really hot.”
“No dip, Sherlock.”
“How come we don’t have a fan?”
“Because…” Dean squinted, thoughtful. Why didn’t they have one? “…because…real men don’t need fans.” Sam frowned.
“Why not?”
“What?”
“Why don’t real men need fans? Everybody gets sweaty, Dean.”
“Real men are tough enough to make it through a hot night without whining about getting a little sticky,” Dean declared.
“But I’m not a man,” Sam pointed out sensibly. “And neither are you.”
“I’m almost a man,” Dean corrected his brother importantly. “Dad says so. He let me drive the car on Monday, remember?”
“Only to park it,” Sam said, “and anyways, you ran over my Hot Wheels.”
“Maybe if you weren’t dumb enough to leave your stupid toy cars lying around I wouldn’t have squished it.”
“Maybe if you were a real man you would learn how to park a car without running over people’s stuff.”
“Maybe if you weren’t a pain the-”
”Dean.” Sam’s voice was small and scared when he cut his brother off mid-insult, and at first the only thing Dean could think to feel was annoyed, because this was so typical of the smart-ass little brat, thinking he could win by turning on the Puppy Dog Pout (the sad part was, he usually could).
“What?” Dean snapped.
“There’s somebody in the yard.”
“What?” His hand immediately went to the gun beside the chair, his other one to Sammy’s elbow as he yanked his little brother from the windowsill and down onto the floor. Dean quickly slid off the chair and onto the floor beside Sammy as he loaded the rifle, then poked his head up so he could peer out the window and get a better look.
Sam was right. Standing beneath the tree closest to the shack was the creepiest-looking woman Dean had ever seen in his life-and that was saying a lot. She was short and incredibly skinny, all protruding bones and huge, unblinking eyes. It was impossible to determine her age, because she looked neither old nor young, and her dark hair fell in thick, messy dreadlocks. Her eyes were narrowed, her bony fists clenched around something, and she was muttering, her mouth moving soundlessly as the wind whispering through the trees picked up considerably.
But none of that was what scared Dean. What scared him was that he had seen her before, just that afternoon, when he’d caved and taken Sammy for an ice cream in town. They’d been sitting side by side on an old wooden bench on the sidewalk outside the ice cream parlor when Dean had looked up and there the woman had been standing, her eyes fixed on them, the evilest smile in the history of the world playing across her lips. He’d blinked, and she’d been gone.
Now, Dean did lots and lots of blinking, but-aw hell-the woman wasn’t going anywhere.
“Who is that?” Sam raised his head a little, attempting to see over his brother’s shoulder.
“Stay down, Sam,” Dean directed, pushing the kid back down to the ground forcefully. “I…I think she’s…”
“She looks kinda like a witch.” Sam was back on his knees, the top of his scruffy head just barely visible as he peeked out the window. “See? She’s chanting something.”
“A witch?” This thought had oddly not occurred to Dean. “Hey-Dad’s hunting a witch! Some hoodoo priestess or whatever.”
“Well, maybe that’s her,” Sam suggested, edging a little closer to Dean in obvious nervousness. “Maybe if we go to sleep she’ll go away.”
“Dad must be coming,” Dean reassured his brother. “He’s probably waiting out in the trees somewhere. He’ll get her, Sammy, don’t worry.” Sam looked uncertain, and frankly, Dean didn’t feel all that confident himself. How were you supposed to waste a witch? She was still human; as far as Dean knew, all Dad was doing was burning her altar or something. What if she tried something and Dad didn’t show up in time and-
“Dean!” Sam’s voice rose higher, his hand clenched down on Dean’s arm. “She’s not there anymore!”
“Shit,” Dean hissed, scrambling to his feet, gun in his hands. “Shit-okay, Sam get in the bed.”
“Why?”
“Just do it! Pretend to be asleep, and pull the covers over your head.”
“But-”
“Now, Sammy!”
Sam practically flew back into the cot, burrowing under the covers and curling into a ball. Dean didn’t know if the witch disappearing was a good thing or a really, really bad thing, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He went to the door, peered out into the living room, and saw…nothing. Sighing in guarded relief, Dean shut the door, yanked the chair over and propped it up under the handle so that it couldn’t be opened, and turned to go back to his brother.
