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The dude was seriously the most gorgeous person, male or female, that Dean had ever laid eyes on.
It freaked him out a little because he usually didn't look at guys; hell, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he'd noticed a good-looking guy.
But this kid was – yeah, he was young, that much Dean could tell. Early twenties maybe. Definitely younger than Dean. Tall, lanky, with mile-long legs and fingers and what looked like a strong, broad-shouldered upper body, although he was covered in two or three shirts and a jacket so it wasn't easy to tell about his build. The way he moved, still a little awkward and coltish, gave away his youth, but Dean had the overall impression of strength in the way the guy shrugged his shoulders and swung his arms, trying to belie an underlying physical prowess, maybe. The kid was used to his height, but aware of how it affected people; his hunched posture and sheepish expression were practiced attempts to disarm anyone who might feel threatened by this overgrown man-child.
And in the end, that's what gave him away. The kid was probably ripped under all those shirts, Dean decided. He was probably a god-damn body-builder. It was a bit of a wild guess, but given how carefully the boy was hiding his body, and the fact that he was out here seemingly by himself in the middle of the night...
Something wasn't right here.
"Hold it right there!" Dean had his Colt pulled and trained on the guy before either of them had a chance to second-guess the other.
"Woah, hey!" The kid raised his hands and took a step back, eyes going wide and fixed on the gun.
"What are you doing out here?" Dean demanded sternly.
"I live here," the kid stammered, eyes flicking up to meet Dean's, full of apprehension, then back down at the gun.
"In the woods?" Dean shook his head. "You live in the woods?"
"Yeah, right through there," the kid answered, tipping his head in the direction of the light Dean had noticed earlier, keeping his hands up.
"Alone? You live alone? All the way out here?"
In the moment before he answered, the kid hesitated, and Dean knew he was going to hear a lie.
"Yeah," the kid took a deep breath. "I mean, now I do. My mom – my mom died last year. Now it's just me."
"Are you human?" Dean growled, not backing down, sure the kid was hiding something.
"What? Am I – ? What?" the boy seemed appropriately confused by the question, but Dean needed to be sure.
"You heard me," he said. "There's something in these woods, something that's been taking people. It's got my dad. So I'm asking you, are you human?"
"Yeah," the kid said, frowning, uncertain, maybe just a tad too comfortable with the notion. "Yeah, I'm human. I'm Sam."
If the name threw him for a second, flooding Dean's mind with memories of heat and smoke and bone-crushing grief, plunging Dean momentarily back into that horrible night twenty-two years before, the night his mother and baby brother died, Dean didn't show it. There wasn't a day went by that Dean didn't think about them, didn't wonder what his little brother would be like, if he'd lived.
Nothing like this tall, gangly man-boy with the warm, slanted eyes and stupid floppy hair, that's for damn sure. Not his Sam.
Dean shifted his feet, steadying the gun with one hand while he reached into his jacket with the other.
"Okay, Sam," he said softly. "Let's just test that theory. You with me? Hold still another minute..."
Before Sam could react, Dean flipped the lid on his flask of holy water and flung the contents single-handedly into the kid's face. Sam jumped back with a startled yelp, blinking his eyes open but keeping his hands raised, obviously fighting the urge to wipe his face.
"What was that?" he demanded, soft pink mouth agape. Holy water dripped from his eyelashes, his pointed nose, his cleft chin. He shook his head and his hair flopped in wet strands around his angular face, sticking to his high forehead. Damn, this kid was fuckin' adorable.
"Not a demon," Dean said by way of an answer, then pulled a small silver blade from the same pocket of his jacket. "Now, I need to cut you."
"The hell you do!" Sam huffed, his big body shaking a little as he breathed, whether from fear or simple indignation, Dean couldn't be sure.
"Need to be sure you're not a werewolf," Dean explained. "Or a shape-shifter."
"A what or a what?" Sam stared. "Are you kidding me? Or are you just as crazy as you are good-looking?"
Dean raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm good-looking?" Why the hell did it matter?
It mattered. Damn it, Dean, focus!
Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like you haven't heard it before," he huffed, and Dean had to fight the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"Are you flirting with me?" Dean suggested. "I think you're flirting with me." Again, why did it matter?
"Maybe I'm just trying to get you to put down the gun." Sam dipped his chin, looked up at Dean from under his bangs, and now Dean was sure that Sam was flirting with him. He was also sure the kid could see that the attraction was mutual.
"Just give me your damn arm," Dean growled. "Let's do this, then I'll put the gun down."
"No!" Sam shook his head, floppy hair flying everywhere. "I'm not letting you cut me! That's crazy!"
"We can stand here all night," Dean warned.
Sam frowned, then shifted his feet, squared his shoulders and jaw, put his hands down and folded his arms across his chest defiantly. "Fine," he said.
"Fine," Dean glared, widening his stance and squaring his own jaw. "You know, I could just shoot you, then cut you."
"No, you won't." Sam tipped his chin up stubbornly.
"I could," Dean insisted, and Sam shook his head.
"But you won't," he repeated. "If you were gonna shoot me, you would've done it already. Besides, you're still hoping I can help you find your dad."
"Can you?" Dean demanded. "Have you seen him?"
"Uh-uh," Sam shook his head. "Put the gun down first. And no cutting."
"No way," Dean shook his head. "And if you know where my dad is, you better tell me, or I'll – "
"You'll what?" Sam put his hands on his hips, shifted his feet. "You'll shoot me? When you haven't even figured out whether I'm human or not?"
"Are you?" Dean asked.
Suddenly, before Dean had a chance to react, Sam made a grab for the blade. Dean jumped back, but not before Sam managed to cut himself; Dean could feel the blade slicing into the meat of Sam's palm as he yanked the knife away, leaving Sam holding up his hand so Dean could see the thick, red blood oozing from the wound.
"There, okay?" Sam challenged. "That what you needed to see?"
Dean lowered his gun, flipped on the safety, and returned it to his waistband.
"Yeah," he nodded. "That's what I needed to see." He squinted up at Sam as he wiped the blade on his thigh, then returned it to his jacket pocket. "That was a fool move, there, kiddo. I could've really hurt you."
Sam shrugged as Dean pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket and handed it to Sam, watched as Sam wound the cloth around his hand.
"You got any disinfectant for that?" Dean asked, feeling more contrite than he probably should about hurting the boy.
Sam shrugged again. "Back at the cabin," he nodded his head toward the light. "You – you can come see where I live, if you want."
Something about the hopeful look on the kid's face, coupled with Dean's innate curiosity and – hell, why doesn't he just admit it to himself? Something about this kid just turned Dean way the hell on. Like every switch in the room had been flipped. And it wasn't just sexual, although yeah, Dean Junior had definitely been showing some serious interest ever since he first laid eyes on Sam. But it was more than that. There was something about this kid that made Dean feel alive, fired up, energy sparking through his veins like some kind of life force. When Sam looked at him, it was as if Dean mattered, as if Dean was someone important.
But that was just insane. Dean and Sam had just met; Sam barely knew him. Dean was just doing that thing he'd done all his life, looking for his dead baby brother in every kid he met.
And this wasn't him.
"Okay," Dean heard himself saying, just to watch the kid's face relax into the most blinding dimpled grin Dean had ever seen. "Let's get you cleaned up, then we'll see what's what."
Checking out the kid's house was part of the job, wasn't it? After all, the intel he'd already gathered said there was nobody living in these woods. They were haunted, folks said. The disappearances over the years had the local people spooked.
