Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sound carried on. Dean wasn’t quite able to place what it was. He edged on. The floor creaked angrily under his feet. 

He reached the door the sound was coming from and he knew what it was now: crying. The type of sobbing that is not melodramatic like a child throwing a fit, but the kind that one allows themself when they are alone, aching and with a wail of pain not for anyone’s benefit.

Dean turned the handle. A ghost? They had an inclination for tears. 

Then he felt it like a gust of wind. He knew this place. He’d walked into this room before. He recognized it as somewhere he spent a brief stint in when he was a teenager. 

Inside was what he expected in part. Two beds on either side of the room, an old dresser, and a single window. Through the window pane, he could see that it was dark, and he heard the rain as it pounded diagonally toward the window.

What he wasn’t expecting was a child balled up in the corner, hands over face with trembling shoulders. 

Dean recognized the mop of brown hair that fell in front of his hidden face and the worn out denim jeans with holes at the knees. “Sammy?”

Sam pulled his head out from his hands and looked at Dean with horror. “You were supposed to be gone.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean frowned as he tried to piece together what was happening here. 

Sam wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I thought you left on the hunt with Dad. You weren’t supposed to…” he looked down in embarrassment, then attempted to straighten and salvage some dignity. 

This wasn’t right. If Sam was transported with him, this would not be his behavior. “How did you get here?” 

Sam looked quizzical. “I took the bus home from school.”

Dean studied his little brother. Sam was acting like a child, but he wasn’t questioning why an adult Dean was standing in his doorway.

Then Dean was sprinting, finding the six square foot bathroom. 

He looked at the mirror and his fears were confirmed. Sixteen year old Dean stared back at him. Great. A poor man’s Seventeen Again. He took himself in for a moment. He could have stared for much longer at the bizarre sight, but he peeled himself away and hurried back to Sam. 

“Sammy,” he said and walked to the corner he wedged himself into. He sat beside him. Sam held his breath. It sent a pang through Dean for a second when he realized Sam was scared of how he might react. 

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked gently. Sam was so small. He wasn’t as tall as Dean yet, but he was on the way. He was rail thin and gangly, not yet grown into his own body. This was perhaps stranger than the person he just witnessed in the mirror. He felt the urge to protect Sam stronger than he had in a long time. He waited for Sam to begin. 

Sam obliged after only thirty seconds. “I’m sorry. It’s just Dad.”

Dad. Dad was alive. And here was Sammy, crying alone in his room with only the man called ‘Dad’ to blame, and Dean realized that this was the exact childhood he spent so much time ruminating, or trying not to ruminate, in. 

Even if this were a dream, it gave him an opportunity he long ago missed out. “What did he do?” Dean asked. 

“Nevermind,” Sam said quickly. 

“Sammy,” Dean encouraged.

Sam made a face. “It’s ‘Sam’.”

“I know it is. I’m not gonna get mad, okay? Tell me what he did.”

Sam thumbed one of the holes in his jeans. “Well, last time you guys left, I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t have enough money to last. You know how he always says he’s gonna be gone a couple days, but it turns out a week?” Sam asked. Dean nodded. “He said you guys are gonna be back Tuesday so he gave me fifteen bucks, but I told him it wasn’t enough.” 

He didn’t need to say more. Dean knew where this was going.

“He started yelling and stuff. He shoved me into the room and told me not to come out until it was dark.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” he quieted again. 

Dean didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he had too many, and Sam wasn’t ready for that yet. Sam was a little kid with a father who had done terrible things to him. He wasn’t prepared to receive a full speech about the cruelties and nuances of his father. He needed comfort. “Nothing Dad does is your fault. Him getting pissed and punishing you, it’s bullshit-”

Sam’s stomach growled and his face reddened again.

Dean sighed. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Sam called after him. 

It would be easier to answer that question if he knew what reality he was in. There was no telling if this was real or fabricated or somewhere between. 

Outside, Baby was idling. John had one arm thrown out the window like he so often did. That was something Dean had forgotten. All summer, the man sported a farmer’s tan, a result of the hundreds of hours he spent traveling the country. 

Dean swallowed hard. Adrenaline raced through him just from seeing John. 

