Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dean’s minding his own business, sipping on a beer and leering at the bartender, when a guy that admittedly has about four inches and a good twenty pounds of muscle on him storms over and shoves him in the arm.

He tenses, getting to his feet and preparing for a fight even as he’s wondering what he did to piss him off. Maybe the bartender’s his girl? Jesus, Dean was just looking, he can’t get mad at just looking when his girl looks likes that.

“Dude, what the hell?” the guy demands. “I know you’re pissed at me right now, but just leaving me back there – do you know how many bars it took to find you? You’re a jackass.”

He’s not taking a swing, instead standing with crossed arms – fuck, this guy is huge, he’d really like to avoid a fight here – and scowling at him, his long hair falling into his eyes as he looks down at him. Dean wishes he had any idea what was going on right now. “Look, man, relax.” The guy’s eyes narrow, his shoulders lifting and expanding as he takes in a deep breath, as if he needs any help to look bigger. Before he can say anything, Dean adds, “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Fuck off.” He presses his lips together, somehow appearing smaller in the next moment without actually moving. “Look, I know you’re mad about heaven, you’ve made that pretty fucking clear, but you can’t just walk off and turn off your phone. I figured you were just being an ass, but something could have happened to you. If you’re ignoring me, at least let me know you’re ignoring me.”

The guy doesn’t look like he’s tweaking or suffering some sort of head injury. His eyes are clear and his voice is steady. But Dean has no idea what he’s talking about. “Dude, you’ve really got me confused with someone else.”

“Dean!” he snaps, which woah, okay, he wasn’t expecting that. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” he says. “How do you know my name?”

He stares at him, uncertainty entering his eyes for the first time. “Are you feeling okay? You didn’t come across Zachariah or a witch or something in the past couple hours?”

He doesn’t know who Zachariah is, but the casual mention of witches makes him frown. Is this guy a hunter or something? He figures he’d remember meeting him, but maybe not.

“Everything okay over here?” Dad’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder. Dean shifts enough to see him giving the guy a hard stare that has sent more than one man running in the other direction.

Dean almost rolls his eyes – he’s thirty one years old, he doesn’t need his dad coming over to save him – but he makes the effort so rarely that Dean can’t help but be warmed by it.

The guy pales, mouth dropping open as he stares at Dad like he’s seen a ghost. “You – Christo.”

Okay, definitely a hunter. Dad raises an eyebrow. “I’m not a demon.”

The guy grabs for Dean, yanking on his hand. Dean jerks back, but he’s already gotten his long fingers around his ring. He pulls it off and Dean is about to break his jaw to get it back, but he tosses it to Dad, who catches it on instinct. Dean doesn’t get it until he does. His ring is silver. He’s checking if Dad’s a shifter, which okay, that’s one thing. Dean’s more concerned about how he knows his ring is silver. The guy’s voice cracks when he says, “Dad?”

Dad raises an eyebrow. “I think you’re a little confused.”

“Dean, what’s going on?” he asks, grabbing onto the sleeve of his jacket. Dean should push him off. “What,” his gaze drops down, and if possible he goes even paler. “Oh. Oh, fuck.”

Dean looks down and the guy’s eyes are stuck on his amulet. “What?”

“I don’t understand,” he says, biting on his lower lip. “Is this some sort of – but you’re still hunters. Is Mom alive?”

Dean flinches.

“Okay,” Dad says. “That’s enough. You walk this off or whatever, but you do it somewhere else–”

“Dad, it’s me,” he says plaintively. “It’s Sam. Your son.”

Dean doesn’t remember moving, only that the next moment his hands are fisted in the front of this asshole’s shirt, his blood thrumming under his skin. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up.”

He puts his hands on Dean’s wrists, stupid earnest and soft and Dean’s going to kick his ass. “Dean. It’s me. I have to exist in this world, right? The demon was after me, if I wasn’t here then there wouldn’t have been a fire, Mom wouldn’t have died, you guys wouldn’t be hunters. I have to be around somewhere.”

Dean tries to shove him away, but he won’t let go of him, his hands like steel bands around his wrists. “Shut up! You don’t – don’t talk about my family.”

The worst thing he ever did, his biggest failure. Sometimes the weight of it gets to be so heavy it feels like it should be cracking his ribs, pressing his heart until it bursts. Sometimes he wishes it would.

The guy swallows before letting go of one of his hands and reaching into his pocket to pull something out. It takes Dean a moment to see it’s his amulet, the one he’s worn since he was twelve years old, back when Bobby still talked to them. The one that’s still around his neck. “My name is Samuel Winchester. I was named after my mother’s father. When I was eight years old, Bobby gave me this amulet. He said it was a protection charm. I was originally planning to give it to Dad for Christmas, but he didn’t show up. Another in a long line of disappointments, right? So I gave it to you instead. Because even when you’re being a jerk, you’ve never let me down.”

Dean’s eyes are burning. He tries to shake off his grip, but he won’t let go. Why is Dad just standing there? “Stop! Stop. I don’t know what game you’re playing–”

“No game,” he says, gentle voice a counterpoint to the grip that’s absolutely going to bruise. “I need you to believe me, Dean, please–”

“My brother died when he was six months old,” he cuts him off. “Samuel Winchester is dead. He’s been dead for twenty six years.”

His fault, his fault, all his fault. If he’d just listened to Dad –

“Not where I’m from,” he says, and it’s crazy, it’s all crazy. “Please. Ask me anything. I’ll prove it. Hell, let’s go to a clinic, we can take a DNA test. I’m Sam. I’m your brother. And I need your help.”

“You mentioned a demon,” Dad says quietly.

The guy, who’s not Sam, who can’t be Sam, tears his eyes away from Dean to look at Dad. “Yeah. Azazel. The yellow eyed demon.”

Dad rubs a hand over his mouth. “I never told anyone about that.”

Dean snaps his head towards him. “What? You said you didn’t know what killed Mom! That we were searching for it!”