The witch was on him so fast he didn’t even see her.
“Dean!” Sam’s voice squeaked, as the witch’s bony fingers clawed into his shoulder. “Dean!”
“Sammy!” Dean hollered, fighting to get the witch off of him. “Get out of here, now!”
“Ah now,” the witch hissed in a hoarse rasp of a voice, her Creole accent thick, “stay still like a good li’l one, cher, t’will not be long…”
“Get off my brother!” Dean heard Sam yell, and the witch yelped as something hard hit her in the back of the head.
“Sam, go.” Dean took the opportunity to hit the witch in the face and scramble to his feet, panting, searching for the gun.
“Your father is a stupid man,” the witch spat, recovering with inhuman speed. She waved a claw-like hand at Sam, who was beating a path towards the window, and he froze in his tracks. Dean had already pulled the trigger of the gun when she murmured a few words under her breath, freezing the bullet in midair. Another few mumbled syllables, and Dean found himself pinned to the wall.
“Let my brother go,” Dean managed, surprised to find he could still speak. “You can take me.”
“Non, non!” The witch’s smile widened, exposing blackened teeth. “Dis is much more fun, cher.”
“What do you want?”
“For your father to let me be. He t’inks he’s got me trapped in de closet, foolish bastard. I found you, I already know his weakness.” Dean strained against the spell, grunting in pain as sharp, needle-like spasms ripped through his chest. “Now, now. Dis need not be painful.”
“What are you gonna do to us?” Sam spoke now, his voice small and scared.
“Make your father t’ink twice ‘fore he crosses swords wit’ de likes o’me again, cher,” the witch hissed.
And then, Dean was struggling some more and she was muttering some more and there was a flash of light and suddenly Dad’s voice screaming, another bang, someone chanting Latin, more light and-
And then it was just black, and everything went quiet.
-|-
Dean woke up to somebody elbowing him in the side.
“Cut it out, Sammy,” he muttered, trying to roll away from his brother. “Seriously, I’m really tired.”
“Dean!” Sam’s voice hissed. “You gotta get up, c’mon.” Dean was exhausted, and recently hitting puberty wasn’t doing anything for him either. Never in his life could he remember craving so much sleep all the time.
“Sam, I swear to-”
“Dean, I don’t know where we are.” Sam’s voice rose in panic, squeaking a little. “That witch took us somewhere. Somewhere away.”
“What?” Dean sat bolt upright, breathing hard. “The witch? I thought…”
“I thought it was a dream, too,” Sam said miserably, meeting Dean’s eyes. “But then I woke up and looked around and saw…” He paused. “Them.”
”Who?”
“The two scary guys,” Sam whispered, voice small and afraid. “They didn’t see us. They were arguing.”
Dean now took the time to get a better look around. He and Sam were curled up side by side on the floor of what looked like a motel, behind one of the beds. The room was dark and quiet, and when Dean got on his knees and stared around some more, he realized they were alone.
Which was kind of a relief.
“Okay, Sammy,” he said calmly, shifting into big brother mode, “here’s what we’re going to do. Let’s get up, wash up, and see if we can’t call dad. Then we’ll go wait for him to get us outside or something. Okay?” Sam nodded, eyes wide.
“What if the guys come back?” Sam asked uncertainly. “Do you think they’ll be mad?”
“I don’t know.” Dean paused. “What were they arguing about?”
“One of them swore a lot.” Sam made a face. “More than you, even.” Dean whacked him upside the head. “Ow!”
“Focus for me, Sam.”
“Okay, okay.” Sam scowled, folded his arms. “They were fighting about salting-and-burning some bones tonight or waiting and doing more research. One of them said he wasn’t totally sure it was even a haunting, but the other one said, no he was pretty damn sure because the EMF went off every time they got near the freaking place.”
“Don’t cuss,” Dean directed, more out of habit than anything, but his mind was working furiously, replaying the guys’ conversation. “Good,” he said after a moment. “They’re hunters. So we can explain to them if they catch us that we need help.”
