three times over;
title: Two Times Sam and Dean Are Brothers and the One Time They Aren't
word count: 3000-ish
rating: PG; for language. gen.
disclaimer: if they were mine, i'd keep them jollygood happy, hopped up on sugar, forever in prank war mode and there'd damn well be hugs.
summary: if sam had gotten his normal life; if dean had gotten his normal life; if both brothers had gotten their normal lives; if they were never brothers to begin with. would anything ever be the same?
a/n: an au of lawyer!sam; doctor!dean and normal people!winchesters. comments would be utterly adored. :)
01
Sam’s vision got adjusted to the pitch darkness so quick he didn’t even realize it. All around him everything smelt like smoke and dust and scorched flesh. Every fiber in his being was telling him that he shouldn’t be here. This is the apocalypse. He should be lying lifeless somewhere with the rest of the population instead of standing on a pile of ash holding a gleaming sword. He rejected this calling years ago. This wasn’t his destiny any longer. He can hear his brother breathing heavily next to him, breath rendered cold and shaking with pain. Dean beside him was ripping at the seams, blood gurgling in his thorax, an invisible force shredding his flesh and tearing his soul apart from the inside out. Sam didn’t need to be a psychic to know what was running through his brother’s mind.
Save Sammy, save Sammy.
His last thought before the deafening scream. Sam turned around to watch as Dean doubled over, dark red blood dripping from the impaled sword in his abdomen, the other end of the one Sam was holding. Without preamble, Sam plunged the blade deeper and Dean cried out, long and hoarse and then silence.
Sam jerked awake on his bed, face wet with perspiration. Next to him his fiancée was deep asleep, her breathing steady and rhythmic. He glanced to the digital numbers on the radio clock and sighed. Two hours until dawn. Climbing off the bed he padded to the bathroom, washed his face with ice cold water and headed down the hall to his home office. Might as well make use of the time, he thought.
He wouldn’t know when the transition happened. When making use of time switched from cleaning the guns to going over legal documents and preparing for an early morning meeting. On his work desk his parents beamed at him from the pewter picture frame. Sam smiled softly back, leaned back and flipped open the thick folder.
*
Sam passed a last, broad smile to the woman standing in the kitchen doorway with a floral apron tied around her small waist before stepping out into the beautiful morning, heading to the black SUV parked before his garage. He was just climbing in when a familiar, deep voice rang from the passenger’s seat.
“You look good, Sammy.”
Sam wiped the startled, openmouthed look on his face with a broad palm, chuckling despite himself. “Jesus Christ, Dean. You scared the hell out of me.”
Dean grinned, sending his brother a sideways glinting gaze. “You’re getting sloppy, then. What if I were a ghoul? Would you run off screaming like a little girl?”
Sam screwed up his face, tossing his briefcase onto the backseat. “What the fuck are you doing here, Dean?”
“It’s nice to see you too, little brother. Life’s been treating you good, I suppose,” Dean nodded towards the two-storey suburban house.
Sam scowled. “I’m going to be late for work. Would you mind? Can’t we meet up later or something?”
There was something shadowing Dean’s face but he quickly replaced it with his signature tilting smirk. “Fine, Mr. Big Time Lawyer. I’ll swing by your office later. You still eat lunch, right? Or do you professionals take, like, a pill everyday for daily nutrition?”
Sam can’t help but grin. “I’ll see you then, Dean. It’s nice seeing you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbled, waving a hand and climbed off before heading towards the gleaming black muscle car parked on the other end of the road.
Sam watched his brother leave, noticing that Dean was leaning forward behind the wheel, speaking into his cell phone with a dejected look on his feature and running a hand over his face. Trademark move of when he is stressed. Sam bit his lower lip worriedly but later decided the worry could wait until noon.