“We are,” Dad says. “It never resurfaced again. I’ve been looking for the signs.”

The guy frowns. “He started up again when I was twenty two.”

“Not here,” Dad says, looking him up and down, something hungry in his eyes.

Dad believes him. Dad thinks that this is Sammy.

“Let’s discuss this back at the room,” Dad says. “Come on.”

He heads towards the door, not bothering to look back, sure that he’s going to be followed. The – Sam, maybe Sam, he rolls his eyes, but goes after him. He only stops when his grip on Dean’s wrist jerks him back, because Dean’s not moving, can’t make himself move. He flushes, letting go of Dean finally, but he takes a step closer. His eyebrows pull together in concern, and now that Dean’s looking, he sort of sees it, sees the planes of Dad’s face and his eyes in this stranger with his brother’s name. “Hey. Are you okay?”

No.

“Let’s go,” he says, striding forward, shoulders hunched.

Sam falls into step beside him easily, matching his strides like it’s second nature. Dean swallows around the lump in his throat and tries to pretend it means nothing.

He doesn’t say anything on the walk back, and neither does anyone else, but Dean has to resist the urge to lean away, to put some distance between them, but it smacks a little bit too much of weakness. Why the hell is he walking so closely? An inch more and their shoulders would be brushing.

The motel room is just a couple blocks away from the bar and Dad waves them both in. The big guy that’s going by his brother’s name gives it all a once over and immediately goes over to Dad’s duffle.

“Hey!” he says, but Dad just shakes his head, eyes dark and intense as he watches him, this man claiming to be his son.

Sam ruffles inside it for barely a second before grabbing Dad’s journal and flipping through it. “I’m assuming this was caused by my universe rather than yours, but have you gotten into anything recently? Angels, rips into the space time continuum, witches? Demon deals?” The last one is accompanied by a sardonic glance at both him and Dad that he doesn’t understand at all.

Dad shakes his head.

“Angels?” Dean repeats.

“Yeah,” Sam says absently, frowning at something in the journal. “Not here then? Good. They’re douchebags. When Mom said they were watching over us, she was right, but it actually sucks.”

He can’t breathe. “How do you know that?”

“Know what?” He looks up and frowns, taking a step closer to him. “Dean?”

“About what Mom said.” He’s never told anyone that. “How do you know?”

“You told me,” he says. “Dean, come on, it’s me.”

Like that’s supposed to mean something to him.

“What’s your universe like?” Dad asks.

Sam shrugs. “Probably about the same as this one, minus some, uh, key current differences. Lots of the same cases in your journal.”

John nods. “And when did I die?”

What? Why would – but it had been Dad, not Dean, that had tipped Sam off that something was wrong. He’d checked for demon or shifter, like Dad walking around on his own just wasn’t an option. Damn.

His stomach goes cold and heavy just at the thought of it, like it always does. He doesn’t want to be alone and with Dad gone – he doesn’t have anyone else.

Sam’s expression tightens before he sighs, voice soft when he says, “Little over three years. It’s good to see you, Dad. Really.”

“So just you and Dean,” Dad says, turning his head like that’ll hide the shine in his eyes. Dean hasn’t seen that from Dad while he’s sober in – he doesn’t even know how long.

Sam shrugs. “We miss you. Dean really – yeah. But it’s kind of always just been me and Dean.” What does he mean by that? “Where are we exactly? I need Bobby’s library.”

“Singer?” Dad asks.

“Yeah?” After a beat, Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me, you’re not on speaking terms. Did he run you off with a shotgun here too?”

Um, Bobby did what?

“Haven’t spoken to Bobby in about fifteen years,” Dad says.

Sam stares. “What? Fifteen years? What did you do?”

“What makes you think I did something?” he asks.

“Because it’s always you?” Sam returns. Dean’s throat burns with the urge to defend him, but Sam’s not wrong. Of course he’s not wrong. Sam knows, because Dad is his dad and he’s been there for all the bullshit up and down, push and pull crap that Dean has. “Alright, well my phone’s still working, thanks to someone who’s phone plan I’m hijacking. Give me the room for a minute and I’ll call Bobby.”

Sam is giving Dad orders. He can’t really be their Sam. Can he? Dad would never put up with that.

“Why should I?” Dad asks, some of that hardness entering his tone that most people know better than to go against.

Sam clearly isn’t most people. “Because if I’m going to convince him to help me, I’m going to need to say some pretty personal stuff, and he hates you. He wouldn’t want you to hear it. So get out for five minutes. Dean can stay.”

“Why can I stay?” Dean asks.

“Well, you’re not the one that pissed Bobby off so badly he hasn’t spoken to you in fifteen years.” He hesitates, looking uncertain. “Um, are you?”

He swallows. “No.”

Sam nods like that’s what he’d been expecting and turns to Dad, waiting. Dean’s waiting for him to blow up, for this to turn into an argument or something physical, but instead Dad gives Sam another once over and echoes his nod, turning and walking out the door. “Five minutes.”

What the hell.

Once the door closes, Sam’s shoulders drop and he lets out a breath, running a shaking hand through his hair. “Damn. Okay, okay. I’m going to figure this out.”

Dean shouldn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to say anything, not to this maybe grown up version of his little brother that died because of him, and Sam’s clearly not talking to him anyway. But there’s something frantic about his eyes that he hadn’t let out before, when Dad was here. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, breathing deeply. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just have to get home. You’re probably freaking out right now.” His lips twist into something bitter. “Or not.”

He raises an eyebrow.

 “We’re sort of fighting,” he says. “It’s – there’s a lot – I don’t want to get into it. But the longer I take to find a way back, the more pissed you’re going to be. And there’s, um, some other stuff that you’re not – I’m sort of the only,” he huffs and ends on, “I just really need to get back.”

Well, that’s nice and clear.

