Chapter Text
2016’s Sam POV
“Your worry is precious, but I’ve never known a hunter to croak from too much peace and quiet before,” Bobby’s voice echoes slightly as it bounces off the bunker’s walls.
“I take that to mean that you’ve enjoyed having us out of your hair this week.”
“Whatcha talking about?” the younger version of my brother scoffs from where he’s driving one-handed down the Wisconsin highway, his Other self a half-mile ahead of us having grudgingly taken Cas’s truck for the day. “Bobby loves us. We’re adorable.”
I roll my eyes—but in the direction of the window—where yet another identical cornfield passes us by. Little kids are adorable, puppies are adorable, episodes of My Little Pony are adorable—it’s very possible that “adorable” is just another word for something high-energy that you wish had a more obvious “off” button.
I don’t blame Bobby for needing a break from this whole strange situation he’s found himself in. It’s not like I couldn’t use one myself.
Both Deans and Cas had been continuing their little memory sessions on the road. Which means not only does younger Dean now know that Ruby was alive in 2008 and that my past self was working with her, but he’d finally caught up to the part about me drinking demon blood—as seen through Dean’s own hazy recollections of Jimmy Novak and how I exorcised his wife. He’d gotten pissed at both me and Cas that night.
And the thing is, he’s right to be angry. I made a mistake that still makes my stomach churn. But between Dean and me, we buried that particular issue a long time ago—and both of us don’t appreciate it being brought up again now.
“Yeah, Sam messed up. But we’ve allllll messed up, Kid—you’re not immune,” Older Dean explained the next morning. “So, when it’s your turn to go through all this crap, realize that picking fights with Sam—instead of being there for him—just causes everything to get fucked up ten times worse.”
What I’m learning is that, while past Dean’s temper flares bright and volatile, like home-launched fireworks, it also fades just as fast without something to feed it. He’d looked between all three of us—at the united team we made, saying “Get over it”—and scowled but accepted a breakfast burrito.
That was two days ago—apparently enough time for him to go from sleeping in the Impala to get away from us to trying to get me to sing along to Eye of the Tiger as he belted his own off-key rendition at the top of his lungs.
As he strangles a high note, adding to the headache behind my eyeballs, I casually mention to Bobby that I might reroute on the way home to see a friend.
“Sammy! Are we talking about a lady friend here?” Dean asks just as I’m hanging up.
“She’s—” I begin, which is apparently enough for Dean.
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” he grins, lopsidedly. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Eileen and I aren’t a couple,” I inform him, slipping my phone into my jeans pocket.
“But you want to be.” Dean sounds so sure of himself that I really wish that I could prove him wrong. Except Eileen is incredible and I get the feeling from our late-night Skype conversations that she wouldn’t be opposed to… exploring things a little further.
“Why didn’t the Other Me mention this chick?” Dean asks after I’ve been quiet for a while.
“I think he recognizes it’s none of his—your—business.”
“Nah, that can’t be right.”
“I’m serious,” I tell him. “I don’t have the greatest track record when it comes to dating.”
“Yeah, no kidding. Werewolves, demons--”
And there it is again. “I’m not talking about them being supernatural, Jerk. I mean they…” I trail off—picturing Jessica, Madison, Sarah—all dead—Amelia potentially waiting for me in a hotel room in Texas—only for my thoughts to circle around to Jessica again. It always comes back to her.
“It doesn’t matter. Point is, Eileen is different…. She’s a hunter,” I explain at Dean’s raised eyebrows, “meaning that I wouldn’t be dragging her into the life. But that doesn’t mean she necessarily wants… Winchesters have bad luck even as hunters go. She should know what she’s getting into.”
Dean snorts. “Other than your pants, you mean.”
“You know what, never mind,” I huff, leaning my head against the slightly fogged-up window with a plan to nap.
“Hey,” Dean says, smacking me in the knee until I open one eye to look at him. “I’m not trying to be an asshole. If you want to sit on the bench a while longer, it’s not like I’m gonna tell you to play ball.”
“But…?” I prompt.
“I still want to know more about this girl.”
“Dean….”
“What? She sounds like she’s important to you, right? And I’m going to a past where you don’t know her yet. So, if you want me to hint-hint, nudge-nudge more than just the Apocalypse, I probably need something to work with….”
It’s a logical point he’s making—even if it’s not why he’s making it. Still, he is my brother—who’s afraid of planes, howler monkeys, and that the people in his life aren’t gonna stick around—and I figure I can give him this. “Don’t worry, you like her,” I start, thinking warmly of Eileen helping Dean through the ASL for ‘suck a bag of dicks.’ “She’s deaf, so she has to put up with a lot of stigma working with other hunters sometimes—until she saves their ass from a banshee…”
A half-hour later, I realize that Dean hasn’t interrupted me once—and when I glance over, that hidden fear in his eyes seems to have lifted somewhat, replaced by a barely-there smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.
/////
I guess I fall asleep after all because I wake up with the mid-afternoon sun streaming through the window and my phone vibrating. Wiping the crud from my eyes, I open the message. “It’s Cas,” I inform Dean. “Says there’s a diner coming up in a couple of exits that you want to stop at.” Followed by the emoji symbols for a burger, pancakes, and a thumbs up.
Since there’s no way Dean is going to say ‘no’ to food, I’ve already sent a confirmation text before he responds with an “Awesome.”
Even from the parking lot, the fried oil starts seeping into my pores. The outside is chrome with orange and teal neon, large picture windows offering a clear view to the inside. The other Dean and Cas are seated catty-corner to each other at a table in the center of a restaurant, heads bowed low in conversation as Dean rips a paper straw wrapper in half.
There’s something going on with those two—but, like usual, they don’t really keep me in the loop. They’re not secretly fighting (It’s not as if Cas is an expansive talker, but it’s amazing how much louder his not-talking becomes when he and Dean are on the outs. Plus, Dean hasn’t been hitting the bottle any harder than usual lately).
If anything, they’re just being super polite around each other. Cas actually asked if he was standing too close to Dean at one point (while he was a good two inches farther away from him than usual). Dean, in turn, offered to stop at some tourist traps on the way home that he thought Cas might be interested in. It’s a new layer added on to their already painful tension—and somehow, we all keep pretending like we don’t notice it.
At first, I think the slight pressure at my back is someone trying to get past me to enter the diner. After all, the parking lot is pretty full of jostling families. But then it stays there—pressed firmly against my spine—and I recognize it as the shape of a gun through my jacket.
I can see Past Dean freeze out of the corner of my eye—a second, dark-haired man I don't recognize right behind him—and inside the diner, Dean and Cas are approached by a blonde woman that is, unfortunately, all too familiar.
“Hello, Sam,” a British voice speaks near my ear. I risk a glance backward.
“Mitch, was it? Or Mick? What can we do for the British Men of Letters today?”