“Hey, Dad,” he said. No part of it sounded natural.

“Get in the car,” he said flatly. 

His father, whom he staunchly refused to disobey in his youth, who scared him even after his death, was ordering him to get in the car. 1985 Dean would have smolderingly obeyed. 2014 Dean ground his teeth.

“No.” 

The answer registered to John after a pause. “What was that, boy?” his voice was dangerous, but it left room for Dean to shut up and climb in the passenger seat. 

Dean didn’t want that anymore. “No,” he was firm, “I’m not getting in the car. I’m going to take care of Sam.”

John’s eyes lit with rage. Even grown up Dean felt a shameful twinge of fear when he looked at his father.
No, he was too old to be scared of John. He saw him for what he was now: a bully. A poor father. A hubristic hunter. He was all of those things and more. It was bizarre, seeing it from the outside, but Dean was able to now. John was a man both ashamed, self-hating, hardly capable of looking in the mirror and who was embittered with the guilt of failing his children, and another shameless, proud and self-centered man who found his children to be hindrances on his mission of vengeance. 

John was complex. Yet here, on the old sidewalk in front of the house that ended in dirt a few yards from the front door, Dean understood him easily. The word that could fully encompass him was confused. Some days he woke up realizing that his sons were the most important thing in the world, others he had the epiphany that he was wasting time on the children and all his focus should go to Mary. Some days he didn’t know what to think and he drank himself into a sorry state at the nearest bar. John was lost.

Dean was too, but he didn’t take it out on Sam. 

“The hell you are,” John growled, getting out of the car. He was in for it now.

“Dad,” Dean walked boldly up to him and John sized him up, “I’m taking care of Sam now. You can sock me or threaten me, but it doesn’t change anything,” he surprised himself with the words. There were gutting things that Dean could say, things that would deeply hurt his father because god, were they true, but, for some reason he was not even sure of, he decided not to.

John eyed him and Dean truly had no idea what his father was going to do. He was out of practice predicting his behaviors. Everything he did was perplexing to Dean now.

“I should separate you,” John growled. Dean remembered now, the way his father would dare him to disobey just to see him muzzled by the threat of losing Sam.

“I’m not going to be controlled by threats,” Dean answered, again faster and shorter than he expected. It was instinctual, he guessed. Without his mind even registering it, he was choosing not to antagonize John because Sam needed him right now.

John stared at him, deciding. Dean felt judged, like his very posture would be the deciding factor in his father’s reaction, but after a tense moment punctuated by the sounds of rattling cars speeding by, John’s face lost all emotion and he got back in the car. Then he was gone. 

Back in the cabin, Sam was standing partway out of the hall, peeking around the wall like a nervous child. 

“I’m starving,” Dean said. He could sense Sam’s gathering of words. “I’m going to make something and I want you to start packing our stuff,” he told Sam naturally.

“Packing our stuff? Wait-what,”a little more flabbergasted stuttering, “What did Dad say to you?”

“Not much. I told him I was staying back,” Dean shuffled around the kitchen, deciding what slapdash meal he could make with the random food in their threadbare pantry. He could feel Sam gaping at him. 

“You said that to him?”

For whatever reason, that was the first thing that made Dean nearly tear up. The idea of telling John no was so preposterous that Sam could hardly believe it. 

He strategically faced away from Sam so he couldn’t see the wetness in his eyes. “Sure did,” he found a can of spaghetti sauce, a box of bowtie pasta, and a few expired spices. 

“Wasn’t he mad?”

“No. All we have is pasta. You good with that?” he set down the ingredients and tried to draw as little attention to his shaking hands as possible. 

“Why am I packing?”

“We’re gonna stay with Uncle Bobby for a little while.”

“Uncle Bobby,” Sam repeated as he attempted to process this information. 

“How long will it take you to pack?” Dean wondered how long they had been staying here. 

“I don’t know. Thirty minutes?”

Dean continued to work in the kitchen. “I need you to pack my stuff too. I don’t know wh-”

“Dean!” Sam shouted. He dropped the spoon he was holding. “Why are you acting so calm? Why are we going to Bobby’s? Is Dad coming? Why didn’t you go with him?” 

