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At thirteen, Sam Winchester knew one thing to be absolutely true—normalcy wasn’t appreciated as much as it should be. Day after day, the young teen trudged down the dirt road to his school, backpack stuffed with textbooks diligently read, and homework carefully researched and answered. Dean called him a nerd and ruffled his hair with an easy-going grin each time he saw Sam hunched over the small desk in their rental home, working away at whatever essay or math problems he had to finish.
“You work too hard, Sammy,” Dean would chide softly, “We’re just gonna move again in a month.”
It was true—they always moved. The longest stretch of time Sam had spent in the same school was three months and that only had been because their father had a broken leg and was unable to leave his bed. Still, Sam loved school. He loved the books and learning and just being . . . . well, normal. At school, there was no discussing the best way to kill werewolves or ghosts. At school, he wasn’t that weird kid that didn’t fit in because he was a loner. Here, at school, he had other kids his own age that loved to discuss ancient Egyptian history.
At home, he had Dean sure, but Dean never got it. All his older brother wanted to do was please their father and be a good hunter. And while Sam didn’t resent him per se, the youngest Winchester just wished that his brother would just accept him, just the way he was. After all, Sam knew he would never measure up to their father’s standards.
So, school was Sam’s salvation.
And with a smile on his face, he walked into his 1st period homeroom.
At 27, Sam Winchester knew one thing to be absolutely true—he was an absolute failure. He’d let the gates of Hell open and he was Lucifer’s vessel. Due to his actions, the whole world was going to die, and he was responsible.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Dean mutters, flipping through yet another tome of ancient Latin, searching for any sort of lead. They’re cooped up at Bobby’s house this weekend, laying low from a police hunt from a hunt gone wrong. The heat would die down in a few days, but until then, they needed to be careful.
“I’m not,” Sam retorts, petulantly, almost childish. He knows that he’s acting ridiculous, sitting in a chair, practically pouting, but this guilt is eating him alive. He’s damned the world. He’s doomed them all.
“Liar,” Dean responds, shutting the book down and turning to meet his baby brother’s gaze, “What’s going on in that big brain of yours, huh?”
A lot, if Sam were to be honest, but none of it would be what Dean wants to hear. Honestly, if Sam could, he’d take a pistol to his head and blow his brains out. If that meant saving the world, so be it. If his life would spare Dean’s and everyone else’s, who was Sam to argue against it?
“Nothing. Just tired.” He’s gotten good at lying to Dean, something that he’s not proud of; however, as he feels the lie roll off of his tongue, he knows his brother can see through the façade. Sam’s not doing okay. Not at all.
“Go lie down then.” His older brother’s voice is soft, so unlike him. It’s that trademark big brother voice, the one that Dean only busted out when Sam was down in the dumps. It reminds Sam of his childhood, of slammed motel room doors and angry glares from their father as he accused his youngest of being selfish. After those fights, Dean would come and comfort him with a small smile and a cup of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream.
Hot chocolate wouldn’t fix this though.
Not this time.
“Sammy?”
Words bubble up in his throat—help, I’m drowning, I did this, I want to die—but Sam swallows them back down.
“I’ll take a quick nap.”
He’s such a good liar.
“We’re moving.”
The news didn’t come as shock per se, but the brusque way John said it meant there was some sort of bigger story at play. Perhaps, they’d been found out by the local police or CPS—it wouldn’t have been the first time that they had needed to make a hasty retreat—but Sam was sure that they’d covered their tracks fairly well. The last hunt they finished up was more than two weeks ago and things had been quiet in town ever since. As for CPS, well, Sam had hidden his bruised arms from the teacher’s prying eyes.
“Why?”
John narrowed his gaze at his youngest, “What do you mean, ‘why’?”
“Sammy.” Dean cautioned softly, sitting at the opposite end of the dining room table, his eyes wide and pleading.
