I ficced! Raising the Dead by Numbers 1/1, Gen
It's been so long since I've posted any fic that I've forgotten how to do everything! As kroki-refur knows, I am terrible with html, so bear with me here. I don't know where this fic came from. I was working on my spn_holidays fic and this came out. Finally, when I hit page nine I knew I had to start backing away, because I have actual deadlines and shopping and stuff.
kroki-refur, this is for you.
Raising the Dead by Numbers / Gen / R for language
AU, pre-series... sort of
Sam comes home.
It was a Wednesday when Sam called, Dean remembers that. He doesn’t remember where he was, Montana, he thinks, all the small towns in Montana look alike. He was sitting in a bar, or maybe a diner and he might have been flirting with a waitress, or maybe he was just sitting in the Impala, waiting for something to happen. His phone rang. It often does, sometimes a wrong number, sometimes dad, or Bobby, or Jim, or Caleb. Sometimes a girl he met, who looked too hard and saw something in his face that wasn’t ever there.
But it was Sam. Sam, calling his cell phone, and Dean never once wondered how Sam had gotten the number. Under the circumstances, Dean thinks he ought to be forgiven the oversight.
The Wednesday In Question
The Impala is parked on the side of the highway and Dean has a hip balanced on the passenger door. He takes small sips from his bottled water, careful not to spill any. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to have to wait for the tow truck. Marty, of Marty’s Towing and Trucks, did not sound particularly moved by Dean’s situation.
When the phone rings it vibrates pleasantly against Dean’s thigh, tickling his fingertips as he tugs it out of his pocket. He checks the display but isn’t surprised when it blinks ‘unknown number’.
“’lo?” he’s wiping dusty knuckles against his collarbone, distracted and hoping like hell it’s not Annette calling. She’s called a few times, hasn’t yet realized that she’s just a memory of four state lines ago.
“Dean,” Sam says, “Hey.”
Dean’s mouth is real dry again, but his hands are shaking too bad to attempt a drink of water. He holds the phone tight, mindful of the way it’s slippery with sweat against his ear. It’s been almost fifteen months since he and Sam exchanged kind words. The week before Sam left for Stanford, when Dean and dad were still walking around ignorant of the bomb about to hit, Sam was sweet as could be. Didn’t complain about the music, about the cold water in the shower, about being shuffled from the backseat to the diner to the backseat to wherever, just sat back with a little smile. Dean flushes when he remembers how happy he was, that week, thinking that Sam had finally come to his senses, finally come around.
“Sam,” he says. There’s a long pause and he can hear the sound of cars, the low whine of fast moving vehicles and the breeze that comes with them. He tastes the salt on his lips and wishes he could feel that breeze. “What’s going on? I can hear... are you near a highway?”
“Yeah, I’m at this gas station. Thing’s damn near on the highway.” Sam laughs a little, but Dean, with the phone so close to his ear, can hear the strain.
“So what are you doing at a gas station on the highway? Don’t you have classes?” Dean frowns a little, has to think about what month it is, is school even in session? He’s not sure.
“Yeah, but, this thing happened and I just thought,” Sam trails off, or maybe the connection broke. Dean pulls the phone away from his head just long enough to count the little reception bars. Two. Good enough, or should be. “Dean?”
“Yeah, are you hurt? What happened?”
“No, it’s just, I’m not hurt. The thing is, I had this paper to write on Margaret Atwood, right? Because apparently in California Canadian counts as foreign and foreign is edgy, and I get stuck with this stupid poem about a needle and an eye, I don’t know, it’s only forty words. But, in a moment of duress, I say that Atwood is a freaking hack and all of a sudden no one is talking to me, because Atwood is edgy.” Sam is talking really fast, and Dean thinks he must have missed something, or else he’s been out in the sun too long.
“Sam, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I thought I was coming here to do something. I thought that school was going to be this Holy Grail or something, and it’s not. My roommate is a trust fund baby who fucking reeks because apparently deodorant companies are killing baby dolphins and no one ever does anything. I mean, massive fights erupt over literature discussions and all I could think about was that at least when we fought, it meant something.”
“What are you saying?” Dean is very careful, doesn’t want to say anything that might be held against him later.
“Where are you?” Sam says, completely casual.
Shit. Nothing for it, now.
“Nevada. Thought I might hit Vegas, but you know how it is.”
“No, I don’t. How is it?”
“Up around the border, like,” Dean says.
“I’d ask which one, but I doubt you’d be this evasive if it weren’t California.” Sam sounds happy. Dean can’t risk it yet.
“You need to tell me what’s going on.” He says, voice sharper than he intends.
“I want to come home,” Sam replies. And it’s everything Dean has dreamed of for the past fifteen months.
*
Sam is the same in all the important ways. He bitches about the music, he ducks Dean’s reflexive hair ruffling, and he scowls when Sammy slips out instead of Sam. He doesn’t want Dean to call dad, which isn’t surprising but still hurts underneath old scar tissue.
“Later, Dean, okay? I’m not... I’m not mad, really.” Sam pushes his potatoes around the edge of the plate. The waitress refills their mugs without asking. Dean doesn’t say anything, just lets the bitter coffee sit on his tongue a moment too long. Sam can usually be trusted to fill the silences. “After everything I said I don’t want him to know that I dropped out.”
“Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but it’s going to come up eventually.” Dean says, laying one arm across the top of the booth.
“Yeah, I know, just not yet. Please, Dean?” Sam looks up from under his bangs, earnest and trusting and Dean reconciles himself to more lies of omission. He and dad have been working separate jobs more often than not, the other an uncomfortable reminder of Sam, but he turned down dad’s offer to meet in Bisby. He’s never done that, and the halting way dad said ‘another time, then’ still rings in his ears. Still, with Sammy looking at him like that, dad seems far away.