“We hunt together?” he asks, even though he shouldn’t. This isn’t his Sam. That Dean isn’t him. That’s not his life.

He’s spent his entire life wondering about what would have happened if he’d just listened to his father and now he has a chance to know.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and his mouth pulls up in the corner. “We make a pretty good team.”

Even if Dean wanted to reply to that, he couldn’t.

Sam doesn’t want for an answer, instead pulling out his phone and dialing. “Hopefully Bobby’s personal is still the same here.”

Dean could check. Bobby gave him his personal number when he as a kid and it doesn’t change. Only people Bobby trusts are given that number, which is why he’s never felt comfortable using it. Maybe it would have been okay, when he was younger, but after he and Dad got in that fight – well, it just hadn’t seemed right.

He doesn’t realize that Sam’s put them on speaker until Bobby’s gruff voice says, “Singer.”

“Hi Bobby,” Sam says. “Don’t hang up.”

“How’d you get this number?” he asks.

“You gave it to me,” he says. “Or, well, a different you in a different universe. My name is Sam Winchester and I need your help.”

“Winchester-” Bobby cuts himself off and curses. “Who the hell do you think–”

“Karen wasn’t your fault,” he interrupts. Dean frowns. Who’s Karen? “You couldn’t have known, Bobby. You’re not responsible for what happened. It was the demon, not you.”

There’s a choking sound on the other end of the line, but Bobby doesn’t hang up.

Sam’s voice goes soft. “You were wrong in your fight, though. You would have been a good father. You are a good father. You watched me and Dean grow up, you know. You helped us grow up. Even when we couldn’t depend on Dad, we could always depend on you. No matter how much mess we bring to your door, you always help us clean it up. Well, I’m in a pretty big mess, Bobby. And I need your help.”

It's silent for so long that Dean thinks he’s hung up on them.

Except, finally, voice thick, “Get your ass over here then.”

Sam meets his eyes and grins. Dean doesn’t want to return it, doesn’t want to give this stranger an inch, but he feels his lips pull back before he can help it. Sam and Bobby hash out some more specifics, and he hears Sam mention Dad and then a sharp laugh, but he doesn’t bother to try and keep track of it. Dad believes him so Dean’s going with it, but it’s not really possible that this is his brother, is it? Things like this don’t actually happen.

If they’d been hunting a djinn, Dean would be on much more solid footing right now, but they hadn’t been. Whatever this is, he thinks it’s real.

The door opens and Dad’s back and then he and Sam are talking, phone in his pocket and conversation with Bobby apparently over. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and tunes back in, figuring he should know what the hell they’re doing.

Which is leaving for Bobby’s. Right now, apparently. They’re paid through two more nights, but Sam just rolls his eyes, grabs the room key, and heads out. Dad jerks his head after him, so Dean follows, and it turns out he can’t even be that mad about Sam making them ditch early because he somehow gets this run down, sleazy motel to refund them both nights. In cash. Even though they’d paid with a fake credit card.

A grown man shouldn’t be able to make his eyes look so pleading and vulnerable like that. It’s not right.

“Can we make a stop at Walmart or something?” Sam asks him while Dad packs with his usual efficiency. “I only have what I’m wearing. I can make your shirts work but me in your pants is embarrassing for everyone.”

Dean sails right past Sam acting like his wardrobe is up for grabs to look him up and down. “You sure about that, gigantor?”

He’s not a small man. By any definition. But Sam’s freaking huge.

Sam smiles at him, a flash of dimple, and plucks at the neck of the t-shirt he’s wearing. “I think this is yours, actually.”

That explains why it doesn’t fit. He’s got to be stretching out the arms if nothing else. Grey, v-neck, fairly nondescript, but he’s pretty sure…

He goes over to his bag, ruffling around before pulling out a grey t-shirt, v-neck, and throws it over to him. Sam catches it with one hand and he grabs the back of the neck of his shirt – or other Dean’s shirt – and pulls it over his head. He checks the label at the neck to the one Dean tossed at him and laughs. “It’s literally the same shirt. I can’t believe a universal constant is your wardrobe. I’m pretty sure you got this second hand too.”

He did, but he’s not too focused on that right now. “Dude. What the hell?”

Sam looks up. “What?”

Dad’s eyebrows are raised, and okay, come on, this guy can’t be Sammy. No one in their family looks like that. Dad didn’t look like that when he was literally in the marines. Dean’s pretty sure that they could actually do laundry on Sam’s abs. How do his arms look bigger out of the shirt? This is ridiculous. “Part timing as a swimsuit model?”

His face scrunches up. “What?” Then he looks down, seems to realize what they’re stating at, and his ears turn red. He coughs and slips his shirt back on. “I work out when I’m stressed.”

“Dude, how bad is your life?” he asks thoughtlessly. Sam flinches and he hurries to tack on, “Have you considered Zoloft? Jesus.”

His lips twitch. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

When they head out, Sam goes straight for the Impala and Dean gets itchy all over at the thought of being alone with this guy that’s maybe his brother for the next several hours. If they floor it, they’ll get there by morning. “Uh don’t you want to – I mean, considering, back home, that he’s–”

There’s not even anything close to a full sentence in there, but Sam knows exactly what he’s saying. He doesn’t know how to feel about that. “Me and Dad? In a car alone together for more than twenty minutes? Do you want us both to make it there alive?”

Dad’s throwing his bags in the back of his truck, but he pauses to snort and look over at them. “We fight a lot?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam says, and Dean digs his keys into the palm of his hand. Sam’s smiling, sucking on the inside of his cheek to try and hide it but failing. Mom used to do that. “But, y’know. Only on days ending with y.”

Sam fights with Dad. Often.

“You and Dean fight?” Dad asks.

His smile dims. “Yeah. Sometimes. Less than us, though.”

“Sounds like it’d be hard for it to be more,” Dad says.