But Sam refused to back down. He was 13 now and he wanted some control of his life. He wanted to go to college one day and become something more than a hunter. He wanted to be normal. He wanted to get married and settle down with a girl and have two kids and that white picket fence house.
“I wanted—” The youngest Winchester started, but John quickly waved him off.
“It’s not about what you want, Sammy.”
“But, Dad—!”
“We’re moving and that’s final!” John shouted, slamming his hands on the wooden table, rocking it with the sheer force of it. For just a second longer, John let his gaze linger, practically daring Sam to protest further, but the youngest Winchester knew what battles to pick and choose.
This was not one of them.
“Understood, sir.” Dean stated dutifully and Sam did his best not to roll his eyes. Of course, Dean would be the perfect hunter, their dad’s favorite son. Dean never questioned anything that John did. He seemed content to just drift from town to town, making fleeting connections with any cute ladies that they ran across.
“Good,” John visibly relaxed, sighing softly, “Pack. We’re gone in the morning. I’ve got one last night to finish this up. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Their father didn’t wait a moment more before leaving the small rental house, the door thudding behind him.
Sam sighed. He didn’t want to move, but he knew it was futile to fight it. In the end, John always got his way. That didn’t mean Sam didn’t have a trick up his sleeve. He’d finally scored his first invitation to a party; a coveted rite of passage, and he wasn’t about to let John take that away too. He had to go to this party tonight and to do that, he had to ditch his brother.
“Sammy, you shouldn’t talk back,” Dean ran a hand through his hair, sighing, “You know how Dad gets.”
Good little hunter, always defending Dad.
“You’re not upset? What about Casey?”
“Casey? Girl from the diner Casey?”
“Yeah,” Sam smirked, “Didn’t you want to go out with her?”
“Well, I guess, but—”
“You should go, Dean,” Sam pressed, “Last night in town.” The youngest Winchester took their plates to the sinks, scrubbing them with a sponge.
“I can’t just leave—”
“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam assured him softly, “I’m just gonna pack and fix up some stuff.”
He could see the indecision in Dean’s eyes, could tell that his brother was wavering. Sam waited patiently, washing the dishes and drying them before he finally saw a smirk on Dean’s lips.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” He grabbed his wallet and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans, “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”
“Fine,” Sam lied, “Just gonna stay here.”
“All right. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“No rush, Dean.”
His brother hesitated in the doorway and for a second, Sam wondered if he’d been caught, but Dean shook his head and left, the door closing behind him.
Finally, Sam could go.
He could be just a normal kid at a normal party.
What could possibly go wrong?
Nightmares always plague him, ever since he set Lucifer free. His dreams are dripping in blood and his sleep is restless as he aimlessly turns over and over in his bed. He deserves it, Sam knows, but sometimes, he wishes that he could escape into the deep oblivion that sleep held.
After an hour, Sam admits defeat and gets up, wincing a bit at a flash of pain in his side. He must be getting old and no doubt Dean would tease him to no end if he found out about this. He moves down the hallway, sighing. The pain increases a bit and he assumes that he must’ve just twisted a muscle or slept funny.
Dean is in the exact same spot where he left him, and his older brother doesn’t even glance up as Sam re-enters the room.
“Bad nap?”
Sam doesn’t say anything, hissing out a pained breath as he places his hand on his side.
“Sam?”
His hand comes back a bloody crimson.
“Sam?” Dean’s out of the chair now, his brother in full blown panic mode as he sees the deep knife wound in his baby brother’s side, “Holy shit, Sam! Who did this?”
As much as he would love to answer questions, the world is spinning and maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the blood loss, but Sam finds himself sinking to the ground, his brother’s strong arms easing him down.
“Sam! Stay with me, okay? Eyes on me!”
Dean sounds like John for the briefest of seconds and Sam remembers that tone so well. So sharp and commanding, so strict and angry—that was their father.
“Shit, shit,” Dean curses under his breath and Sam knows it must be bad, but he can’t bring himself to care, “Sam, hold on!”
