Dean Winchester is Dead, Long Live Dean Winchester Part 1

[dime_liora]

“Dean Winchester is dead. Long Live Dean Winchester.”

He wakes up to the sound of crackling speakers. His mouth tastes like blood and ashes, and everything aches. Dean doesn’t recognize the room, doesn’t know what’s going on. The last thing he remembers is telling Sam that he was proud of them.

There’s a narrow cot underneath him that creaks when he moves. The room around him is stone, walls with no windows and only one wooden door that looks like someone purposefully fucked it up to fit in a horror movie set. There’s nothing else there. Dean looks down at himself to find that he’s dressed like a hospital patient. Soft cotton pants and a flowy shirt.

His watch is gone. His shoes are gone. Dean flexes his toes and watches the muscles and tendons in his feet work for a while as his brain simply floats from one thought to another. The room is perfectly temperate. Sam is nowhere in sight. Didn’t he die? How can a stone room like this not be cold? Maybe this is some new form of afterlife that he’s been given because he’s already pissed off all three of the major choices.

“The Righteous Man is dead. Long live the Demon Winchester.”

How the fuck are those speakers making announcements when they don’t exist in this room?

Dean bends his knees slowly, rolls his wrists, and twists his head. Everything moves, and there’s no sudden pain or hideous creaking. So he’s in better shape than he was when he passed out or whatever happened. What the fuck did happen? Where the fuck is Sam?

Questions are getting him nowhere. Sam has always been the introspective one in their little team. Would always sit in one place and turn a thing over and over in his head until it finally all fit together or had the slightest semblance of sense. A puzzle man. That was his brother. Sam liked putting things together. It wasn’t even the academic side of it, although that probably played a small part.

It was the nurturing side of Sam.

Sam didn’t have Dean’s gut instincts, and he didn’t have Dad’s righteous vindictiveness, but he was a great hunter too. Because Sam loved putting broken things back together. Dean always secretly believed it was what had Sam coming back to him time and time again. That constant need, that never-ending urge, the belief that what was once whole could be whole again.

Dean was standing now, bare feet planted solidly on the warm stone floor, staring at the doorknob and wondering if what was beyond it could possibly be worse than the last few years.

“Dean Winchester is dead. Long live the revenant.”

“Yeah. Think again buddy. Dean Winchester is very much not fucking dead.”

The doorknob is warm too, and Dean considers that for a second before he turns it and opens the door. It’s solid, a thick wood, and Dean wonders if it was meant to hold or keep out. If what’s inside of it is more dangerous than what’s outside.

The hallway beyond is the same stone as the room, and Dean finally sees the speakers that the male voice is transmitting over. They’re old and dusty, and that explains some of the static and crackling. He can just reach one with the tips of his fingers, and he rubs the smooth wood and then the mesh covering. Considers the fact that despite their transmissions they have no wires attached to them. Nothing to carry the sound from an original source or to supply them with power.

He starts walking again. Follows the hallway down and down, and takes in the fact that there are  still no doors or windows. He’s been traveling for a long time, and every three minutes according to his internal count the speakers announce again that he is dead. That something else is alive. The deep bass voice, accent slight and Middle Eastern, never gets louder, never changes inflection, and never once varies its cadence or message.

And then Dean turns a corner and finds a door. It looks exactly like the one he originally walked through, and Dean lays his hand on the solid wood and considers again. He’s shown more hesitancy since he woke up than he has in the entirety of the rest of his life. He feels like he’s moving in slow motion. Like the gravity here is heavier than anywhere else. Like time is being distorted around him.

Without warning Dean thinks of the first time he and Sam came together, all teeth and digging fingers, ripped seams and dirty talk. How afterward Sam lay beside him in the warm light of morning and defied all expectations by simply mocking Dean for how long it took him to finally make a move.

Standing here and feeling up the wood isn’t getting him closer to Sam. And Dean needs to be closer to Sam. He has a lot to talk to Sam about. A lot to explain. He’s probably scaring the piss out of his brother right now. And scared Sam is worse than any other Sam, because there’s a special pissy quality to Sam after the source of the terror disappears. Dean should know. He has managed to pop out at Sam wearing a clown mask at least once every year since his brother turned twelve, minus the Stanford years.

Dean will avoid a pissy Sam at all costs right now.