Dean let out a heavy breath. Trying to act unaffected was not helping Sam. It seemed stupid now that he thought about it. 

He walked over to Sam and leaned against the counter. Sam stood across from him, body tense, but not afraid.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” that was the exact opposite of what he wanted here, “What’s going on here with Dad isn’t right. Starving your kid? That’s fucked up. We’ve put up with enough. I’m gonna borrow a car and drive us to Bobby. He won't mind, I’m sure.”

“Dad’ll come get us.”

Dean shook his head. "Then we'll leave. It doesn’t matter.”
Sam watched him, debating what to say. Dean could see this was a shocking turn of events. After all, how many times had Sam cried because of John, and Dean couldn’t bring them to leave? And now, he looks at Sam for sixty seconds and promptly, with disturbing calmness, he ends things.  

But the desire to get away from John apparently won out because Sam left for his room. He packed quietly, like he always did. Dean was the one who haphazardly threw items in the direction of his duffel. 

◉◉◉

Bobby wasn’t one for commotion, especially in his later years, and Dean could appreciate that. There was a certain tacit understanding Bobby seemed to have, like he always knew Sam and Dean would run away to him. 

Sam and Dean settled with the few belongings they had in either spare room. Sam hovered near Dean, childishly, instinctively, standing behind him. Bobby threw together a meal of buttered noodles and rice. They all picked at their food.

And they waited for John to call. 

Sam was not any better when he went to bed, but Dean thought some rest might calm his nerves. 

Bobby and Dean sat on the couch, Bobby with beer and Dean with a warm Coke. Dean set down his drink on a chipping pine coffee table, like he needed full mobility to have this conversation. 

“John’s going to come here eventually,” Dean stated, and Bobby offered no protest, “He’s gonna want to take Sam or me or both of us. I’m not going back with him.”
“You sound pretty sure about that.”

“I am. Sam’s twelve. John leaves him home alone for days, doesn’t give him enough to eat, treats him like crap. You’ve seen how he talks to Sam. I don’t know what I was thinking, staying so long,” the words were heavy and lamenting. He was meant to protect Sam. He wouldn’t fail again.

Bobby gave him a look, one that Dean couldn't decipher especially when he was this tired, and walked away. 

“Alright,” Dean said and melted into the sofa. He didn’t have the energy to care. He barely had the energy to speak anymore.

Chhk chhk. 

Dean froze, muscles tense. Another shotgun pointed at him. He couldn’t count how many times that had happened to him since he was sixteen, but it still made his pulse race.

“Who are you?” Bobby asked, dangerous. 

“Put it down,” Dean said calmly. 

“You’re different.”
“I’m still me.”
“You better get to explaining.” 

“Fine. You’re right. I’m different. It’s me, but I’m thirty-five. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t remember going to sleep. I just woke up in a cabin from a hunt we did in-What year is it? 1986?”

“Five.”

“Damn.”

“Prove it.”
“How?” Dean was irritated. He was too tired to deal with this now. “Can we talk in the morning?” he yawned and laid on his side. 

Bobby stood quiet for a moment before setting down the shotgun on the kitchen counter, then returned to Dean. “Let’s get you to bed,” his voice was still gruff as it always was, but gentler now.

Dean mumbled protests as Bobby helped with his bags and walked him to the spare bedroom.

Bobby hesitated before leaving the room and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I’m glad you came to me.”

“Thanks,” Dean smiled blearily. Bobby pulled him into a hug, and he knew that he still saw Dean as a sixteen year old, but he hugged him back anyways. Where was this childhood? 

He wasn’t sure how Bobby could be so positive it was him, but he was glad. It was too late to argue. He fell asleep in minutes.

◉◉◉

Dean made pancakes. This was an undeniably bad situation, but no one was here to judge him for taking a moment to appreciate the fact that, for a moment, he could enjoy this time with his little brother. Sam sat on a kitchen stool while he cooked.

“Why are you making pancakes?”

“The real question is why am I not always making pancakes.”

The kitchen smelled of butter and maple syrup when they sat down to eat. Dean and Bobby chatted and slowly Sam seemed to relax. When they were done, Dean jokingly told Sam to go play so he could clean up.