*
Dean stepped up to the door and smiled. From behind the door he can hear Sam’s voice, steady and confident. He punctuated every line with his big, honest laughter and Dean felt at home again. Home, almost ten years ago. When Sam was still riding shotgun with him in the Impala, on Dad’s trail on some job that required them to work hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, as brothers. When he would blast AC/DC over and over again until Sam screamed for him to stop. Then he would reach out and poke at Sam’s rib and his little brother would laugh before jabbing his bony elbow into Dean’s side and they would laugh and laugh until Dad stop somewhere where they have to put their game face on and everything is dead serious. Home, almost ten years ago before Sam dumped the fat envelope on the rickety dining table and Dad almost swing at Sam’s face if Dean didn’t step in between them. Before he woke up to an empty bedroom and all of Sam’s things were gone save for the scribbled note on the side table.
I’m sorry, Dean.
One look at the gold plate mounted on the door and he was transferred back to cold, harsh reality. Samuel R. Winchester. Dean smirked, paused and knocked loudly on the door. Sam’s soothing, everything’s going to be okay voice summoned him in. He was hunched over the big desk, head buried in some kind of book.
“So,” Dean leered, “you’re using your middle name now, Randy?”
Sam glanced up and returned the grin. “I’ve always liked that name. Mom gave it to me, didn’t she?”
Dean’s feature clouded over like every other time Mary was mentioned. Blinking back the incipient tears choking at his throat, he smiled fleetingly. “I’m glad you’re doing great now.”
Sam watched as his brother took the seat before him, posture and facial expression primed for a legal advice out of habit before he realized that this wasn’t some client. This is Dean. “How’re you doing? How’s everything after…Dad?”
Dean’s throat worked a little, looking like he was on the brink of tears once again. Then he swallowed and Dean Winchester’s patented smirk broke across his face. “Well, still hunting. Making honest money. Killing every son of a bitches that are stupid enough to leave a trail.”
“That’s-”
“Sorry,” Dean reached into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone, Deep Purple ringing shrilly. “Yeah. No, Jo. I’m just…I have some business to do, okay? Keep searching. I’ll call you back later.”
Sam arched an eyebrow when Dean flipped his phone shut. “New sidekick?”
There was humor in every bit of Sam’s tone but it still hit Dean square in the belly. That his brother could ever think there could be anyone to replace him. “She’s just helping me with research.”
“She?” Sam’s green eyes lighted up with amusement. “Wow. And she’s just…doing research for you?”
“No, Sammy. She also cooks my meals, does my laundry, gives me occasional blowjobs and is the mother of my three children,” Dean replied sarcastically. “Come on, Sam. What makes you think I can ever be tied down?”
Sam pressed his dimple in, lips tilting at an angle. “I’m getting married.”
There was that shadow again. Sam finally recognized it as Dean’s remorse resurfacing. “Congratulations, Sammy,” he laughed, voice strained and tight. “Is it that hot blonde you were roommates with in college? ‘Cause I might have to hang around your place a lot on holidays.”
Sam’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, small and almost wistful. “Jess passed away three years ago.”
Dean’s eyelids fluttered against his cheeks, lower lip trembling slightly. “I…I’m sorry, Sammy.”
Sam nodded, finally figuring it out. Dean’s guilt. “Why are you actually here, Dean?”
Dean gazed at his brother from underneath heavy eyelashes. “Something terrible is coming our way, Sam. And I need your help saving someone.”
Sam can feel it in his guts before the word even came. He felt the heat from the fire the night he lost Jessica. He saw it in the grieving dark green fire of his brother’s eyes. Yet he still posed the question. “Who? Dean, who do you need to save?”
Dean’s voice was shaky, his olive green eyes shimmering. “You.”
02
Dean always knew he was born to save lives. Only, for fourteen years of his life saving lives meant hardcore PT everyday after school, learning Latin and memorizing exorcising rituals all summer at Pastor Jim’s and shooting targets in the backyard every single minute of his free time. He just didn’t think that he would have enough guts to open his mouth to John after those fourteen years. And, yeah. The right swing to his jaw left a worse sting than the black dog’s tackle that fractured a couple of his ribs when he was sixteen. Mostly, it was the look in his father’s eyes after the hit. The incomprehensible hurtangergriefpride all concocted in a fiery gaze. The springing tears in his own eyes that never fell for he was brought up never to bare his soul.