Maybe he’ll die here. Maybe it’ll end.
Sam would be fine with that.
He wants to die. He wants to save the world.
So, he lets himself go and the world fades out around him.
It wasn’t hard to sneak out when no one was watching. For Sam, it was almost too easy, and he wondered briefly if it was a trap of some sort. Still, leaving the house behind, Sam quickly made his way back toward his school. The boy hosting the party, Tim, was one of the jocks and pretty popular—well, as far as middle school standards went—and Sam could only imagine what the party would be like. He wanted so desperately to fit in tonight, to be normal, that he was willing to do almost anything.
Sure, Dean would be pissed if he returned home and Sam wasn’t there, but Sam couldn’t just let his life pass him by. It was time to take matters into his own hands.
The house was a simple one, with a small lawn and a white fence surrounding it. Sam marched up to the door and knocked on it. Butterflies filled his stomach. He’d been so preoccupied with getting to the party that he was unsure if he would actually fit in.
“Oh, you must be Sam!” Tim’s mother, a matronly woman with faded blonde hair, beamed at him, “They’re all upstairs. Follow me.”
She led Sam up the carpeted stairs, to a small room off the hallway. Opening the door, Sam could recognize his classmates and Tim grinned as he saw him.
“Sam! You made it!”
“Hey, Sam!”
“Yo, Sam!”
His classmates surrounded him and for the first time in his life, Sam felt truly at home. This—being with others like him—this is where he belonged. Not out in the darkness of night, putting his life on the line, but here in the awkwardness of a middle school party.
Tim handed him a slice of lukewarm pizza and a can of soda and Sam settled on the couch, ready to play some video games and discuss the unfairness of their science professor.
“Sam Winchester?” A voice echoed behind him, “You’ve been selected for termination. Goodbye.”
And that’s when he felt the knife cut into his skin.
“This wound isn’t natural,” Castiel states, gingerly checking the dressing of the stab wound on Sam’s left side, “Cuts just don’t appear.”
“No shit!” Dean shouts, pacing the length of the room, “I know it’s not right! Where did it come from? Hex bag? Curse?”
The angel grimaces as he tries to put the pieces together. He must admit, he once thought of Sam as an abomination and certainly, letting the devil out hadn’t helped with that opinion, but now the angel knows that the boys had had their decks stacked against them. They’d never had a chance really and Castiel was partially to blame for that.
“Cas? What do you think it is?”
Castiel meets Dean’s gaze, “I think . . . Heaven is trying to kill Sam.”
“We have wards. There’s no way—”
Cas shakes his head, “Not here, Dean. In the past. Before he could be a threat.”
Dean’s eyes widen, almost to comic proportions, “Time travel? You’re fucking with me!”
“It’s possible. You said it yourself that there are wards. You two haven’t been on any witch hunts recently. The only logical option is—”
Dean collapses in a chair by Sam’s bed, his face in his palms, “Time travel.”
“Yes. If this is the case, it’s imperative that we act quickly. I can travel back—”
“How would you even know where to go?”
“Time travel leaves an essence behind, especially in cases like this. I would just follow the essence back to it’s source.” Dean stares up at him helplessly. Castiel shrugs, “It’s complicated.”
Sam stirs on the bed and Dean is instantly there, soothing his brother, whispering comforting words in his ear. Sam settles back to a restless sleep, his brow slick with sweat.
“I’m coming with you,” Dean states, voice low and sharp, “I’m not gonna let those bastards get away with this.”
“Dean, no, someone needs to stay and look after Sam—”
“And what am I? Useless?” Bobby wheels into the room, concern etched onto his face, “What crap have you two gotten into now?”
“Time travel,” Dean mutters, “Sam’s getting attacked in the past. Cas and I need to stop it.”
Bobby lets out a long whistle, “Well, shit. Didn’t expect that.”
“It’s pretty crappy, yeah,” Dean huffs out a humorless laugh, “But hey, it’s our life, right?”