When he finished, Bobby was sitting at the table with one chair pulled out for him. “You ready for that chat?” he didn’t sound angry anymore, but Dean wondered if he saw him as the thirty-five year old, seasoned hunter that he was now. 

“Are we talking? I’m more comfortable with the shotgun,” he sat and wiped a hand over his face. “I don’t know what else to tell you. I don’t know how. I just wound up here.”

“Guess we’ll just have to figure it out,” Bobby said.

“Sounds fun,” Dean griped, already picturing the tomes he would have to pore over. 

◉◉◉

“Hey,” Dean found Sam outside sitting in the maze of cars. 

“Hi.”

Dean sat down beside him and tried to ignore how strange seeing Sam at this height was. 

“Did he call?”

“Nah, but you don’t have to worry about that.”

Sam looked at him suspiciously. 

“What?”

“Is this really real? ”

“Huh?”

“You’re gonna wanna go back to Dad.”

Dean barked out a strange, “Ha!” before regaining himself, “This is real. You don’t have to see Dad again ever again if you don’t want to.”

“You’re going to leave me here?”

“What are you talking about? Why would I leave you?”

“You said I don’t have to see Dad again. So you’re going to see him without me. I knew this couldn’t happen.”

“Listen,” Dean looked at Sam seriously, “Neither of us are going back to Dad. It doesn’t matter if we’re here or China or Timbuktu, you and me are sticking together. I won’t leave you.”

Sam pulled his knees to his chest. He was completely still for a moment, then tears began to roll down his cheeks. His face remained straight and his body unmoving, but the tears kept coming. 

“Hey,” Dean scooted closer to him and put an arm around his shoulders, an act that in his reality would be overly intimate compared to the rare hugs they shared after near-death experiences.

Little Sam didn’t push him away and instead curled into him, allowing Dean’s arms to protectively wrap around his little brother. He murmured soft words of comfort as Sam cried. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. Dean was hardly able to make it out with Sam’s face in his shirt. 

Dean’s eyes stung as a tear dripped down his face. He was glad Sam couldn’t see. 

In his Sam, his thirty-two year old little brother back on his own planet, Dean still saw ghosts of his vulnerability, but it seemed that each year he shoved it further down. Was it possible that he would be different if Dean protected him? Happier? “Do you believe me?” Dean asked.

Sam pulled away and wiped his face, calming down. “Yeah.”

◉◉◉

“You ever wanna figure out why you’re here?” Bobby asked.

“It’s been a day,” Dean defended. 

“Exactly,” they both knew he was putting it off.

Dean relinquished, deflating. “I know.”

“You can’t stay.”

“I get it.”

“You’re really thirty-five?” Bobby asked, but most of the skepticism had left his voice, “What’s the future like?”

Dean looked at him with an empty expression. “It’s great, Bobby.”

It was an eerie response. 

“I’m not saving anyone,” Dean said, “If I learned one thing about time travel it’s that you can’t fix anything in the past.”

“And if it’s something else?”

“You know already. It’s a dream or a curse. Some bullshit I have to wake up from. Or…”
“This is an alternate universe,” Bobby supplied, “And you’re protecting Sam.”

“This is my chance to do something different. John’s a crap father and you know that as well as me. He’s going to come. That’s all I’m waiting for.”

“I can take care of John.”

“It has to be me. I need to know he’s going to be okay.”

Bobby surveyed him. “You gotta get out of here ASAP after.”

“Jeez, kicking me out?” 

“Could be the longer you stay, the harder it is to leave.”

Dean nodded solemnly.

“I’ll watch out for him after you leave.” 

“Okay,” Dean conceded. He really couldn’t stay here forever, even though some parts of the idea appealed to him. There were so many things he could do differently, so many tragedies that had not yet taken place. “Let’s get into it, I guess,” so they began researching. Bobby made some calls and they cracked open a dozen old books. 

“Suppose you should tell Sam?” Bobby asked after an hour of silence. 

Dean sighed. “He’ll think everything will be different when I go back. 

Dean heard it as much as he sensed it-the sound of his father’s rock music blasting from Baby’s speaker. Dean looked at Bobby with wide eyes. “He’s here.”