The door creaks, and Dean is surprised that on the other side is what appears to be a radio station. There’s a giant soundboard, walls covered in sound insulating foam, a series of decks, and stacks and stacks of tapes, spools, and records.

Where there should be a window leading into the control room there is a steel plate, the metal burnished to a bright sheen and lined with rivets.

And sitting behind the control board, headphones hanging around his neck, is a man that looks familiar to Dean although he’ll be damned if he can say why. The guy is wearing a loose tunic and pants, some kind of baggy cotton in a color that complements his copper skin. He has a long beard, groomed so perfectly it almost looks fake, and it hangs halfway down his chest in a perfect rectangle that partially covers a necklace made of what appears to be stone tablets. His hair is long, a warm and dark copper, the same texture as his beard, and collected together in tight little waves.

It’s the eyes that make him seem the most familiar, although Dean is pretty sure if he ever saw someone like this before he would remember them. Still, the man’s eyes shine out of his face, dark copper in lighter copper skin, and there don’t appear to be pupils breaking up the color.

“Are you the guy on the speakers?”

The man lifts one thick eyebrow, lips curling in something that is not quite a smile.

“Yes. I am.”

“Might wanna check your facts buddy. I ain’t dead.”

At that the DJ stands, and Dean realizes that the loose cottons hides a big and bulky frame, the body of warrior. Still, there’s nothing particularly frightening or intimidating about the man in front of him. Not that Dean can tell any way.

The stone tablets around his neck clink together gently, moving underneath his beard, and Dean tries to catch a glimpse of what the writing on them is. If it’s a language he doesn’t know it, and to be honest it simply looks like a series of shapes and lines signifying nothing. The man stops a few feet away from him and looks him up and down.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah I’m pretty fucking sure. I’ve seen where you go when you die. This ain’t it.”

The man smiles then, and Dean finds it both comforting and frightening.

“You’ve seen one pantheon’s version of what happens when you die. Who’s to say this isn’t something else. You yourself thought that maybe those places were finally done with you. Heaven is closed, Hell is in revolt, and Purgatory is probably tired of your shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans?” Dean snorts and the man laughs, big and booming, the room shaking a little with the force of it.

“Long story short Dean Winchester, as far as the world is concerned you’re dead. More importantly to you, as far as your brother is concerned you are lost. So what’s left to you now?”

Dean looks around the room, considers for a moment everything he’s being told, and then makes sure to make eye contact with the strange DJ.

“I’ll go back. I always have before. There’s a way back.”

The man smiles at that, teeth shining unnaturally white in his mouth, and then he steps forward and claps Dean on the shoulder.

“That’s what I wanted to hear. Although I doubt you’ll make it. Especially in time.”

“In time for what?”

Instead of answering the man turns his head and Dean follows his view, eyes settling on the metal plate as it slowly rises. Over the speakers Dean hears Crowley, but he isn’t sure what the demon is saying. He just knows that when the plate lifts entirely he sees the ceiling of his room in the bunker, but through a strange film. The view shifts, and Dean realizes he is sitting up. He is looking at Crowley.

Crowley is smiling at him. Crowley is talking but he sound is so distorted Dean can’t make it out.

And then Sam is there. Sam is behind Crowley. And Sam is. Sam is.

Sam is destroyed. Sam is utterly wasted. Dean can see that from the lines in brother’s body, slumping down to the floor. The way Sam’s face goes blank, gives none of his anguish away, and the way his eyes simply dim. Sam is lost. And Dean puts the pieces together.

He’s not introspective but he’s good at reading things. His gut makes the answers come when nothing else will. He’s dead. He is dead, and what remains is what the knife made of him. All of that power he felt, that rush that he relished so much, all of it came to this. To Dean standing in a movie studio radio station with some creature he doesn’t recognize as he watches the demon that has control of him ruin everything he loves.

And that’s what it will do. This isn’t being possessed. Sam won’t forgive Dean whatever trespasses he commits just because something else was making him. It will be Dean doing it. It will be Dean the demon. He made himself into this, and Sam tried so hard to stop him. The irony of it floods him with a  bitter taste that Dean can’t shake.

A big hand lands on his shoulder, and Dean turns his head just enough to keep Sam in his peripheral as he looks at the DJ.

“I’m sorry. This is the best you’ve got now until you’re worn down, too.”

The metal shuts on Sam shouting something at Crowley, and Dean lets himself be led to a chair and sat down.

“Can he hear me? If I use your speakers or something can he hear me?”