*
Sam fumbles the shotgun on their first hunt, misses the spirit by a mile, spraying rock salt against an armoire and for a minute Dean thinks there must be another spook, some reason for Sam to have missed. There isn’t though, and Dean just barely gets off a shot before the spirit of Abigail Walder hits him, hard. Trembling hands cradle Dean’s head and all Dean can see in the dark is the whites of Sam’s eyes.
Next morning Dean props himself up against a wood post fence and supervises Sam through four hours of shooting practice. Dean is furious when he sees how Sam’s big hands hold the shotguns, wrong position and ready to get a kick back in the shoulder.
“The fuck, Sam?” he says, loud and angry in the cool air. Sam’s shoulders get stiff and tight.
“I thought I left all this behind.” He says. Dean wants to ask if he’s part of that baggage, but some things are too cruel to be spoken out loud.
In any case, Sam might have forgotten how to hold a gun, but he sure as shit remembers all that old arcane lore and recitations that Dean has never had a memory for. His research skills have only gotten better, and Dean sits back and lets Sam coax the most ridiculously random pieces of information out of a web browser. Sam doesn’t talk about how or when he learned these new techniques, Dean imagines him cloistered in a library, and Dean doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know what Sammy was doing when he should have been with him, with dad. Sammy is sorry and knows better now, Dean doesn’t need to rub his nose in it.
*
“This is stupid. Why can’t we just pull over and ask someone where the liquor store is?” Sam says, knocking his knuckles against the window.
“Where is your sense of adventure, Sammy?” Dean makes a tsk sound and shakes his head. Sam is frowning, but it’s not the red-alert scowl, so Dean ignores it.
“Uh, back with that shrub we backed over when you turned around for the third time.” Sam says.
“That wasn’t a shrub, that was a weed,”
“After you crushed it,”
And so it goes. Sam buys a digital camera with one of Dean’s credit cards and makes Dean pull over in Maine so he can take pictures of windmills.
“It’s really cool, actually, there are all these wind energy projects along the east coast. Canada has a few, like, wind farms. The wind mills are strategically placed on coastlines and higher altitudes and then the power is fed directly into the grid.”
Dean slides on a pair of sunglasses rescued from the backseat and bumps his shoulder against Sam’s.
“Yeah, but who gives a shit?” he says, just to get Sam going. Sam probably sees that Dean is just teasing, but he still can’t stop himself.
“Dean, man, you can’t just go around with your head in the sand. Climate issues, global warming, these are not myths. Have you even heard of An Inconvenient Truth? Seriously. Considering the fuel efficiency of the Impala, you should totally be trying to be more energy conscious in other ways.”
“Oh yeah, I heard of that truth movie. It was about Bill and Monica, right? Now there was a fucking inconvenient truth, if you ask me. And a damn shame, too. I really liked Clinton.” Dean smirks.
“Uh huh. So that biodegradable soap you bought to wash the car with?”
“I told you. Complete accident.”
With the sunglasses on, Dean doesn’t bother pretending to look away when Sam smiles wide and bright.
*
Sam’s been back in the passenger seat for over a year, and Dean still hasn’t told dad. Hasn’t seen him in even longer. It doesn’t worry him, dad has always preferred to be on his own, and Dean can’t remember why that bothered him in the first place.
Dean gets a little distracted when Sam is impaled with a piece of rebar somewhere in Minnesota. Blood is slick on his hands, it’s pumping out of Sam so fast, too fast, and all he can think is I can’t stop this, nothing can stop this, and then, for one blind-terror moment, why did I let him come back?
The shapeshifter is gone, just a nice parting gift, copper smell heavy in the air. Dean’s fingertips feel numb as they skate down Sam’s flank as Sam chokes and flops on the dirty cement floor.
“Pull it out,” he says. “Dean, pull it out.”
Dean damn well knows better, one of the first things dad taught them was that as ugly as it might look, as bad as it might feel, when something got stuck in you don’t pull it out until you got to a hospital. That’s how bleed outs happen. But this isn’t any splinter, and Dean can either let Sam go quick, the way he wants, or let him suffer for the sake of fifteen minutes. He slides a hand under Sam’s shirt and feels the tip of the rod distending the skin of Sam’s back, not quite poked through.
“You look at me, now,” he says. Sam’s back is arched and his pupils are blown wide but his gaze fastens on Dean’s all the same. “I’m gonna pull this out, and it’s gonna hurt,” Dean doesn’t wait to get the words out, just takes a deep breath between ‘gonna’ and ‘hurt’ and yanks. Sam doesn’t yell or scream, he makes a sobbing mewling noise which is about a thousand times worse. Dean feels like a rock is on his chest, like he can’t get enough air, and he pulls Sam into his lap and hugs the lanky body to him. “You done so good, Sammy. That damned shifter didn’t even know what hit it,” Dean is breathing through his nose but it doesn’t stop the tears.
“Fuck,” Sam says, all drawn out and sounded awed. He twists a little in Dean’s arms and then Dean can feel his ribs expanding with an indrawn breath that’s deep and clear.
“What,” Dean turns Sam toward him, sees the colour high in his cheeks and a smear of blood on his chin. He pushes Sam’s shirt up, soaked as it is, and he can’t find the hole where the rebar went in. “What,” he says again, his arms tightening reflexively before he pushes Sam out of his lap. Sam rolls into a crouch with his hands extended, palms facing Dean.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he says, and then passes out.
Dean sits until his ass gets sore and pulls Sam into a fireman’s carry. It’ll keep, whatever it is.
*
It occurs to Dean as he’s watching Sam sleep that Sam might not really be Sam. There’s a bottle of holy water and a pistol loaded with iron within reach, but Dean just keeps watch, seated on the edge of one of the motel beds with his hands dangling between his knees.
Sam sleeps for three hours.
“If it’s not what it looks like,” Dean says, “then what the fuck is it?”