Which begged the question: "So where are you from, Sam? Originally, I mean."
They were in the cabin, a surprisingly homey little place with a fire burning cheerfully in the fireplace, a hunting rifle mounted above it, and a couple of armchairs with a braided rug on the floor in front of it. A comfortable-looking double bed was pushed against one wall, the kitchen area with a table and two chairs lined the opposite, and Dean could see a door next to the fireplace that probably led into a bathroom, or maybe a bedroom. Sam's mother's room, Dean guessed, unused now but left exactly the way it was before she died.
Morbid, Dean scolded himself. Poor kid.
Sam pulled a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a box of bandages out of a kitchen cupboard, then sat down at the table with a clean towel to dress his wound.
"Oh...around, I guess," Sam winced as he peeled the kerchief off his hand. The wound looked messy, deeper than Dean had thought at first as he watched Sam try to uncurl his fingers.
"Here, let me do it," Dean insisted, sliding into the chair across from the kid and grabbing his arm before Sam could so much as protest. Sam looked startled at the touch, like Dean had electrocuted him or something, and his eyes flew to Dean's face in alarm.
"Did you feel that?" he asked, eyes wide.
Dean was holding the kid's hand in his now, examining the wound, reaching for the clean towel to wipe away the blood. He barely looked up from his work as he answered.
"Feel what?"
But he had. He'd felt a little jolt of – something – pass between them when he touched Sam's arm. Static electricity, maybe. And now that they were skin-to-skin, with Sam's huge open hand lying in Dean's as he cleaned the wound carefully, there was this weird tingling sensation that moved from the point of contact up his arm to his shoulder and straight across his chest, up his neck –
"Who are you?" Sam asked nonsensically. "Do I know you?"
Exactly the words on the tip of Dean's tongue, but they didn't make sense, so he shook his head a little, kept working. "I don't think so." But yeah, it was a feeling of familiarity, this weird tingling thing, or deja vu, like Dean had done this before. Like Dean knew this kid.
"I feel like I know you," Sam echoed Dean's unspoken thoughts. "When you touched me – I had a flash of memory. Of you, doing this before. Patching me up after we – "
Sam looked up, confusion furrowing his brow, and Dean could feel him staring. Dean kept his eyes on his work, but he could feel Sam studying him, could feel him trying to figure something out. Then Sam turned his head, stared at the rifle over the fireplace, and Dean glanced up just to feast his eyes on the kid's mesmerizing profile, familiarity washing over him like homesickness. Exactly like homesickness.
Sam turned back, caught Dean's gaze, and held it. "You're a hunter," he stated flatly. "You hunt things. Things like werewolves and vampires. You're like a male model Buffy the Vampire Slayer."
How do you know that? Dean held Sam's gaze another moment before looking down at the kid's hand, tying off the gauze over the bandage. "I don't know what you're talking about," he lied, hiding his surprise at the kid's insight.
"Yes, you do," Sam protested irritably. "You and I are connected. We're supposed to be together. We're – " Sam squeezed his eyes shut suddenly, bent double with a cry of pain, his good hand pinching the bridge of his nose.
Dean didn't hesitate. He sank to his knees on the floor in front of the kid, hands on Sam's knees, his arms, peering up into Sam's face, murmuring softly, "Hey, hey. You okay? What's wrong?" before he even realized what he was doing. Sam was trembling with pain, his face scrunched as he squeezed the bridge of his nose, a thin trickle of blood sliding sluggishly out of one nostril.
"Jesus, kid, what is it?" Dean murmured, overwhelmed by the urge to comfort, to protect, to fix whatever was wrong with the most important person in his life – What the fuck?
Before he had time to think through his own response, to face how utterly weird it was to have such a strong emotional reaction to someone he barely knew, Sam's eyes flew open and he grabbed fistfuls of Dean's jacket, pulling him in and holding him with a gaze full of wonder and recognition.
"Dean," he breathed, good hand slipping up to cup Dean's face, eyes flicking back and forth between Dean's because they were so close. Dean felt his mouth fall open in shock as the feeling of familiarity and homesickness overwhelmed him, and Sam's gaze flicked down to follow the movement, his own lips parted and damp with spit.
Dean had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in all his life.
But he still had his wits about him. "How do you know my name?" he demanded roughly, pulling away an inch, so their mouths weren't quite so close. "What's going on here, Sam?"
"I don't know," Sam whined, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. "My – my brother's name was Dean – "
"Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean jerked back like he'd been punched, and Sam's hands fell away. "I am not your fuckin' brother, okay? There is no possible way that could be true. My brother's dead! He died when he was a baby. I remember the fire!" He stood up swiftly, grabbed the towel off the table and handed it to Sam, gesturing at his nosebleed, which had stopped as quickly as it started.
Sam dabbed at the blood, then looked up at Dean, his face streaked with tears. "My mother pulled me out of the fire that killed my dad and my brother when I was a baby," he said.
"What?" Dean stared. "What are you talking about?"
Sam nodded. "She raised me to protect myself. To watch out for – "
"For what, Sam?" Dean was still staring, not believing what he was hearing.
Sam wiped his eyes on his sleeve, then directed his gaze up at Dean again, all youth and vulnerability, and Dean had to physically resist the urge to fall to his knees and gather the kid into his arms.
"Monsters," Sam finished. "Well, not real ones, obviously. Human monsters. She said they killed my dad and my brother. They would come for me too, and I had to be prepared."
Dean stared, opened his mouth, closed it again. "Oh, no, this is just nuts," he muttered finally. "This doesn't make any sense! You can't be – " He shook his head, tore his gaze away and stared around the cabin wildly, paced a few steps just to be moving, goddamn it, then turned back and scrubbed a hand over his face.
"You – you got a picture of your mom?" he asked, hating that his voice was shaking. Hell, his hand was shaking as he pointed it at Sam. This was just beyond insane.
Sam nodded dumbly and pointed toward the closed door next to the fireplace. "After she died, I put away everything in her room. All my pictures of her. They're in there."
It was her. Older, tougher-looking, with dyed black hair cropped short, looking grimly into the camera, one hand on young Sam's bony shoulder, the other clutching an army-issue duffel. In another picture she was holding a hunting rifle, the same one mounted over the fireplace in the living room. In another picture she was staring defiantly into the camera, quirk on one corner of her mouth the only indication that Sam was the photographer. There were a few blurry snapshots taken when she must've been younger, when Sam was a less experienced photographer; in every one she was wearing jeans or camouflage, in several she was holding weapons. She looked weary, hardened, nothing like the mother Dean remembered, the sweet, smiling woman who cuddled with him as she read him bed-time stories and cut the crusts off his peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches. This Mary Winchester was one tough customer.
When he found the picture of himself at age two, perched on a prop counter-top between his proud, smiling parents, he almost lost it. He remembered the picture – not the day it was taken, but afterwards, because Mary kept it framed next to her bed. It was the only professional studio photograph of the little family, taken at a Sears Portrait Studio with a coupon from the Sunday paper. He remembered Mary smiling as he studied the picture one night after story-time.
"Where's Sam, Mommy? Where's Sam in this picture?" his four-year-old self had asked.
"He wasn't here yet," Mary answered. "Now that he is, we'll have to go back and take another one, won't we? A picture of the whole family. You and me and Sam and Daddy."
