Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean was trying his best to have a decent day, but Sam was insistent on being a moody bitch.

“Seriously, Dean? Why do I even have to go? I have a test to study for. It’s just some ghost.” 

Dad had given them the lead on a potential case up in Nebraska. Four dead in the past two weeks, two sets of married couples. Looked about textbook for a haunting. He’d given them the address to an old house about an hour from where they’d been staying. He was currently holed up somewhere back east, tracking another case. Ever since Dean had turned 18 the previous year, Dad had been letting him take Sam on solo gigs.

“I’m sure your freaky little nerd brain already knows everything it needs to know on electrons , or whatever. Now, catch.” Dean tossed Sam a shotgun loaded with rock salt from where he sat on the motel bed.

Sam caught the gun and rolled his eyes. “It’s an algebra test.”

Dean shrugged. “I said or whatever . Now get your ass up and let’s get to work.”

Sam kept mumbling about hunting and school and this is so stupid and I’m going to fail all the way to the car. He got into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut, causing Dean to wince.

“Hey! Easy now. We gotta take good care of her,” Dean said, caressing his hands against the steering wheel.

Sam stared at him. “Dude. It’s a car.”

“Not just any car. If you screw up Baby and Dad finds out, I’m gonna kill you,” Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes again and crossed his arms, leaning his head against the window. “Whatever. I still don’t see why I needed to come. It’s just a stupid routine case anyway and-”

Dean drowned out the sounds of Sam’s complaints with the increasing volume of the radio, and headed out for the road.

They arrived at the house just before sunset. It was a rickety old thing set up against the forest, and according to Dad’s research, he was pretty sure it was the burial site for the ghosts terrorizing the nearby town. 

“Dan and Lisa Wentworth. Died 1947. Locals say Lisa went crazy and strangled her husband before killing herself,” Dean said, making for the front door.

The place had sat abandoned for over 50 years, and looked it. Much of the paint had peeled off, leaving a veneer of chipped wood and broken glass. Graffiti from various trespassers lined the walls. Dean didn’t even have to turn the doorknob- the front door lay off its hinges, broken in half. The two of them walked inside the house, turning on their flashlights to get a better view. 

“You think they're buried here ?” Sam asked, stepping over the broken leg from an armchair.

Dean shrugged. “I couldn’t find any official burial records for either of them. No obituaries or anything. They're practically a local legend.”

“Hm.”

“You’d know that if you’d been paying attention to the case.”

Sam glared at him. “Sorry I have more important things to do than be a built-in research slave for you, Dean. I’m trying to have a life, you know.”

“Really? School’s more important to you than your family, Sam? You think we just do this because it makes you miserable?” Dean cornered Sam against a wall, pointing a finger in his face.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Just because I want my own life doesn’t mean I’m turning against my family. I don’t know why that’s so hard for you to understand, Dean.” He slipped out from against the wall and stalked towards the kitchen. “I don’t even see anything, anyway. This whole case is just a waste of-”

“Sammy, wait!” Dean said, pointing his flashlight to where he’d just seen a sliver of movement in Sam’s direction.

Sam pulled his gun and whipped around, looking for the source of movement. He found it a second later in the form of a shimmering, pale woman.

Her clothes were dated: large shoulder pads and a wool pencil skirt, hair done up in waves. “Lisa Wentworth,” Dean said.

But she didn’t look like the Lisa Wentworth Dean had seen in the few photos of her online. There wasn’t time to worry about that, though, because Lisa soon had Sam pinned against the wall, his gun ripped out of his hand and flung across the room.

“Dean!” Sam yelled, as her hand made its way to Sam’s throat.

Dean trained his gun on Lisa and shot, narrowly missing her as she disappeared from view. Sam slumped against the wall, panting as he tried to catch his breath. Dean offered a hand and Sam took it, pulling himself back up. “You good?” Dean asked. 

Sam nodded in reply, moving to grab his gun from where it had landed at a windowsill, before he froze.

“Sammy?” Dean asked, slowly walking towards him.

“Um, Dean?” Sam said, voice faint.

“What?”