Bobby chuckles darkly, “Guess so,” Then, taking up a position by Sam’s bed, he dips a wet cloth on Sam’s forehead, “Go. I’ve got Sam. The sooner you get this done, the sooner he gets better.”
Dean hesitates, gaze refusing to leave his brother’s flushed face.
Cas understands that his whole world is on that bed and he wonders yet again, why his Father would create such strong emotions if only to try to use it against the brothers later on. What kind of cruel twist of fate was this?
“Cas?”
Castiel holds out his hand, “Don’t let go. This may be painful.”
And just like that, they’re travelling back through time, leaving Sam behind.
Sam knows an overpowered foe when he sees one. Sure, he may not know exactly who the mysterious man with the very long and sharp blade is, but he doesn’t need to know. The man is a threat, Sam is powerless and that’s all he needs to focus on.
He flees the scene, pressing his hand on the slow bleeding wound, escaping outside. He isn’t sure what Tim and the other kids are doing, but from the way that attacker specifically picked him out, Sam is sure that he’s the only target. It’s a good thing he is moving, a voice bitterly tells him, after all this would be one fucked up thing to explain come Monday morning.
His side is bleeding sluggishly, the crimson blood staining ground and Sam grimaces as he applies more pressure to it. He can’t afford to leave anything behind that will allow the man to track him. He doesn’t understand why anyone would want to hurt him, but he knows that he needs to get to his brother and get backup.
“You can’t escape.”
The attacker materializes in front of him and Sam jerks back, nearly tripping on a twig. A man with cerulean eyes glares at him, his trench coat flowing in the wind. It’s almost majestic really, but Sam can’t understand why this man is staring at him with such hate in his eyes. As far as he’s aware, Sam hasn’t pissed off anyone recently.
“Who are you?” Sam questions softly, wishing he had brought his knife or some sort of weapon. He needs to stall for time and find a way out.
“That is of no importance,” The man replies, almost robotically, “You must die tonight, Sam Winchester. Accept your fate.”
Fate—such a loaded word.
Sam often wonders if his fate is to be a hunter. He thinks about his life being a carbon copy of John’s or Dean’s and feels nothing but dread. He doesn’t believe in fate and he’s not about to submit to one where he dies violently. Not now.
Not ever.
“Bullshit!” A voice growls and all of sudden, there’s two of the men in trench coats. Sam blinks, trying to process the scene before him. The voice—another man, wearing a faded leather coat—steps forward and Sam gapes. This man wears a face he would know anywhere and carries himself with a swagger that he immediately recognizes.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is so faint, even to him.
Old Dean, as Sam’s confused brain quickly labels him, steps in front of him, blocking his view.
“No one is killing, Sammy. Not while I’m here.”
The other man in the trench coat—the non-violent one—softens his gaze as he makes eye contact with the youngest Winchester. He asks quietly, “Are you well, Sam?”
“What is this?” The violent man growls, gaze darting between his doppelganger and old Dean.
“Would like to know the same thing,” Old Dean smirks, though there’s no humor in his eyes, “Cas? What the hell is this?”
Cas, the non-violent guy, frowns, clearly just as lost, “Heaven has intervened, but Dean, I have no memory of this—”
Maybe it’s the blood loss making him dizzy and causing hallucinations, but either way, Sam knows an opportunity when he sees one. Let them theorize and try to figure out what is going on.
As for Sam, he turns and runs away, leaving the chaos behind him.
Bobby grimaces as he places a cool towel on Sam’s burning head.
It breaks his heart to see him like this, so still, pain etched on his expression. Whether they knew it or not, Bobby considered the two Winchesters his sons and when they were hurting, so was he.
“Hold on, Sam,” Bobby soothes softly, noticing the wound still oozing blood, growing redder and more inflamed by the second, “It’s gonna be okay.”
He doesn’t know that, nor can he guarantee it.