As much as he craved getting to save people’s lives, he can’t chase away the need to know that his father was proud of him. That knowing Dean managed to put himself through medical school made his heart swell with pride, that Dean leaving the hunt did not hurt him too bad, that Dean was saving lives without ever having to kill things made him smile sometime. Dean never find out. Bobby called one afternoon when he was studying for a midterm, voice all clogged up and broken.
“John’s gone, son. Something got him. Your brother found him in the motel’s parking lot. I’m sorry.”
Dean wanted to cry, needed to. Instead he rushed to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet, gasping on dry air. His father raised him to be like this. Never to cry, never. He washed his face, stumbled into his bedroom and dialed for Sam. His brother didn’t answer. Not for a whole month. When he finally did, Dean almost doubled over in relief. Sam’s voice was deeper than the last time they talked. Rougher around the edges, all worn-out.
“I was busy trailing a chupacabra, Dean. Didn’t even have the time to soak in my grief. Listen, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back later, okay?”
The dial tone resounded in his head as his brother’s voice registered. You left us behind, Dean. You weren’t there. You weren’t here to help us. This is your fault.
The bile taste stayed with him up to this day. No amount of lifesaving could wash it away. But he kept on going, saving lives this way, his way. Because this is all he have right now. All he knew. He talked to Sam occasionally, perhaps once or twice a month for a year. Then it just deteriorated. He hadn’t heard his brother’s voice in ten months.
Ten months, seventeen days and five hours.
A steady tap on his shoulder broke him away from his reverie. He looked down to find a tiny brunette in a nurse uniform smiling, a clipboard extended up to him. He blinked and took it from her, flipping through the papers with deft fingers.
“Right. Thanks, Tara.”
“Something on your mind?” Tara asked, leaning higher against the counter of the nurse’s station.
Dean’s gaze lingered on the exposed cleavage against the white for a fragment of a second. “Maybe,” he grinned, winking. “Why? You want to do something about it?”
Tara blushed furiously red, grinning behind manicured fingers. “Oh, Doctor Winchester. You sure have your way with words.”
“I have my way with something else, too,” Dean drawled, leaning forward.
Before Tara could say something else, chaos broke at the corner of his eyes, the steady mental-over-crisis mode left over from John’s training immediately peaked. The paramedics were rolling in a man, all bloodied and torn up, chattering about BP and HR and GCS. Dean rushed forward, striding along at the feet of the man and leading them to the emergency unit.
“White male, mid-20s, no ID on him. BP’s 50 over 80, heart rate’s dropping fast. GCS 9.”
None of the words sunk in as they moved the man onto the bed and Dean caught sight of unruly brown hair covering green eyes, smooth angles of cheek and jaw, skin split open and breathing shallow out of familiar set of lips. For a moment, his heart stopped beating. For the first time he was nailed to his position in the face of an emergency. But this wasn’t just any emergency. Wasn’t just any MVA case where he would probe for GCS and bark for narcotics at the nurses. Sam, his little brother, was lying before him broken apart and bleeding to death. He swallowed bile and blood, almost gagged.
“Doctor?” the nurse to his right yelped. “Doctor! He’s going into shock.”
“Sammy?” Dean cried, cupping his brother’s face between his hands. “Sammy! What happened?”
All around them people are bustling to do something, to stabilize the patient. Dean ignored them all, desperate to get Sam to talk, just to hear his voice before, before-
Sam’s eyes blew wide open, green swirling into grey and unfocused. “Dean,” he wheezed.
Dean let Sam’s bloody hands gripped him, soiling his white coat, pushing in musty bitter blood in between his teeth with shaky fingers. “Sammy. Stay with me. Come on, I need you to stay with me.”
Sam blinked as Dean’s salty tears landed in his own eyes, breathing noisy and ragged. “It’s close. It’s getting close. I can’t stop it.”
