Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They were making good time back from Jericho. Sam knew he wouldn't be getting much sleep before the interview, but he'd make it, and for now Dean had picked a song they both liked, and there were worse places to be than driving through Palo Alto in their faithful old car, singing along loud enough to get glares at every traffic light.

His phone rang: Caller ID said Jess. He reached over to turn the music down as he put it to his ear; Dean tried to scowl at him, but a grin kept poking through. "That your hot girlfriend?" He waggled his eyebrows.

"Hey Jess," said Sam, cheerfully giving his brother the finger. "We're about ten, twenty minutes out–"

"Get your ass back here NOW."

He lurched forward in his seat. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Brady went crazy. He did stuff – I don't know how, he just came at me–" Her breath rattled as she sucked it in, and he could hear the tears she was forcing down. She was terrified.

Jess did not scare easy.

"Are you okay? What happened?" demanded Sam. Beside him, Dean tensed, flipped off the music and stomped on the gas.

She sniffed loudly, amplified by the phone. "He tried to kill me. He just flicked his wrist and I got thrown into the wall. He didn't even touch me!" she shrieked.

"It's okay, it's okay, we're coming," said Sam. "Just keep talking. Where is he now?"

"Here. Knocked out." Her voice was shaky, but she was holding together. "Sam, is Dean with you?"

Confused, he turned to his brother. "Yeah, he's right here."

"He's here too."

Sam's guts went cold. "Jess, listen to me," he said, fighting to stay calm. "Whatever's there with you, it's dangerous. Get out right now."

Dean ran a red light.

"They said Brady's a demon," Jess went on. She was rambling. Hysteria. Shit. "Said they came to save me, they said they're from the fucking future!"

"We're coming," he swore. "We're coming. Just– stay on the line, okay? Can you do that?"

Jess was quiet for a second; she forgot people couldn't see her nod through the phone. "Just hurry."

Sam felt his eyes burn as fear clawed its way through his chest. Should've stayed, should've stayed, stupid stupid STUPID– He peeled the phone from his ear long enough to put it on loudspeaker and force himself to think.

"Okay, Jess, I've got to know what we're walking into. The thing that looks like Dean, what does it want?"

"What the fuck?" said Dean. "What the fuck looks like–?"

"Dean? You are there." She sounded numb, like hearing him was both reassuring and scaring her more.

"Yeah, I'm here, sweetheart. We're coming. Five minutes, tops. We'll get these sons of bitches for you, you'll be all right."

"He said you'd say that. He said he's 'sort of' you and he says– He says bring a silver knife and he'll prove it?"

Sam braced his arm against the roof as Dean took them around a corner fast enough to skid. Their eyes met: A shapeshifter? Stupid enough to dare them to bring silver?

It wasn't like they had a choice.

"What's happening now? What's it doing?"

"They're sitting. Waiting. For you."

"Oh, this is going to end well," Dean muttered.

Dean braked as hard as he could without screeching and they tried not to slam doors as they climbed out of the Impala. Sam was keeping up a steady stream of comforting words for Jess as they went, barely even hearing himself anymore. He thumbed the phone back to handset while Dean opened the trunk and started digging around for a silver knife. Maybe he had silver bullets somewhere in there, Sam didn't know; he just grabbed the first pistol he saw, vaguely planning to bluff or at least hurt it with normal rounds, and ran. He heard Dean swearing as he followed.

"Okay, Jess, we're here," he said. "Now I need to know some stuff without them knowing you're telling me, so we can surprise them. We've gotta keep control of the situation, so try for yes or no. Is the front door open?"

"No."

He pointed Dean to the stairs and nodded; they cat-footed it up the to the hallway. "Is it locked?"

"Yes."

"Chained?"

"No."

Sam clamped the phone between his chin and shoulder and fished out his keys. "When we come in, will they be facing us?" he whispered.

She paused, then said, "Can't see. Wall."