Dean came up behind Sam to see a small pile of-

“It’s sulfur.” Sam said.

Dean coughed. “No, no way. It can’t be. It’s probably just-”

The lights, which probably hadn’t worked for the better part of fifty years, began to flicker. “Sam! Get behind me now ” Dean yelled, barricading Sam against the wall.

“Dean-”

“Sammy, listen to me -”

“Yeah, Sammy, listen to your big brother,” came the sickening voice of Lisa Wentworth, who Dean had quickly come to understand had never been Lisa Wentworth, creeping into the kitchen.

Dean realized now who the woman was. It was one of the murder victims they were there to investigate, Sally Jeffries.

This wasn’t a ghost.

It had never been a ghost.

But it couldn’t have been-

“Who the hell are you?” Dean said, leveling his gun at the woman’s head.

She laughed. “You Winchesters are so entitled. What happened to hi, hello -”

“Cristo,” Sam said from behind Dean, and the brothers watched as her eyes instantly turned black.

She was a demon. 

She pursed her lips. “So that’s how it’s going to be? Okay, fine. Bye, big brother.”

With a flick of her wrist, Dean was across the room. He crashed against the ancient stove, which crumpled against his weight. He felt the pain instantly in his ribs and back, but he didn’t care. Sam was in trouble.

The demon had attempted to grab Sam by the throat once again, but he was smart. He aimed his gun and shot. He got her right in the heart. She stumbled backwards, but remained standing. She gave Sam a toothy grin. “That’s cute.”

What the hell?

Sally flickered out of the room for a minute, giving Sam a chance to escape from the wall and head towards the island of the kitchen.

Dean attempted to get up but was brought back to his knees by a blow to the head from another demon that Dean recognized as Sally’s husband, Mark Jeffries. He wore a pinstripe suit and bowler hat in an attempt to play the same part Sally had, but Dean knew better now.

They were all demons.

Two more demons entered the kitchen, Sally reappearing behind him. Sam was trapped.

Fuck . 

All four of the victims were being used as vessels for demons.

The others weren’t all dressed up like Sally and Mark were. The other two were wearing the same outfits they’d died in, dried blood covering their clothes and skin. 

“Sam!” Dean yelled out, attempting to break the grip that Mark had on his arms. Mark had managed to manhandle him into a fetal position against the floor, arms against his back like he was being arrested. His aching forehead hit the grimy tile floors, giving him an angular view of Sam being accosted by the other demons. Dean continued to writhe in the demon’s grasp, trying to get out of the hold. He didn’t care if he broke his fucking hands; those sons of bitches weren’t going to touch his little brother. 

Sam glanced back at Dean. “I’m okay!” he said, gun pointed at each of the three demons surrounding him.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Sam Winchester,” Sally said, reaching out a hand to stroke his face.

“Get your hands off my brother, you bitch ,” Dean yelled, earning him a kick to the head by Mark. 

Pain exploded against the side of his face, but his eyes were trained on Sam. He was tight lipped and unreadable. Sam may have had a resting bitch face at the worst of times but he knew how to keep his expression controlled when it really mattered. Only the slight tremble of his hands gave him away. Don’t let them know you’re scared, Sammy . Dean thought. We’ll get out of this. Just hold on.

How? Dean wasn’t sure. In all his years of hunting with his dad, never once had he come across a real demon. And now there were four of them in this one room, ready to kill him and his brother. 

They had no way of taking the demons out. The only chance they had was with an exorcism, and that was only a temporary solution. And that was only if they were able to get all the words out. 

Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus - fuck, how did the rest of it go? His dad had hammered it into him practically since he could talk, and yet he was coming up blank while a real demon was feeling up his brother.

Sally’s hand moved from Sam’s face to his arm. Sam’s face remained blank, gun trained on her head. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I don’t think it’s going to work out for you,” Sam said, voice steady and trained.

Of all the times to be a smartass, you had to pick now? Dean thought.

Sally gave Sam a wide smile. “I don’t know about that, honey.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. “ Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus- ” Dean began.

Fuck he really didn’t know all the words. At the very least, maybe Sam could take the hint. 