“Sam!” Dean shouted, startling his colleagues and not caring even a bit. “Sammy, please.”
Sam shuddered. “Save me, Dean.”
A fleeting moment but Dean caught it. Sam’s eyes pitch black before shuttering close. Before his world fell apart.
“Doctor, we’re losing him.”
Dean knew he was born to save lives. Above all, he was born to save Sam.
03
God - he hated this feeling. This icy claw raking against his spine, a block of cement pushing onto his stomach. Feeling like he was sitting down to watch his own death row. The more the stewardesses kept smiling at him like he was some piece of meat (he is not, thank you very much), the more he felt like puking. He was aware of his good looks, there was no need to remind him. At the back of his mind his mom would coo and squish his cheeks telling him that girls are just fond of him and he’s lucky.
Luck.
The damn thing that put him in this damn plane in the first place. He could’ve been hanging around his own house playing with his dogs or whatever but no. It was just his luck that the head of the department’s too busy to go to this seminar and would you mind going in his place since you’re the best cardiac surgeon there is in the district?
Motherfuckers.
“Come again?”
Dean snapped, turning around to find the sharply-dressed man beside him frowning softly, a wide, amused smile on his face. He said it out loud. Great.
The guy grinned. “You’re a nervous flyer, aren’t you?”
“Try terrified out of my skin,” Dean muttered, smiling sheepishly.
“Well, I have some breathing techniques I could teach you. Could probably calm you down.”
Dean smirked, despite the choking grip he had on the armrests. “You’re a yoga instructor?”
He laughed, loud and clear and refreshing. “Lawyer, actually. What about you?”
Dean was suddenly grateful for the guy’s attempt to make small, comforting conversation. Very grateful. “I’m a surgeon. Heading off to some stupid conference in Ohio.”
“Wow. Now I feel silly,” the guy chuckled, wide green eyes twinkling. “Trying to teach my lame breathing techniques to a doctor.”
“Hey,” Dean grinned, feeling easy for the first time since he boarded. “I’m just human. I’m sure your breathing techniques could help me.”
“Maybe,” he grinned. “But I’m guessing you don’t really need them now.”
Dean could breathe easier now, beaming. “Yeah. Thanks for distracting me,” he said coyly as the guy shrugged boyishly. “So, what brings you on this flight?”
“I’m heading out to see my daughter. She’s staying there with her mom,” he replied, white grin back on full force. Reaching back for his wallet, he flipped it open to reveal a picture of a girl in pigtails grinning the same kind of smile from the clear compartment.
Dean can’t help but grin back in awe. “She’s insanely beautiful.”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “Got that from her momma.”
“Well,” Dean smirked, handing the wallet back over. “Don’t show that to my mom. She’s been wanting a grandkid ever since my first date in seventh grade. It’s like we don’t have anything else to talk about every time I go home. The minute I stepped into the house, it’s all when are you bringing a nice respectful young girl over and are you engaged yet?” Dean groaned under his breath.
“I know what you mean. My momma hit the roof when I told her Jess and I decided not to get hitched after finding out about Carrie.”
“At least you have a super cute kid for a shield. Me? I can’t help how busy I am. It’s not like I don’t try. I’m hoping to meet someone outside of the hospital, for once.”
“Ever consider meeting that someone on a plane?” the guy raised an eyebrow, nodding in the direction of the front of the plane where a stewardess was eyeing Dean, smiling shyly.
Dean watched her a while, smiled politely in return and tuned back into the conversation. “Maybe. I’m not going to wait, though. It’ll come when it comes.”
“Good principle,” the guy nodded, looking slightly impressed.
“I’m Dean, by the way,” Dean finally said, offering a hand.
The guy took it, grinning wide. “I’m Sam.”
“I’m so glad to meet you, Sam. This is going to be a long flight. I was hoping it wouldn’t be a horrible one.”
“It’s great meeting you, too. And don’t worry,” Sam beamed, patting Dean amiably on the knee. “I’ll keep you entertained in the meantime.”