Sam grimaced. The front door opened to a little foyer and the kitchen, with the living room and bedroom off to the side. If the intruders couldn't see him and Dean coming in it'd be be because they were in one of those rooms and a wall was blocking the view, and they'd hear him and Dean coming before they could get a sightline, let alone get close enough with Dean's knife. He quietly slid the key into the lock, stopping it just before it would have clicked. "Jess, listen, we're coming in. When I count to three, I want you to duck and roll out of their line of fire and stay down until we can get their guns off them. Oka–?"

"They don't."

He held up his gun hand in front of Dean. "What do you mean?"

"I've got it."

Dean mouthed "what?" impatiently and Sam shook his head, puzzled. "Are they armed? Can they hurt or grab you from where they are now?"

"No. And no."

Dumbfounded, Sam shrugged. "Okay," he said, and turned the key.

They burst in.

Jess was okay: She was standing at the door to the living room, cell phone in one hand and a gun in the other. The belt of her bathrobe was trailing on the floor. Sam flew to her, his Taurus at the ready, throwing himself between her and whatever had invaded their house. Dean was right beside him.

He was also on the living room couch.

Calmly, the fake Dean raised both empty hands and said, "About time, Sammy."

Dean, the real Dean, took point and stepped into the living room, never taking his eyes off his doppelganger and keeping far enough back to shoot first if anyone moved. He nodded once, tightly, and Sam's panic turned down a few notches. His brother had it covered.

Stepping back from the doorway and out of sight, Sam clamped his arms around Jess, grateful beyond words to feel her breathing under him. "You okay? Are you okay?" he asked into her hair, and when she shook her head he stepped back to hold her shoulder and cup her cheek and really look at her. "Jess? Jess, God, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Her eyes were red and her shoulders were trembling and she was breathing the deep slow breaths of someone forcing panic down, but she nodded. "I'm okay," she lied, nodding tightly. Then, quieter, she said, "I'll be okay," but she didn't let go of the gun.

(Jess didn't own a gun. Never had. And this one – this was a .45 Colt MK IV with ivory grips, exactly like the one Dean was holding. Exactly.)

Sam frowned and moved back to the living room, gun at the ready, and studied the scene.

Their coffee table had been shoved against a wall and a kitchen chair was in the middle of the room; Brady was on it, tied to it, wearing handcuffs with his chin on his chest, out cold. A chalk circle surrounded him, mirrored on the roof like a burger bun, and at a glance Sam recognised one or two of of the symbols in the pentagram. Whoever these guys were, they knew lore.

And yeah, they. Sam didn't recognise the other one (black hair and tan coat, sitting straight up with his hands on his knees, totally calm), but they were both sitting there like it was a dentist's waiting room, unarmed, just watching patiently.

Almost. The one imitating Dean was looking at him weird, like... something sad and distant and soft, and as soon as he noticed Sam watching it vanished. He smirked at them, looking bored, and said, "So we gonna do the knife trick or what?"

Dean scowled and nudged his weapon at the shapeshifter, finger tight on the trigger. He probably had silver bullets. Probably. "What are you? What do you want?"

The Dean on the couch raised his eyebrows in the patented Winchester look of You're an idiot. "I heard her tell you," he said, and his voice was way different from Dean's, lower and rougher. Tired. "I'm you. Twelve years older. We came back to now because the way I remember this night," he said, looking straight at Jess, sincere and sorry, "you died. If we hadn't done what we did just now, you'd have died again, and for all the crap Sam's going to give me about not dragging you into this crazy, there wasn't any other way to save you."

Into the silence he added, dryly, "You're welcome."

Jess didn't reply. Her free hand strayed to the front of her nightgown and, glancing down, Sam suddenly saw the bright red slash across her front. "Jesus," he breathed, crouching down to stem the bloodflow– but there was nothing to stop. Her skin was intact, it was just a... a stain, new and wet and leaving smears on her ribs under the torn fabric. He looked up to see Jess shaking her head.

"I don't know what happened," she said tightly, anger at her confusion seeping out between her fear. "I don't get it. Brady stabbed me – he fucking stabbed me – but he didn't use a knife and I still felt it inside me. It scraped my ribs," she said, and her voice was locking up again, tight with frustration and confusion and buried panic that tore his heart out. "I heard it, Sam, I don't understand, I thought I was dying."