Things have been fucked up, to say the least, since the apocalypse started and honestly, it took Bobby a long time to let go of his anger over Sam’s actions. Still, it didn’t take time for him to realize how high the deck had been stacked against the two brothers. They were pawns in a much larger game than Bobby could ever comprehend.
But screw Heaven, screw Hell—they are Team Free Will now and somehow, they’ll figure it all out.
“Bobby Singer, I presume.”
Bobby doesn’t hesitate, spinning around in his chair, shotgun poised to kill at the new intruder.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m gonna need answers, Cas,” Dean hisses, trying to figure out what his next move is, because his bleeding baby brother has fled the scene and his friend is apparently the bad guy, “What’s our move?”
Castiel exhales slowly and steps over to his past self. He frowns, struggling for words, “You were ordered to kill Sam Winchester?”
Evil Cas hisses, “You protect the Devil’s vessel?”
Dean wants to tear him apart, but Cas simply continues, “You simply follow orders without considering the lasting consequences?”
“It’s Heaven’s way.”
It’s an impasse—that much Dean can tell. Angelic Cas won’t ever sway from his mission and given the time period, it’s unlikely that spending any time with Dean or Sam will change that.
“You won’t stop me,” Evil Cas states, almost robotically, “You may try to hinder me, but Sam Winchester will die tonight.”
At that, Dean can’t stay silent, “Like Hell he will!”
Evil Cas smirks, almost as if he finds the whole thing amusing, “The brother? Ah. I’ve been warned of you.” He raises one eyebrow, perplexed, “You travelled as well?”
“Dean, go find Sam!” Cas orders sharply, pulling out a blade from his coat.
Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s off and running, hoping that he’s not too late.
“You could lower the shotgun.”
There’s a woman before him, a stranger with golden locks and ruby red lips, standing in the middle of his living room. She regards him with a warm smile, as happy as can be, and it pisses the older hunter off more.
“Whoever you are, you ain’t human.” A human wouldn’t have been able to break in here—there’s way too many traps—and with the wards they have, most supernatural creatures have been kept out.
Except for one.
“I’m an angel, yes,” The woman replies, “And let’s face it, you have no part to play in this, Mr. Singer.”
He cocks the gun.
She sighs, “Really, such dramatics,” She takes a step closer and Bobby doesn’t hesitate, firing straight at her chest.
The shotgun shells fall to the ground with a clang, prevented from hitting their mark.
“Shit.” He needs to reload and be quick before—
“Like I said, you have no part to play.”
And with a snap of her fingers, Bobby Singer is unconscious in his chair.
Sam can’t breathe.
His side burns and there’s way too much blood staining his hands red. He can feel shock setting in, feel panic rising up in his chest as the realization sets in that he’s way out of his depth here and has no way to get help.
He might die here, secluded in some bushes on the side of a dirt road.
Could it have been his fate after all?
He curls up into the fetal position, tears staining his cheeks. He’s alone. He’s going to die alone.
“Sammy?”
But then, Old Dean is there, taking him into his strong arms and relief washes over the young teen.
“Dean, it hurts.” He clenches his jaw, trying to fight the sobs, but they find a way out of him and he shakes in his brother’s arms.
“I’ve got you,” Dean soothes as the world around Sam spins, “Just hold on.”
But, as if his body knows that he’s safe now, he lets his eyes close and falls into the dark abyss.
He comes to in a dark motel room.
“Sammy?”
It takes all of his energy to turn his head to see Old Dean by his bedside, his green eyes wide with worry.
“Dean?”
“It’s me, kiddo.”
There are strange symbols on the walls, marks that Sam has never seen before. He tries to sit up, wincing as he touches the now stitched up and bandaged injury. Dean barks, “Hold still, Sammy.” But Sam has never been good at listening and he forces himself to breathe through the pain and sit up, resting against the cheap headboard.
“You’re . . . old.”