He did.

Sam glanced at him before looking back at the demons around him. “- Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii -” Sam didn’t get a chance to continue before one of the demons slammed his head against the kitchen island with a sickening crack, and he fell to the ground limp.

“Sam!” Dean shouted, frantic enough to finally break out of his hold that Mark had kept over him.

He vaguely registered that Mark didn’t even look bothered, but he didn’t have time to care about that, Sam was bleeding on the kitchen floor-

And Sally- that bitch - was back with her creepy wide smile, something that was probably beautiful when her vessel was alive but now twisted her features into a sinister expression. Dean made for his gun but instead received a punch to the chest, briefly bowling him over before he attempted to return one back, instead being greeted by only air. He saw Sam rise to his knees, blood dripping from his nose- shit , it was probably broken. But better a broken nose than a broken skull. He rose to his feet and stumbled, bracing the island for support. Even in the dim lighting of the kitchen Dean could tell he was dazed, pupils blown- fuck , probably a concussion too, Dad would have his ass after this one. If they even made it out.  

Dean once again found himself fending off punches and kicks from the demons in his fight to make it back to Sam so they could get the fuck out of this place. Sam managed to get his gun, moving like a baby gazelle, and fired in a demon’s direction, instead hitting the plaster of the wall. He aimed again and this time managed to land a hit to its arm, the demon crying out and evacuating its vessel. The vacant body slumped to the floor, no longer a threat to the brothers.

What the hell?

Sam made a few other haphazard attempts to shoot the other three demons, succeeding in one more evacuating its vessel. Leaving just Sally and Mark.

“Why-” Sam paused, hand to his nose, attempting to staunch the bleeding, “Why are they leaving?”
“I don’t know. I don’t like it.” Dean replied, scanning the kitchen for Sally and Mark.

Amidst all the chaos, Dean didn’t notice they had disappeared. They were nowhere to be found.

“You okay, Sammy?” The blood was really coming now, and Sam appeared unsteady on his feet.

“Yeah- I think so,” he said, “Let’s- let's get out of here.”

He stumbled forward, still using the island for support. Dean had his gun still aimed, rounding the corners of the kitchen. He walked towards the living room, pointing his gun and flashlight and seeing nothing but dirty floors and busted furniture.

Sally and Mark were still gone.

“What kind of a game is this?” Dean asked, yelling to Sam behind him. “They ambush us like this and just leave ? I don’t know, Sammy. This isn’t right.”

Instead of getting a response from Sam, he heard a strangled yelp.

He whirled around back towards the kitchen to see Sam being held upright by Sally, knife to his throat. Dean’s eyes widened, gun aimed to shoot. 

“You’re right, Dean. This is a game. And you’ve lost,” she said, smiling at him, the knife starting to pierce the skin of Sam’s throat. Sam had his eyes closed, breathing harshly. If this was any other situation, Sam would’ve been able to talk his way out, or squirm his scrawny ass out of her grip, or something , but his brother was concussed and could barely stand as it was, and Dean shouldn’t have turned around and let Sam out of his sight.

“Don’t,” he said, “I’ll fucking kill you, you bitch.”

“How?” she replied. 

And she was right. There was no way to kill demons. The only fabled method was The Colt- and it wasn’t like he had that sitting in his back pocket right now.

They were fucked.

Dean released the safety on his gun and was ready to fire when he felt the gun being torn from his grip- fucking Mark was back- at the exact same moment as Sally released the knife from Sam’s neck and plunged it into his abdomen. 

“Sam!” Dean cried, reaching out for his brother but once again finding himself held in the vice-like grip of Mark, and he watched as she stabbed Sam a second time. 

Sally then vacated her vessel, returning to a corpse rotting against the hardwood floors.

Sam collapsed to the ground, hands lazily moving to cover where the knife had been seconds before. His hands came away bloody, a crimson matching the blood pouring from his nose.

Seconds later, Mark’s vessel became limp too, and Dean ran to his brother. 