Sam laughs, shaking off the momentary melancholy. “You’re getting it.” He looks over at Dean, and he’s sure that nothing is showing on his face, that he looks normal and fine. But Sam keeps – he’s not sure how to hide from him. “You okay? Want me to drive?”

Dean scoffs, the incredulity pulling him out. “If you think I’m letting you drive my baby, you’re crazy.”

“I’ve done it before,” he says, but not like he’s arguing. It’s mild. Teasing. “You taught me.”

He taught him. He taught his little brother how to drive in their father’s car.

“Doesn’t count,” he says, turning away and slapping the roof. “Alright, get in then.”

“See you boys there,” Dad says.

Dean hates it, hates how easily he says it. You boys. Something he hasn’t had reason to say in twenty six years.

They’ve only been driving twenty minutes when he notices Sam frowning. He can’t help but snap, “What?”

“Huh?” Sam blinks then shrugs, settling more firmly into the seat. He makes his long limbs fit easily, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Because he has. Supposedly. “Oh, nothing. It’s just – it, uh, doesn’t rattle.”

“Rattle?” he repeats dangerously. “Now I know you’re fucking with me.”

He shakes his head. “No, not like that. I mean, no army man in the ashtray, that I get,” what the hell, “but there’s no rattle. That one’s your fault.”

“Feel free to start making sense anytime here,” he says, even though he shouldn’t. What’s he doing? The best case scenario is them passing the time in silence. Complete silence. So Sam can’t say anything else unsettling.

“The legos,” he says. Dean takes his eyes off the road to glare at him and he rolls his eyes. “You put legos in the vent when we were kids. You can still hear them. I got an army man stuck in the ashtray in the back. I get why there’s no army man, no me, clear enough. But why no legos? You even have the same shirt here.”

“I stuck legos in the vent?” he demands. “And Dad didn’t kill me?”

“You are really underestimating how much Dad was willing to ignore after ten hours of driving as long as it got us to shut up,” Sam says, then goes, “Oh.”

Right.

No little brother for him to argue and talk with or whatever it was that kids did with little brothers – he talked to Sammy all the time, he remembers, pressing his face against his crib and telling him about his day – so nothing to wear Dad down enough that he’d let something egregious like legos in the vent go. He thinks he might have played with legos, when he was really little, but no specific memory comes to mind.

“I don’t think Dad knew how much of a pain it was going to be to get them out when you did it,” Sam says, then clears his throat. “We got in a really bad accident a few years ago. The Impala was wrecked, but you built her back up, practically from scratch. You got the legos out, but after one drive without them, you put them back. You made me get the army man stuck in the ashtray again too.”

His throat closes up. It’s stupid and sentimental and sounds exactly like something he’d want to do and nothing that he’d even attempt. Dad loves him. He knows that. But he’s not a sentimental guy, not unless he’s drunk, and then he’s not exactly the best to be around. He has no idea how Dad would react if he asked him for something like that, that unnecessary and childish and stupid.

Sam is smiling, eyes distant. He doesn’t look mocking or derisive or like he thinks Dean’s pathetic and lame. He looks fond. Like a grown man telling him get a toy stuck in the door for nostalgia’s sake is something good. He hates that it makes sense to him, that he didn’t even do it himself, he had Sam do it, because he did it the first time and it wouldn’t be the same otherwise.

Sam notices him looking and Dean jerks his eyes back on the road, the back of his neck hot and mouth dry. Most people wouldn’t have noticed anything, he’s not transparent like that, but Sam just keeps –

“It’s a good memory,” he says and Dean swallows. “It was right after Dad died, which sucked. You were a mess. I was too, but you – it was really hard for you. You were all I had left and I felt like I was watching you slip away from me a day at a time and I hated it but I didn’t know what to do. Nothing was working. But when you stomped in and dragged me out and shoved that toy at me, it was good. Really good. It felt like I could breathe again because I knew you were going to be okay.”

His grip on the steering wheel is so tight his knuckles are white. He has to take several deep breaths before he can force out, “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a giant girl?”

Sam laughs, big and easy, so different from the little baby giggle from his memory. But not that different. “Yeah, you. All the time.”

He rolls his eyes and swallows, but Sam takes pity on him. He reaches beneath his seat for the cassette tapes, like he knew they’d be there, because he did, and pops in The Black Album. Halfway through Dean glances over to see Sam fast asleep and curled towards him. Apparently universe hopping takes it out of a guy.

He looks younger like this. Face slack, mouth open, lines that he hadn’t even noticed having eased. He almost looks familiar.

Dean tears his eyes away and focuses back on the road. He’s fallen asleep to Metallica more times than he can count. He guesses Sam has too.

Maybe he really is his brother.  

It’s been maybe two hours when he hears Sam shift next to him, then whimper, and he looks over to see his face is back to being tight. He lets out a low moan that doesn’t sound fun at all, his eyes darting around beneath his eyelids.

“Hey,” Dean says, keeping one eye on the road as he reaches out to slap his chest. “Wake up.”

Except he doesn’t, flinching from Dean’s hand, head rolling to the side as he lets out a gasp like he’s drowning. By the time he lets out what sounds like would be a scream if he could get enough air, Dean’s already jerking the car onto the shoulder.

He throws it in park and then slides over to grab Sam’s shoulders, shaking him. “Sam! Wake up! SAM!”

His eyes shoot open and he’s panting, but at least he’s not breathing like he’s choking. The fear carved into his face has Dean tensing and he has to resist the urge to look behind him. Whatever’s freaking Sam out is just in his head. But then he focuses on Dean and the fear falls away, his eyelids already drooping as he cracks his jaw on a yawn. “S’okay,” he mutters, reaching out with one of his huge hands and patting the side of Dean’s face. Then he lets it drop and turns back into the seat, already falling back into sleep, breaths deep and even.

Which is nice for him, but Dean feels like his lungs are frozen. He’s clawing at the door, pushing himself out into the cold night air and then bracing himself against the hood, feeling the engine rumble beneath his hands.