The photograph was lost the night of the fire, and Dean had forgotten all about it. Until now.
"That's the only picture she had of you," Sam said when Dean brought the photograph back into the living room, laid it down on the table. "She said it was the only one that survived the fire."
"I remember the fire," Dean said. "It started in the nursery. Dad said something evil did it. He said there were monsters in the world, real ones, and we had to hunt down the thing that killed our family. We had a responsibility to – to rid the world of as many monsters as we could, to stop that kind of evil from happening to another family."
Sam shook his head. "Mom told me that the bad men tried to kill us all that night, then set the fire to cover their tracks. She managed to escape with me, but we had to hide out here, where no one would find us. She was sure they would come after us, if they knew where we were. She was just trying to keep us safe."
"So you spent every day of the past twenty-two years in this cabin in the woods? Being safe?" Dean wasn't sure whether he wanted to be sick or if he was just plain shocked.
Sam huffed out a breath. "Hell, no," he grinned a little lopsidedly. Adorably. "I woulda gone crazy locked up in this place. I went to a boarding school for awhile in high school, then spent four years at Stanford University. Well, three, I guess, 'cause when Mom got sick I had to come home. She needed me. Now that she's gone, I just – I haven't had the heart to go back and finish my degree. I'm starting to wonder if I ever will."
"Huh." Dean sat down on the chair opposite Sam at the table. "You can't be my brother. This is some weird coincidence or something." He was staring down at the photograph of himself and his parents. "My dad would never lie about something like that. And I was there. I remember. I heard Mom scream. It woke me up, and there was smoke everywhere so I got up and went out into the hall and Dad grabbed me, picked me up and ran down the stairs and outside and the nursery just exploded. I dreamed about it every night for months afterwards. Sometimes I still do."
Sam was watching him with such empathy on his young face, his colorful eyes so soft, it made Dean's chest ache. "I always figured the bad men were mafia, or drug lords of some kind," he said. "Figured maybe her family was involved with something that got them killed. They killed her parents first, then when she married Dad she stayed off their radar for awhile, until they found us."
Dean gave a little shake of his head. "No way you're my brother," he said resolutely. "My mom would never leave me like that, just take off with my baby brother and never let us know. And my Dad's whole life has been based on getting revenge on the monsters that killed them. He's sure they died that night. There's a grave. Not that I can remember visiting it. There was probably a funeral, all that. I just don't remember."
"I buried her out back," Sam said softly. "She left instructions. She wanted to be buried on the grounds, so her spirit could watch out for me. So she could always keep watch on this place."
Dean winced. "You know, that's the way vengeful spirits operate," he said carefully. "Your mom could be one now, especially if she thinks something's coming for you."
Sam shook his head. "Mom would never hurt anybody," he insisted.
"Unless she thought something or someone was trying to hurt you," Dean persisted. "You said yourself she did everything she could to protect you, brought you here and taught you how to protect yourself – " He felt his eyes widen as the thought hit him. "She brought you here twenty-two years ago, right?"
Sam nodded.
"That's when the disappearances started," Dean continued. "Abandoned cars on the highway, folks apparently walking off into the woods, never showing up again – "
"Dean, there's no way Mom had anything to do with that," Sam shook his head. "Nobody ever comes here. You'd think I'd know if they had. You're our first visitor in twenty-two years."
"This house isn't even supposed to be here," Dean insisted. "It's not on any maps, or past police reports on the missing people, nothing."
"That's absurd," Sam huffed out a breath. "We've been here the whole time. We've got electricity, sewer, we pay taxes to the town. Mom buys groceries at the little Stop-n-Shop on the main road. Well, she did, I mean. The clerk there knows us. We've always kept to ourselves, but we're not total hermits. I went to the public school for a few years, after Mom decided it was safe enough. The town folk know us."
"I think I'd have found out if there was a Sam and Mary Winchester living in the woods near the spot on the highway I was investigating," Dean accused, frustration and doubt making his cheeks flush hot.
"Campbell," Sam frowned. "Our last name's Campbell."
"She must've changed it to keep anybody from finding you," Dean suggested, then shook his head sharply. "Why am I buying into this? In any way? There's just no way both our stories can be true. Somebody's lying."
Sam was staring at the photograph, eyes flicking back and forth as he struggled with a sudden idea, and Dean watched, waited, wanting to trust this kid with everything he had, even though he knew he probably shouldn't.
"Or maybe two realities have overlapped," Sam said finally. "Maybe both stories are true."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean glared.
"Well, there's a theory, or a lot of theories actually, that anything that can happen, will happen. That any choice we make has infinite possibilities. So all of those different outcomes exist simultaneously, in separate realities. And there's the possibility for overlap sometimes, for convergence between parallel realities. Something causes them to slip together for awhile, giving us a feeling of deja vu, a sense of familiarity. It's usually very brief, because the realities are similar but also completely different, so it only lasts a moment or two until the timelines diverge again and we go on with our lives."
Dean stared. "So you're saying I've somehow slipped into another reality? Yours?"
Sam shrugged. "I'm saying it's a theory," he answered.
"Well, that's just about the craziest – " Dean stopped himself, noticing for the first time the design-work in the wood of the door and window frames. "Sam, you said your Mom did everything she could to protect you."
Sam nodded.
"So maybe she knew how to ward against evil," Dean went on. "Maybe those designs are some kind of spell-work."
Sam turned and looked at the woodwork, frowning. "You're saying my mother was a witch?" he scoffed doubtfully.
"No, no, just a person who knew a few things," Dean said. "White magic. Protection spells." He peered carefully at Sam's neck, at the leather string hanging around it, under his shirts. "She ever give you something to wear all the time? Man-jewelry? You know, like a special bracelet or something to wear around your neck? A ring, maybe?"
Sam touched the cord lying against his skin, pulled out a little brass horned-head amulet hanging from it so Dean could see.
"Just this," he said. "She gave it to me when I was eight. For Christmas. Just before I started school. She'd been homeschooling me up till then, but she decided to enroll me in the local public school cuz she said I was too smart for her." He smiled, lowered his eyes, and Dean watched as Sam's cheeks flushed. When he lifted his eyes again, they were covered with a film of tears. "It was my first time away from her, and she wanted me to have something to remind me of her, something I could have with me all the time. She said when I felt scared or homesick, I should wrap my hand around this and it would get warm because it was full of her love. It would give me strength." Sam looked up, blinking tears away, meeting Dean's eyes. "I've never taken it off since."
Dean swallowed, more moved than he cared to admit. He cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from Sam's grief with difficulty, getting up to check out the carvings on the door and windows. Definitely spell-work, the designs themselves stained darker than the wood, as if they were sealed with...
Dean pulled his hand back before making contact with the wood, but he could feel it anyway. The air was buzzing with it, like an electrical charge.
"She warded this house using her own blood." Dean shook his head to clear it. "Maybe that's why I was able to come here, when all those other poor schmucks just...I don't know...winked out of existence or something."
"Because it's your blood too," Sam suggested. "Because we're brothers."
Dean turned and stared at Sam, unable to shake the intense attraction he felt for the kid no matter how he tried. An attraction that was inappropriate as all hell, as it turned out.
"I have to find my dad," Dean muttered, lowering his eyes, fighting the urge to grab Sam and never let him go.
"Let me come with you," Sam stood up, looming over Dean abruptly, practically twitching with energy and determination. "He's my dad, too. We can look for him together."