Sam was folded against the kitchen island, his breathing shallow and interrupted by static ticks, like someone had cut the cord to his oxygen. Dean was on him in an instant, ripping off his flannel and pressing it to Sam’s abdomen, the blood soaking through immediately.

“Dean-” Sam started, voice caught within his throat.

“Don’t talk, Sam. You’re going to be fine .” Dean said.

Fuck this was bad. There was so much blood, it had already soaked through the flannel onto Dean’s hands and was pooling at the knees of his jeans where he crouched. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket- vaguely glad his dad had insisted on him getting one earlier in the year- nearly dropping it out of his blood-slick hands. 

It didn’t matter. He should’ve known there wouldn’t be any service out here.

Sam’s eyelids had begun to flutter, and he was practically folded in half. “Hey- hey, Sammy. You gotta stay awake, okay? I’m gonna get you help. You’re gonna be fine,” Dean said.

 He attempted to wipe some of the blood drying on Sam’s face but ended up only smearing more on. Sam hummed in response, his breathing ragged, choked. His head flopped against his chest momentarily, eyes shooting back open. It reminded Dean of when Sam would try to stay awake for as long as possible as a little kid during their long road trips in the backseat of the car, which inevitably ended up with Dean carrying him, curled close to his chest, into the motel room.

A bit like what he was about to do now.

“We gotta get out of here, Sammy, okay? I’m gonna take you to the car, and we’re going to get you all fixed up.”

Sam made no attempt at a response. Dean lifted him gingerly, and Sam screamed . Or, tried to scream. It came out more as the sound of a baby bird crying. “Sorry, sorry,” Dean said, cradling Sam’s head against his chest as he rose from the kitchen floor and banked for the exit. “I’m sorry, Sammy.” 

Dean could feel Sam struggle to breathe in his arms, could hear each and every breath he took as they became fainter and fainter. He lifted Sam into the car and slammed the door shut- remembering earlier just that day when he’d gotten so mad at Sam for doing the same thing, and fuck that because he’d give anything to hear his brother sulk and grumble from the passenger seat than listen to him dying . Dean started the ignition and drove faster than he ever had before.

It was pitch black outside now. The backroads they had taken to get to the house had no streetlights- no anything for miles. The last time he’d even seen so much as a gas station on the way there was over forty minutes away from the house.

Sam didn’t have forty minutes. 

He pressed the pedal harder.

The roads twisted and winded and Dean felt like he was getting further and further away from civilization rather than closer , and Dean never thought he’d be begging to hear Sam’s jagged breaths ever again but it was preferable to the small whistling exhales he heard now. He glanced over to see that Sam was basically supine in the passenger seat- long limbs he had never had a chance to adjust to splayed out around him. “Just hold on, Sammy.” Dean said, placing a hand on his knee.

He felt the car begin to backfire, fighting against him.

Then the car sputtered to a halt.

“No.” Dean said. “No, no.”

The tank was empty. The tank was fucking empty, because Dean thought it would be a textbook case, and Sam would be back in time before midnight to study for his fucking algebra test the next day because Sammy wanted to go to fucking college instead of being a hunter and Dean had denied him that, had forced him to come, and now Sam was in the passenger seat and he was going to fucking-

Dean rammed his hands against the steering wheel. “Fuck!” he said. Then he said it a few more times, battering his fists against whatever would take it in the car, feeling the skin of his knuckles split against the old leather. “Fuck!” he said again for good measure, “I can’t deal with this right now. Work you piece of shit, you fucking- ”

“Dean?”

Dean stopped his tirade, chest heaving, and turned to look at his little brother. He was pale, paler than even that winter he’d spent holed up at Bobby’s doing nothing but reading books. His hands, his chest, his face, were soaked with blood. He looked at Dean- locked eyes with him for just a split second, before his eyes rolled into the back of his head, chest going limp.

Dean blinked. “Sam- Sammy?”

He reached out for Sam. Shook him gently. Tapped his face, opened his eyelids. Even poked the fucking stab wound to see if it made a difference. 

It didn’t.