“Why did we end up here?” Sam asked, standing and going to turn on the lights. “This doesn’t seem so bad, really.”
“Dad’s probably worried,” Dean said, getting up as well. “Maybe the witch thought if she got us far enough away, she’d give him a scare.”
“That seems stupid,” Sam observed, sitting down on one of the beds. “Why wouldn’t she just kill us or something?” Dean glared at his brother.
“Jesus, Sammy!”
“I’m just saying.” Sam shrugged. “I mean, we’re not dumb. We can get back to Dad easy-peezy, lemon-squeezy.” Dean burst out laughing.
“Dude, where did you pick up that lame-ass expression?”
“Greg says it all the time,” Sam said defensively, referring to his current pal back in Baton Rouge.
“Honestly, I thought I’d taught you better,” Dean chuckled, rolling his eyes as he crossed the room to tousle Sam’s hair. “Okay, kiddo. Go wash your face, use the toilet, whatever you need. I’ll call Dad.”
“’Kay,” Sam agreed, and wandered off into the bathroom, closing the door with a snap. Taking a couple deep breaths (because he was seriously more freaked out than he had any right to be), Dean sank down onto the other bed, and made a grab for the phone.
Gonna be okay, he told himself, trying not to panic. Just call Dad and he’ll come get us. He’ll make it okay. You can handle it until then. Trembling, Dean dialed the number of the phone they had for the shack, the one Dad had made them memorize backwards and forwards like he always did when they settled in a place for more than a week. It rang three times, and then someone picked up.
“Hello?” The woman on the other end sounded sleepy, annoyed.
“Um, sorry,” Dean said quickly, trying to decide whether to hang up or not. “This is kind of an emergency. I…I think I dialed the wrong number.” He waited for her to scream at him, but instead she said,
“Are you in some kinda trouble, sweetie?” She sounded more awake now. He could hear her fumbling with the phone, murmuring something, probably to her husband or boyfriend.
“Yeah,” Dean choked out, voice hitching a little. “My brother and me got lost. We’re trying to call my dad. I’m positive this is the number he told me to call if we got separated.”
“Tell me what the number is,” the woman said gently. “I’ll tell you if you dialed wrong.” It seemed kind of stupid to Dean for her to humor him, because obviously he had hit a number wrong in his haste to get to Dad, and seriously, he was just some strange kid who had woken her up in the middle of the night. Nonetheless, he appreciated her kindness.
”255-756-3762,” he told her, squeezing his eyes shut, praying she would tell him he’d changed a number around or something.
“I’m sorry,” she told him, “but that’s the number you called. Are you sure it’s right?”
“Yeah,” Dean managed. “Positive.”
”Listen, do you want me to call the police or something? I can have them go find you and look for your dad from there.”
“No, it’s okay,” Dean said. “I’ll try calling my uncle.”
”You do that,” she said. “Good luck, sweetie.”
“Thanks.” Dean’s throat felt dry. “Sorry for waking you up.”
“Not a problem,” the woman said warmly. “Good night.”
And then she hung up. Dean blinked, trying to remember the last time a stranger had been so nice to him, especially one he’d woken up late at night, and came up with a blank.
Shaking his head, he snapped himself out of it and tried to focus on the bigger issue: he had no way to get a hold of Dad. Okay, no biggie. He could call Caleb, Pastor Jim, maybe Bobby-Dad had made him and Sam memorize their numbers, too. Determined, he dialed the number for Pastor Jim’s church, but came up with a recording, and Caleb’s number was out of service, which was weird. Sam came out of the bathroom and sat beside him on the bed, looking worried when Dean shook his head and punched in Bobby’s number.
The phone rang and rang until finally a machine picked up.
“You’ve reached Bobby Singer,” the deep, familiar voice intoned. “Can’t come to the phone. If this is an emergency, call Ellen Harvelle, 098-470-8823. She’ll set ya up with someone else. Any other business, leave it at the tone.” There was a loud beep.