"No way," Dean shook his head. "What I do is too dangerous for civilians. I can't be worried about you all the time."
"I can fight," Sam protested. "Mom trained me. I can handle a gun. I'm good with knives."
Dean stared up into the kid's face, watched his jaw clench stubbornly. "How did Mom even know about those things?"
Sam shook his head. "I don't know, but she was good. She wanted me to be able to protect myself. Sent me to a military camp three summers in a row. I can shoot."
"I'll bet you can," Dean said, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. His eyes swept down over Sam's tall frame, considering for the first time what it might be like to have a partner, someone younger, who looked up to him, who would follow his lead and trust him implicitly. Someone tall and strong and well-trained, who would have his back in a fight or a tight situation. Someone smart and used to doing research, who had the patience and the perseverance to study the lore and figure out the connections between clues on a case. Dean was frankly shocked at how right the whole idea felt. Like it was the way things were supposed to be. Like the decision had already been made.
Sam was watching him, slanted eyes all dewy and hopeful, pink lips soft and slightly parted, and Dean's eyes dropped to Sam's mouth as the tip of his tongue peeked out between his teeth.
"I feel like I'm supposed to say yes," Dean suggested, raising his eyes to Sam's. "Then I'm supposed to kiss you."
Sam's eyes softened and his lips turned up, dimples and teeth showing, cheeks flushing pink.
"Technically, we're not really brothers," Sam said softly. "My brother died. So did yours."
Dean's eyes dropped to Sam's mouth again, watching it move as Sam spoke the words, made them sound like a pretty damned explicit invitation. He swallowed, licked his lips, knew Sam was watching, felt him lean closer, his good hand coming up to hold Dean's chin. At the last possible moment, and with no small amount of reluctance, Dean took Sam's hand away, held it longer than necessary as he shook his head, finding it hard to look Sam in the eye.
"I need to find my dad," Dean muttered. "He's all I've got. He's counting on me."
Sam let out a long sigh, and he was standing so close Dean could feel it, the soft brush of Sam's breath on his cheek. It occurred to Dean, not for the first time, that this whole thing was some kind of enchantment, designed to keep him distracted.
No enchantment could be so perfect. No monster could know Dean's heart so well.
"Come on," Dean tugged on the kid's hand, then released it slowly, letting his fingers drag along Sam's skin, keeping contact till the last possible moment. "I need to test this theory of yours, Einstein. Need to make sure my baby's still up on the road."
The fire had burned low in the time they'd been in the house, and when Sam switched off the overhead light the room was cast in long, dark shadows, the only light coming from the glowing embers in the fireplace. In the doorway Sam paused, looking back at the room as if for the last time while Dean reached into his jacket for his flashlight. Without the light from the house windows, and given the late hour, the darkness of the forest seemed impenetrable, oppressive. He turned back just in time to catch Sam grabbing the photograph off the table, slipping it into his jacket pocket.
"Okay, I'm ready." Sam took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders stoically.
"Hey, man, it's not like this place is gonna disappear as soon as we leave," Dean bluffed, feeling the need to reassure the kid even though he wasn't at all convinced he believed what he was saying. "You'll be back."
Sam gave a stiff nod, lips pressed tight, closing the door behind them with a firm click. As Dean turned to lead the way up the path toward the road, he felt Sam's hand slip into his, lacing their fingers together, and he allowed it, squeezing Sam's fingers to allay the doubts he couldn't quite shake.
"Just in case," Sam murmured.
Dean nodded, relishing the physical contact more than he dared to admit. Sam had just lost his mother, had never known any other family; suddenly finding a brother from another dimension, however impossibly, must seem like some kind of recompense for the loneliness and isolation of his existence. No wonder he didn't want to let Dean go. And Dean was starting to think there wasn't any way he would let Sam go, either, now that he'd found him. Not if he could help it.
The car was right where Dean had left it, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief that he could feel all the way down to his toes. Sam stopped, still holding Dean's hand, and stared at the car like he was seeing a ghost.
"My mom sold this car years ago," he said. "How did you – ?"
"It's mine now," Dean said, letting Sam's hand go so he could pat the roof, put his flashlight away. "When Dad bought his truck, he gave me the keys for my twenty-first birthday. She's a beaut, ain't she?"
"She sure is," Sam agreed, sliding his hand along the roof and down the edge of the windshield before grasping the handle of the passenger door. "But I don't understand. How can this be here? Did we slip back into your time-stream somewhere between here and the house?"
Dean shrugged, already slipping into the driver's seat, patting the dash. "Don't know, don't care," he admitted, checking the glove compartment, under the seat for his tape box. Everything was right where he'd left it. He peered up at Sam, who was standing with his hand still on the handle of the passenger door, glancing back over his shoulder toward the woods from which they'd just come. "You comin'?"
Sam hesitated another moment, then shook his head. "I shouldn't be here," he said. "This isn't my timeline."
"Get in the car, Sam," Dean ordered, and Sam reluctantly obeyed, much to Dean's relief. Maybe he was naturally good at being a big brother, whether he'd had a lifetime of practice or not. The car immediately smelled different, smelled like Sam. It was a sweaty, salty, earthy smell that Dean was suddenly sure he'd been missing all his life.
"Where are we going?" Sam asked as Dean started the car, the Impala's engine roaring to life more easily than usual, as if she'd been waiting for Sam, too, and now that he was here, the car could finally give her top performance.
"Back to the motel," Dean answered as he pulled onto the highway, back toward town. "I've got all our research there. I need to see if Dad checked in."
"Then what?"
Dean glanced at Sam's profile, unable to shake the feeling of familiarity, of rightness, that his presence gave him. Dean was already feeling more confident, more sure of himself than he'd ever felt in his life.
"One step at a time, Sammy, one step at a time."
Dean was aware of Sam turning to stare at him, tilting his head and frowning uncertainly.
"What did you just call me?" he asked.
"Sammy," Dean answered with a quizzical glance at Sam's intense stare. "That's your name, i'n't it?"
Sam shook his head. "My mom's the only one who calls me that," he said softly. "I mean, she did call me that. She was the only one who did."
Dean shifted awkwardly in his seat, clutching the steering wheel. He took a deep breath full of Sam, reveling in his increasing feeling of relief, of gratitude that Sam was here.
"Hey, sorry, man," he mumbled, not really sorry at all. "It just felt right, is all."
"Yeah," Sam breathed, confusion furrowing his brow. "Yeah, it did."
They drove in silence the rest of the way, and Dean sensed Sam's anxiety, could see it in the tense set of his shoulders and the way he braced himself on the dash with his good hand. The little frown between Sam's eyes deepened as they neared town, and Dean could almost feel his confusion, his fear that all of this was some kind of dream, that he would wake up in that lonely cabin in the woods any minute now, bereft and missing more than just his mom.
"Hey," Dean spoke up finally when he just couldn't stand it anymore, needing to offer the kid some kind of comfort if it killed him. "It's gonna be fine. You'll see. I'm here now, and I ain't goin' anywhere." It sounded weird, even to his ears, like he was reminding Sam that he'd been rescued, that Dean had swept in like a knight on a black horse and hauled his ass out of that crazy, haunted world and back into Dean's reality, which is exactly what had happened, at least from Dean's point of view.
Dean's words had the desired effect, however; Sam visibly relaxed, the little frown smoothing out and giving way to a slight smile, a brief glance that conveyed Sam's gratitude, his relief at being rescued, if that's what this was.