“Cool.”
word count: 3000-ish
rating: PG; for language. gen.
disclaimer: if they were mine, i'd keep them jollygood happy, hopped up on sugar, forever in prank war mode and there'd damn well be hugs.
summary: if sam had gotten his normal life; if dean had gotten his normal life; if both brothers had gotten their normal lives; if they were never brothers to begin with. would anything ever be the same?
a/n: an au of lawyer!sam; doctor!dean and normal people!winchesters. comments would be utterly adored. :)
01
Sam’s vision got adjusted to the pitch darkness so quick he didn’t even realize it. All around him everything smelt like smoke and dust and scorched flesh. Every fiber in his being was telling him that he shouldn’t be here. This is the apocalypse. He should be lying lifeless somewhere with the rest of the population instead of standing on a pile of ash holding a gleaming sword. He rejected this calling years ago. This wasn’t his destiny any longer. He can hear his brother breathing heavily next to him, breath rendered cold and shaking with pain. Dean beside him was ripping at the seams, blood gurgling in his thorax, an invisible force shredding his flesh and tearing his soul apart from the inside out. Sam didn’t need to be a psychic to know what was running through his brother’s mind.
Save Sammy, save Sammy.
His last thought before the deafening scream. Sam turned around to watch as Dean doubled over, dark red blood dripping from the impaled sword in his abdomen, the other end of the one Sam was holding. Without preamble, Sam plunged the blade deeper and Dean cried out, long and hoarse and then silence.
Sam jerked awake on his bed, face wet with perspiration. Next to him his fiancée was deep asleep, her breathing steady and rhythmic. He glanced to the digital numbers on the radio clock and sighed. Two hours until dawn. Climbing off the bed he padded to the bathroom, washed his face with ice cold water and headed down the hall to his home office. Might as well make use of the time, he thought.
He wouldn’t know when the transition happened. When making use of time switched from cleaning the guns to going over legal documents and preparing for an early morning meeting. On his work desk his parents beamed at him from the pewter picture frame. Sam smiled softly back, leaned back and flipped open the thick folder.
*
Sam passed a last, broad smile to the woman standing in the kitchen doorway with a floral apron tied around her small waist before stepping out into the beautiful morning, heading to the black SUV parked before his garage. He was just climbing in when a familiar, deep voice rang from the passenger’s seat.
“You look good, Sammy.”
Sam wiped the startled, openmouthed look on his face with a broad palm, chuckling despite himself. “Jesus Christ, Dean. You scared the hell out of me.”
Dean grinned, sending his brother a sideways glinting gaze. “You’re getting sloppy, then. What if I were a ghoul? Would you run off screaming like a little girl?”
Sam screwed up his face, tossing his briefcase onto the backseat. “What the fuck are you doing here, Dean?”
“It’s nice to see you too, little brother. Life’s been treating you good, I suppose,” Dean nodded towards the two-storey suburban house.
Sam scowled. “I’m going to be late for work. Would you mind? Can’t we meet up later or something?”
There was something shadowing Dean’s face but he quickly replaced it with his signature tilting smirk. “Fine, Mr. Big Time Lawyer. I’ll swing by your office later. You still eat lunch, right? Or do you professionals take, like, a pill everyday for daily nutrition?”
Sam can’t help but grin. “I’ll see you then, Dean. It’s nice seeing you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbled, waving a hand and climbed off before heading towards the gleaming black muscle car parked on the other end of the road.
Sam watched his brother leave, noticing that Dean was leaning forward behind the wheel, speaking into his cell phone with a dejected look on his feature and running a hand over his face. Trademark move of when he is stressed. Sam bit his lower lip worriedly but later decided the worry could wait until noon.