Not even a pause or a hesitation.

“No. It doesn’t work that way.”

Dean rubs the back of his neck, drags his hand up over his hair and down his face to dry scrub it multiple times.

“How do I get back?”

The big man settles down across from him and rearranges his necklace so it’s laying flat.

“You don’t. You’re not a person Dean. You’re looking at this all wrong. This isn’t an afterlife. You’re not even a ghost. You are the tiny representation of what is left of Dean Winchester the human being. In two days, maybe three if you’re lucky, the demon will be so strong not even this will be left. You’ll simply be absorbed.”

“So you’re saying I just sit here and wait to be absorbed? Then why the hell did you tell me I probably couldn’t do it time?”

“Because there’s a slim chance that you’ll pull it off. You are a Winchester after all. Typically if anyone can do it then it’s one of you.”

Dean chews on that for a second. Considers it. He can’t tell from the tone of the man’s voice if he’s being serious or not. Dean is used to being played with. He’s used to inhuman-

“Wait. If this isn’t an afterlife what the fuck are you?”

“What do you think I am?”

“I hate that. Why the fuck can’t anyone answer a straight question?”

“Perhaps because I am a complex amalgamation of your own psyche explaining to you the infinitely difficult and symbolic process of soul corruption.”

“So, you’re not me because no part of me would talk like…that.”

The man laughs, head tilting back and beard shifting to expose more of the strange necklace.

“No. I am not part of you. You can call me Bel. It’s simplest of the fifty names.”

Dean doesn’t engage that comment. It’s not worth the extra confusion. If the man wants to be called Bel, he’ll call him that. Whatever gets him to the prize at the end of the road.

“Alright Bel, how do I get back topside?”

Bel rubs his beard as if he’s considering it, and then he claps his hands before holding them both palms up.

“I know how to explain this! Your life has been a series of donations into a set of scales. One of those scales is for your bad choices. One of them is for your good. You’ve put too much into the bad scale. It’s tipped.” Bel drops one hand low and lifts the other up. “Now you’re stuck. The bad choices have risen too high and they’re all that can be seen. Soon the scale will tip, and the good will fall out completely.”

Bel drops one hand out of sight and leaves the one for bad hanging in the air right in front of Dean. It’s cupped, empty, but Dean sees in it the last few years of his life. He sees every time Sam begged him not to run headfirst into some danger, the way Sam tried to talk him out of his building rage, and how desperately Sam tried to get them out of the life.

He can’t even begin to imagine what would go in the other palm.

“So what do I do?”

“You make a decision. You can stay here, and in a day or two you’ll disappear and all that is left is what is out there with your brother. Changing the world around it for the worse. Or, you can get up, leave this room, and try to make your way through the choices you once mistakenly made. There will be a guide that will take you as far as you’re capable of going. It will be an actual part of you, which means what its motives are may be suspect. If you make a mistake, one bad decision, you will speed up the process. If you make two then you will be done. Absorbed completely. No three strikes rule in this. We’re not enacting a fairytale. You win or you disappear and the demon is all that is left.”

“And my odds?”

“There are none. Your chances are not slim they are non-existent.”

Dean swallows, dry scrubs his face again, and then stands.

“Can I at least get some damn shoes?”

At that Bel smiles, something knowing and deep in it that Dean is pretty sure he doesn’t like.

“You’ll win them out there if you want them badly enough.”

That makes no sense, so Dean turns his back and walks through the door he came in.


----


In the hallway Dean finds the same stone, the same old, wired speakers, but now there is a person standing there. And Dean isn’t surprised at who it is.

“Hey Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Sam is younger, long and lean, and his face is so much smoother than Dean remembers it. He can’t believe how much lighter Sam looks here. Plaid hangs off his broad shoulders, jeans hug the lines of his legs, and his boots are scuffed and warm in the dim light. Dean wants to grab him up. He wants to cling to this version of Sam, but it’s not real. It’s just the thing inside Dean that wants him to make a decision.

And there’s a possibility it’s a traitor.

“So when do you want to go Dean?”

He feels out of place here now. Sam is dressed, he’s normal, but Dean is standing here in hospital pajamas and bare feet with nothing to protect himself. He doesn’t really understand what’s going on or why, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever make it out to the real Sam. This Sam though looks so incredibly sure of himself. Which makes the illusion a little more real, but it also makes Dean feel defensive.