"Soon as we get back to the motel, you're getting some sleep," Dean instructed, surprising himself again with his need to care for the kid, at the ease with which he took charge. "We'll come back in the morning, when it's daylight, and check out the area where your house is. Figure out what's going on."
"Yeah, okay," Sam nodded, falling easily into the role of little brother, following Dean's lead like it was the most natural thing in the world. He gazed out the window as the lights of the town came into view, and as Dean slowed the car at the town limits Sam stared at the buildings as if he was seeing them for the first time.
"That old gas station shut down years ago," he said as they rolled past the tiny two-pumps-with-a-garage business, quiet and lifeless at this hour, but with its lights still on.
"That place burned to the ground last year," Sam noted as they passed a hardware store a block further down. "The paint and cleaning fluid in there went off like a bomb. The whole block caught fire, would've been a total loss if we didn't all get in there and help put it out. Nearest fire station's twenty miles south, in Putnam.
"My first girl-friend waits tables there," Sam went on as they passed the diner before the motel, and Dean shot a glance at Sam's profile. He ate in that diner just yesterday, and the waitress was at least fifty. Nevertheless, Sam's words send a little adrenaline rush of something surprisingly akin to jealousy through Dean's body, and he felt his cheeks flush hot as he pulled into the motel parking lot.
"You hungry?" Dean asked as he unlocked the door to the room, led the way inside, gestured at the box of half-eaten pizza on the table. The lamp between the beds was still lit, and Dean could see his dad's bed hadn't been slept in. He shrugged his jacket off and dropped it on the other bed, turning to Sam expectantly.
Sam stood in the open doorway, staring, and it took Dean a minute to realize how strange the scene must appear from an outsider's point of view. Photocopied newspaper clippings were taped and tacked to the wall over the table, the table itself littered with more papers and a map, along with the pizza and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. The floor was covered with dirty socks and underwear, along with a pair of jeans that Dean had shucked before crashing on the bed the night before.
"What?" Dean demanded, immediately defensive. "We're in the middle of a case, what can I say?" He huffed out a nervous laugh. "Dad and I are a couple of bachelors, after all. It's not like I had a mom doing my laundry, growing up."
Sam shook his head. "No, that's not it," he said. "You – you and your dad are like – this is like you're some kind of x-files investigators, or something."
"Hunters," Dean corrected. "Remember? This is what we do. We hunt down monsters and end them. We investigate reports of supernatural activity, and we try to stop it. That's our job."
"I thought your job was finding out what happened to Mom and me," Sam said, and Dean nodded.
"Yeah, well, that's the final goal, but in the meantime we put down evil. Stop bad things from happening." Dean grabbed his duffel off the bed, scrounged inside it until he pulled out a flip-phone, checked it for messages. Nothing. Found his third phone, checked it. Still nothing. "Come on, you can have my bed."
"Where are you going?" Sam demanded, glancing at the bed with a sudden flush in his cheeks, then back at Dean.
"Just gonna go out for some smokes," Dean grabbed his jacket. Suddenly, being in the little room alone with Sam and all his miles of legs and tan skin just didn't seem like such a good idea after all. Or maybe it just seemed like too much of a good idea. Whichever, Dean suddenly needed to move, goddamn it.
"You smoke?" Sam squeaked, accusing, making Dean feel warm and worried about, which was new.
"Yeah, so?" Dean shrugged. "It's not like I'm gonna live long enough to get lung cancer."
"I'll come with you," Sam insisted, and Dean shrugged again.
In the convenience store, Sam recognized the clerk.
"Hey, Doug, how's it going? How's your mom?"
The guy looked at Sam uncomfortably for a moment, then asked, "Do I know you?"
Sam blinked in surprise. "Yeah, man," he answered. "We went to school together. My mom used to buy eggs from your mom. I come in here like once a week for milk....?" He gave up as the guy continued to look worried, flicking his eyes back and forth between Sam and Dean without making eye contact, obviously stressing that maybe they were here to rob him.
"Camel filters," Dean interrupted, pulling bills from his wallet. "And a large coffee. Black. You want anything?" He raised an eyebrow at Sam, who shook his head, then laid the bills on the counter. The clerk visibly relaxed, back in familiar territory.
"Coffee's back there," he nodded toward the back of the store as he rang up Dean's order and laid the cigarettes on the counter. "I just brewed the first pot this morning."
"Great timing." Dean gave the clerk a small smile as he took his change and pocketed the cigarettes, and Doug smiled back tentatively. He shot a nervous glance at Sam, and Dean could feel him watching them as they walked to the back of the store to fill Dean's coffee cup. Sam was frowning, clearly pretty freaked.
"I really do know that guy," Sam protested weakly.
"Don't worry about it," Dean said as he poured the coffee, then rummaged around until he found the right-sized plastic lid.
"Hey, Dean, if I really have crossed over to your reality, we could have a problem," Sam announced as they left the store and Dean stopped to light up.
"Yeah? What's the problem?" Dean asked as he took a long drag, letting the familiar rush of nicotine flood his system, taking the edge off his mounting anxiety.
"My being here upsets the balance between time streams," Sam said. "At least from what I've read. I can't stay here long."
"What d'ya mean?" Dean peered at him as he blew smoke in the other direction. "Why not?" The idea of Sam being a permanent companion, a fellow hunter-in-arms, someone who would always be there with him – Dean didn't even want to admit how much that idea had already grown on him, made him happier than he'd been in years. Hell, maybe forever. So the notion that it couldn't last – well, okay, that did sound more like the kind of luck Dean was used to, come to think of it.
"It's just not the way the universe works," Sam shrugged. "I'm not supposed to be here. I have to go back."
"Or what? You'll suddenly wink out of existence? Like all those poor folks who walked into the woods by your house over the years? Like – " Like Dad, he almost said but couldn't. Just couldn't. Not thinking that.
"I don't know," Sam answered. "I just know I have to go back. The longer I stay, the more out of balance the universe becomes; the bigger the rift. At least that's the theory. Things start to unravel."
So let 'em unravel, Dean thought. Let the whole damn thing fall apart, as long as Sam can stay.
"Huh," he said out loud, taking a last drag on his cigarette, staring out at the sliver of light on the eastern horizon as the darkness inside him slipped icy fingers around his heart and squeezed. "So how long have we got? Before you disappear on me, I mean."
Sam looked out at the horizon, squinting a little, then shook his head. "I don't know," he answered. "A few hours? A day? Probably not much longer than that."
Dean shook his head. "There's gotta be another way," he muttered, heading back to the motel with Sam at his heels. There's gotta be a way to keep you with me, he couldn't quite say. "I gotta call Bobby."
"You do know what time it is," Bobby barked when he finally picked up the phone. He was grumpier than usual when Dean explained what had happened, how he'd lost his dad but found his brother, and now it looked like he was going to lose both of them if he didn't figure out a way to reverse the spell or whatever was causing all the disappearances and time-stream overlapping in the first place.
"Sounds like the kid's mother bound the whole area with some kind of protection spell, all right," Bobby agreed. "I've never heard of something that can transport intruders into alternate universes, though. Something that powerful requires a lot of energy. Probably all focused around that house. You see any other markings? On the trees, maybe?"
"Yeah." Dean shuffled the papers on the table, looking for photographs of the sigils found carved into tree-trunks in the area of the disappearances. When he found what he was looking for he spread the pictures on top of the pile.