"You were," said the other guy, the one in the tan coat, watching them quietly. He paused, then added, so deadpan it was sincere: "You're welcome."

Jess whirled on him, eyes narrowed in that dangerous way she had when a professor gave her a vague or useless answer, a familiar flare up that was almost comforting to see right now. "And how exactly did you do that?" she demanded. "All you did was touch my head," she gestured, tapping her forehead, forgetting for a second that she was holding a gun that was cocked and probably loaded; Sam scrambled to slide it out of her hand. She let him, rounding back on the coat guy with a stabbing finger that was just as threatening. "I was stuck, not blind: I saw what happened. You didn't even blink when you saw me up there." She flicked her hand vaguely up. "You weren't surprised. You had to know how he did it, you knew how to get me down!"

"Whoa, what?" said Dean, jerking his head round to look at her. "You were on the ceiling?" He looked at the gash on her nightgown. "Like that?"

"Brady stuck me up there like glue. He didn't even touch me. How the fuck is that possible?"

On the ceiling, cut open– Sam felt winded. "Jess..."

"You know something, Sam, and you're going to tell me right now."

"Give them a break, sweetheart," the Dean on the couch said. "This is blowing their minds too."

"And YOU." She turned on him like a viper. "Who the hell do you think you are, saying you're from the future? Who the fuck does that? What do you want?"

She was in his face, punctuating every question with a finger jabbed in his chest– too close. Ice dropped into Sam's stomach and he pulled her back by the shoulders. "Don't get near it."

"It? Answers, Sam, now."

"They think I'm a monster," said the Dean on the couch, rolling up his sleeve. "Shapeshifter." He looked at Dean and said, "Can we get this over with?"

Sam shared a glance with his brother. There were still two of these guys and no way to get close enough without the risk of being jumped. Not to mention they'd have to put a weapon in the thing's reach to test it. Dean flicked his eyes to Jess and down, to her hands, and Sam nodded grimly. There wasn't much choice.

"Jess, can you cover him?" he said, offering her the gun back. (Definitely the same make as Dean's pistol, and he could feel a familiar scratch that messed up the left etching. Couldn't think about that now.) "I got this side."

She hesitated, then took it. She recocked the pistol carefully, nodding to herself as she checked to make sure she was doing it right. Sam left her at the doorway and took two steps sideways to cover Dean's right. Dean slowly tucked his gun in the back of his waistband, never taking his eyes off the shifter as he stepped up, knife in hand.

It drew blood. No sizzle, no smoke, no screaming. Not even a wince. "You satisfied?"

"No," said Dean, taking his gun out again, but Sam could hear he was shaken. Sam wasn't feeling all that sure himself.

"That was definitely silver, right?" he asked under his breath.

"I'm not an idiot, Sam! Of course it was silver."

"What's the significance of silver?" asked Jess.

Sam winced. No, no, please no. She wasn't supposed to get mixed up in this, she was supposed to be normal, happy, safe– "Jess... just let us figure this out, please."

She frowned, opened her mouth to argue–

"Silver is toxic to all shape-shifting monsters and reanimated corpses," the guy in the coat said evenly. "If Dean were a shapeshifter, the blade would have burned him."

Jess scowled. "Yeah, thanks, that clears everything up."

Dean had stepped back, examining the silver blade and the blood on it. The Dean on the couch was pressing down on his cut with a cloth. "Smells human," he said, looking at Sam, shrugging tightly.

"You want more proof? Okay," said the other Dean, irritated. "Rhonda Hurley, '98, pink satin, kinda liked it."

Dean choked, flushing red from neck up.

"And Sammy?" said the other Dean, looking at him. "You've been dreaming about Jess dying for days now."

Guilt hit Sam like a gut punch. He tried to keep it off his face, but the other Dean, watching him intently, suddenly softened. "It's not your fault either," he said quietly. "They'd have done it anyway. You couldn't have stopped them."

Sam said nothing.