“Bobby, hi,” Dean said quickly. “It’s Dean Winchester. I…something happened to me and Sammy. It was a hoodoo witch, I think, and we’re…really kind of lost and I can’t reach Dad or Pastor Jim or Caleb or anybody. I’ll call back later, and if you could help that would be really…really great.” He paused. “Uh, bye.” As he hung up, Sam frowned over at him and asked,
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, Sammy,” Dean admitted, but grinned, trying to put on a brave front so as not to scare the younger boy. “Everyone’s probably just asleep.”
“What’re we gonna do?”
“Well, I’m thinking we could wait here for the guys who have this motel room,” Dean said. “I bet they could help us out. Maybe they know Dad.”
“I hope so.” Sam folded his arms and sank down onto the bed beside Dean. “Maybe we can sleep?” he asked.
“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, and stretched out widely. “You stay on your side,” he added, grin widening. “Don’t want any of your Sam-cooties on me.”
“Meanie,” Sam huffed, lying down next to Dean.
“Wow, that hurt,” Dean said sarcastically. “You can’t come up with anything better than that?” Sam thought for about half a second, then declared, more loudly,
“Butthead.”
“Dorkface.”
“Lizard breath.”
“Chicken shit.”
“You said a bad word!”
“Baby.”
“I am not a baby, you…you…”
“Meanie?”
“Deeean!” Sam whined, pouting mightily.
“Okay, okay,” Dean laughed, reaching a hand out to push Sam’s bangs out of his eyes. “Just go to sleep, Sammy. I’ll keep a lookout till those guys get back.”
“G’night,” Sam offered sleepily, turning on his side.
”You too.”
Sam was asleep within minutes, and Dean very suddenly realized how not tired he was. How familiar. He paced the room, considered watching TV and thought better of it, poked around but decided not to touch anything in the two large duffle bags sitting by either bed in case the hunters would get pissed if he looked through their stuff.
It was so damn annoying. Here he was, cursed somewhere, no way to call Dad, no answers, just him and Sammy and an empty motel room. He didn’t know what to fucking do, and that scared him. He was only just fourteen, and not nearly old enough to be on his own, without Dad here. What if there was no way to get back? What if he and Sam would be stuck here forever?
No. No, if it was the last thing Dean ever did, if he had to hitchhike his way across the country, he’d do it. He’d get them back to Dad.
It was at precisely that moment Dean heard voices outside, somebody laughing, footsteps headed their way. Mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure these guys would be on their side, and partly out of instinct as well, Dean dived to where Sam was sleeping, grabbed him, and pulled him onto the floor on the other side of the bed. Sam woke with a start and sleepily began to ask,
“Wha-?” but Dean covered his brother’s mouth, whispering,
“Be quiet. I’m gonna scope ‘em out and see if they’re okay like Dad always says to do.”
“Okay,” Sam agreed, just as the door banged open.
“-thing was fugly, man,” a loud voice announced.
“I know,” a second voice said dryly. “You don’t have to keep repeating it every five seconds.” A pause. “Hey, didn’t we leave the lights off?”
“Dunno,” said the first voice, “and don’t care.”
“Whatever. I call dibs on first shower.”
“Too bad, ‘cause I’m taking it anyways, dibs or no,” the first voice said bossily.
“What! No fair!”
“Way fair. I’m older. I deserve it more.”
“You suck, you know. Like, a lot.”
“Aww, poor little-” There was an abrupt pause, the sound of plastic crackling. “Hey. Come here.” Dean frowned from his cramped position behind the motel bed, shot his little brother a sidelong glance. Sammy grinned, looking smug for some reason.
“What is it?” the second voice was saying. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s been in here,” the first voice said quietly, but sound carried in the room enough that Dean and Sammy heard it just fine. Dean tightened a hand on Sam’s wrist, shook his head and mouthed, Stay put. “There’s water all over the counter. Wasn’t there when we left. And look, half my M&Ms are missing! Dude, I hadn’t even opened those.”
“Brat,” Dean hissed under his breath, fighting the urge to slap his little brother upside the head.
“And the light wasn’t on,” the second voice was saying slowly. “What the hell?”
“Let’s just look around, see if they took anything else.”
Crap.
Dean was thinking now might be a good time to pop up and introduce themselves, and Sam apparently was having similar thoughts, if the way he was poking Dean in the side was any indication. Dean was just about to sit up straight and say hello when a guy leaned over the motel bed, caught sight of them, and yelped.