"You seen these before?" he asked Sam, who suddenly hovered behind him, looking over his shoulder. Sam's heat, his breath, the brush of his arm as he reached around Dean to move one of the sheets of paper, orienting it at a forty-five degree angle, made Dean's whole body tremble. He took a sip of his coffee to steady himself. Embarrassing, was what it was. Like he was in fuckin' high school again.
"That design is in my house," Sam said. "It's on the woodwork over our door."
"Uh-huh," Dean agreed. "And how about this one?"
Sam nodded again.
"You hear that, Bobby?"
"Dean, that kid has to go back," Bobby warned him. "You have to reverse the spell that brought him here."
"Yeah, I already got the memo," Dean sighed, sudden weariness threatening to overtake him despite the nicotine and caffeine he was pumping into his body. "You think if I can do that, Dad will come back?"
"It's worth a shot," Bobby acknowledged. "You'll need to use your blood for the spell. That's what binds it. Do it in the place your dad disappeared, where all that blood-bound spell-work is. Where the house is in that other time-stream. That's the focal point for all the power."
"Jesus, Bobby, I'm not a goddamn witch!" Dean groused, seriously hating the way this plan sounded.
"Maybe not, but it's your mother in that other universe who created this thing," Bobby reminded him. "It's her blood. And her blood flows in your veins, so if anyone can reverse it..."
"And Dad's blood-bound to me," Dean nodded. "I get that part. It's just so fuckin' weird. To think it's my family started this thing. So now I gotta stop it."
"You're kinda the only one who can, Dean," Bobby grunted. "Okay, listen. I'll find a spell you can use. Call me back in a couple of hours."
"Thanks, Bobby," Dean smiled grimly. "I owe you."
"You can thank me when it works," Bobby said. "Not that I'm dying to see that selfish son-of-a-bitch father of yours again, in this life or the next."
"Oh I know," Dean grimaced. "Thanks again."
When Dean flipped the phone closed and looked up at Sam, his brother was watching him, had been for some time.
"What? I got a booger hanging outta my nose?"
Sam blushed, lowered his eyes, big grin making his dimples and teeth show. "No," he sighed. "I was just – " He raised his eyes again, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with a film of tears. "I was just trying to memorize your face. So I don't forget you."
"Well, that's morbid as all hell," Dean grumbled.
"Dean, if we're successful in sending me back, you and I will never see each other again." Sam's jaw was working like he was fighting down a lump in his throat.
"If this works, you may not even remember you had a brother," Dean tried for a shrug, failed. Sam's eyes welled with tears then, and something in Dean just could not stand that. Couldn't stand being the cause of his kid brother's misery.
"Come on, Sam, it's not that bad," Dean gave Sam's shoulder a playful shove, then pushed in close and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, giving Sam a cocky grin. "You won't even know what you're missing."
"Dean – " Sam kept his head down, his eyes lowered, but Dean could see the tears on the tips of his eyelashes, heard the choking moan in his voice. "All my life, I knew something was missing. I missed you, and I didn't even know it. Till I saw you in the woods..."
"Sam." Dean couldn't keep the lump from rising in his own throat, couldn't seem to manage another word. They stood like that for another minute, breathing each other's air, and Dean was vaguely aware of how unbrotherly it was to be standing flush against Sam's body, holding him there, soaking in his heat, wanting and ignoring the ache in his groin because it matched the ache in his heart. He felt Sam suck in a breath, felt it against his chest like it was his own body doing it, knowing Sam was breathing him in because he wanted to do the same thing, just fill his lungs with Sam's essence. He was dizzy with it, losing himself in Sam till he wasn't sure where his own body ended and Sam's began, was quickly forgetting why kissing your brother wasn't right, how there could ever be anything wrong with crawling under Sam's clothes, under his skin, just to drown in everything Sam.
Dean wasn't sure when he'd raised his face, started nosing into Sam's jaw; he'd closed his eyes, the better to draw Sam's intoxicating scent into his body, and Sam's breath hitched as Dean's lips brushed his pulse point, sandpaper stubble rough against his mouth. Sam's heart-rate was speeding up, he was exhaling in short panting breaths, his hands on Dean's shoulders, holding him steady. Dean pressed his lips against the warm flesh at the juncture of Sam's neck and shoulder, the taste of Sam's skin exploding along his tongue, his nose buried in Sam's sweat-soaked throat, Sam's hair tickling his cheek. He rested there for what seemed like an eternity, hoping against everything that he could stay there forever, buried in Sam, never having another rational thought as long as he lived.
Sam's arms had slipped around him at some point; Dean's hands had slipped down to Sam's waist, and their bodies were pressed so close that Dean could feel Sam's hard length pressed into his belly, knew Sam could feel his erection too, not that there could ever be any doubt about how much they wanted each other. Duh. They were two young, healthy, virile American males, always ready for sex. Didn't mean anything.
This was more than that. Or that, too, but not just that.
How could it mean so much, having this man in his arms? How did his body and his heart know so much better than his head that this beautiful boy was his? But of course, Dean didn't deserve this. Never had. This – this perfection had been lost to him twenty-two years ago. He had lost it when that baby died. It was his fault the baby died. If he'd woken up earlier, if he'd gone into that hallway a minute or two sooner, he could've saved the baby. He could've saved his little brother. But he didn't. He failed. His baby boy died. He couldn't have him. Not then, and definitely not now. This was just some sick punishment, designed to remind him of his failure...
"Dean." Sam's lips against his ear brought him back into the moment, made him realize he was crying, trembling in Sam's arms. Losing it. "Dean, hey."
And with a monumental effort to hold to a moral high-ground that Dean didn't even believe in anymore – why the hell shouldn't he give in to the need to collapse on the bed with Sam right now? – Dean pushed back, chuckling nervously, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, unable to meet Sam's eyes.
"Yeah, hey. How about some chow? The diner's open for breakfast by now. We've got at least an hour before I gotta call Bobby again."
Dean still had his eyes lowered, so he didn't see the flash of disappointment in Sam's face, but he felt it when Sam stepped close again, voice low and velvety smooth. "Or we could stay here," he suggested softly. "Make some memories neither of us will ever forget."
Dean chuckled low in his throat, didn't back down but didn't look up either, knowing the look he'd see in Sam's eyes if he did, half-afraid he couldn't resist it. "You're talking to an old con man here, brother," he said. "I've heard every end-of-the-world line in the book. Used most of them at least once. And that one was – that one." He raised his eyes, cocky grin firmly in place, read the hurt and disappointment in Sam's face. He had to tilt his head back a little because Sam was standing so close.
"Yeah, no way I'm having a goddamn one-night stand with my own brother, man," he growled, going for tough, lowering his eyes again. "I may be broken, but I ain't stupid. Well, not that stupid, anyway." He glanced up, and of course there were goddamn tears in the kid's eyes again, so he took a deep breath, said the first thing that came to mind. "That's not the way it is between us, Sam, you hear me? If we were gonna have a lifetime together, that's one thing. But I don't want to leave you with some half-cocked quickie to remember me by. You deserve better than that." You're worth so much more than that, he finished silently.
Sam stared miserably another moment, all tear-filled unhappy longing and pink cheeks, and Dean stared back, willing him to get it, relieved when Sam finally nodded once, lowered his eyes, jaw working as he stepped back.
"Me too," he said, sucking in a long, shaky breath, like he was agreeing to something more intimate, something even more profound than what Dean had been able to say out loud. "Me too, Dean."