The fake (fake?) Dean stood up slowly. He wasn't any taller than the real Dean, and Sam looked just slightly down at him, just like he did to his brother, but this other Dean, he felt bigger somehow. And he was definitely older – he looked older. Could a shapeshifter change those sorts of details? They'd never run into one with Dad but from what he'd read Sam thought they always took on the exact look of their victims.

If there were victims here. They hadn't hurt Jess.

"So, we good?" the other Dean asked. "You done being sceptics or do I need to pull out some more deep dark secrets?"

Still keeping his pistol up, Sam shared a glance with Dean, who shrugged slightly, jaw tense: Whatever this Rhonda thing was, he hadn't shared it. This guy– thing– shouldn't know.

But time travel? Really?

The other Dean sighed. "It's like you grew up with soccer moms," he muttered, throwing his hands up. "What's it going to take for you to believe me?"

"Oh, I don't know," Dean mocked him. "How 'bout you show us your DeLorean?"

He shrugged. "Okay. Cas?"

The other guy – Cas – chuckled. Jess's eyebrows went up and both Deans looked at him funny, and when he noticed he said, "I understood that reference." The other Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam tensed as 'Cas' stood up, hesitating a second before turning to aim his Taurus at him; Dean and Jess had the other Dean covered. 'Cas' glanced at the gun for a second before his eyes flicked back to Sam's face, dismissing the threat. It was an intense stare. Had he been looking at them like that the whole time?

Whatever he was looking for, he didn't find it. He shifted his eyes to the other Dean, who lifted the cloth off his bleeding arm. "Help me out here, would you?"

'Cas' sighed, reached up and touched his Dean on the forehead. He stepped back again and Sam was about to call his bluff when Jess swore, "Mother Mary..."

The other Dean lifted his arm, completely healed, and showed it around like it was a fake ID he was sick of having to hand out to prove his age. "Happy now?"

Blood was still smeared on his skin, but the cut was definitely gone.

Dean swung his gun on the other guy. "What are you?"

He tilted his head, a small fond smile on his mouth. "My name is Castiel. I'm an angel."

"Bullshit," said Dean. Sam's eyes widened.

Jess was the one who laughed – tight and nervously, but laughed. "You're not an angel," she said, wary. "You... can't be."

Castiel gestured left, to the painting Jess had finished a few weeks ago, a crucifix in swirling abstracts. She'd based it on the necklace her mother gave her for her birthday, the one she never wore but left hanging on her bedside lamp. "You believe," Castiel said. "You've read the Bible; you know angels are soldiers for God."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, quit the sermon there, Father. God isn't real."

"Oh, he is," the other Dean said darkly. "He just doesn't give a shit. Cas, we don't have time for this. You want to just show them?"

"No." Castiel frowned and looked at his Dean. "And I still don't see why you asked me to. It took far more than that for you to believe me when we first met."

"It's a start, man. We don't exactly have the same circumstances here."

"That's my point," said Castiel. They locked eyes for another few seconds, then Castiel sighed.

He started glowing. His eyes went bright blue, then white, almost too bright to look at– but he dialled it down, enough not to blind them. Somehow he still cast a shadow on the wall and–

Wings.

Jess sucked in a breath and dropped her gun arm. "Oh Lord."

Broken wings. Thin, skeletal, with outlines of feathers in uneven clumps, one of them twisted at an awkward angle. What the hell?

Power sizzled in the air, raw and sharp and static, making their skin rise in goosebumps and hair stand on end. Knickknacks rattled on the shelves. The table lamp sparked. Left empty on the coffee table, a glass shattered.

Suddenly the light faded, sucked back in and wrapped up under skin. Castiel shifted uncomfortably under their stares. "I will replace your glass," he promised.

Dean shoved his gun in Castiel's face. "What the hell?"

"Heaven, more accurately."

"Can we be done with this little show and tell now?" the other Dean said irritably. "Cas is an angel, angels can jump through time, that's how we're here. Yeah, I know," he said, pointing at Dean: "No such thing, why hasn't any hunter ever seen one? That's what I said last time. Then Sam went on about how maybe for once all this supernatural crap turned out a good guy, and you know? That one's true. Cas is a good guy. But the rest of the angels, they're dicks."