“Aren’t you my guide? I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be guiding me.”

Sam smiles, eyes soft and understanding, and Dean hates this projection a little even as he wants to wrap himself around it and sink into this memory of Sam from a better time.

“I can guide you, but the decisions are entirely yours. Only you can make the decision to move forward Dean. Once you do I lead you in the right direction.”

Sadly that makes sense. And makes the thing even more Sam like since it’s incredibly right.

“This is going to be easier if you stop pretending to be Sam.”

At that his brother tilts his head thoughtfully and then pushes his hair back to give Dean the brightest, dimple-laden smile Sam is capable of.

“What’s the difference Dean? While you’re here, trying to find your way back to the surface, I’m as good a Sam as you’re going to get. And anyway, you never saw more of me than you wanted to out there. So this is going to be exactly the same.”

Dean winces, not sure how to argue this at all, because it’s true. He knows it, and that’s half of why Sam said it. The other half is that his real brother has always gone for the jugular in matters like these. It’s what would have made him an excellent lawyer.

“Well, good to know this is going to be fun.”

They start walking, perfectly in synch, and that almost hurts Dean. They haven’t been this way in so long, and it’s like stepping back in time. Minus the part where he’s a representation of himself and his brother is a complex illusion created by his own memory or some Middle Eastern hippie creature.

“So is it just this hallway forever?”

Sam is walking lightly, eyes fixed ahead on the stones that make up the floor, and Dean tries to tell if Sam is making a sound when he walks. Just how real the illusion is. Maybe when he’s back topside he can tell Sam about how good his imagination is.

If he gets back topside. But he can’t think ifs and buts. This has to be a sure thing. It has to be Dean walking in with trademark confidence and simply making it happen. There cannot be a world where Dean is destroying his brother the way he was in the short vision through the glass. Dean won’t allow it.

Although, to be fair, he’s in this predicament because of his confidence. Because of simply striding into things.

“Nope. Eventually you and I will come out into the first of your mistakes.”

Dean bites back his first response, tries to think of a good way to handle his anger, and then gives up.

“It’s not like you’re perfect Sammy.”

Sam smiles at that, feet still moving at a steady and even pace, eyes fixed on the floor in front of him, and Dean wonders if maybe his imagination isn’t so good. He’s pretty sure Sam’s clumsy ass has never watched where he was going this much in his entire life.

“No. I’m not. But I’m also not a demon so what does that say about you?”

Dean licks his lips, stops walking, and waits for Sam to turn around. When his brother has done so he barely avoids pointing a finger.

“There any way to take your smartass down about six levels?”

And Sam grins, dimples carving deep and lips curled all the way up. It’s a good look on him.

“Nope. I’m a hundred percent Sam right now. You get all of my charm and wit.”

“What do you mean right now?”

Sam shrugs, smile dying and shoulders pulling in tight, and Dean can’t help the way his hand travels to land on Sam’s shoulder. How much it hurts him to see the tightness and pain in Sam’s face. Even if it’s just his own creation of Sam instead of actual Sam.

“When you’re gone the feelings that build me will be too. All that will be left is the lizard brain emotions. They won’t include brotherly love.”

And you know what? Dean stops at that. He reaches out and grabs his brother’s arm, because fuck it. This is all inside of him anyway. He won’t have to hear about it for the next fifty years.

“This isn’t standard brotherly love. Maybe it could keep going. Meg loved Cas.”

Sam lifts an eyebrow, face changing rapidly in ways Dean can’t even begin to follow. It settles on a smile, and then Sam is wrapping his long arms around Dean and pulling him in.

“That must have been hard for you, big sister.”

“Fuck you.”

Sam laughs, breath puffing against Dean’s hair, and then pulls back to show a pair of boots dangling from his fingertips.

“You’re going to need these if you want to keep going.”

And they’re perfect. They’re Dean’s boots. Worn in, scuffed, and the laces are done tight and orderly. Dean runs his fingers along them and then looks up.

“Why?”

Sam shrugs, already pulling away and starting to move.

“Because you need them and they’re yours.”

And there’s something there, something underneath Sam’s word, but Dean doesn’t know what it is and he’d better lace his boots up and get moving if he doesn’t want to lose his guide.


----


The hallway goes on for too long, and then Dean and Sam turn a corner and they’re in a motel room Dean knows all too well. His feet stutter on the carpet, and Sam stops and turns his head to look over his shoulder.