"Now come on," Dean clapped a hand onto Sam's shoulder. "The blueberry pancakes at this diner are to die for."
Sam winced a little at Dean's word choice, Dean raised an eyebrow and shrugged, and the next hour passed companionably, the brothers knocking knees under the diner table, Sam staring in shock at the waitress, who was obviously not his old girlfriend. Dean tried not to think about how easy things were between them, how good it felt to share a simple meal with this man whose presence felt so familiar, so right. He tried hard not to think about how different his life would have been if Sam had always been there, how much less lonely and desperate for companionship he might've been. How many fewer one-night stands might have happened, how many fewer stupid risks he might have taken, how less crappy everything might've seemed in general, if he'd had someone to share it with. He watched Sam eat, smile, and talk, and imagined him little, imagined him as a teenager, was flooded with pride at the man he'd become, even though he'd had nothing to do with it. Mom had done good, she'd done right by Sam. She'd kept him safe, encouraged him to have as close to a normal life as possible, given their situation as permanent fugitives from god-only-knew-what in their world. Maybe she knew a thing or two about hunting – Dean was fairly convinced she knew something, given the intricacy of the spell-work he'd seen – but she'd kept the monsters at bay, protected Sam from all the supernatural creeps, armed him well against the human ones. Sam's life was good, Dean decided. He'd turned out fine without Dean.
"Hey, uh, if this works?" Dean said when they'd finished their meal and were sipping their coffee as they waited for the waitress to return with their change. "If this works and you get back, you need to go back and finish that degree, y'hear me? I'm pretty sure that's what Mom would want."
Sam took a deep breath, let it out slowly, nodded. "I know," he agreed. He let his thumb run along the rim of the cup as Dean watched.
"You get that degree, get a good job, find a girl," Dean went on, feeling a little piece of himself breaking into sharp edges as he spoke. "Settle down someplace safe, someplace far away from here. Whatever it was that came after your family, it's long gone by now. As far as I can see, you're free to live your life. So – if we get you back there, that's what you need to do. Your big brother says so."
Dean saw the flash of doubt in Sam's eyes, watched in fascination as Sam buried it, nodded stiffly. "You're right," he said. "Yeah. I'll do that."
"What?" Dean pressed. "Is there something I'm missing here? Something you're not telling me?"
"Naw, it's fine," Sam shook his head sharply. "It's nothing."
"Again, you're talking to an old con man here, Sammy," Dean reminded him. "I can tell when somebody's lying to me. I'm pretty damn good at it, in fact."
Sam sighed, thumb rubbing back and forth along the cup rim. "It's these headaches I keep having," he confessed. "Like in the cabin before. I have these dreams. Then sometimes I have these intense headaches, like you saw me having before, with these – these visions. Nosebleeds."
"Yeah, almost forgot about that," Dean admitted.
"That's weird, right?" Sam asked, looking up at Dean hopefully, like Dean would know how to fix it. "I mean, that's not normal. It's something that isn't supposed to happen to normal people."
Dean frowned. Damn it.
"I don't know," he hedged. "There's that woman they based the t.v. show on, the one with Patricia Arquette. She's the real deal, isn't she? A real – psychic, or whatever. Maybe you're just one of those."
But Dean knew better. It was too much of a coincidence, Sam having visions, despite being raised without knowledge of the supernatural world. That couldn't just happen for no reason. Not in Dean's experience. Not to mention the magic Bermuda Triangle in the woods around Sam's house...
Sam was shaking his head. "I don't know, Dean," he said doubtfully. "I never had psychic abilities before my mom died. It's like her death triggered it."
Or maybe her life protected you from it, Dean thought unhelpfully, since there really wasn't time for them to figure this out, and they both knew it.
"I'm sure it's nothing supernatural," Dean said with as much conviction as he could muster. "Maybe it's something medical, though, so you probably oughta get it checked out by a doctor. If we had time – "
Sam nodded, his face still screwed up in that adorable doubtful expression that made Dean want to –
Never mind. Not happening. Not in this life, anyway.
At the appointed hour, Dean called Bobby. The spell needed a few herbal ingredients, nothing they couldn't collect from the local pharmacy and the little grocery store on the edge of town. Within the hour they were on the road back to the scene of their meeting, having decided that was as good a place as any to perform the spell. Dean drew the circle with the designated sigil in the dirt and they both stepped inside it, adding their blood as a final ingredient to the mixture in the little silver bowl on the ground at their feet. Just before Dean dropped a lit match into the bowl but after he'd said the words of the spell, Sam slipped his bandaged hand behind Dean's neck and leaned in. The kiss was over before Dean could react, leaving Dean's mouth tingling and warm, leaving him wanting so much more.
"Just in case," Sam breathed as he released Dean and leaned back. Dean's eyes flicked down to Sam's mouth, mesmerized by the slick shine of his lips as his tongue swiped along the lower one, tasting Dean there. Dean nodded, speechless, struggling to fight the lust and need and sheer power of his feelings for Sam, this brother he'd barely known who was now about to leave him for good, if they were successful.
Fuck his life.
Dean struck the match, watched as the flame flared to life, dropping it into the bowl before glancing back up at Sam, needing to see him if it was last thing he ever did.
The bowl exploded. Or at least Dean figured that's what must've happened, because one minute he was looking at Sam, who was staring back at him with his mouth open and a little crease of worry on his brow, and the next Dean was lying flat on his back in the dirt, pine needles sticking through the back of his shirt, head pounding. The sun was still high in the sky, and the light through the trees was pretty much the same, so Dean knew he hadn't been out for long, but his body was stiff, like he'd hit the ground hard and had been lying on it for awhile. His arm itched where he'd drawn blood earlier, and his lips tingled like they'd been rubbed raw with sandpaper.
Sam had kissed him.
Dean pushed up on his elbows, ignoring his pounding headache, needing to evaluate the situation – Hell, who was he fooling? He needed to see if Sam was okay, if he was still here.
Sam lay on his back about six feet away, unconscious. The bowl was gone, but Dean thought he could see residue from its contents scattered around the site. Both brothers had apparently been blown clear of the spell circle, and whatever had caused that had also cleared the sigil Dean had drawn. Nothing else seemed out of place.
Outwardly, anyway. Inside Dean's head, things were a little scrambled. No, make that really fuckin' messed up. His memories were all wrong, for one thing. He seemed to have two separate memories of pretty much everything up to the point where he first walked into these woods six hours ago. His life, the one where he and Sam were raised by their dad after their mom died, and the other guy's life, the one where Sam and his mom died when Sam was a baby, and it was just Dean and his dad for the past twenty-two years.
Dean put his hand up to his chest to find the little amulet hanging by its leather string, the amulet Sam had given him when they were kids. The relief Dean felt as his hand closed around the familiar weight was almost too much; he could feel the memories of that other life receding under the sheer palpability of the little brass talisman.
But where were his memories of the past six hours? He remembered stopping by the side of the road, he and Sam climbing down the bank into the woods, sticking together rather than separating because they knew that was the smart thing to do – Then nothing. Well, not completely nothing. Dean could remember like it was some kind of dream living that other life, meeting Sam as if he was a complete stranger, going into his house, the house he shared with their mother...
Sam's low moan sent Dean scampering over the ground to his brother's side, smoothing the hair back from his sweat-damp forehead, pressing the fingers of his other hand against Sam's throat, finding his pulse easily from years of practice. Sam's skin felt warm and smooth, damp with sweat as usual, the most familiar thing in Dean's life. Not exotic, not strange, not unusually attractive –
Sam kissed him.