*
Dean stepped up to the door and smiled. From behind the door he can hear Sam’s voice, steady and confident. He punctuated every line with his big, honest laughter and Dean felt at home again. Home, almost ten years ago. When Sam was still riding shotgun with him in the Impala, on Dad’s trail on some job that required them to work hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, as brothers. When he would blast AC/DC over and over again until Sam screamed for him to stop. Then he would reach out and poke at Sam’s rib and his little brother would laugh before jabbing his bony elbow into Dean’s side and they would laugh and laugh until Dad stop somewhere where they have to put their game face on and everything is dead serious. Home, almost ten years ago before Sam dumped the fat envelope on the rickety dining table and Dad almost swing at Sam’s face if Dean didn’t step in between them. Before he woke up to an empty bedroom and all of Sam’s things were gone save for the scribbled note on the side table.
I’m sorry, Dean.
One look at the gold plate mounted on the door and he was transferred back to cold, harsh reality. Samuel R. Winchester. Dean smirked, paused and knocked loudly on the door. Sam’s soothing, everything’s going to be okay voice summoned him in. He was hunched over the big desk, head buried in some kind of book.
“So,” Dean leered, “you’re using your middle name now, Randy?”
Sam glanced up and returned the grin. “I’ve always liked that name. Mom gave it to me, didn’t she?”
Dean’s feature clouded over like every other time Mary was mentioned. Blinking back the incipient tears choking at his throat, he smiled fleetingly. “I’m glad you’re doing great now.”
Sam watched as his brother took the seat before him, posture and facial expression primed for a legal advice out of habit before he realized that this wasn’t some client. This is Dean. “How’re you doing? How’s everything after…Dad?”
Dean’s throat worked a little, looking like he was on the brink of tears once again. Then he swallowed and Dean Winchester’s patented smirk broke across his face. “Well, still hunting. Making honest money. Killing every son of a bitches that are stupid enough to leave a trail.”
“That’s-”
“Sorry,” Dean reached into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone, Deep Purple ringing shrilly. “Yeah. No, Jo. I’m just…I have some business to do, okay? Keep searching. I’ll call you back later.”
Sam arched an eyebrow when Dean flipped his phone shut. “New sidekick?”
There was humor in every bit of Sam’s tone but it still hit Dean square in the belly. That his brother could ever think there could be anyone to replace him. “She’s just helping me with research.”
“She?” Sam’s green eyes lighted up with amusement. “Wow. And she’s just…doing research for you?”
“No, Sammy. She also cooks my meals, does my laundry, gives me occasional blowjobs and is the mother of my three children,” Dean replied sarcastically. “Come on, Sam. What makes you think I can ever be tied down?”
Sam pressed his dimple in, lips tilting at an angle. “I’m getting married.”
There was that shadow again. Sam finally recognized it as Dean’s remorse resurfacing. “Congratulations, Sammy,” he laughed, voice strained and tight. “Is it that hot blonde you were roommates with in college? ‘Cause I might have to hang around your place a lot on holidays.”
Sam’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, small and almost wistful. “Jess passed away three years ago.”
Dean’s eyelids fluttered against his cheeks, lower lip trembling slightly. “I…I’m sorry, Sammy.”
Sam nodded, finally figuring it out. Dean’s guilt. “Why are you actually here, Dean?”
Dean gazed at his brother from underneath heavy eyelashes. “Something terrible is coming our way, Sam. And I need your help saving someone.”
Sam can feel it in his guts before the word even came. He felt the heat from the fire the night he lost Jessica. He saw it in the grieving dark green fire of his brother’s eyes. Yet he still posed the question. “Who? Dean, who do you need to save?”
Dean’s voice was shaky, his olive green eyes shimmering. “You.”
02
Dean always knew he was born to save lives. Only, for fourteen years of his life saving lives meant hardcore PT everyday after school, learning Latin and memorizing exorcising rituals all summer at Pastor Jim’s and shooting targets in the backyard every single minute of his free time. He just didn’t think that he would have enough guts to open his mouth to John after those fourteen years. And, yeah. The right swing to his jaw left a worse sting than the black dog’s tackle that fractured a couple of his ribs when he was sixteen. Mostly, it was the look in his father’s eyes after the hit. The incomprehensible hurtangergriefpride all concocted in a fiery gaze. The springing tears in his own eyes that never fell for he was brought up never to bare his soul.
