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It’s raining outside. Sam can faintly hear the drops hit the roof. If he wanted, he could look out the window and see the pelting drops himself, how they ran down the window, but he’s nose diving into a book; a necromancer’s spell book that he stole off of a two hundred and thirteen year old witch who posed as a gentle lady in her forties. He hadn’t bothered burying her, had just taken her book.
He’s stopped being frantic with his research, stopped reeling into the hope of finding the answers he wants – needs, desperately craves – because after all these years, he’s only come across disappointment. And that is what will make him go insane in the end. Well, more insane.
He searches for the words he wants to come across; the sweet relief he’s aching so for, the opposite of what the witch gave herself which is eternal life – to a price –, Sam wants none of that.
The minutes turn into hours and hours seep into long after midnight. It could be days, even, Sam wouldn’t know. When he’s clinging to a string of clues he goes all in and stops paying attention to the outside world.
It isn’t until he’s read cover to cover a hundred times that he finally closes the book, fingers trembling as he grasps the hard cover, and with a raspy cry of agony he throws the book into the wall. Before he completely trashes the place together and scrapes the sigils off with his bare nails (because what’s even the point?), he slams his fists down on the table so hard a grim pain shoots through his whole arms. Shaking all over, he takes a few deep breaths just so calm himself down.
Another failure in the long row of other failures.
Straggling his – weakened from starvation and dehydration – body to the bedroom, he lies down with his whole outfit on, shoes and all, staring up on the ceiling. Sleep won’t come easy, he’s hungry and upset. Damning himself internally for letting hope slip into his mind, he rubs his eyes clean from the burning tears that want to roll down his bearded cheeks.
Eventually, though – because he’s just so damn exhausted – sleep hits him square in the jaw, and he’s out cold.
What he doesn’t see, is the black hole surrounding the cottage and swallows him up.
He awakes with a jolt, knowing that something is very different. He tries to rub his eyes but realizes that his hands are tied behind his back, and he’s put down on a chair in a big, empty warehouse. He groans, too tired to be scared or bothered. He wonders what it could be: skin walkers, vampires? Whatever it is, it can’t value its life too highly because when he gets out of these ropes – because he will – he won’t spare them long enough for them to scream for their mommies. He’s too tired for this.
He hears a clanking sound to his right and he whips his head towards the noise, leaning his head to the side to try and see someone – something – over there. “Hello?” he calls out, expecting a vampiric hiss or something but is just greeted by further silence. Sighing, he tries the ropes again but notes that they are bound tightly around his wrists, whatever’s been tying him up is an expert. It will take him longer to get out of them, but he will still get out. He’s not an amateur.
Though his knuckles still hurt from punching the table, he fixates on trying to dislocating to slide them through the holes. A little pain doesn’t bother him anymore. With a low grunt he manages to dislocate his right thumb and is just about to slide it out, when he hears another sound; this time it’s footsteps in a hurry, coming closer to his location but from behind. He stills, listening in on the sound to know how close it is to him. New plan, he will fling himself backwards and hopefully take the monster by surprise and maybe be able to get out of the ropes if his chair breaks.
But the monster stops, as if it’s a mind-reader. Then, there’s a fluttering sound, and his blood turns cold. Wings. That was the sound of wings. But that’s impossible he has time to think, before the angel flutters in front of him, and his lungs can’t draw in any air. He stares at the familiar angel in front of him, stunned and confused.
“Cas…?” he whispers. Castiel just stares at him with those familiar blue, the confusion clear on his face as well. “How- how…” Then, he vanishes. “No! No, wait! Cas!” Sam screams. Don’t leave, don’t leave me, is on the edge of his lips. But he’s alone, can feel it in the chilly air of the naked warehouse. And for the first time in years, he’s feeling panicked.
“This is bad.”
Dean whips his head around and is standing only inches away from Cas. “What, do I have a bad breath?” he deadpans. “Come on Cas, for the hundredth time, personal space.”
“It’s worse than I thought”, Cas continues, ignoring Dean. He walks through the main room of the Men of Letter’s bunker and looks through the case files.
“What is? This whole black hole thing? Has more people gone missing?” Dean asks, following the peculiar angel with the deepest from he’s ever seen.
“No, yes, maybe. I don’t know.”
“Want to put some sense into that?”
“It’s better if I show you. Where’s Sam?” He looks around the bunker just as Sam emerges from his bedroom with raised brows.
“Right here, what’s going on?” he asks, approaching his brother and the angel.
“I’ll have to show you”, Cas responds and grabs Dean’s arm together with Sam’s before either can protest. He takes them to the warehouse, inside the storage unit.