“You wanted so hard that I was born,” Sam says, quiet and sad.
“Born when, exactly?”
“For you. Don’t you remember, Dean? The old crone? She promised you a gift. So I came to you. Your Sam.”
“You’re not my brother,” Dean says slowly, testing the words on his tongue. Sam looks alarmed, wide mouth open and hands clutching the bed clothes.
“I’m your Sam. I remember everything. I remember the time I broke my arm in fourth grade, and I got in trouble because you drew a dick on my cast. I remember in Wisconsin when you got sick and I had to lay you in the snow. I remember you. I remember us. I was born for you.”
“My Sam?” Dean asks, and instead of sounding disgusted he realizes that he comes off as vulnerable instead. Sam climbs out of the bed and goes to his knees before Dean, resting his head against Dean’s knee.
“Your Sam, and I’ll never leave you.” Sam says, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s denim covered thigh. Dean twists his fingers in Sam’s hair, too long, and pulls a little. Sam looks up. “I just want things to be how they were.”
“Maybe they can,” Dean says. “You have to tell me everything.”
Sam does.
“I need water, I think. But I don’t need to eat food. I need air. I didn’t know I would heal like that.”
“So, do you go to the bathroom?” Dean isn’t really disturbed, more curious.
“No. I’ve just been pretending.” Sam says, a small smile on his face.
“Well, what the hell have you been doing?”
“Reading. Thinking.” Sam shrugs. Dean smiles then. How very Sam-like. He pauses then, unsure.
“What about the real Sam?” Dean’s tongue is heavy in his mouth, and his eyes are suddenly drooping. This is all so tiring.
“I am real,” Sam insists, stubborn expression on. “Let’s just go to sleep, Dean, we can talk more in the morning.”
Dean wants to protest, something is off, but Sam is getting into bed with him, wrapping arms around him as he’d done as a child, and Dean doesn’t want to fight this.
When Dean wakes up the television is on, MTV, and Christopher Walken is dancing. When Sam sees Dean is awake he turns down the volume and Dean hears something catchy, about choice, and Sam is grinning.
“This is the coolest video ever, Dean. Just wait, Christopher Walken is about to fly,” he says and Dean grins back.
“Okay. Hey, we should get some waffles.”
*
Sometimes Sam sleeps in Dean’s bed, sometimes he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t mind, privately he thinks it’s kind of cute. Sam makes little snuffling noises in his sleep and rubs his toes against Dean’s shins.
So it’s really surprising when another Sam shows up.
Dean is sitting with his back to the door, which normally wouldn’t have happened, but the way the waitress danced around them it was easier to take a seat and let her pour some coffee. Sam eats, sometimes, and today he wanted a nice salad and Dean feels a little awkward, seated at a tiny table with rickety chairs. He’s much more comfortable with booths and bench seats.
The point is, the first thing Dean sees is the look on Sam’s face. Wide-eyed, mouth open, and panic on the fringes of his expression.
“What?” Dean says, and twists around in the chair to see what Sam is looking at. It’s Sam. A different Sam. He’s taller, and leaner, and he looks hard. He looks angry.
“What the fuck, Dean?” Other-Sam demands. Sam is pushing away from the table, making a low keening sound, and Dean grabs him by the wrist and manhandles him out the front door, past Other-Sam. He’s pretty sure Other-Sam will follow, and he needs room to get out his gun without setting off an entire restaurant.
“Dean, what the fuck?” Other-Sam is shrill and sounds borderline hysterical. “Who is this?” he’s shaking, and Dean doesn’t know who to reach for, doesn’t know what’s going on.
“Shut up, you’re upsetting him,” he says finally, when Sam’s keening gets louder.
“Who is he?” Other-Sam doesn’t want to be outdone in volume, because he’s screaming now. Suddenly Sam stops.
“I’m his Sam.” He says. Other-Sam lets out a choked sob.
“Dean. Dean, what did you do?” he whispers.
“I didn’t do anything, okay?” Dean snarls, pissed off beyond all measure. He’s so confused, he hates being confused.
“He wished for me.” Sam says.
“Sam, stop. Don’t talk to him.” Dean waves him off.
“Don’t call him Sam! He’s not me, he’s not your brother.” Other-Sam is yelling again, but now he’s crying, too.
“Don’t cry, Sam, come back to the motel with us. We’ll explain, okay?” Sam reaches out slowly and strokes a hand down his double’s arm. Dean can see now how much shorter Sam is, and he worries that Other-Sam might attack him. Other-Sam just sags under the weight of Sam’s touch, mouth turned down and cheeks wet.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asks. Dean wishes he knew.
Other-Sam sits in the backseat, hunched over and crying silently during the short drive. Dean wants to ask where this Sam came from, but it doesn’t seem like a good time.
“Something came after me, at Stanford,” Other-Sam says when they’re all three of them in the motel room. It feels too small now, and Dean opens a window.
“Stanford?” Dean echoes. “So, you never left?” he glances over at Sam, who raises an eyebrow, as if to say see?
“No, I mean, why would I?” Other-Sam looks confused, and Dean shakes his head. His Sam came to him. That’s important. “It was a demon, we think. I’ve been talking to Bobby.”
Dean feels a jolt of surprise. Bobby. He hasn’t thought of Bobby in so long. He wonders if Bobby still keeps dogs.
“Dean, we don’t know where dad is. Bobby seems to think that it might have something to do with mom. That maybe it was a demon, and that the same one came to Palo Alto. I,” Other-Sam looks away, swallows. “There was a fire. My girlfriend died. I’ve been looking for you. Everyone has. They said that you just... just dropped off the map. I thought something had happened, but then Jim said someone saw you around Clanton so I came out and...”
“And found us,” Sam says. Other-Sam’s eyes narrow.
“Yes,” he says, very sharp, “So why don’t you fill me in. What the fuck are you and what are you doing with my brother?”