“A little further Dean.”

Sam is taller than him. So much taller. Because Dean is a little boy who just can’t handle the pressure of it anymore. Who can’t be everything for everyone. He can’t raise his baby brother, and handle monsters, and deal with Dad’s depression and drinking, and everything else all while trying to keep everything normal and sane. He’s tired of lying that everybody lives in motels and abandoned houses, that everybody moves all the time, and that everything is fine.

He’s tired.

There’s an arcade down the street. Dean has been saving quarters and he has enough to buy more Chef Boyardee for them to eat, or to go down and enjoy a few games. And Dean thinks he deserves those games. Dad’s off, but he’ll be back soon. The hunt is in the same town this time after all. The chances of them going hungry are pretty slim.

Dean needs this. He needs to get away from Sam, and the old art deco hanging lights, and the faded carpet that smells like it hasn’t been cleaned in months. He needs a little time to be a kid. Doesn’t everyone get that?

Except Dean knows how this turns out. He may be a child again but there’s still a grown man inside that remembers what happens next. What happens when he steps out of the room. Sam forgave him. Once Sam knew the depths of his failure Sam forgave him.

But Dean never forgave himself.

It’s weird, how strongly he can feel the motivation that made him leave Sam all those years ago at the same time as the guilt and regret he still feels to this day. Dean steps through the doorway, lifts the shotgun Dad left with him, and sits on the best beside his sleeping brother.

Sam rolls over under the sheets, tiny hand grasping until it finds Dean’s pants and tangles with the cotton. A small smile spread over his brother’s face, mirrored on the much older Sam across the room. Dean sits and waits for the monster to try to slip in and steal his brother’s life.

Young Sam mutters something he can’t hear, and then the room is in the right perspective and Dean towers over his little brother again. Across the room Sam takes three steps to dig through the duffel bag on the floor and toss Dean a pair of jeans. They’re the right size, and butter soft just the way Dean likes them. He has to slip his shoes off to put them on, but when his boots are laced again he feels a little more like himself.

“Well that was easy.”

“Sure it was.” Sam is leaning in the doorway, staring at his younger self with a look that can be best described as amused. Dean wonders what it is that’s making Sam look that way.

“It was. Will they all be like that?”

“I doubt it. If it was easy why would Bel have told you he didn’t think you could do it?”

Dean stands, brushes his hands along the comforting feel of denim, and then out of habit and long standing tradition he pulls the blankets up to tuck his little brother in more firmly. Sam’s hair tufts out of the top of the blanket, white pillow stark against the darkness of it, and Dean presses a small kiss there before muttering softly to Sam’s sleeping form.

When he stands up the Sam in the doorway, the older and more Dean created Sam, has a look of shock on his face.

“What?”

Sam’s head tilts, shock settling into a sort of resigned exhaustion.

“This is just going to last a lot longer than I thought.”

And then Dean gets it.

“You’re not on my side.”

Sam steps into the room, crosses the dingy carpet and hooks his fingers into Dean’s belt loops before pulling him in close.

“I’m always on your side Dean. You and me. The last Winchesters against the world.”

“You rewarded me but that wasn’t the test. You tricked me.”

Sam leans in then, presses his mouth against Dean’s and pitches his voice low and sexual.

“Dean. You can’t really believe that. Even at my worst I’ve never wanted to lose you.”

He swallows, licks his lips and feels the tip of his tongue rasp across Sam’s mouth too, and then his self control is paper thin and hideously hollow.

“No. Sam has never wanted to lose me. But you’re not Sam. You’re me, and Sam has never let me forget that I don’t want myself to succeed or be happy. He seems to think it’s my super power.”

His brother pulls back, surprise written across his face, and then a smile spreads that makes Dean lean back in a little despite himself.

“Ok. Good point. But I can only support you as much as you let me.”

“How do I let you support me more?”

Sam reaches out and adjusts Dean’s shirt, face suddenly serious and sad.

“I can only lead you Dean. I can’t make you do anything.”

He mulls that over, turning it in his mind and wondering if there’s a way to just force himself to make Sam helpful. If this whole thing is in his head anyway then can’t he just make himself believe that Sam is meant to be helpful?

With a hand gesture Sam opens the door that should lead outside to the little parking lot and instead takes them back into the speaker lined hallway. Dean drags his fingers along the stones and feels that they’re warmer. Slightly damp.