“The hell, Cas! A little warning next time!” Dean grunts, wobbly on his legs.
“That hole didn’t just suck people in, it also spat some out”, Cas says impatiently with a clear urgent tone to his gravel voice. Both brothers frown at that.
“Where from? Other countries?” Sam asks, folding his arms over his broad chest.
“No. It’s more complicated than that”, he sighs. “There’s someone in this warehouse that doesn’t belong here.”
“Can’t you just… zap them back to their place?” Dean says.
“I don’t know where he’s from, we’ll have to… ask”, the angel responds carefully. “I don’t have enough ’mojo’ in me to just see that.”
“Okay. So we’ll ask him, what’s the problem? You shy all of a sudden?” Dean snorts. Castiel stops him just as he’s about to walk out of the unit and find their mystery man.
“It’s complicated, Dean. This is not the time to just run in there. We have to be cautious.”
“Cas”, Sam says carefully, looking out towards the way Dean was headed. “Who’s out there?”
He’s almost out of the ropes, they have burned and bled his wrists like a bad rug burn, his dislocated thumb is free but popping it back in without seeing is complicated. But he doesn’t care, doesn’t care if he has to break both his arms to get out.
That was Castiel. The angel that died once and for all, all those years ago, stood and stared at him with that deep frown only he knows. It could be a fraud. But why now? Why after all this time? And how did the fraud find his evaporated body?
Somehow, the angel is back to life. Again.
Sam is not sloppy, but he’s urgent. Old memories are trying to flood through into his head and ruin all of it, all the barriers he’s been building up around the storage where they are decorating the walls oozing black and painfully red.
“Sam.”
He whips his head up so hard that his neck hurts for a short second. He’s face to face with the angel again, and it’s him, it’s really, truly him. Sam knows it. He knows. “Cas”, he whispers, his voice bordering on wavering, failing him. “I- I- I can’t believe, how are you-“
There are more. Another person comes into view and he staggers. Staring. Unbelieving.
It’s him. Him, Sam. “What…”, he whispers, frowning at the tall man standing there, his hair to his shoulders and barely even some scruff on his face. There’s equal confusion on his face, equal stagger and stammering, equal. The same. The exact same.
Except it isn’t. It’s him, he sees it’s himself standing there staring at him like he’s some sort of ghost. But he’s younger. Much younger. A memory of his past.
Has he finally cracked now? Is this what insanity looks like?
With one last pull, he manages to get out of the rope. He brings his arms back, his wrists raw and pounding painfully. He stands up, closing in on the little space between himself and… himself. They tilt their heads at the same time, eyeing and assessing each other. Is he a mirage?
Just as he’s about to reach out and touch his other, younger self there’s yet another figure coming into view. And when he turns his head slightly to see who, it’s like he’s been punched by a two thousand pound cement block.
Dean can’t believe his eyes when he walks up to the place where Sam has stopped short. It takes him a second to understand what he’s looking at. The man standing just six feet away from his brother is just as tall, but his soft greying hair is below his pecs, and he’s sporting a full beard. There are age lines around his eyes, and he has a slight bent to his shoulders, like he’s in a constant backpain.
It’s Sam. But it’s not Sam, not his Sam, anyway.
He gapes, and stares. Can’t do anything else but stare.
The other Sam is staring at him too, but the sheer force behind those eyes are almost unbearable to Dean. He can see everything in those aged green, but he doesn’t understand it. The other Sam is shaking, almost violently, like he’s trying to hold something inside that wants to get out.
“Dean…?” he whispers and it’s so low Dean can barely hear it; it’s aimed at him but not meant for him.
He can just stand his ground when the other Sam comes forward to him, his eyes blown wide and full of tears. “Dean…”, he keeps whispering, over and over. Dean knows deep inside he has to let this happen, he has to allow the other Sam this. He doesn’t know where he’s from, or really who he is, doesn’t know his story, but it is Sam, he knows it is. Not his Sam, but Sam nevertheless.
The other Sam is shortening the distance between them, and all Dean can do is opening his arms for him, he knows deep inside that that is what the other man needs. With a hard body slam, the other Sam is grabbing onto Dean, holding him almost painfully in his arms, and Dean hears and feels the wrecked tears sobbing out of him and into his neck.
He holds him, holds his weight, holds his pain and anguish.
This Sam’s hands are cradling his neck, his hair, and his sobs are as genuine as it gets and they sound so painful it makes Dean’s heart ache badly.