Dean’s eyes roamed over him another time, faster, frantically. He shook Sam in earnest now, like this was just some joke he was playing on him, like he’d wake up any second now because he was supposed to - Dean was supposed to watch out for Sammy, and who was he if he wasn’t doing that?

 “Sammy? Come on, wake up. Please.”

Sam didn’t. 

“Please, Sam.” Dean could feel the tears well up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. That would mean admitting that he failed. That he failed his brother.

“Sam?” 

Sam remained stock still, no reaction to anything Dean was doing. 

“Sammy?”

Sam wasn’t coming back. He lay there against the car window, limp, eyes closed, looking the most peaceful Dean had seen him since the evening had begun. Since Dean had led him into this. “Sammy, please.”

Sam wasn’t coming back.

Chapter Text

If Dean had to picture Hell on Earth, he was pretty sure it was Walmart on a Saturday afternoon.

Bobby had been doing this new thing called “ forcing Dean to get out of the house” as he referred to it. Dean would refer to it as “Bobby wasting my fucking time” .

He did that a lot, this time of year.

Dean had come to stay with Bobby about six years ago after Dean had nearly drunk himself to death out in Poughkeepsie. Nearly ran straight into a Kitsune, too. He doesn’t think he would have minded his time being cut short. It wasn’t like any of it mattered anymore.

Bobby’d found him after being tipped off by some hunters. He hadn’t seen Dean since Sam’s funeral, hadn’t seen John for that matter, and had assumed the two were off gallivanting in their depression before one of his hunting pals let him know about the young man up in New York state that had been nearly bowled over by the monster-of-the-week. Bobby had a feeling he knew the guy.

He was right.

He’d all but threatened Dean to come back with him to Sioux Falls, even just for a week to get back on his feet. One week had turned into a month, had turned into a year, and now here he was at the Sioux Falls Walmart on orders from Bobby. 

Naturally, his first stop was the alcohol. 

It would be ten years that Thursday. 

Ten fucking years. 

Sammy should’ve been all grown up, paired off with a brilliant wife in some white-picket-fence home. His smart ass would’ve had no trouble getting into a college. As a kid, Dean always knew he’d lose Sam at some point. He just thought it would’ve been to a world of stuck-up snobby college kids. Sam should’ve been at some hoity-toity school, getting that law degree he never talked to Dean about (Dean may not have been booksmart like Sam, but he wasn’t dumb. Half the time Dean came to check up on Sam’s library research he’d find some law textbook tucked within a pile of lore. Sammy had plans. And he was going to find a way to accomplish them). Sure, Dad would’ve thrown a fit. The fights he and Sam had over hunting were explosive enough on a good day. At the time, Dean hated it. He hated hearing his brother and dad fight all the time, hated that Sam wanted to give up on their family that easily. 

 But if anyone should have escaped the life it was him. He’d take listening to a thousand more of Sam’s whiny bitch rants over the constant thrumming silence that accompanied him these days. He’d take Sam walking out the door and never seeing him again- if it meant he knew he was alive. That he was safe. 

Dean loaded up his cart with beer, whisky, and some girly fruity drink Sam probably would’ve gone for for good measure. 

Dean never did get to buy him that first drink. 

He traversed into the groceries, picking up basic things that even black-out him could manage. A loaf of bread and peanut butter, a can of Spaghetti O’s, a bag of chips. 

Sam would hate it. 

It didn’t matter that Sam had been gone nearly ten years; he was a constant presence in Dean’s mind. Everywhere Dean went, Sam went with him. 

As the years passed, it never got easier. Whoever said time heals all wounds was full of shit. 

But it got quieter. 

He could see a pack of green army men without thinking of Little Sam in the backseat of the Impala. He could turn the radio up and listen to his music as loud as he wanted without thinking about how much Sam would be bitching about the volume. He could book a motel with a single bed without a second thought. 

Dean got good at keeping it quiet. He really did, most of the time. 

But sometimes, it just knocked him right over. 