It’s true. As he studies the man beside him, he sees wrinkles around his eyes and new scars on his arms. This Dean has been through more battles and he’s survived, though not without getting a few new war stories to tell.
Dean huffs out a dry laugh, “It’s, uh, complicated.”
Sam narrows his gaze, “Try me.”
His brother shakes his head, “Just let me handle this.”
That won’t do. Sam swings his feet over the side of the bed, attempting to stand. Dean freaks out, trying to hold him down, but Sam shakes him off and, maybe out of a fear of accidentally hurting him, Dean lets go. The youngest Winchester glares and repeats, voice firm, “Try me.”
Dean doesn’t say anything for a while, though Sam knows him still—can see the wheels turning in his older brother’s head as he tries to figure out what tale to spin. But Sam won’t stand for lies. Something huge is happening here and while the youngest Winchester won’t claim to understand it, he won’t be lied to about the danger.
He’s a Winchester.
Winchesters don’t run.
“I’ve time travelled from the future,” Old Dean says shakily, “And there’s an angel out to kill you, Sammy.”
He tries not to let his mind get wrapped up in time travel and asks, “But you know the angel?”
“I know him now. His past self . . . he’s different.”
Sam’s heart pounds.
An angel. A good guy. They’re real and they’re out to kill him?
“Why?”
Dean glances away, “It doesn’t matter.”
“Why does an angel want me dead, Dean?”
“Because you started the apocalypse.”
Sam feels like he’s been punched. He sags onto the bed, his mind spinning, his thoughts racing. He’s never exactly believed in a higher power, but he always thought that maybe, just maybe, he was a good person. But now, this?
He started the apocalypse? Like the end of the world?
Accept your fate.
“Then, if I did that,” His voice is so unsteady, like a newborn foal taking their first steps, “To save everyone, shouldn’t I just die?”
His brother is hugging him so tightly that Sam can practically feel his ribs breaking under the pressure.
“Don’t,” Dean growls, “Don’t fucking say that. You’re not dying, Sam. Not now. Not ever. You hear me?”
And he gets it, why the angel came back in time.
His brother would never let Sam be hurt. But tonight, the night Sam snuck out to be a normal teenager, and tricked his brother into seeing a pretty girl, his brother isn’t here.
Dean breaks the hug, but keeps his hands on Sam’s shoulders, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears, “You understand me?”
Sam slowly nods.
“Yeah, Dean, I do.”
“Then, just do what I say.”
A ring pierces the silence and Dean pulls out a tiny phone—they got that small in the future? And wireless—and chuckles, “Cas? We get reception here?” There’s a muffled voice and Dean nods, attentive, “I’ve got him. What’s the plan?” Dean nods emphatically, “Got it. Be careful.” He hangs up the phone and faces Sam once more.
“We got a plan?” Sam isn’t sitting this fight out. He may not understand everything that’s going on, but he knows he can’t let his brother face it alone.
“We’re gonna banish the bad angel.”
Sam furrows his brow, “How are we gonna do that?”
Dean smirks, “You’ll see.”
It’s time to get to work.
Another hour later, they’re across town, meeting with the good angel.
“Where’d you lose Terminator?” Dean asks though the good angel doesn’t seem to understand the reference.
“Pocket dimension,” He replies, “It won’t hold him for long. You have the ingredients?”
Dean holds up the jar of herbs and gestures to the chalk sigils on the ground.
Sam extends his arm nervously, “We need my blood, right?”
The angel smiles, bright and serene, “Yes.” The blade cuts into Sam’s flesh and he winces a bit, staring away as the blood collects in the bottom of the herb jar. After a moment, Dean hands him a bandage and Sam patches himself up.
“So,” Sam waits, “What now?”
Castiel snaps his fingers and Sam collapses.
The angel winces, “I’m sorry, Sam, but we can’t alter the timeline.”
“You sure his memories are gone?” Dean gently moves his brother to the middle of the chalk diagram, gently running a hand through his hair.