Then he backs his face away from Dean’s soaked jacket and holds his face between his big, trembling hands. Just holds them and stares into Dean’s green, searching, eyeing, looking; his freckles, his lips, his nose, his skin; they dug deep inside, like he’s trying to see the blood beneath, the muscles. He pulls Dean’s face closer to his and Dean feels his trembling lips and beard on his forehead, holding it there. Dean lets him. He has to.
It takes him a long time to come back to his senses, at least to how they were before this. Still broken, fallen apart. He can even let go of Dean, he even dares to. But there is a part of him that screams ‘what if he disappears again!?’. He has to shove that feeling aside, bury it. Can’t stand it.
And seeing himself stand there – many, many years younger – he knows this isn’t his Dean. Still isn’t sure this isn’t all just a very twisted dream, the way he used to dream before. About the hope of getting his brother back, right before he woke up to silence and loneliness again.
But he’s almost certain this is real. He can feel the tug of his soul wanting to pull Dean into his arms and never let go; want him to consume him, hold him, kiss him, love him.
He takes a shallow, wavering breath. A sudden wave of nausea hits him and he staggers on his feet.
“Woah, woah, easy”, this Dean says and reaches out to hold his elbow, helping him down on the chair he got out of so he won’t faint. Sam puts his face in his hands, rubbing, scrubbing. He pulls his fingers through his hair, for the first time surprised at how long it’s gotten. It hasn’t occurred to him to cut it off, it hasn’t been a priority. Same with his beard. And seeing his younger self stare at him now, he realizes just how long it’s been. His Dean was the last to cut it. He hasn’t touched a razor to his face ever since.
“Twenty five years”, he hears himself say, but doesn’t know whether those three were meant to hear it or not. What will they do with it?
He looks up again, watching them; Castiel, Sam, Dean.
“Dean”, he whispers again, and has to tear his eyes away from him to not start crying again. “Where am I?” he has to know. Has to know how to deal with it.
“You’re on earth”, Castiel answers. “There has been a collusion between our timeline and yours, a black hole.”
“Timelines”, Sam whispers. “Of course.”
“You said… twenty five years”, the other, younger, Sam says slowly, carefully.
Sam frowns, rubbing his hands together despite the pain. Of course they want to understand. He knows them, he is one of them, and though he hasn’t been is old self for many years and all the pain and trauma has shaped him into- into this being he is now, he still remembers what used to make him tick. The need for knowledge, to understand the world and all its creatures. “Twenty five years alone”, he responds, his voice thick with grief. “There was a war. Demons and angels. They fought for hell, heaven, purgatory, earth. The universe. Demons took the Milky Way, angels killed thousands to get it back. Millions of humans died because of the natural disasters that occurred; meteor showers, tornados, tsunamis.” He has to stop a moment, to even out his breathing, feeling the sudden hit of a panic attack trying to rip into his mind.
“Take your time”, younger Sam hurriedly says, probably well aware of what an incoming panic attack looks like.
“When they were done, when they were forced to be done, it was too late. Angels were all wiped off, demons all the same. So, so many people dead, and for what?” he feels the bitterness seep into his voice, hatred still clear. “And- and Dean, he-“ Sam feels his nerves twist in on themselves. “He didn’t make it, and I- I tried- I did everything but… with no demons there could be no crossroad blues, no souls to be collected, no hellhounds, no deals. And with no angels… I called out for anyone, anything. No one picked up. No one was there.” He feels the tears stream down his face again, but does nothing to wipe them away. “I don’t even know where he is. With no demons, is there a hell? With no angels… I can’t reach him. I turned to witches, turned to- hell, everything. I’ve read every goddamn book, tried every goddamn spell. Nothing. Radio silence.”
He sees the looks they give each other, sees the questions in Sam’s and Dean’s eyes, and somehow a knowing in Cas’. Like he knows something.
“But that’s not even the worst part of it all”, Sam manages to say, swallowing what feels like big pieces of broken glass. “If I could just… die… then this whole thing wouldn’t be an issue anymore.”
“Sorry? If you could die? What does that mean?” Dean asks, and Sam jumps at the sound of his voice. So near, so there. So alive. It resonates with every fiber of his being, the comfort and safety he’s been longing for, for twenty five years. He stares at him, and somehow Dean knows. He can probably feel the same sort of tugging in his soul that he feels around his Sam. Dean apologizes to him through his emerald greens, apologizes for the painful twists in Sam’s emptiness.
“I can’t die”, he whispers. “I’ve tried everything; razors, pills, jumping off bridges, driving full speed into a passing trucks on the highway, been looking for fights with thugs just to get stabbed- but I keep waking up, like it was all just a bad dream. Except when I wake up, I’m still alone.”