“What do you know about mom? About what killed her?” Dean says. There’s no air, Dean wishes there was another window to open.
“Not much. A fire demon maybe. I don’t know what it’s after, why it keeps coming after us. If I could talk to dad,” Other-Sam shakes his head. “I want to know about him.” He nods in Sam’s direction.
“Dean needed me. Needed you first, but you wouldn’t come. Too selfish for that.” Sam says in a tone of voice that Dean has never heard before. It’s one he remembers, from before, before Stanford and before Sammy was gone.
Other-Sam is pale. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. What are you?”
“I’m Dean’s Sam. I take care of him. I was born because he asked for me.” Sam says, a smile on his face that doesn’t match his words.
“Sam,” Dean feels like they’re going somewhere unfamiliar. Two Sam’s, the math isn’t right.
“Dean, don’t you see? He’s going to ruin everything.” Sam says, tears in his eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Dean, don’t listen to it. It’s done something to you,” Other-Sam is getting to his feet, hands held close to his sides.
Things are happening too fast, Dean just wants to make time slow down, make both Sam’s sit and just wait. It doesn’t make any sense.
“Dean, he’s got a gun!” Sam yells and Dean moves, wrenches back Other-Sam’s arm, ignoring the howl of protest and watches as a revolved drops out of nerveless fingers. He pulls his own gun out of his waistband and nestles the barrel against the curve of skull.
“Now, just hold on a damned minute. I can’t even think straight in here,” Dean says as he frog-marches Other-Sam outside. It’s dark and misting, Dean sighs as the moisture hits his face.
“Dean,” Sam’s voice comes from right behind him. “Across the road, over that hill, we don’t want someone to call the cops.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, boots sliding in the mud as the mist turns into a full rain.
“Listen to me, Dean, this thing is not Sam. I’m Sam, don’t listen to it,” the body under Dean’s grip twists.
“Who’s been with you all this time, Dean? I chose you. I came to you because you needed me. This guy?” Sam points a finger at Other-Sam. “Well, you heard him. He needs something from you. He needs to find dad. He doesn’t care about you at all.”
“That’s not true, shut the fuck up,” Other-Sam rears up and away from Dean and without thinking Dean brings the butt of the gun down to bear before cocking it. Other-Sam stumbles under the blow and then freezes when the unmistakable click renders the air. “Dean,” he whispers, “Don’t do this.” There’s water on his face, tears and rain maybe, and Dean knows that this should all mean something, if only he could focus.
“Dean,” a third voice thunders from behind, Sam screams and Dean sees Bobby coming up fast before there’s a clap of light, and then nothing.
*
When Dean wakes up he hears murmurs, indistinct at first and then voices he recognizes. His head is pounding, but for the first time in months he feels really aware.
“I damned well told you to wait for me, didn’t I? I told you not to go sparkin’ off until I got back.” Bobby’s voice is getting progressively louder.
“I know, okay? But Jim called, and I didn’t know how long Dean would be there. I didn’t know about the familiar. I thought...”
Dean winces, claps a hand over his eyes. The familiar. What the fuck has been going on?
He picks up on another sound now, a howling, wordless and terrible. It’s coming from outside. Dean knows who it is, what it is. He barely resists the impulse to run to the source.
“Stupid bitch mighta thought she was doing him a favour, or maybe she just thought it would be funny. I don’t know, but we have got to get rid of it. It’s upsetting my dogs.” Bobby sounds less gruff, now, more tired.
“We can’t. Not until Dean wakes up. He needs to see it, how it really is. Now that you’re blocking its powers...” Sam. The real Sam. The one he almost shot.
Dean rolls over, a couch, he belatedly realizes, and pukes on the hardwood floor.
“Dean,” Sam is at his side instantly. “Shit, Dean, don’t move.”
Bobby is hard on his heels, hovering in the background with a glass of water and a damp washcloth.
“Let’s sit you up,” Sam says, sliding a dry palm under Dean’s neck and lifting. The rest of Dean’s body follows, he feels pathetically grateful and sicker than ever. How can Sam stand to look at him? “Try some water, okay?”
Dean takes a few careful sips.
“What?” he says, surprised by the croak that emerges from his throat.
“Powerful magic. You might not remember, but you crossed ways with a witch, down in Georgia, a long while back, and she conjured something big for you. A damned doppelganger,” Bobby shook his head as Sam dabbed Dean’s face with the cloth.
“You mean a fucking pod person?” Dean asks, and is startled when Sam barks out a laugh. He glances over, quickly, and sees wetness on Sam’s cheeks. No rain here, Dean knows what it means.
“More than that, Dean. He... it had a power. Like, I don’t know some kind of mind control, but nothing specific. Just like, as if it were keeping you drugged so you didn’t think about things too hard, you know?” Sam sits back on his haunches, hand warm against Dean’s shoulder.
“Jesus,” Dean says, ashamed. Witch ferreted out his weakness, played him for a fool. Now everyone can see, see how dependent he was, vulnerable.
“Bobby, maybe you could get some more water?” Sam asks quietly. Bobby backs away, taking the glass with him. Sam hooks a finger under Dean’s chin. “Dean. Dean, man, you gotta listen, okay? It wasn’t your fault. It was dark magic, strong magic. You couldn’t have done anything else. Bobby says,” Sam stops, breath hitching, “Bobby says that magic like that, should have driven you crazy, should have broken you. He figures that the witch didn’t count on a stubborn Winchester.”
“Where I’ve been, Sam, you don’t even know.” Dean shakes his head.
“So tell me. I’m here now.” Sam says. “Please Dean, I’m so scared,” he leans in then and Dean pressed him close, until he feels Sam’s nose against his collarbone. He breathes deep, the smell of Sam filling his lungs. This is it, the real Sam. The Sam that called Dean a cocksucker when he was sixteen, the Sam who isn’t afraid to say it when Dean is wrong, the Sam that needed his brother to tie his shoelaces until he was seven.