“Yes, but Dean, we need to work fast before—”
A flutter of wings and past Castiel has arrived, blade outstretched and ready to kill. He glowers, “I do not find all these distractions amusing. Surrender the demon.”
“He’s not a demon,” Castiel hisses, “One day you will see that.”
“And you will see how fallen you truly are,” Evil Cas retorts, “How our Father would pity you.”
Dean lights the herbs on fire, but past Cas notices, charging, only to be blocked by the kinder angel.
“Quick! The spell!”
“Move aside!”
The two angels struggle and Dean spits out the Latin, praying to any God that will listen that his pronunciation is right. The fire burns brightly and the chalk marks glow.
“Cas!” Dean shouts and the angel nods.
“Understood!” He quickly cuts the past version of Castiel, letting some of his grace drip into the flaming jar.
The effect is instaneous.
Past Castiel vanishes and Dean lets out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. The fire dies in the jar and the sigils fade, leaving an unconscious Sam safely unaware of the events that transpired.
“That will keep him safe?”
Castiel winces, “It will keep this version of Sam safe from me until the spell is broken in our time. No angels will be able to touch this Sam.” He doubles over in pain, hissing, “But as such, I cannot remain here.” The angel holds out his hand, “We must go.”
Dean takes one more look at Sammy, but nods.
He feels himself flying as he grabs Cas’ hand.
“What is this?” The woman coughs, blood staining her lips.
One second she had Sam Winchester and the next, she couldn’t even remain on her feet. She could feel her grace being ripped from her, could feel her vessel dying.
“Fucking Winchesters!”
Her voice echoed with rage as she waved her hand and sent Sam back to where he came from.
Let Heaven deal with this nonsense. She wasn’t dying because of the Devil’s vessel.
No way.
“Sammy?”
Sam opens his eyes to see his older brother, with a new hickey on his neck, and faint traces of red lipstick on his lips. The youngest Winchester blinks a few times, trying to chase the faint wisps of whatever vivid dream he’d experienced.
“You with me?”
Sam slowly sits up, trying to figure out why his brain is so foggy. He slowly nods, “Yeah.” He’s back on the couch in their rented house. Funny. Sam hadn’t remembered lying down or feeling tired. He lifts his arm and notices a small bandage. When had he cut himself? He tries to wake himself up, “Feel asleep, I guess.”
Dean just chuckles, hair askew and million-watt smile on his lips. It didn’t take a genius to see what he was happy about.
Slowly, Sam gets off the couch and makes his way to the bedroom, where Dean is packing up the last bit of his clothes.
“Come on, you better pack. Dad wants to go in the morning.”
Sam’s arms hesitantly encircle his brother’s. He isn’t sure why, but worry lies within him, and he needs reassurance.
Dean doesn’t hesitate, instantly hugging his brother back.
“It’s gonna be okay, Sammy. You’ll see.”
“Sam? You with me?”
Sam groans, feeling like he’s been hit by a semi-truck a few times. Still, he manages to open his eyes and meet the three pairs of concerned eyes gazing down at him.
“There he is,” Bobby smiles, “Thought we’d lost you for a bit, boy.”
Sam sits up, “What happened?”
“Long story,” Dean sags into his chair, exhaustion evident, “Just know that me and Cas handled it.”
Sam swallows, tasting something bitter, “Did I drink something?”
Castiel shrugs, “We had to end the spell so I could be here with you. But don’t worry, it’s still in effect in the past.”
Sam blinks.
Dean smirks, “Go back to sleep, Sammy, I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”
Bobby rolls away and Castiel follows him, leaving the two brothers together.
“Dean?”
Faint memories of his brother saving him from a rampaging angel in a trench coat flash in his brain.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Dean smiles, “Bitch."
And this time, it’s Sam that’s beaming, “Jerk.”
Maybe it’s the apocalypse and maybe they are screwed, but right now, they have each other.
And that’s all that matters.