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“Don’t you sometimes wish our lives were different? Like, we were destined for some greater purpose?” Dean looked over at his little brother in disbelief.
Sam was staring up at the sky, as if the stars would give him an answer to his question, as if he hadn’t asked Dean but instead sent it out to universe. Maybe he had; maybe it was even a little bit of both.
His long hair had fallen back from the up-tilt of his head, and the reflected light from above cast shadows across his face. Yet, Sam looked peaceful despite the heavy weight of his sudden revelation, bathed in cool glow from the moon.
Dean didn’t reply right away, and looked away from his brother, searching for his own answer among the stars. He thought back to dreams and nightmares alike that brought along vague images of hellfire, and demon dogs, black eyed creatures, and feathered freaks, black feathers in particular, and some old, dirty trench coat and the word blue . Images of two brothers, killing monsters and saving people, and making a makeshift family to replace the one they never had. Images of a life lived on the road, but sometimes a motel room, a bunker. It meant nothing, but something, and everything all at once.
Dean didn’t know what to do with the information. He never did. After all, what could you make of memories that weren’t yours but you’ve experienced as if they were?
He took a swig of his beer instead, and grimaced, the flavor suddenly a hard pill to swallow. The impala’s hood creaked as they shifted, and Sam’s gaze finally shifted to him, his brother’s hazel eyes burning a hole into the side of his face. He let out a sigh, and met his gaze.
“I don’t know Sammy, what do you want me to say? That sure, I wish I was some hero and knew that what I did for a living really made a difference? That yeah, life sucks and we don’t get paid, but at least we saved lives? I don’t know if I want that.”
“Can you really tell me you’re happy? Like, not just content, but truly happy?”
Dean snorted. “Of course not Sam, but that’s the way things are.
“I’m comfortable.” He continued with a shrug. “You got your job, you got Jess. You got a nice home.”
“Yeah but that’s me. What about you?”
“What about me? I got you, and Baby, and that’s all I need.”
It was Sam’s turn to snort then, and none of the brothers said anything for some time. The silence was oppressive, words that wanted to be said buried deep in their graves because they never would.
“Look, you can forget I said anything.” Sam said after a while, staring back up into the cosmos. “But when the end of the day comes, I can’t help but think this isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing. That something isn’t right. Sure I’m happy. But I’m also...unfulfilled.”
Sam’s mouth met the lip of his own bottle, and he took a long, contemplative sip. Dean glanced over to his brother, brows furrowed and frowning.
Because in whatever universe, or dimension, whatever time period, century, or generation, the Winchester brothers would always be hunters. Even if Mary didn’t die, and John was a better father, even if they didn’t move through districts, and schools, and motels, even if the apocalypse wasn’t started, even if Dean never went to Hell, even if God didn’t favor them enough to resurrect them time and time again, even if they didn’t lose all their family and friends, even if John never bought the impala, and never gave it to Dean, even if Sam didn’t have demon blood coursing through his veins, even if Dean never had the mark and even if he never became a demon, even if they never killed Death himself, even if they never met Crowley, or Rowena, or Cas, or Chuck, even if they never met Kevin, or Charlie, or Eileen, even if they didn’t fight Lucifer, or Eve, or Lilith, Metatron, or the Darkness. Even if, because that’s just how the world worked.
Fate was a cold hearted bitch, and one of those Dean’s in one of those particular universes could have even told you so, because they’ve met before.
They couldn’t put a name to the feeling, however, and neither brother could truly deny it was there.
“There’s stories I want to tell, but can’t, and there’s places I think I’ve been, but I haven’t, and there’s instincts I act upon and wonder why.” Sam is just rambling now, but Dean is afraid because he gets it, he really does.
He’s still tongue tied and possibly even more confused.
“I can hear you sometimes, you know? At night. You’re dreaming, of course, but it all sounds so real. The first time it happened I got so scared, thought someone was in the house. I went looking for a gun that wasn’t there. I don’t think I even own a gun.” Sam shook his head and smiled wistfully.
“You can deny it all you want Dean, but you’re my brother and I know you better than anyone. You know what I’m talking about, and I’m telling you right now that I feel the same.”
“Yeah, well there’s nothing we can do about it.” He snapped in reply, finishing the last dregs of his beer.
Dean never liked the feeling of being stripped bare, of becoming vulnerable. It was wholeheartedly, one hundred percent himself; it was one of the things that never changed.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe there isn’t anything we can do.” Sam was looking at him again, a stare that reminded him all too much of a certain angel of the lord, one who gave up everything and fell for the Winchesters, who put his faith in Dean and haunted his dreams.
“Why am I sensing a but here?”
“ But can’t we at least try?” His brother finished, his stare turning expectant.
Dean sighed and rubbed his palms down his denim clad thighs. How would they ever attempt that? So far everything up to this point had been only glimpses of what either could be, had been, will be, or is in another place. Just not here, where it mattered.
“I dunno Sammy, this whole thing is a bit friggin weird if you ask me. I mean, where would we start?”
“I don’t know either Dean. But we’ve got to start somewhere right? And who knows what we’ll find or what will even come of it, but isn’t that the point? Don’t you want to say you at least tried?” At his older brother’s shrug, Sam continued.
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to regret never acting on this impulse. Living a life unfulfilled, thinking what if? What if I listened to those visions, and what if I let myself feel these feelings.”
Dean nodded, and after a moment jumped off the hood of the impala. He turned to Sam and nodded again.
“Alright.”
“Alright?”
“Yeah, alright. Let’s do it.”
And just like that, Dean and Sam Winchester have chosen each other . And just like that, Dean and Sam Winchester have chosen the something more . Just as it was destined to be.
But even if it isn’t the same exact story, even if it isn’t the same exact written narrative, a new Winchester Gospel is born.
All the best stories need a few rewrites—and a few different versions—to mutate into its final metamorphosis, after all.