As much as he craved getting to save people’s lives, he can’t chase away the need to know that his father was proud of him. That knowing Dean managed to put himself through medical school made his heart swell with pride, that Dean leaving the hunt did not hurt him too bad, that Dean was saving lives without ever having to kill things made him smile sometime. Dean never find out. Bobby called one afternoon when he was studying for a midterm, voice all clogged up and broken.
“John’s gone, son. Something got him. Your brother found him in the motel’s parking lot. I’m sorry.”
Dean wanted to cry, needed to. Instead he rushed to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet, gasping on dry air. His father raised him to be like this. Never to cry, never. He washed his face, stumbled into his bedroom and dialed for Sam. His brother didn’t answer. Not for a whole month. When he finally did, Dean almost doubled over in relief. Sam’s voice was deeper than the last time they talked. Rougher around the edges, all worn-out.
“I was busy trailing a chupacabra, Dean. Didn’t even have the time to soak in my grief. Listen, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back later, okay?”
The dial tone resounded in his head as his brother’s voice registered. You left us behind, Dean. You weren’t there. You weren’t here to help us. This is your fault.
The bile taste stayed with him up to this day. No amount of lifesaving could wash it away. But he kept on going, saving lives this way, his way. Because this is all he have right now. All he knew. He talked to Sam occasionally, perhaps once or twice a month for a year. Then it just deteriorated. He hadn’t heard his brother’s voice in ten months.
Ten months, seventeen days and five hours.
A steady tap on his shoulder broke him away from his reverie. He looked down to find a tiny brunette in a nurse uniform smiling, a clipboard extended up to him. He blinked and took it from her, flipping through the papers with deft fingers.
“Right. Thanks, Tara.”
“Something on your mind?” Tara asked, leaning higher against the counter of the nurse’s station.
Dean’s gaze lingered on the exposed cleavage against the white for a fragment of a second. “Maybe,” he grinned, winking. “Why? You want to do something about it?”
Tara blushed furiously red, grinning behind manicured fingers. “Oh, Doctor Winchester. You sure have your way with words.”
“I have my way with something else, too,” Dean drawled, leaning forward.
Before Tara could say something else, chaos broke at the corner of his eyes, the steady mental-over-crisis mode left over from John’s training immediately peaked. The paramedics were rolling in a man, all bloodied and torn up, chattering about BP and HR and GCS. Dean rushed forward, striding along at the feet of the man and leading them to the emergency unit.
“White male, mid-20s, no ID on him. BP’s 50 over 80, heart rate’s dropping fast. GCS 9.”
None of the words sunk in as they moved the man onto the bed and Dean caught sight of unruly brown hair covering green eyes, smooth angles of cheek and jaw, skin split open and breathing shallow out of familiar set of lips. For a moment, his heart stopped beating. For the first time he was nailed to his position in the face of an emergency. But this wasn’t just any emergency. Wasn’t just any MVA case where he would probe for GCS and bark for narcotics at the nurses. Sam, his little brother, was lying before him broken apart and bleeding to death. He swallowed bile and blood, almost gagged.
“Doctor?” the nurse to his right yelped. “Doctor! He’s going into shock.”
“Sammy?” Dean cried, cupping his brother’s face between his hands. “Sammy! What happened?”
All around them people are bustling to do something, to stabilize the patient. Dean ignored them all, desperate to get Sam to talk, just to hear his voice before, before-
Sam’s eyes blew wide open, green swirling into grey and unfocused. “Dean,” he wheezed.
Dean let Sam’s bloody hands gripped him, soiling his white coat, pushing in musty bitter blood in between his teeth with shaky fingers. “Sammy. Stay with me. Come on, I need you to stay with me.”
Sam blinked as Dean’s salty tears landed in his own eyes, breathing noisy and ragged. “It’s close. It’s getting close. I can’t stop it.”