He was seriously tall, with dark floppy hair and a kind face, and he dropped the gun in his hands almost immediately.
“What the-how’d you get in here?” he demanded.
“Um,” Dean began, but never got the chance to finish his sentence because the next thing he knew someone was calling,
“Who’s there?” and he and Sammy were being yanked out from behind the bed so that they were both in plain view. The first guy they’d seen merely looked confused and a little annoyed, but the second guy-this one a little shorter, but who looked older and a lot tougher, merely seemed shell-shocked, his eyes going wide as dinner plates as he stared at them. The strangest part of the whole thing, Dean decided, was that both men seemed really familiar. Almost creepily so.
“What the hell?” the shorter guy demanded.
“We’re sorry,” Dean said at once, knowing it wouldn’t be good to get into a fight with these two.
“Did you guys go into the wrong room?” Tall Guy asked, glancing from one to the other with a strange look on his face.
“Sam,” said Shorter Guy in a strangled voice. “Sam, look at them. Holy fuck, look at them!”
”You said a bad word,” Sammy admonished before Dean could stop him.
“Sammy,” Dean hissed, “now is not the time. Shut up.”
Now Tall Guy’s eyes were wide too, and he fell back a step, almost stumbling as Shorter Guy caught his elbow, supporting him a little.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No way.”
“What?” Dean couldn’t help but ask, a little exasperated. “Look, we…um, you’re hunters, right? We…we think we got cursed or something. There was a witch…and we don’t know where we are.” They just stared at him. “We sorta need help,” Dean added. “Because our Dad is probably really worried.”
“Christo,” Shorter Guy suddenly barked, and Dean blinked.
“What…? We’re not demons,” Dean said in some exasperation. “Seriously. My name’s Dean Winchester, this is my little brother, Sammy.”
“Hi,” Sammy offered, turning on the Puppy-Dog eyes.
“Maybe you know our dad?” Dean prompted when the idiots continued to gawk at them. “John Winchester?”
“Okay,” Tall Guy said suddenly, seeming to snap out of whatever trance he was in, “okay...look guys, we’re sorry.” He still looked really shaken, and he kept glancing at Sammy for some reason. “Uh, this is kind of awkward.”
“And hard to explain,” Shorter Guy said, staring openly at Dean. “But we already knew who you were.”
“What?” Dean frowned. “What’s going on?” He was now beginning to suspect these losers were simply too stupid or too messed up to be of any use; they still hadn’t stopped gaping at him and Sammy, and he was this close to grabbing his brother and running when Shorter Guy spoke.
“Well, ‘cause I’m Dean Winchester,” he informed them, and nodded over at Tall Guy. “And this is my kid brother, Sammy.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Sammy (the younger one, that is) burst into tears.
-|-
Sammy was simply too tired to really process anything anymore, and Dean wasted no time settling him back into the bed, tucking him in.
“Sorry,” Sammy mumbled. “I didn’t mean to be a baby.”
“You weren’t a baby,” Dean whispered, acutely aware of the fact that they were both still being stared at. “You’re tired, and this is kinda scary. Go to sleep.”
“But-”
”Go to sleep now and I promise I won’t make fun of you about this tomorrow,” Dean added, voice getting a bit of an edge to it. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“Mmkay.” Sammy was already turning over, half-asleep. “G’night. Again.” Dean waited a few minutes until he was sure his brother was sleeping, then slowly turned to face…well, himself. And a much, much different Sam.
“Okay,” Dean’s older counterpart said after a moment. “Let’s go talk, kid.” Dean nodded wordlessly, following the two guys out of the motel room, and into the Impala, which he was unsurprised to see waiting in the parking spot closest to the door. Sam got into the passenger seat and Dean got into the back while the other him took the driver’s seat. For a minute, they all just sat there, and then Dean asked,
“What the fuck is happening?”
“Honestly? We don’t know.”
“This never happened to us,” Sam added helpfully, staring at Dean in the rearview mirror. “That’s why we’re so confused.”