“We’re gonna be fine,” Dean says, and hopes like hell he isn’t lying.
kroki-refur, this is for you.
Raising the Dead by Numbers / Gen / R for language
AU, pre-series... sort of
Sam comes home.
It was a Wednesday when Sam called, Dean remembers that. He doesn’t remember where he was, Montana, he thinks, all the small towns in Montana look alike. He was sitting in a bar, or maybe a diner and he might have been flirting with a waitress, or maybe he was just sitting in the Impala, waiting for something to happen. His phone rang. It often does, sometimes a wrong number, sometimes dad, or Bobby, or Jim, or Caleb. Sometimes a girl he met, who looked too hard and saw something in his face that wasn’t ever there.
But it was Sam. Sam, calling his cell phone, and Dean never once wondered how Sam had gotten the number. Under the circumstances, Dean thinks he ought to be forgiven the oversight.
The Wednesday In Question
The Impala is parked on the side of the highway and Dean has a hip balanced on the passenger door. He takes small sips from his bottled water, careful not to spill any. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to have to wait for the tow truck. Marty, of Marty’s Towing and Trucks, did not sound particularly moved by Dean’s situation.
When the phone rings it vibrates pleasantly against Dean’s thigh, tickling his fingertips as he tugs it out of his pocket. He checks the display but isn’t surprised when it blinks ‘unknown number’.
“’lo?” he’s wiping dusty knuckles against his collarbone, distracted and hoping like hell it’s not Annette calling. She’s called a few times, hasn’t yet realized that she’s just a memory of four state lines ago.
“Dean,” Sam says, “Hey.”
Dean’s mouth is real dry again, but his hands are shaking too bad to attempt a drink of water. He holds the phone tight, mindful of the way it’s slippery with sweat against his ear. It’s been almost fifteen months since he and Sam exchanged kind words. The week before Sam left for Stanford, when Dean and dad were still walking around ignorant of the bomb about to hit, Sam was sweet as could be. Didn’t complain about the music, about the cold water in the shower, about being shuffled from the backseat to the diner to the backseat to wherever, just sat back with a little smile. Dean flushes when he remembers how happy he was, that week, thinking that Sam had finally come to his senses, finally come around.
“Sam,” he says. There’s a long pause and he can hear the sound of cars, the low whine of fast moving vehicles and the breeze that comes with them. He tastes the salt on his lips and wishes he could feel that breeze. “What’s going on? I can hear... are you near a highway?”
“Yeah, I’m at this gas station. Thing’s damn near on the highway.” Sam laughs a little, but Dean, with the phone so close to his ear, can hear the strain.
“So what are you doing at a gas station on the highway? Don’t you have classes?” Dean frowns a little, has to think about what month it is, is school even in session? He’s not sure.
“Yeah, but, this thing happened and I just thought,” Sam trails off, or maybe the connection broke. Dean pulls the phone away from his head just long enough to count the little reception bars. Two. Good enough, or should be. “Dean?”
“Yeah, are you hurt? What happened?”
“No, it’s just, I’m not hurt. The thing is, I had this paper to write on Margaret Atwood, right? Because apparently in California Canadian counts as foreign and foreign is edgy, and I get stuck with this stupid poem about a needle and an eye, I don’t know, it’s only forty words. But, in a moment of duress, I say that Atwood is a freaking hack and all of a sudden no one is talking to me, because Atwood is edgy.” Sam is talking really fast, and Dean thinks he must have missed something, or else he’s been out in the sun too long.
“Sam, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I thought I was coming here to do something. I thought that school was going to be this Holy Grail or something, and it’s not. My roommate is a trust fund baby who fucking reeks because apparently deodorant companies are killing baby dolphins and no one ever does anything. I mean, massive fights erupt over literature discussions and all I could think about was that at least when we fought, it meant something.”
“What are you saying?” Dean is very careful, doesn’t want to say anything that might be held against him later.
“Where are you?” Sam says, completely casual.
Shit. Nothing for it, now.
“Nevada. Thought I might hit Vegas, but you know how it is.”
“No, I don’t. How is it?”
“Up around the border, like,” Dean says.
“I’d ask which one, but I doubt you’d be this evasive if it weren’t California.” Sam sounds happy. Dean can’t risk it yet.
“You need to tell me what’s going on.” He says, voice sharper than he intends.
“I want to come home,” Sam replies. And it’s everything Dean has dreamed of for the past fifteen months.
*
Sam is the same in all the important ways. He bitches about the music, he ducks Dean’s reflexive hair ruffling, and he scowls when Sammy slips out instead of Sam. He doesn’t want Dean to call dad, which isn’t surprising but still hurts underneath old scar tissue.
“Later, Dean, okay? I’m not... I’m not mad, really.” Sam pushes his potatoes around the edge of the plate. The waitress refills their mugs without asking. Dean doesn’t say anything, just lets the bitter coffee sit on his tongue a moment too long. Sam can usually be trusted to fill the silences. “After everything I said I don’t want him to know that I dropped out.”
“Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but it’s going to come up eventually.” Dean says, laying one arm across the top of the booth.
“Yeah, I know, just not yet. Please, Dean?” Sam looks up from under his bangs, earnest and trusting and Dean reconciles himself to more lies of omission. He and dad have been working separate jobs more often than not, the other an uncomfortable reminder of Sam, but he turned down dad’s offer to meet in Bisby. He’s never done that, and the halting way dad said ‘another time, then’ still rings in his ears. Still, with Sammy looking at him like that, dad seems far away.
*
Sam fumbles the shotgun on their first hunt, misses the spirit by a mile, spraying rock salt against an armoire and for a minute Dean thinks there must be another spook, some reason for Sam to have missed. There isn’t though, and Dean just barely gets off a shot before the spirit of Abigail Walder hits him, hard. Trembling hands cradle Dean’s head and all Dean can see in the dark is the whites of Sam’s eyes.