His worst was when he drank so much he couldn’t feel his hands anymore, and his head was spinning out of control but he didn’t feel things anymore. He had long since then felt like nothing mattered, nothing could hurt him more than losing Dean, so he drank and he drank until he hallucinated. And there he was, the beauty of a man, standing on the carpeted motel floor, smiling brightly at him. Like no time had separated them at all, like he was back in 2013, and they were young and gorgeous. He knew it was a product of his extreme heavy drinking and sorrow, but it was the realest image he had ever conjured. But when he had reached out to hold his big brother again, to pretend he could take him in his arms, stroke his skin, kiss his pretty lips, bring them together as close as humanly possible – he couldn’t feel him. His numb, alcohol ridden hands couldn’t feel anything.
He had screamed so hard he tasted blood.
He doesn’t know what he died of that night, maybe it was alcohol poisoning, maybe it was heartbreak, but the next thing he remembered was waking up. That’s when the numbness had taken over his body, and he stopped feeling altogether.
Until now, sitting on the wooden chair in this warehouse in a strange yet familiar world, with his youthful self, the angel and his brother, lover, soulmate. He can feel it again; the excruciating pain, the anguish, the loss, the heartbreak.
“All I want”, he grits between his chattering teeth. “is to be with him again. That’s all I want.”
“We have to do something”, Dean grits out, his heart beating fast and hard in his chest, bordering on breaking free. “We have to. We have to.”
“What can we do?” Sam asks, fear laced in his voice. Seeing himself like that, although older it’s him, is really messing with him. Hurting him, seeing himself so broken. It has been a comfort to him through these years, that no matter if he and Dean are on the opposite sides on this whole ‘saving each other from death’ thing, because when they’re dead they will be together in their heaven. But this Sam can’t die, he can’t be with his Dean. Sam can’t even begin to imagine the pain.
They watch the other Sam, he’s still sitting in the chair: fingers rubbing hard into the hurt skin on his wrists, to ground himself. Castiel is talking to him, about what they don’t know. But there’s a calming presence coming off of him, the way he supports the other Sam with a gentle hand on his shoulder. If it’s helping is hard to tell, Sam notes, because the other Sam’s posture hasn’t changed the slightest. But who knows what’s going on inside his head? Who knows what damage there is in there, if he’s even capable of soaking the words from the angel into his mind.
“I don’t know. I don’t know”, Dean whispers, desperate. “There has to be something. Anything.”
Sam understands why he’s freaking out. He feels the connection with the other Sam as well, knows they are the same, just that they had different outcomes. Must have been somewhere along another way that the war had started, a way they won’t cross. They may see it in the distance, the possibility of it, but they won’t go near it.
And Dean, Dean must feel it much more.
Sam reaches out for him, laces his fingers around his arm, squeezing. “We will find a way”, he whispers. Dean looks up at him, swallows and nods. He brings up his hand around Sam’s, stroking over his knuckles with his thumb, a gesture of comfort.
“I may be able to do something”, Castiel says. Both brothers flinch when they hear his sudden voice close, and they look to the side where he stands. The other Sam is sitting alone in his chair, eyes pointed down on the ground by his feet.
“Really?” Dean asks, hopeful.
“If I can get a connection to Dean- his Dean, then I think I can bring them together.”
“But he’s from a whole different timeline, how will you find his?” Sam asks.
“He’s connected to it, because it’s his”, Castiel responds, like it all makes sense. Both brothers look at him for a beat and a half before nodding, as if they understood exactly what and how he meant.
“Is it safe? Are you sure it will even work?” Dean says, prompting.
“What do you need?” the voice of the other Sam speaks up. He’s empty eyed, but there’s a flicker of something in there, something dangerous to him: hope. He has stood up from the chair and is approaching them, each step carefully calculated.
“Something that connects you to him”, Castiel says.
“You mean this?” the other Sam asks, reaching for something around his neck, hidden underneath his jacket. The amulet.
Sam takes a hitching breath at that, and by reflex he feels his pocket where he keeps it after Dean threw it away. No one but the other Sam sees the gesture, and his eyes go soft and knowing.
“I’m afraid my soul won’t be of good use”, he continues quietly. “It broke when- when he died, he took it with him wherever he went. I’ve tried to use what little is left of it, but everyone says it’s not enough.”
Castiel nods. “I believe the necklace will be enough. May I?” he reaches out for it. The other Sam stands still, watching the angel’s every move.
“Where do angels go when they die?” he asks. Cas’ eyes flicker up to him, some surprise lingering in there at the unexpected question.
“Purgatory, I believe”, Cas responds.
The other Sam nods slowly. “You think he’s okay there?”
Cas ponders for a moment, remembering his time in purgatory. “It depends what state he was in when he died.”