If Sam notices, or the part of Dean that is Sam, he says nothing. And Dean begins to wonder if maybe he’s gone insane. Maybe none of this is really happening, and out in the real world Sam is watching him sit in place with drool dripping down his chin and no light on in his eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time a hunter went bugshit.

And considering everything they’ve been through Dean has probably earned it.

Dean looks up to see that Sam has opened a door and is waiting patiently beside it. Dean tilts his head, considers Sam for a moment, and then bypasses the smartass comment. What good is mouthing off to himself doing at this point anyway?

On the other side of the door Dean sees a small, run-down living room. The carpet is threadbare and missing in places to expose a floor that could have been beautiful if it was restored. Dean remembers staring at it for hours through the holes in the carpet, drunker than he’s ever been before or since, and thinking that maybe if he just stayed there he could make it beautiful. Make it special.

“No.”

Sam is standing to the left of him, a hand on the couch and a look on his face that suggests his brother is far, far away.

“Then sit down and die Dean.”

“No.”

It’s all he can say. He doesn’t want to see what’s about to happen. Doesn’t even have the beginning of an inkling how to fix it, but he doesn’t want to die and fail Sam either. There’s no way out of the trap. Dean has made his bed, but he can’t make himself lay in it.

“Sam please. Please not this. Don’t make me do this again.”

Sam’s hand rubs the back of the couch, and Dean wonders if he’s remembering the same thing Dean is. How that couch is where Dean was penetrated for the first time. How Sam’s face lit up like he was being given the greatest gift in the universe. The wonder in Sam’s eyes as he sank into Dean. It wasn’t their first time, or their last time, but Dean had considered it both at the time.

Because then Dean made the biggest sacrifice he ever could. Bigger than the deal after Sam died, bigger than picking up Cain’s fucking weapon. Bigger than all of it.

“I can’t make you-“

“Shut the fuck up.”

He’s angry, the rage bubbling up instantly and violently just like it has for the last few months. Dean wonders, distantly and with little care, if that’s the demon taking over.

But fuck Sam for making him do this twice. He didn’t make a mistake. He didn’t. He let Sam go and that probably saved Sam’s life. Because hunting was killing his brother. Hunting was smothering Sam. If Sam had stayed he would either gotten himself killed or driven their father to do it.

There was no other option.

And being selfish here, now, and keeping Sam wouldn’t make it better. Wouldn’t be the right choice. Getting Sam killed was always the wrong choice.

Dean crosses the floor in fast, angry strides, and then pulls the bedroom door open so hard that the door bangs off the wall and bounces back to catch him sharply in the heels.

Sam is sitting on the bed, his bag in front of him, and he looks up to take Dean in with tears already in his eyes. Dean remembers this. He never begged Sam. Not then. He held still and listened to his brother’s argument, to all the reasons that he had to do this, and then he let Sam go. He let Sam fight with their father, let Sam slip out the door, and he didn’t talk to Sam again until there was no other choice.

“Don’t go.”

His brother’s face goes through several transformations, surprise to horror to sadness, and Dean takes them all in through the filter of clarity that his rage allows him. When this happened the first time there was betrayal, sure, under the surface but all Dean felt was loss. Now he’s too angry to even consider the those feelings.

No sin he could have committed would have earned him the punishment of doing this twice.

“Dean. Dean I- I’m sorry I was going to tell you earlier.”

And Dean can’t take it. He can’t live with it again. He steps up to the bed and lifts Sam’s face before slamming his mouth angrily into it. Sam makes a surprised noise, lips parting instinctually to take Dean’s tongue, and the kiss is brutal and forceful. Dean taking all of Sam’s flavor and strength into himself.

Because that’s what it took. Dean doesn’t want to admit it now, didn’t want to then, but it took strength for Sam to run. To give up everything he knew, even if he hated it, and go into an unknown future. Alone. Sam wasn’t a coward. He was brave, and Dean has resented him for it every day since. Held it against him in the most basic and hateful of ways.

“Sam. Sam, I can’t. I can’t make it through this again.”

His brother’s eyes are wide, lips still pressed together, and Dean knows he’s not making any sense to the memory of his brother.

“What are you-“

But Dean shuts him up with another kiss, leads his brother down to the bed, and then he’s on top of Sam.