Next morning Dean props himself up against a wood post fence and supervises Sam through four hours of shooting practice. Dean is furious when he sees how Sam’s big hands hold the shotguns, wrong position and ready to get a kick back in the shoulder.
“The fuck, Sam?” he says, loud and angry in the cool air. Sam’s shoulders get stiff and tight.
“I thought I left all this behind.” He says. Dean wants to ask if he’s part of that baggage, but some things are too cruel to be spoken out loud.
In any case, Sam might have forgotten how to hold a gun, but he sure as shit remembers all that old arcane lore and recitations that Dean has never had a memory for. His research skills have only gotten better, and Dean sits back and lets Sam coax the most ridiculously random pieces of information out of a web browser. Sam doesn’t talk about how or when he learned these new techniques, Dean imagines him cloistered in a library, and Dean doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know what Sammy was doing when he should have been with him, with dad. Sammy is sorry and knows better now, Dean doesn’t need to rub his nose in it.
*
“This is stupid. Why can’t we just pull over and ask someone where the liquor store is?” Sam says, knocking his knuckles against the window.
“Where is your sense of adventure, Sammy?” Dean makes a tsk sound and shakes his head. Sam is frowning, but it’s not the red-alert scowl, so Dean ignores it.
“Uh, back with that shrub we backed over when you turned around for the third time.” Sam says.
“That wasn’t a shrub, that was a weed,”
“After you crushed it,”
And so it goes. Sam buys a digital camera with one of Dean’s credit cards and makes Dean pull over in Maine so he can take pictures of windmills.
“It’s really cool, actually, there are all these wind energy projects along the east coast. Canada has a few, like, wind farms. The wind mills are strategically placed on coastlines and higher altitudes and then the power is fed directly into the grid.”
Dean slides on a pair of sunglasses rescued from the backseat and bumps his shoulder against Sam’s.
“Yeah, but who gives a shit?” he says, just to get Sam going. Sam probably sees that Dean is just teasing, but he still can’t stop himself.
“Dean, man, you can’t just go around with your head in the sand. Climate issues, global warming, these are not myths. Have you even heard of An Inconvenient Truth? Seriously. Considering the fuel efficiency of the Impala, you should totally be trying to be more energy conscious in other ways.”
“Oh yeah, I heard of that truth movie. It was about Bill and Monica, right? Now there was a fucking inconvenient truth, if you ask me. And a damn shame, too. I really liked Clinton.” Dean smirks.
“Uh huh. So that biodegradable soap you bought to wash the car with?”
“I told you. Complete accident.”
With the sunglasses on, Dean doesn’t bother pretending to look away when Sam smiles wide and bright.
*
Sam’s been back in the passenger seat for over a year, and Dean still hasn’t told dad. Hasn’t seen him in even longer. It doesn’t worry him, dad has always preferred to be on his own, and Dean can’t remember why that bothered him in the first place.
Dean gets a little distracted when Sam is impaled with a piece of rebar somewhere in Minnesota. Blood is slick on his hands, it’s pumping out of Sam so fast, too fast, and all he can think is I can’t stop this, nothing can stop this, and then, for one blind-terror moment, why did I let him come back?
The shapeshifter is gone, just a nice parting gift, copper smell heavy in the air. Dean’s fingertips feel numb as they skate down Sam’s flank as Sam chokes and flops on the dirty cement floor.
“Pull it out,” he says. “Dean, pull it out.”
Dean damn well knows better, one of the first things dad taught them was that as ugly as it might look, as bad as it might feel, when something got stuck in you don’t pull it out until you got to a hospital. That’s how bleed outs happen. But this isn’t any splinter, and Dean can either let Sam go quick, the way he wants, or let him suffer for the sake of fifteen minutes. He slides a hand under Sam’s shirt and feels the tip of the rod distending the skin of Sam’s back, not quite poked through.
“You look at me, now,” he says. Sam’s back is arched and his pupils are blown wide but his gaze fastens on Dean’s all the same. “I’m gonna pull this out, and it’s gonna hurt,” Dean doesn’t wait to get the words out, just takes a deep breath between ‘gonna’ and ‘hurt’ and yanks. Sam doesn’t yell or scream, he makes a sobbing mewling noise which is about a thousand times worse. Dean feels like a rock is on his chest, like he can’t get enough air, and he pulls Sam into his lap and hugs the lanky body to him. “You done so good, Sammy. That damned shifter didn’t even know what hit it,” Dean is breathing through his nose but it doesn’t stop the tears.
“Fuck,” Sam says, all drawn out and sounded awed. He twists a little in Dean’s arms and then Dean can feel his ribs expanding with an indrawn breath that’s deep and clear.
“What,” Dean turns Sam toward him, sees the colour high in his cheeks and a smear of blood on his chin. He pushes Sam’s shirt up, soaked as it is, and he can’t find the hole where the rebar went in. “What,” he says again, his arms tightening reflexively before he pushes Sam out of his lap. Sam rolls into a crouch with his hands extended, palms facing Dean.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he says, and then passes out.
Dean sits until his ass gets sore and pulls Sam into a fireman’s carry. It’ll keep, whatever it is.
*
It occurs to Dean as he’s watching Sam sleep that Sam might not really be Sam. There’s a bottle of holy water and a pistol loaded with iron within reach, but Dean just keeps watch, seated on the edge of one of the motel beds with his hands dangling between his knees.
Sam sleeps for three hours.
“If it’s not what it looks like,” Dean says, “then what the fuck is it?”
“You wanted so hard that I was born,” Sam says, quiet and sad.
“Born when, exactly?”
“For you. Don’t you remember, Dean? The old crone? She promised you a gift. So I came to you. Your Sam.”