About three months ago, Dean had hooked up with a girl he’d met at a bar. She was pretty, brunette. Had a kind smile and a wicked sense of humor and checked about all his boxes. They’d gone back to his place with the promise of something - but then she’d brought up the creepy clown portrait in the motel lobby that Dean somehow hadn’t noticed before- and suddenly Dean was bent over, sobbing , unable to explain to this girl that if Sam were here, if his little brother were here, he’d be such a little bitch about it, because Sammy’d had this weird thing about clowns since he was a little kid. But Sammy wasn’t there, he wasn’t going to be there, he was in a motel a thousand miles from home (which, what even was home? Was it Lawrence? Was it Sioux Falls? Was it that small town in Nebraska where Sam had taken his last breath?) with some girl he couldn’t even remember the name of, and Sam was dead and he’d never have a chance to tease him about his dumb phobias ever again. 

Dean didn’t know how to explain any of that. He couldn’t explain how he was suddenly so certain he was dying, that the only explanation someone could feel this way was if their soul was literally being ripped in two, so he just told her he was having really bad heartburn and she walked him to his room and offered him a Tums and he said no thank you, slammed the door, and promptly walked into a bottle of whisky. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so hard to explain. But maybe it would’ve. And opening up about that ? It had a chance to knock him right back into that car ten years ago, to where his hands were blood-soaked and wouldn’t stop shaking, to where he had to walk eight miles- eight miles away from Sam’s body- before he could find some place to finally call someone- that someone, unfortunately, being Bobby. 

Dean didn’t know how to thank him- or, more adequately, how to repay him- for all that he’d done. All he could seem to manage was to pick up the liquor. 

It was as if the whole of Sioux Falls was at that store. Dean didn’t like people at the best of times, and this was about ready to topple him over. All these people living their normal lives with their normal families and normal jobs. He wondered if he stuck out like a sore thumb to him all. If they could all see that there was something fundamental that he lacked that they all possessed. If they could see right through him. 

Dean barreled towards the self-checkout, 10 item limit be damned. If he had to talk to someone, it’d be a problem for everyone. 

He walked past the produce section before something made him stop in his tracks. 

That couldn’t be right. 

He’d lost count of how many times he’d randomly seen Sam. 

Of course, it wasn’t really Sam. It was only ever someone ridiculously tall, or someone with overgrown hair curling around their ears, or a moody teenager with crossed arms and a fatigued expression. He’d never trained himself to get over that heart-stopping reaction. He’d never trained himself to get over the possibility that he’d one day again see Sam. In fact-he even reveled in it. That split-second moment in which it’d all been one big mistake, and his brother was really alive, and things would go back to normal 

The next step in this process was to backtrack. He needed that confirmation. Inevitably, it wouldn’t be Sam. In fact, the person he saw never even looked like him. It was just some fluke of his brain-dead imagination. Some desperate grasp at a world that no longer existed. 

He turned to look back and nearly dropped his basket. 

It was Sam. 

No, it wasn’t. 

It couldn’t be. 

Right?

Sam was dead. It had been ten years. He wasn’t coming back. 

So why did Dean see him bagging apples in the produce section?

It was him. It had to be. 

Same hair. Same reed-thin frame, nearly as tall as him, limbs longer than he knew what to do with. The same hair Dean was always telling him he needed to cut. It was even-

It was even the same clothes. The same clothes Dean had buried him in ten years ago. 

There he was. His fifteen-year-old brother. Buying Fuji apples at Walmart like Dean wasn't preparing to participate in his time-honored tradition of getting belligerently drunk to cope with his death. 

“Sam.” Dean said, approaching him. 

He didn’t know how his brother was here. He didn’t even know if it was his brother. He wasn’t convinced he wasn’t going crazy. He wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t a shifter- or some Djinn-induced dreamscape. 

Sam looked up. He looked at Dean. He didn’t say anything. Not hello not hi not sorry I’ve been dead for ten years . Nothing. He just looked at him. 

“Sammy?” Dean said again, hesitantly. He reached into his back pocket where he kept his silver knife. 

“You don’t need that,” Sam finally said, eyes level with Dean. 

Dean couldn’t hide the wobble in his voice. “What?”

Sam placed his hand out. Dean stared at him blankly, before Sam gestured again. He wanted the knife. 