“Brave. A soldier. A friend”, Sam responds. Cas smiles softly.
“Then I think he’s fine.”
Sam nods curtly, satisfied with the answer. If it’s true or not is his fight to take.
Cas holds the amulet in his hand with a concentrated look on his face. The silence around them is intrusive and charged. Sam can practically feel it choking them in. He glances at Dean whose eyes are fully on the amulet in Cas’ hands, but he stands close to Sam, their shoulders brushing. The other Sam’s full attention is on Cas, his entire being is pulled into whatever energy Cas is letting out. Like he feels something they can’t, a magnetic field only meant for him and the angel.
“I found him”, Castiel says eventually, and Sam breaths out what sounds like something he’s been holding inside for many years.
“Really?” he whispers, voice weak, unbelieving.
“He’s okay”, Castiel assures. “He’s waiting for you.”
Fresh tears roll down his eyes, but there’s a strain of happiness in there. A feeling he hasn’t felt in a very long time. It almost makes his knees buckle, but the strength of the angel holds him up by his arm.
“And- and you can take me there? To him?” he asks quietly, not trusting his voice to be able to hold him.
“Yes. I will have to disconnect you from your life on your earth, meaning you will die, but somehow I believe you will have no problem with that.”
“Correct”, Sam says, huffing a weak laugh, hope flowing in his veins, making him dizzy.
“Whenever you are ready, then”, Castiel announces. Sam takes a deep, shaky breath; giving air to his lungs in a way he has been unable to do for twenty five years. He stops himself from taking Cas’ hands that will bring him back to his love again, and turns to the two other men connected by hearts and souls.
“The demons and angels – God even – may get sick of bringing you back eventually”, he says, as a warning. “Don’t fear death, you won’t be alone then.”
Both brothers just nod. He sees the panic in Dean’s eyes, the everlasting protectiveness he has towards his little brother, the fear of being alone without him, the idea that all is better if they’re both in life and kicking. And he sees the knowing eyes of himself looking back, the ‘I already knew not to fear death’ but they’re not true, because he knows the pain. He knows all of it. His younger self has no clue what life really is, nor what death is, but as long as they don’t cross the same paths he did then all will be fine.
So he turns to Castiel again, his heart beating; full of life. “I’m ready.”
Dean strokes the soft, sensitive skin underneath Sam’s closed eyes where he lies propped up to his side, his head lying comfortably on Dean’s chest, his other hand is underneath his head in the bed they share at nights. He’s thinking about the other – older – Sam. Thinking deep and hard, thinking too much. Ice cold sensations run through his body. He thinks of the way he had clung onto Dean when he first saw him in the warehouse, the sheer desperation to be close again. The way his tears had felt against his neck, soaking into his jacket.
“It is done”, Castiel announces as he pops into their room. Dean and Sam jumps on the bed in surprise, but they don’t break their physical contact.
“Is he-“
“They’re with each other. Dean- his Dean is holding him”, Castiel says.
“You can see them?” Sam asks.
“Yes. I am connected to their world now. But if I would visit regularly it would disturb the universe, and I don’t think they want anyone disturbing them, or looking in.”
Dean hums. “Yeah… no one likes a Peeping Tom”, he says, lifting a meaningful brow and their angel friend. Sam huffs softly at his side.
“I’m not a-“
“Personal space, Cas”, Dean says.
“I’m far away from you, though”, he proclaims, frowning in confusion.
“Right, but there’s a time and place for third wheels, and this isn’t it.”
“You weren’t doing anything lewd, I wouldn’t have disturbed you if you did”, Castiel says.
“You’re saying you can see us too?” Dean pales.
“To make sure I don’t walk in on-“
“Okay! Jesus, we get it.”
Sam is laughing now, hiding his face in Dean’s chest. “Thanks, Cas”, he says softly. “For everything. For helping him.”
Cas smiles at that, nodding once and disappearing in a wing-fluttering beat.
They’re quiet for a moment, just breathing the same air, until Sam reaches into his pocket and brings out the amulet. Dean stares at it, mouth open slightly. “You kept it”, he whispers.
“Yeah. It’s quite special, apparently”, Sam murmurs. He holds it in his hand, feeling its surprising warmth. He brings it to his lips and kisses it softly, then he lifts his head from Dean’s chest and locks his lips to his. Dean hums and puts his hand on Sam’s cheek, continues to stroke the thin skin beneath his eye.
They fall asleep like that, locked together; body and soul.
On another bed do two people fall asleep the same way; a world with no pain, no sorrow, a world shared by two souls connected as one. They will wake up in each other’s arms every day, for an eternity.