“You’re not my brother,” Dean says slowly, testing the words on his tongue. Sam looks alarmed, wide mouth open and hands clutching the bed clothes.
“I’m your Sam. I remember everything. I remember the time I broke my arm in fourth grade, and I got in trouble because you drew a dick on my cast. I remember in Wisconsin when you got sick and I had to lay you in the snow. I remember you. I remember us. I was born for you.”
“My Sam?” Dean asks, and instead of sounding disgusted he realizes that he comes off as vulnerable instead. Sam climbs out of the bed and goes to his knees before Dean, resting his head against Dean’s knee.
“Your Sam, and I’ll never leave you.” Sam says, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s denim covered thigh. Dean twists his fingers in Sam’s hair, too long, and pulls a little. Sam looks up. “I just want things to be how they were.”
“Maybe they can,” Dean says. “You have to tell me everything.”
Sam does.
“I need water, I think. But I don’t need to eat food. I need air. I didn’t know I would heal like that.”
“So, do you go to the bathroom?” Dean isn’t really disturbed, more curious.
“No. I’ve just been pretending.” Sam says, a small smile on his face.
“Well, what the hell have you been doing?”
“Reading. Thinking.” Sam shrugs. Dean smiles then. How very Sam-like. He pauses then, unsure.
“What about the real Sam?” Dean’s tongue is heavy in his mouth, and his eyes are suddenly drooping. This is all so tiring.
“I am real,” Sam insists, stubborn expression on. “Let’s just go to sleep, Dean, we can talk more in the morning.”
Dean wants to protest, something is off, but Sam is getting into bed with him, wrapping arms around him as he’d done as a child, and Dean doesn’t want to fight this.
When Dean wakes up the television is on, MTV, and Christopher Walken is dancing. When Sam sees Dean is awake he turns down the volume and Dean hears something catchy, about choice, and Sam is grinning.
“This is the coolest video ever, Dean. Just wait, Christopher Walken is about to fly,” he says and Dean grins back.
“Okay. Hey, we should get some waffles.”
*
Sometimes Sam sleeps in Dean’s bed, sometimes he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t mind, privately he thinks it’s kind of cute. Sam makes little snuffling noises in his sleep and rubs his toes against Dean’s shins.
So it’s really surprising when another Sam shows up.
Dean is sitting with his back to the door, which normally wouldn’t have happened, but the way the waitress danced around them it was easier to take a seat and let her pour some coffee. Sam eats, sometimes, and today he wanted a nice salad and Dean feels a little awkward, seated at a tiny table with rickety chairs. He’s much more comfortable with booths and bench seats.
The point is, the first thing Dean sees is the look on Sam’s face. Wide-eyed, mouth open, and panic on the fringes of his expression.
“What?” Dean says, and twists around in the chair to see what Sam is looking at. It’s Sam. A different Sam. He’s taller, and leaner, and he looks hard. He looks angry.
“What the fuck, Dean?” Other-Sam demands. Sam is pushing away from the table, making a low keening sound, and Dean grabs him by the wrist and manhandles him out the front door, past Other-Sam. He’s pretty sure Other-Sam will follow, and he needs room to get out his gun without setting off an entire restaurant.
“Dean, what the fuck?” Other-Sam is shrill and sounds borderline hysterical. “Who is this?” he’s shaking, and Dean doesn’t know who to reach for, doesn’t know what’s going on.
“Shut up, you’re upsetting him,” he says finally, when Sam’s keening gets louder.
“Who is he?” Other-Sam doesn’t want to be outdone in volume, because he’s screaming now. Suddenly Sam stops.
“I’m his Sam.” He says. Other-Sam lets out a choked sob.
“Dean. Dean, what did you do?” he whispers.
“I didn’t do anything, okay?” Dean snarls, pissed off beyond all measure. He’s so confused, he hates being confused.
“He wished for me.” Sam says.
“Sam, stop. Don’t talk to him.” Dean waves him off.
“Don’t call him Sam! He’s not me, he’s not your brother.” Other-Sam is yelling again, but now he’s crying, too.
“Don’t cry, Sam, come back to the motel with us. We’ll explain, okay?” Sam reaches out slowly and strokes a hand down his double’s arm. Dean can see now how much shorter Sam is, and he worries that Other-Sam might attack him. Other-Sam just sags under the weight of Sam’s touch, mouth turned down and cheeks wet.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asks. Dean wishes he knew.
Other-Sam sits in the backseat, hunched over and crying silently during the short drive. Dean wants to ask where this Sam came from, but it doesn’t seem like a good time.
“Something came after me, at Stanford,” Other-Sam says when they’re all three of them in the motel room. It feels too small now, and Dean opens a window.
“Stanford?” Dean echoes. “So, you never left?” he glances over at Sam, who raises an eyebrow, as if to say see?
“No, I mean, why would I?” Other-Sam looks confused, and Dean shakes his head. His Sam came to him. That’s important. “It was a demon, we think. I’ve been talking to Bobby.”
Dean feels a jolt of surprise. Bobby. He hasn’t thought of Bobby in so long. He wonders if Bobby still keeps dogs.
“Dean, we don’t know where dad is. Bobby seems to think that it might have something to do with mom. That maybe it was a demon, and that the same one came to Palo Alto. I,” Other-Sam looks away, swallows. “There was a fire. My girlfriend died. I’ve been looking for you. Everyone has. They said that you just... just dropped off the map. I thought something had happened, but then Jim said someone saw you around Clanton so I came out and...”
“And found us,” Sam says. Other-Sam’s eyes narrow.
“Yes,” he says, very sharp, “So why don’t you fill me in. What the fuck are you and what are you doing with my brother?”
“What do you know about mom? About what killed her?” Dean says. There’s no air, Dean wishes there was another window to open.