And maybe he can do it now. Maybe he can make Sam stay. Take Sam’s bravery away with his body. The only trading card he’s ever really had. He tried it then, letting Sam open him up and take him in the hopes that Sam would stay. That the sacrifice would be enough, and when it wasn’t Dean conceded defeat and let Sam leave. And hated him for it.

Suddenly Dean has real clarity, and it’s not pretty. He never did Sam any favors the first time. He put Sam in a lose lose situation where no matter what his brother picked Dean would resent him for it. He set Sam up to fail and then held it against him when he did. There was no righteousness here, and Dean’s high horse was a big jackass he’s been sitting on for so many years it’s frightening.

“Sam?”

His brother is flushed, lips parted, and Dean rubs his thumb along the lower one and tries to remember what it was really like back then. When they were both so much cleaner and simpler.

“Yeah Dean?”

“Can I go with you? I can’t promise I won’t hunt. That I won’t still be me, a big pain in your ass, over protective, annoying, all of it I know. But I can’t lose you, and you can’t stay.”

And Sam’s lip wobbles slightly, his eyes get wet and huge, and Dean hates and loves that look. It’s so open, so Sam, and Dean hasn’t seen it in so long.

“What about Dad?”

“Staying never helped Dad. Nothing could help Dad but revenge, and I couldn’t offer him that until he was dead. I can help you.”

There’s confusion again, but Sam is so visibly grateful it’s obvious he’s willing to let it go to keep Dean with him.

“Yeah. Yeah, Dean, come with me.”

Dean kisses Sam again, soft this time, and Sam’s lips respond warm and comforting. Slightly chapped, tasting just a little bit of the designer salad dressing Dean used to steal his brother as a treat.

“Thank you. I gotta piss and I’ll be right back ok? We’ll figure it out.”

Sam laughs, fist lightly punching Dean’s shoulder, and Dean’s heart breaks at the sight of it.

“Gross. Jerk.”

“Bitch.” Dean kisses Sam once more before getting up and walking past the fake Sam into the living room again.

The test part of himself follows into the living room, and Dean turns to fully face him. He’s not lean Stanford Sam anymore. He’s post trials Sam, bigger than his college years but slimmed down by sickness and stress after the pain and toil of Heaven’s bullshit series of challenges. There are hollows around Sam’s eyes, lines carved near his mouth that Dean doesn’t remember but believes were there, and his cheeks are slightly caved in.

Sam gives him a tired smile.

“I can’t give you a prize. You failed that one.”

And it’s a blow, but Dean expected it. He bets that the answer that would have been acceptable was to be completely unselfish and let Sam leave unimpeded, but this time to do it without the self-righteous resentment that tore them apart and put Sam in the line of danger.

“Do I lose entirely, or is one strike just a handicap?”

“Why did you do it? You knew it wasn’t the right choice. Why did you risk it?”

Dean swallows, because there’s a problem here with addressing his answer, but he can’t make it clearer in his head any other way. Telling himself this is pointless, he knows it now, but telling Sam would have been good. When he still had the chance.

So he accepts the madness of the lie, the illusion of Sam, in the hopes that if this really is the end somehow the real Sam will know.

“Because I’m selfish. I’ve always been a little selfish. Everybody is. Because I want you happy, and free, and alive, but goddamn it Sam I want you with me. And I could have had both. I could have not put you through all that terrible bullshit, through being fucking exiled, and instead I chose to send you off into the world all alone. And maybe going would have been worse. Maybe I would have driven you crazy or pushed you to drive me off, but I would have done it the right way instead of lying to your face that you should leave and then hating you for it.”

He’s out of breath, fists clutched tight at his sides, and Sam crosses the room slowly and carefully before he’s right in front of Dean. He strokes Dean’s fists gently, and then his hands come up to frame Dean’s face.

“You believe that?”

“I do.”

Sam’s lips quirk upwards, and suddenly his hands are lifting and he’s dropping the familiar leather cord around Dean’s neck. The amulet bounces off Dean’s collarbone before settling into place where it sat for years before Dean threw it away out of spite and hatred. So maybe he won’t have to relive that too.

“You’re kind of an idiot. But you’re kind of brilliant sometimes too.”

“Why thank you Sammy. You’re so sweet to me.”

Sam’s face twists in disgust, and there’s a little life and color there.

“It’s Sam.”

“It was never, and will never, be Sam. It was always Sammy.”

His brother apparently has no smart response for that, so he simply starts to walk, fingers still intertwined with Dean’s.

Next Part
Masterpost