Dean pushed that memory down, far down, under all the other memories of their long life together – Sam as a baby, Dean struggling to lift him as he wiggled to toddle free, Dean cleaning Sam off after he fell in the mud. Tying his shoes on the first day of school. Squatting down so Sam could climb on his back, so Dean could carry him piggy-back through the woods as they followed their dad, always moving, always going somewhere, never settling down or staying in one place more than a month or two. Years and years like that, mostly on their own, always together.
Nothing like the bone-crushing loneliness of that other life, those other memories; that Dean had sought comfort and companionship wherever he could get it, had grown into a bruised and broken version of himself. Well, more bruised and broken, anyway. Throwing himself at strangers had provided only temporary relief from the grief-soaked misery of that existence. In Dean's real life, he'd had a taste of that in the years Sam was at Stanford, and that had been more than enough. Getting Sam back had been everything, the possibility of losing him again had been a source of continual anxiety in the couple of months since Jessica's death.
Sam had kissed him.
No, not gonna think about that. That was some kind of weird dream, or spell-induced hallucination. It hadn't really happened, no matter how tingly his lips felt. That was just some residual effect of the dream. It had to be.
"Dean?" Sam's eyes were fluttering open, and Dean only had a moment to consider whether it was possible for two people to share the same hallucination because Sam was gasping, sitting up and grabbing onto him, pulling him in for a bone-crushing hug that went on and on. "Oh my God! You're still here! Oh thank God!"
Dean was off-balance, on his knees in the dirt with Sam wrapped around him like some kind of gigantic tree-monster, limbs everywhere, mouth pressed against Dean's ear, and Dean let it happen for awhile because yeah – a part of him had believed he'd never see Sam again, which was beyond awful. But that was confusing, because of course Sam was there the whole time, right? Those memories weren't real.
Sam was pulling back, finally, still holding Dean's shoulders, frowning at Dean and squinting like he was trying to see through him, trying to see someone else behind the familiar features. Which meant maybe Sam's memories were weird, too.
Not thinking about that.
"What – what happened?" Sam stammered, pulling his gaze away slowly, like he was reluctant to let Dean out of his sight, like he might disappear any moment. Dean watched as Sam took in the scene, still holding onto Dean, eyes flicking back and forth and brow knitting in concentration.
"What do you remember?" Dean asked. Not putting words in his mouth, no sir.
Sam looked thoughtful for a moment, then took one hand off Dean so he could touch his own neck, and Dean knew what he was thinking, especially when Sam's gaze fell on Dean's chest, at the amulet swinging there on its cord.
"I gave that to you for Christmas when I was eight," Sam said, and Dean nodded.
"That's right," he agreed.
Sam looked up, squinting at the sky. "How long was I out?"
Okay, we can play it this way. At least for now.
"A few hours, I think," Dean hedged. "How do you feel?"
"Like shit," Sam acknowledged, rolling his shoulders. "Like I hit the ground hard and I've been lying here for hours." He rubbed his neck with the hand not still holding onto Dean. "What happened?" he asked again.
Dean pulled away, backed onto his feet so he could push himself to standing, then stuck a hand out so Sam could pull himself up, ignoring the little thrill of sensation underlying the normal feel of Sam's skin. He wondered vaguely if it'd always felt this way, touching Sam, and he was suddenly sure that it had, but something had changed.
"I guess we got whacked by whatever spell or curse hangs over this place," Dean suggested, noncommittal, not meeting Sam's eyes. "Guess it's a good thing we're both still here."
"So – we didn't just spend the last few hours trying to reverse the spell?" Sam frowned. "'Cuz I've got these weird memories – "
"No!" Dean cut him off sharply. "That's not what happened. No weird memories. We came here to investigate the area, got blasted, knocked out, end of story. Let's go."
"But don't you think we still need to investigate the area? Find out what happened to those other people?" Sam was circling the little clearing, searching for clues.
Dean shook his head, checking his pockets to be sure everything was where it was supposed to be. He pulled out his car keys and dangled them in front of Sam's face. "Nope. I think we need to cut our losses and get the hell outta here," he said firmly. "You can't solve 'em all, Sammy, and this one is just one of those weird ones that got away. Really weird."
"What happened to 'Weird is what we do?'" Sam protested as Dean turned away, leading the way back up the hill toward the road.
"Yeah, well, this ain't the kind of weird we do do," Dean growled, then snickered. "Do do. Heh."
"But the house – I think there's a house back there," Sam protested, but at least he was following Dean.
"Nope," Dean shook his head as he climbed the bank onto the road. "There's nothing, remember? We checked the maps back at the motel before we got here." Damn, his head hurt. But at least his memory wasn't so foggy now. He just had to pretend the last six hours hadn't happened, that's all. It was was all some kind of freaky dream...
Because it hadn't. There wasn't a house in those woods. There wasn't a gorgeous young stranger who turned out to be his long-lost brother, and there wasn't a kiss. Nope, nope, nope.
Dean's baby was just where he'd left her. As he slid into the driver's side, he checked under his seat for his gun, found it where he'd left it, and tried not to think about the fact that he'd taken it with him into those woods six hours ago. Weird, but nothing he couldn't forget about. Sam's stare, however, was a little harder to ignore, especially because he knew Sam remembered that he was packing when they investigated the woods – together – last night. Sam didn't say anything, though, just frowned and stared at him for awhile as he started the car, pulled onto the road back toward town.
They drove in silence for a full minute before Sam spoke.
"She was beautiful, Dean," he said. "She was brave and strong and good. She could do anything; hunt and trap and fish, dig a garden, patch a roof. She was tough. She'd been through a lot, but she never let it affect her basic belief that people could be good. You're a lot like her."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean growled, fighting the urge to give in, to just admit to Sam that he knew exactly what he was talking about.
"Yes, you do." Sam was a stubborn little bitch, Dean'd give him that. Sam held up his hand, and damn it if there wasn't a bandage there, just like the one in Dean's dream. "It happened," Sam went on. "You may choose to deny it, and I get that, but it did happen. It wasn't just a dream, or whatever you think it was."
"So you cut your hand," Dean shrugged. "Happens all the time."
"I'm betting there's a little slice on your forearm, too," Sam suggested. "You used your blood to work the spell."
Dean clenched his jaw, shook his head a little, hands kneading the steering wheel. He could feel the sting of the cut on his arm, taunting him.
"It's over, Sam," he said firmly. "Whatever happened back there, it's over. We need to get our heads back in the game, keep looking for Dad."
Sam nodded, lips curling up in a smug smile, making Dean want to wipe that look right off the kid's face, hating himself for putting it there.
Because yeah, it happened. And Dean knew Sam was thinking about the kiss, he just knew Sam was gonna bring it up again, and there wasn't a damn thing Dean could do to stop him. Yeah, it happened, and Dean was just sick enough to want it to happen again. But that didn't mean it was going to happen again. No sir. No fuckin' way.
No way in hell.
Having Sam with him, by his side – well, that was worth a lifetime of unrequited lust, if that's what it came down to. So if Dean had to face his perverted desire for his own brother at some point down the line, well, it beat the alternative. Beat not having a brother, that was for damn sure.
They would deal with it when they had to, and not a minute before.
Right now, they had work to do.