“I don’t get it,” Dean said grumpily. “I didn’t know hoodoo magic was this powerful.”
“It’s not,” his older self said. “That’s the thing.”
”We don’t know that for sure, Dean,” Sam said.
”I think we can be reasonably positive that some backcountry hoodoo priestess couldn’t catapult us into the future, Sammy! Especially since you and me have absolutely no recollection of this whatsoever!”
And boy, this was going to get confusing.
Sam had opened his mouth to reply, but Dean cut him off, saying,
”Hey, what do I call you guys anyways?” Sam studied him for a moment, then suggested,
“How ‘bout you call me Sam and we call your little brother Sammy? You can call him”-here, Sam prodded the older Dean in the shoulder-“Uncle Dean.”
“That’s just weird,” both the younger and older Dean snapped in unison. “And so was that!” they added, still in sync. Sam hooted with laughter.
“Not funny, Sam,” Dean said darkly, folding his arms. “I’m still your older brother. Bet I could kick your ass if I wanted.” Sam scoffed, but looked fondly amused.
“I’d like to see you try,” he said, grinning.
“Uncle Dean sounds stupid,” the older Dean said, not even really paying attention to the others’ conversation.
“Well, how are we gonna know who’s talking to who?” Sam asked. “It could be a while before we sort this whole thing out.” He paused for a moment of thought. “How about Big Dean and Little Dean?”
“No,” both Deans said at the same time.
“I’m not seeing a whole lot of options-”
"Not Uncle Dean, got it? Just no."
“Okay, how ‘bout I call you DJ,” Dean offered from the backseat, “since our middle name is Jonathan and all.” DJ snorted, looking disgusted.
“Dude, this is so not cool,” he moaned. “It’s really creepy seeing a couple of walking, talking blasts from the past.”
“Try getting a look at your future,” Dean grumbled. “It’s not that cool, either.” DJ narrowed his eyes at his younger self.
“Hey, I was a cocky little smart-ass, wasn’t I?” he asked wonderingly. Dean made an indignant noise but Sam merely laughed his head off again.
“I want to go home,” Dean sighed. “I want to see Dad.” Sam stopped laughing. DJ looked pained.
“We’ll try to break the curse,” Sam said cryptically. “For now, it’s probably better to get a good night’s sleep. Maybe the spell will lift by morning.”
“Doubt it,” the Deans said together. “Dude, stop doing that,” they added, scowling at each other.
Sam started laughing again, and Dean huffed irritably and scrambled out of the car.
-|-
Dean crawled into bed beside Sammy, finally tired enough to want to sleep and prayed that this whole damn thing would be over in the morning, like Sam had suggested. He rolled over onto his side and couldn’t help but gape at his little brother-it was almost impossible to imagine that this scruffy little kid would grow up to be the huge, hulking guy who was standing in the bathroom brushing his teeth.
DJ-and God, it was so freaking messed up to think of himself as anything but Dean-joined Sam, and Dean could hear them murmuring together, voices deep and low and grumbly like Dad’s. Dean closed his eyes and pretended they were just a dream, a glimpse at the future; something he could laugh with Sammy about in the morning.
“You took really good care of me, Dean,” Sam was saying, his voice low as they both walked into the bedroom. "You still do." Dean could feel them looking at him, gauging if he was asleep or not before DJ responded,
“I try, Sammy.”
“Seriously.” A pause. “I mean, I dunno if I ever…”
“Dude. No chick-flick moments, mmkay? Let’s just go to bed.” The mattress of the other bed creaked and one of them leaned over to flip off the reading light; the room was now completely dark. ”Hey, stay on your side! Do I look like I need any Sam-cooties?”
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
“Ouch, don’t kick me, dumbass. And do me a favor, keep it down or you’ll wake us up!”
”Heh heh.” A brief moment of silence. “Okay, I’m going to sleep. You better not stick any of those pointy elbows of yours anywhere they don’t belong, capiche?”
“Shut up.” The muffled thump of a pillow, yet another pause, and then: “G’night.”
”G’night, Sammy.”
Over in the opposite bed, Dean smiled into his pillow. It was sorta nice to know that some things, at least, never change.
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