Sam having a nightmare is whatever. The guy’s a hunter, and he’s been supposedly thrown into a new universe, that’s enough to rattle anyone.

But he’d taken one look at Dean and calmed down. He’d seen him and touched him like it was nothing, when no one really touches him, not unless he’s getting lucky or Dad’s in a good mood. Sam had obviously been too out of it to remember where he was, it had been instinctual and easy and he’d clearly thought Dean was someone else, was his Dean, from where he’s from. Because it’s getting harder to keep denying it. He doesn’t think this is something Sam could fake.

This is his little brother. This is the baby he killed by not listening, except all grown up. Whatever fight Sam and the other him are having, all it takes to calm Sam from a nightmare is waking up to see Dean is with him.

His eyes burn and he breathes in the cold air until it goes away, until his hands stop shaking.

When he climbs back into the car, Sam’s still asleep. Dean watches him for longer than he’d ever admit before getting back onto the highway.

~

By the time they’re pulling into Singer’s Salvage, it’s morning, Dean’s eyes are itchy with tiredness, and he’s starting to regret rejecting Sam’s offer to take a turn driving. Dad drives in behind them and they haven’t had time to exchange more than hello before there’s a vicious barking that’s getting louder and therefore closer.

A huge black rottweiler turns the corner, big teeth in its snarling mouth. Dean’s ready to dive back into the car when Sam’s face lights up. “Rumsfield!”

The dog does not seem happy to see him and Dean’s already reaching out to stuff him back into the Impala when Sam lets out three short, loud whistles. The dog’s barking cuts off abruptly and he comes to a stop, head tilted to the side.

Sam drops to his knees and holds out his arms. “Come here, boy! Who’s a good puppy? Is it you?”

That thing isn’t anything close to being a puppy, but he’s suddenly making a good imitation of one, tail wagging happily and his tongue lolling out. He bounds towards Sam, who lets out a soft oof when he barrels into him. He rubs up and down his back as the dog does his best to crawl on top of him, licking over his face and making happy little yips when Sam scratches beneath his collar.

It's hard to believe that thirty seconds ago Dean thought this dog was going to rip their throats out.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

His eyes jerk up to see Bobby leaning in the doorway, where Dean realizes he’d probably been watching the whole time. It’s a test given and passed, he thinks, how Sam had recognized the dog and had known exactly how to get him to stand down. Which seems a little risky – Sam’s from a different universe! What if Bobby didn’t have a dog there? He hopes Bobby would have stepped in before Rumsfield had made chew toys out of them.

Sam snaps his fingers and Rumsfield heels, still panting happily. Sam pats the top of his head, “Good boy, Rummy." For some reason his eyes settle around Bobby’s knees before he blinks and looks up to his face and then he’s grinning again as he gets to his feet. “Hey, Bobby.”

The first thing Dean notices about Bobby is how little he’s changed even though it’s been a decade and a half since he saw him last. A little grey around the edges, less hair, some more lines around his eyes, but still so very Bobby that he has to squash down on the impulse to go running up the porch like nothing’s happened, like he’s a kid again and it’s just another visit.

“Sam,” Bobby says, not as guarded as Dean had been expecting, considering. Then his eyes land on him and he braces himself for he doesn’t even know what, but that hint of warmth is still there when he says, “Dean,” and only disappears when his eyes settle over his shoulder. “John.”

“Singer,” Dad returns, perfectly bland.

“Well, now that we all know each other,” Sam says dryly, not hesitating to stride up to Bobby and grip his shoulder. Dean forces his legs to follow him. “You look good.”

Bobby blinks, tilting his head back to look at Sam. “Damn, son. What did they feed you?”

“Spaghettios, mostly,” he answers, looking back at Dean with a grin that only falters briefly before he’s turning back to Bobby. “Can we talk and eat at the same time? I’m starving. Dean wouldn’t let us stop for breakfast.”

They’d already stopped to get Sam clothes and a toothbrush, and he didn’t want to deal with Dad’s reaction if they’d made him wait for them at Bobby’s just because they’d wanted a snack. He’d had to take a couple illegal shortcuts to get them here on time as is.

Sam doesn’t wait for an answer, opening the door and stepping inside. Dean had been that sure of his welcome here once, but right then he stays exactly where he is until Bobby holds the door open and gives him a pointed look. Bobby doesn’t hold the door open for Dad, letting it slam shut behind them, but he doesn’t twitch when Dad follows them inside a moment later. Considering Sam had said that Bobby shooting Dad was on the table, he figures they’re doing pretty good.

The inside hasn’t changed much, or at least not in ways that stand out to Dean. The only surprise is the bald guy sitting on Bobby’s couch. Dean opens his mouth, but Dad grabs onto his shoulder, and he closes it. He’s watching Sam.

For his part Sam is staring with a fragile look that makes Dean’s spine itch, but the next moment it’s gone, a grin once more coming over his face. “Caleb, man, I know this isn’t going to mean anything to you, but it’s really good to see you.”

He offers Caleb his hand who only hesitates a moment before taking it. Caleb’s easygoing like that, always has been. It’s been a few years since they’ve run into each other, the last time they crossed paths was in a bar in Texas, but Caleb always greets him like they saw each other yesterday. It’s nice.

Sam hauls him to his feet and then into a quick hug, slapping him on the back before stepping away, still smiling. Caleb returns it, rocking back on his heels. “Sam Winchester, is it? Hope you don’t mind me crashing. When Bobby told me who was coming, I couldn’t resist. It’s not every day that I get to meet a dead man.”

No one’s looking at him, which is good, because it means they don’t see him flinch.

“Nah,” Sam says, moving into the kitchen. After a beat of staring at each other awkwardly, they all move to follow him. Sam goes to the coffee maker first, filling it up and dumping in new grounds, then grabs a pan and sets it on the stove before heading over to the fridge. “I’ve known you since I was ten, man, I know you’re good people.”