"Hey!" snapped Jess.

"Unfortunately he's right, my brothers can't be trusted," said Castiel, and Dean (the real Dean) snorted.

"Yeah, 'course they can't. They're off conspiring with leprechauns and vampires," he sneered, but when he glanced at Sam, he looked worried.

Sam wanted, really wanted, to believe it, but he couldn't quite lower his gun either. His throat felt dry. "You said Jess died."

"A lot of people died," the other Dean said. "Most of them horribly. You were the first," he told Jess softly. "We didn't get back here in time. And it... it wrecked Sammy. He was never the same again."

Sam felt sick. His hands shook. Jess glanced at him, heart cracking a little in her eyes, and squeezed his arm. Then she turned back and nodded once, sharply. "Well, in that case, thanks," she said. She turned to the angel (angel), dipped her head respectfully, kind of awkwardly (angel, wow, of course she was awkward. She'd prayed to angels every day of her life), and said, "Castiel, right? Thank you. For saving me. I... kind of like being alive."

Beside them, Dean chuckled, and Dean – his Dean, younger Dean – slowly lowered his gun. Belatedly, Sam did the same, blinking.

Castiel smiled at her. "Sam told me about you once. He said I would have liked you. I think he was right."

Dean was still frowning, and gestured at them with his pistol. "So why didn't Sammy come back with you? Only room for one on Angel Air?"

The other Dean sobered. It was like a lightswitch. His face fell and every line deepened. For several long seconds, he didn't say anything.

"Well? Why didn't I?"

The other Dean looked at him, that same sad and soft and distant look, and Sam finally pinned it down: Nostalgia. Grief. Longing. What the hell had happened?

"Think about it, Sammy," he said quietly. "Twelve years. Jess died here, exactly like Mom did, and you blamed yourself. We found out what did it, spent years hunting them down, but you never got her back. You barely talked about her. Every time her name came up, you got all quiet again. I saw you crying sometimes. For twelve years. You really think you could've come back here, saved the day, then watched her and You Junior keep going through life all happy without you?"

Sam dropped his eyes. His stomach churned.

Jess's warm hand slid into his. She squeezed it, all sorts of promises in her face, and Sam finally stowed his gun. He looked at Dean, nodding slowly. These guys – their story was straight. Okay, the angel thing, that was huge, but with all the bad in the world there had to be some...

Huh. That's what this Dean had said his future self had said, wasn't it? That there had to be some good to balance out all the crap. For once, a good guy, making good things happen. Saving Jess. Sam hadn't known he would think that; the thought jumped into his head on its own. No way a monster could've known he'd think that before he did.

Dean still looked sceptical, but he tucked his gun away too. Jess, seeing that, picked up the mystery gun and studied it, eyes flicking up to the other Dean. Slowly, she offered it to him barrel first, frowning suspiciously. "You did it on purpose, didn't you?" she said.

"Did what?" asked Dean (his Dean, that is. Man, this was going to be annoying). The other Dean's lips twitched.

"He left this on the table after he finished tying up Brady," replied Jess, keeping her eyes on the other Dean. "Right where I could grab it. Then they both turned their backs for no reason. Really convenient."

The other Dean shrugged as he took his gun back. "Figured you'd feel safer that way."

"Is it even loaded?"

"Yep."

She blinked. "Okay. That's a pretty big risk you took there. ...But, he can heal you," she reasoned, pointing to Castiel. "So you– You wanted me to call Sam, didn't you?"

A proud little smile spread across Dean's face. "Yep."

"You wanted us to know," Sam reasoned, looking around. "You didn't get caught, you set this up so you could tell us your story."

That smile turned into a full-blown smirk. "Yep."

"Why?" asked Jess.

The smirk faded and he looked at her, dead serious. "Because saving your life isn't as simple as stopping this one thing. They're going to try again, and you need to know what you're up against or they are going to get you; we can't be there every second to stop 'em."

He took a step away from the couch, towards the kitchen chair and the chalk circles and the unconscious body Sam had been trying really hard not to think about. "And maybe, if we're lucky," Dean said, "we can save your friend, too."