Dean didn’t know what to do. What the hell was he supposed to do?

He gave Sam the knife. He’d always give Sam what he thought he wanted. 

Sam sliced his palm open. Dean flinched. Sam had no reaction. 

Dean glanced around. They were in the middle of Walmart on the busiest day of the week- surely someone would notice a teenage boy slicing his own palm open. But no one even looked at them. It was like they weren’t even there. 

“There? Do you know it’s me now? I’ll even do the holy water thing, if you want,” Sam said, sarcastic tone laced in his voice. 

Dean’s eyes flicked across his body. Same face. Same hair. Same clothes. Same brother?

“I- I don’t understand,” was all Dean could manage. “You. You’re alive.”

Sam nodded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  “I am.”

What the fuck was happening. Someone was fucking with him. Someone was fucking with him- and he couldn’t handle this right now. He couldn’t handle it period, but now? Out of all the goddamn times?

Dean grabbed Sam by the collar of his shirt, a new type of fire building in his stomach he hadn’t felt in years. “What the fuck is going on, huh? You know how long it’s been, Sam? Ten fucking years. That’s how long you’ve been gone. Then you just- you just waltz in here, doing a little grocery shopping like it’s no big deal. Well it is. It’s a big fucking deal. And I want to know what you’ve done with my little brother. Because you sure as fuck aren’t him.”

Sam was unphased by Dean’s outburst. So was the rest of the store. Dean could fucking scream at the top of his lungs and no one would even glance in his direction. Sam’s eyes were still trained on Dean. He didn’t think Sam had blinked once since he’d first laid eyes on him. He smacked Sam across the face. He wanted him to cry, to shout, to tell him to go fuck off, just- anything. All Sam did was shake his head, yawn to crack his jaw. He released Sam, stumbling at the sudden lack of weight in his arms.  Sam smoothed down his rumpled shirt and gave Dean a soft smirk. 

That was the smirk Sam reserved for his bitchy little arguments. That was the smirk Sam used when he’d managed to land a good insult for once. The fact that it was being used now- it wasn’t. It wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right. 

Dean had dreamed- had had nightmares - about what he’d do if he saw Sam again. Had thought it over and over, spent countless hours and sleepless nights thinking through all the things he wanted to say to Sam. The apologies he’d make. Now Sam was standing right in front of him, and Dean could barely talk. 

“I’m sorry if this interaction isn’t what you were hoping for, Dean. But it is me.” Sam said, and he took a bite right out of one of the apples from his shopping bag. 

The Sam he knew cried out of guilt for forgetting to ring up a pack of gum when he was 12. He insisted on having Dean drive him all the way back to the gas station to return it and apologize to the attendant. 

This wasn’t Sam. 

But it was. 

“Why-“ Dean swallowed. He didn’t want to ask the question. But he had to. “Why are you back? What brought you back?”

Sam shrugged. He threw the barely-eaten apple on the ground (God, Sammy fucking hated littering. Had written an entire essay on it in the fifth grade- something he proudly displayed to Dean with two gold stars on it from his teacher). “The time was right. Everything’s falling into place.”

What the fuck?

“What are you talking about? Sammy, is someone doing this to you? Are you okay? Do you need help? Just- just fucking talk to me here. Quit it with all this flouncy bullshit talk.”

Just be my annoying little brother. Please. 

“I’m fine, Dean. I’m better than fine, actually. And you will be too, soon enough.” Sam seemed to have enough of him, then. Like the conversation was over. Like he hadn’t just made Dean ten times more confused than he already was. Sam waved- actually waved in front of his face- and started to walk away from him. 

Dean lunged for his arm but his grip fell short. “Sammy. Please.” 

This wasn’t his brother. 

This was his brother. 

This was the only chance he had to see his brother. 

He had dreamed of this moment for ten years. 

It was somehow worse than any of the nightmares he’d had. 

At least in those- it was still Sam he was talking to. 

Sam turned and gave him one last look before disappearing into the crowded store. 

For a split second, Dean could’ve sworn his eyes turned yellow.