Dean can’t help but frown at that. Caleb’s been hunting since he was eighteen and he and Dad met him the same year he started. Sam should have been nine. But as far as differences go, a year off seems pretty minor.

“What if I’m not?” Caleb asks, watching Sam take out eggs and bread and milk. Dean glances at Bobby, but he seems more intrigued than mad. “What if I’m some sort of evil mirror version of myself?”

“This isn’t Star Trek,” Sam says, cracking eggs into the pan and then popping bread into the toaster. “This isn’t some topsy turvy version of reality, it’s just a universe where I’m dead. I’ve only come across one being strong enough to do this, really do this, not as some sort of hallucination or vision. Unfortunately, I can’t use what sent me here to get back.”

Caleb frowns. “Why not?”

“Because angels are dicks,” Dean answers. “Right, Sam?”

“Right,” he confirms, opening Bobby’s cabinet for a mug. It’s just like when Sam had gone for Dad’s duffle and known exactly where he kept the journal or how easily he’d made himself fit into the Impala. He knows where everything in Bobby’s kitchen is, moving around it with a familiarity that could be faked, but Dean doesn’t think it is. “Well, there’s one who’s okay, but he was a dick in the beginning, so this universe’s version of him probably still is. Besides, getting their attention would be a pretty bad idea, considering they’re not supposed to come down to earth except in some specific circumstances.” He pauses, eyebrows pushed together. “Well, actually, there’s one who – never mind.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “This one a dick too?”

Sam looks at him then and there’s a flash of grief so deep that Dean feels frozen with it before he’s turning away, mouth twisted bitterly. “I’d say he’s a decent contender for the second biggest asshole from up high, yeah, and he’s got some pretty stiff competition. But he’s a little easier to get ahold of.” Sam’s expression eases when he turns around, a plate in one hand and a mug in the other. “There’s also this woman who used to be angel who’s living as a human right now, but even if we could find her, and her grace, she might not have the juice to do anything. Plus, that didn’t turn out so well for her, unfortunately.”

Dean intends to prod Sam for some more details, or any, but then Sam’s pushing the plate and mug into his hands. He takes it automatically, looking down to see buttered toast and scrambled eggs with ketchup drizzled on top and the mug full of black coffee. He lifts the mug to his lips and its strong and bitter, exactly how he takes it, just like scrambled with ketchup is how he prefers his eggs.

Sam pours milk into a second mug and takes a sip before setting it aside. He picks up his plate and leans against the counter. He also has eggs and toast, except his eggs are over easy instead of scrambled, and no ketchup.

Sam blinks, finally clocking the looks on all their faces, and then his face flushes and he straightens, ducking his head awkwardly. “Oh shit, Bobby, sorry. I wasn’t – I should have asked. Sorry.”

Bobby’s face softens. “You ask back home?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Not since I was eight.”

“Good enough for me,” he says easily. “Make me a cup too, though, would you?”

He relaxes, putting his plate down and pouring another mug of coffee, this time adding both cream and sugar before handing it over. Bobby’s lips quirk, another test passed, but Sam doesn’t seem to even notice.

Dean’s stomach clenches, and well, he is hungry. He needs at least one hand free to eat, so he sets his coffee on the counter and digs in. It’s not the best he’s ever had, but he honestly can’t remember the last time he’s eaten food he didn’t have to either pay for or make himself.

Sam swallows and mops up some of the yolk with his bread. “Anyway, angels are out, but there’s got to be some other way to get me back home without them.”

“What if there isn’t?” Bobby asks gravely. “This is some pretty powerful magic, Sam, I’m not sure it can be undone. Hell, if you weren’t in front of me, I’d say it wasn’t possible to begin with.”

Dean tightens his grip on the plate. He’s surprised it doesn’t crack.

“Whoever sent me here will bring me back eventually,” Sam says, eyes downcast. “I’m just worried it’ll be too late then. I can’t wait for that.”

Right. Of course. Of course he’s going back. What’s it to Dean? He barely knows the guy.

Dad has been silent so far, standing there with his arms crossed. Now he says, “Why are you fighting with angels, Sam?”

They share a look that Dean can’t quite parse, then Sam says, “Philosophical differences.”

“They’re like actually angels?” Caleb asks. “Like, actual, real, wing having angels from heaven?”

There’s that bitter tug to his mouth again before he forces it away. “Yeah, although the wings are more symbolic and heaven is – not what you’d think. Uh, so I’ve heard, anyway. But yes, actual angels are real.”

“Damn,” Caleb says. “I can’t wait to tell Jim.”

Sam brightens. “Pastor Jim is alive?”

Wow, Dean hasn’t heard of Jim Murphy since he and Dad got into that fight when he was, he doesn’t know, twenty three. Dad used to drop him off there sometimes when he was kid and he’d, uh, make a nuisance of himself usually. But Jim had always been pretty cool about it.

“Is he not for you?” Caleb asks. “Damn, that sucks, Jim’s great. What happened?”

Sam’s mouth opens, then closes, and he looks away. “Doesn’t matter. It didn’t happen here, right? Obviously.” He shakes his head and says more to himself than them, “I should have known.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“Hey, what about Daniel Elkins?” Sam asks. “He alive?”

Dean doesn’t recognize the name, but Bobby says, “No, his career finally caught up with him about three years ago. It’s a shame. He was retired.”

“Why do you ask, Sam?” There’s a note in Dad’s voice, one that sounds casual and isn’t. “Did you know him?”

He doesn’t have any idea what Dad’s getting at, but Sam clearly does by the flat look he sends him. “Vampires in his house? They trash the place?”

Dean winces. Vampires are nasty bastards. They can pass for human, up until all those needle sharp teeth come out. He hates bloodsuckers. They pretend to be one of them, make nice and smile pretty, and then drain their prey dry. Their victims don’t stand chance. At least werewolves are just hungry and wendigos don’t pass as anything but what they are. Monsters that pretend to be people are the worst.