“Not much. A fire demon maybe. I don’t know what it’s after, why it keeps coming after us. If I could talk to dad,” Other-Sam shakes his head. “I want to know about him.” He nods in Sam’s direction.
“Dean needed me. Needed you first, but you wouldn’t come. Too selfish for that.” Sam says in a tone of voice that Dean has never heard before. It’s one he remembers, from before, before Stanford and before Sammy was gone.
Other-Sam is pale. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. What are you?”
“I’m Dean’s Sam. I take care of him. I was born because he asked for me.” Sam says, a smile on his face that doesn’t match his words.
“Sam,” Dean feels like they’re going somewhere unfamiliar. Two Sam’s, the math isn’t right.
“Dean, don’t you see? He’s going to ruin everything.” Sam says, tears in his eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Dean, don’t listen to it. It’s done something to you,” Other-Sam is getting to his feet, hands held close to his sides.
Things are happening too fast, Dean just wants to make time slow down, make both Sam’s sit and just wait. It doesn’t make any sense.
“Dean, he’s got a gun!” Sam yells and Dean moves, wrenches back Other-Sam’s arm, ignoring the howl of protest and watches as a revolved drops out of nerveless fingers. He pulls his own gun out of his waistband and nestles the barrel against the curve of skull.
“Now, just hold on a damned minute. I can’t even think straight in here,” Dean says as he frog-marches Other-Sam outside. It’s dark and misting, Dean sighs as the moisture hits his face.
“Dean,” Sam’s voice comes from right behind him. “Across the road, over that hill, we don’t want someone to call the cops.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, boots sliding in the mud as the mist turns into a full rain.
“Listen to me, Dean, this thing is not Sam. I’m Sam, don’t listen to it,” the body under Dean’s grip twists.
“Who’s been with you all this time, Dean? I chose you. I came to you because you needed me. This guy?” Sam points a finger at Other-Sam. “Well, you heard him. He needs something from you. He needs to find dad. He doesn’t care about you at all.”
“That’s not true, shut the fuck up,” Other-Sam rears up and away from Dean and without thinking Dean brings the butt of the gun down to bear before cocking it. Other-Sam stumbles under the blow and then freezes when the unmistakable click renders the air. “Dean,” he whispers, “Don’t do this.” There’s water on his face, tears and rain maybe, and Dean knows that this should all mean something, if only he could focus.
“Dean,” a third voice thunders from behind, Sam screams and Dean sees Bobby coming up fast before there’s a clap of light, and then nothing.
*
When Dean wakes up he hears murmurs, indistinct at first and then voices he recognizes. His head is pounding, but for the first time in months he feels really aware.
“I damned well told you to wait for me, didn’t I? I told you not to go sparkin’ off until I got back.” Bobby’s voice is getting progressively louder.
“I know, okay? But Jim called, and I didn’t know how long Dean would be there. I didn’t know about the familiar. I thought...”
Dean winces, claps a hand over his eyes. The familiar. What the fuck has been going on?
He picks up on another sound now, a howling, wordless and terrible. It’s coming from outside. Dean knows who it is, what it is. He barely resists the impulse to run to the source.
“Stupid bitch mighta thought she was doing him a favour, or maybe she just thought it would be funny. I don’t know, but we have got to get rid of it. It’s upsetting my dogs.” Bobby sounds less gruff, now, more tired.
“We can’t. Not until Dean wakes up. He needs to see it, how it really is. Now that you’re blocking its powers...” Sam. The real Sam. The one he almost shot.
Dean rolls over, a couch, he belatedly realizes, and pukes on the hardwood floor.
“Dean,” Sam is at his side instantly. “Shit, Dean, don’t move.”
Bobby is hard on his heels, hovering in the background with a glass of water and a damp washcloth.
“Let’s sit you up,” Sam says, sliding a dry palm under Dean’s neck and lifting. The rest of Dean’s body follows, he feels pathetically grateful and sicker than ever. How can Sam stand to look at him? “Try some water, okay?”
Dean takes a few careful sips.
“What?” he says, surprised by the croak that emerges from his throat.
“Powerful magic. You might not remember, but you crossed ways with a witch, down in Georgia, a long while back, and she conjured something big for you. A damned doppelganger,” Bobby shook his head as Sam dabbed Dean’s face with the cloth.
“You mean a fucking pod person?” Dean asks, and is startled when Sam barks out a laugh. He glances over, quickly, and sees wetness on Sam’s cheeks. No rain here, Dean knows what it means.
“More than that, Dean. He... it had a power. Like, I don’t know some kind of mind control, but nothing specific. Just like, as if it were keeping you drugged so you didn’t think about things too hard, you know?” Sam sits back on his haunches, hand warm against Dean’s shoulder.
“Jesus,” Dean says, ashamed. Witch ferreted out his weakness, played him for a fool. Now everyone can see, see how dependent he was, vulnerable.
“Bobby, maybe you could get some more water?” Sam asks quietly. Bobby backs away, taking the glass with him. Sam hooks a finger under Dean’s chin. “Dean. Dean, man, you gotta listen, okay? It wasn’t your fault. It was dark magic, strong magic. You couldn’t have done anything else. Bobby says,” Sam stops, breath hitching, “Bobby says that magic like that, should have driven you crazy, should have broken you. He figures that the witch didn’t count on a stubborn Winchester.”
“Where I’ve been, Sam, you don’t even know.” Dean shakes his head.
“So tell me. I’m here now.” Sam says. “Please Dean, I’m so scared,” he leans in then and Dean pressed him close, until he feels Sam’s nose against his collarbone. He breathes deep, the smell of Sam filling his lungs. This is it, the real Sam. The Sam that called Dean a cocksucker when he was sixteen, the Sam who isn’t afraid to say it when Dean is wrong, the Sam that needed his brother to tie his shoelaces until he was seven.
“We’re gonna be fine,” Dean says, and hopes like hell he isn’t lying.