“Sam!” Dean shouted, startling his colleagues and not caring even a bit. “Sammy, please.”
Sam shuddered. “Save me, Dean.”
A fleeting moment but Dean caught it. Sam’s eyes pitch black before shuttering close. Before his world fell apart.
“Doctor, we’re losing him.”
Dean knew he was born to save lives. Above all, he was born to save Sam.
03
God - he hated this feeling. This icy claw raking against his spine, a block of cement pushing onto his stomach. Feeling like he was sitting down to watch his own death row. The more the stewardesses kept smiling at him like he was some piece of meat (he is not, thank you very much), the more he felt like puking. He was aware of his good looks, there was no need to remind him. At the back of his mind his mom would coo and squish his cheeks telling him that girls are just fond of him and he’s lucky.
Luck.
The damn thing that put him in this damn plane in the first place. He could’ve been hanging around his own house playing with his dogs or whatever but no. It was just his luck that the head of the department’s too busy to go to this seminar and would you mind going in his place since you’re the best cardiac surgeon there is in the district?
Motherfuckers.
“Come again?”
Dean snapped, turning around to find the sharply-dressed man beside him frowning softly, a wide, amused smile on his face. He said it out loud. Great.
The guy grinned. “You’re a nervous flyer, aren’t you?”
“Try terrified out of my skin,” Dean muttered, smiling sheepishly.
“Well, I have some breathing techniques I could teach you. Could probably calm you down.”
Dean smirked, despite the choking grip he had on the armrests. “You’re a yoga instructor?”
He laughed, loud and clear and refreshing. “Lawyer, actually. What about you?”
Dean was suddenly grateful for the guy’s attempt to make small, comforting conversation. Very grateful. “I’m a surgeon. Heading off to some stupid conference in Ohio.”
“Wow. Now I feel silly,” the guy chuckled, wide green eyes twinkling. “Trying to teach my lame breathing techniques to a doctor.”
“Hey,” Dean grinned, feeling easy for the first time since he boarded. “I’m just human. I’m sure your breathing techniques could help me.”
“Maybe,” he grinned. “But I’m guessing you don’t really need them now.”
Dean could breathe easier now, beaming. “Yeah. Thanks for distracting me,” he said coyly as the guy shrugged boyishly. “So, what brings you on this flight?”
“I’m heading out to see my daughter. She’s staying there with her mom,” he replied, white grin back on full force. Reaching back for his wallet, he flipped it open to reveal a picture of a girl in pigtails grinning the same kind of smile from the clear compartment.
Dean can’t help but grin back in awe. “She’s insanely beautiful.”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “Got that from her momma.”
“Well,” Dean smirked, handing the wallet back over. “Don’t show that to my mom. She’s been wanting a grandkid ever since my first date in seventh grade. It’s like we don’t have anything else to talk about every time I go home. The minute I stepped into the house, it’s all when are you bringing a nice respectful young girl over and are you engaged yet?” Dean groaned under his breath.
“I know what you mean. My momma hit the roof when I told her Jess and I decided not to get hitched after finding out about Carrie.”
“At least you have a super cute kid for a shield. Me? I can’t help how busy I am. It’s not like I don’t try. I’m hoping to meet someone outside of the hospital, for once.”
“Ever consider meeting that someone on a plane?” the guy raised an eyebrow, nodding in the direction of the front of the plane where a stewardess was eyeing Dean, smiling shyly.
Dean watched her a while, smiled politely in return and tuned back into the conversation. “Maybe. I’m not going to wait, though. It’ll come when it comes.”
“Good principle,” the guy nodded, looking slightly impressed.
“I’m Dean, by the way,” Dean finally said, offering a hand.
The guy took it, grinning wide. “I’m Sam.”
“I’m so glad to meet you, Sam. This is going to be a long flight. I was hoping it wouldn’t be a horrible one.”
“It’s great meeting you, too. And don’t worry,” Sam beamed, patting Dean amiably on the knee. “I’ll keep you entertained in the meantime.”
“Cool.”