“Did you get it?” Dad asks eagerly, not even pretending at nonchalance anymore.

He looks at Bobby and Caleb to see if they have any idea what Dad and Sam are talking about, but they seem as confused as he is.

 Sam shakes his head. “The vampires took it.”

Dad’s mouth presses together and he snaps, “Sam.”

Dean feels his spine straightening automatically. Sam just rolls his eyes, putting his plate in the sink and draining the last of his coffee before placing it next to the coffeemaker. “Let’s hit the books. Maybe there’ll be an easy solution for once.”

Dad steps in front of him, arms crossed. “I asked you a question, Sam.”

“And I gave you an answer, Dad,” he says. “If you don’t like it, tough.”

Jesus Christ.

His father’s voice goes hard and cold, the way it gets when he’s not in the mood to be anything but obeyed. “I’m starting to see why we fought so much. Tell me the truth.”

The few times Dad has talked to him like that, Dean couldn’t do what he said fast enough. He hates it, hates feeling like a disappointment again. How many times does he have to disobey Dad to learn his lesson? It’s better to just do what he says.

“That drill sergeant shit hasn’t worked on me since I was fourteen,” Sam says. “Don’t pick a fight you don’t intend to finish. You taught me that. And I’m a bit bigger than I was then, so you might want to reconsider your approach, old man.” He claps Dad’s shoulder and then steps around him, heading towards Bobby’s library.

Dad lets him, anger temporarily replaced by an expression that Dean feels in his gut. Dad rubs a hand over his mouth, like that’ll hide the smile he can’t seem to help, and he has to clear his throat before he calls out, “We’re not done talking about this, Sam.”

“Sure thing, Dad,” Sam shouts back, dismissive and mocking.

It should piss Dad off. It should infuriate him. He should be dragging Sam back here and demanding he explain himself.

There’s irritation clear enough, but Dad just shakes his head before following Sam out of the kitchen.

“Wow,” Caleb says, wide eyed. “Someone pinch me, damn.”

“I think I like that kid,” Bobby grins. “Maybe having John Winchester in my house won’t be so bad.”

Dean doesn’t feel his legs again until Bobby’s hand is on his back and nudging him out of the kitchen. He stumbles on the first step, but if they notice, they don’t say anything. He’s trying not to read anything into Dad and Sam’s exchange. Dad can hold his temper when he wants to. It’s not that. It’s really not.

Sam did it so casually. Has he been talking back to Dad like that since he was fourteen? Has Dad been letting him talk back to him like that since he was fourteen?

His thoughts are derailed by Bobby’s snort of laughter and he focuses to see Sam’s looking into the library in despair. Dean gives it a glance, but it’s just as he remembers. Books stacked up to high, covering the floor, a path from the door to the desk that’s also covered in books. There are a couple bookshelves, but they’re just as bad, a book stuffed into every available crevice.

Dean swallows so his voice comes out normal before saying, “You knew what you were getting yourself into.”

No one else so much as twitches, but Sam’s glance is all concern as his eyes dart over Dean’s face. How does he keep doing that? What tell does he have? He shouldn’t have any. He’s won enough money at poker to know that’s true. Sam presses his lips together, but thankfully doesn’t do anything terrible like ask if he’s okay. Instead he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “No, I – well, yes, but I just forgot. No me, no summer project of ’96. Damn.”

“You organized my library?” Bobby asks.

Sam nods, taking a tentative step inside and picking up the nearest book. “Yeah, Dean messed up his right leg and I asked Dad if I could stay with Dean instead of going with him on a hunt, so.”

He injured his leg and he stayed with Bobby? He would have been seventeen then. He would have been fine on his own.

“And I said yes?” Dad asks skeptically.

“Nope,” Sam says, already sorting through the nearest pile, although hell if Dean knows what the categories are. “It’s okay, this’ll be faster the second time around.”

Bobby watches Sam for a moment, then shrugs. “I’ve been meaning to get around to it.” Yeah, for a couple decades. He steps next to Sam and starts sorting. “We’re going to have to move this to the living room to organize them properly.”

“And the kitchen,” Sam agrees.

Dad chews his bottom lip. “I thought you said we didn’t start fighting until you were fourteen.”

“Who said we fought?” Sam asks. “I asked, you said no, and then the first night I snuck out and hitchhiked back to Bobby’s. No fighting required. You either had to double back for me and lose time on the hunt or go forward without me.”

“You hitchhiked?” Dean demands and then wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. He’s obviously fine, it’s whatever.

Sam’s lips tug up at the corners. “You were pissed then too. After you healed up, we met up with Dad and spent the rest of the summer camping and hunting a werewolf pack. I still have scars from that. Priorities.”

Dad did the same hunt that summer, but with some older hunters that Dean hadn’t known. Instead, he’d gone with Caleb to upstate New York and cleaned out like a dozen poltergeists.

He glances to the side to see Caleb already looking at him. He must be thinking the same thing, but Caleb just flashes him a smile before saying, “How long did this take you before Sam? You were talking like getting home is kind of urgent.”

“It is,” he says, good humor draining away. “A couple weeks, but we can do this in a few days, there’s more of us, and besides I already sort of know what books I’m looking for. Once I’ve got a couple, I can start researching. It only took that long before because Bobby was teaching me some ancient Greek while we did it and Dean made all the bookshelves.”

“I made them?” Dean repeats.

Sam nods. “Gotta put that A in woodshop to good use, right?” He’d never told anyone about that. It’s not like it helps with hunting or anything. “But also we don’t have time for that this time, so someone should make a trip to the furniture store.”

“I’ll go,” Caleb volunteers. “I’m not really good at this stuff anyway.”

“Still can’t tell the difference between old and classical Latin, huh?” Sam asks. Caleb flips him off, but doesn’t deny it.

They’re sorting by language, Dean realizes. He’d feel dumber about not realizing that sooner, except most of these books don’t have anything written on the covers. Sam and Bobby aren’t opening them up to check either. He watches for another moment and sees the quick glances at the spine, but sometime not even that. They’re just that familiar with the books to know what they are by whatever weird design they have on the front. Another point in favor of Sam’s story being the truth, as if he still needs it.

There’s a hand on his arm and Sam is dragging him further into the room. “Come on, get to work. I know you know the difference.”

He and Sam are close enough that their arms brush whenever they move. Dean considers moving, putting some space between them, but instead he swallows and stays right where he is.

Sam remembers that he got an A in woodshop.

~

When Dean wakes up and sees that other bed is empty, he’s relieved.

He rolls over onto his back and throws an arm over his eyes. His head is pounding, his stomach is threatening to turn over, and he’s not actually totally sure how he got back here last night.

It hadn’t even worked.

He’d gotten so drunk he could barely stumble home and he still hadn’t been able to forget everything that happened in heaven. Famine had said he was dead inside and he longed for it, to feel nothing, for the comforting emptiness of numbness. He’d give anything to feel nothing.

It all hurts.

When Sam’s not around, he doesn’t have to pretend it’s anything else. He doesn’t have to get mad to hide it. Not that he isn’t mad. He’s is. He’s furious.

He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his forearm against them.

Zachariah had made his mother say those things to him, but he knew they weren’t true. She hadn’t felt that way. He believes that.

He has to believe that.

But what she’d said…

I never loved you.

You were my burden.

I was shackled to you.

Look what it got me.

Then her eyes turning yellow.

That’s not Mom.

That’s Sam.

Sam would never say it. Even when he’d been cursed by Dr. Ellicott or angry enough to strangle him, he hadn’t said it. But just because he wouldn’t say it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

He’d wanted out of this life. He’d never made a secret of it and if he had, his heaven had made that more than clear. A Thanksgiving dinner with some other family. Running away to Flagstaff. The night he left for Stanford.

That last one stings the most. The dinner, fine, whatever, Dean and Dad had been on a hunt anyway. Even Flagstaff he can sort of – how can Sam not remember it like that? Dean had been going out of his mind. It had been worse than the shtriga. But okay, whatever, for two weeks Sam had gotten to hang out in a cool cabin and pretend at having a dog and eaten pizza nonstop, which he doesn’t even really get, because by that age Sam had already gotten sick of eating it more than two days in a row, it’s one of the things he used to whine to dad about. But whatever, he sees the appeal, although how he can just forget Dad’s reaction when they caught up to him – no, whatever, it’s fine.

But the night Sam left for Stanford was the worst day of his life since the fire up until Dad had died. Fuck, Dad hadn’t even spoken to him the two days after Sam left, as if losing him wasn’t bad enough. Why did it have to be that? Not arriving at Stanford? Not meeting Jessica? Not some fun college party or acing a test or doing something with one of his friends?

It was leaving them. Him.

Does Sam love him? Or is Dean just an obligation? Is it that his normal life went up in smoke the day Dean dragged him out of it and now he’s just what Sam has left? Not wanted. Not loved. Just tolerated.

He wouldn’t have thought it. Sure, maybe Sam had some resentment towards him, always has, whatever, but he didn’t think it was that bad. Sam cares about him. Sam had chose him. Sam needs him.

And look what he has to show for it.

His stomach rolls and he takes several quick, shallow breaths to keep whatever he ate last night from making a reappearance.

It’s been pressing down on him since Famine, the truth of it, the thing that made him finally pray and the thing God couldn’t help him with, the reason why he probably shouldn’t be surprised that his heaven is Sam and Mom and Sam’s has nothing to do with him at all.

He’s useless.

He couldn’t stop Famine from sending demons after his brother, couldn’t get the ring off his finger, couldn’t do anything but watch as Sam took care of everything. Again. Then Sam had walked into the panic room to detox, but once the withdrawal hit, once the hallucinations started up again, he’d begged. He’d asked for Dean, again and again, and Dean had just stood there and listened to his brother sob.

It was stupid. He should have just gone in. So what if Sam’s powers knocked him around a little bit? What was the point of having a literal angel on their side if he had to worry about things like broken bones?

Sam hadn’t seemed to blame him. When he’d woken up, he’d just been relieved that Dean was there. He hadn’t said a word about why he’d been such an easy target for the demons, hadn’t blamed Dean for not being able defeat Famine, hadn’t asked why he’d had to suffer through detox alone, again.

Maybe he’s just gotten used to disappointment. It doesn’t matter that Dean had failed him because it's just something he’s come to expect. On earth he has no choice but to put up with his useless, failure of a brother. But in heaven he’s free of that, of him.

Dad hadn’t wanted him either, not really. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Always nothing more than an obligation, than a disappointment.

He lays there until his face is dry and then he forces himself up with a groan and wobbles to the bathroom. He splashes water on his face and brushes his teeth to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth and it’s not until he steps back into the room that he realizes it’s almost noon.

He frowns.

The keys are still on the side table and there’s not much nearby. The motel is sort of in the middle of nowhere. He pushes the curtain aside and the Impala is parked right out front and there’s no Sam in sight. There’s a spike of anxiety that instantly quiets when he realizes Sam’s stuff is still here, his duffle and backpack both by his bed. Which looks suspiciously unslept in – no, he’s being paranoid, Sam’s been making his bed with hospital corners ever since Dean got back from hell.

He grabs his phone, but he doesn’t have any missed calls, from Sam or anyone else. His thumb is hovering over Sam’s contact, reassurance just a touch away, but instead he growls and makes himself throw the phone onto his bed.

Maybe he just went for a walk. He likes walking.

The twenty mile walk he’d taken in the middle of the night from their shit rental to the nearest bust station was his heaven, after all. Sam’s fine.

He’s fine.