Bobby started to follow Dean and the door, but he shook his head. “It’s okay. It needs to be me,” Bobby didn’t argue. 

Dean thought he might be sick with the way his stomach turned. Baby’s wheels tore up the driveway, but Dean did not waver. He waited for his father to get out of the car. Neither spoke for a moment, until finally Dean broke the silence. “You should go.”

John walked closer to him, gravel crunching beneath his feet. “You don’t tell me what to do, boy.”

“I do now.”

“What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing. I’m just done. Did you think I’d put up with this forever?”

John glowered and Dean thought he may very well hit him. “You’re a child. You don’t get a say. Get your brother and get in the car. Where’s Bobby?”

“Bobby’s not gonna help you. He’s seen what you’re like.”
“And what do you think I’m like?” John spat. 

It was the question that Dean had been waiting for. “You’re a bad father. You’re not even a father. You don’t care about your kids. I’m just a tool for you to get revenge for Mom, but you don’t even know that Mom wants that! I know she wouldn’t want it if it meant treating Sam like you treat him.”

“Don’t talk about her.”

“I’m not allowed to talk about my own mom?” Dean was shouting now, “She didn’t belong to you! You don’t care about us half as much as someone who's dead.”

“I’m warning you,” John growled.

“She’s dead, Dad. She’s dead and you can barely look your kids in the eye. What kind of parent are you? After everything Sam’s been through-”

Smack. Dean wasn’t expecting his father to slap him. Hit him? Sure. But slap, no. His ears rang and he held a hand over the cheek where his father struck him. He took a moment to let it soak in. “You know what, John? I appreciate that. I won’t feel so bad when you’re dead.”
“Is that a threat?”

“No, it’s not. It’s just life. You’ll die too and then maybe you can find some peace. God knows you won’t here. Let us go. It’s over.”

John flexed his fists again, then relaxed a fraction.

“You won’t find him,” Dean said, “It’ll be for nothing. When you’re rotting away in a motel room all alone, I want you to think about Sam and what you did to him.

“You’re ungrateful,” John said, but it fell flat. There was nothing that he could say that would compare to the gutting remarks Dean laid out for him.

“No, John, I’m not. I’m grateful to have Bobby and Sam. I’m just not doing everything you tell me to anymore. It’s time to go.”

He never ordered John to do anything in his teenage life, but as the words spilled out of him, he grew less and less intimidated by the man. Everything he said was true. He was just a sad, lonely man and now that he didn’t have a hold on Dean, he had nothing left. 

John didn’t say anything, only turned and got back into his car. The wheels screeched as he drove away. 

That was it. He thought he had more to say, but at the end of the day, he didn’t need to waste words on John. In his universe, his father was long gone. He felt nothing but exhaustion when he thought of his late father. He was simply done. He was free of his father now. He did not need to be defined by a man who never wanted the best for him. This was what it felt like to truly let him go. 

◉◉◉

“Hungry, Sammy?” Dean called. 

“Uh, yeah,” Sam answered nervously. 

“Wanna get something to eat?” 

“Like what?”

“Like dinner. I’m starving.”

Sam studied him. They didn’t go out to eat; it wasn’t in the budget, but once in a while, if it could uplift Sam’s spirits, it was worth it. “Okay,” he agreed.

“Sweet. iHop cool?”
“That’s cool,” Sam smiled, getting used to the idea, “Is Bobby coming?”

“Nah, old man doesn’t like to go out much, I think,” truthfully, Dean was taking his opportunity to spend alone time with Sam. 

“I’m going to tell him you said that.”
“You better not.” 

Sam laughed and it was good to see him lighthearted for once. Dean drove them to the diner and ordered a coffee and burger. Sam opted for a salad and smoothie. 

“Are you sure that’s okay?” Sam asked quietly when the server left with their orders.

“It’s fine. I’d tell you if it wasn’t. You can chill out a little. It’s just me.”

Sam considered this. He was always on edge, which was only fair after spending his whole life living with John. “Is everything okay?”

Dean held back a sigh. Sam was so unaccustomed to comfortability and safety, it felt strange and foreign to him now. To him, it was wrong to be at ease. “Listen, Sammy. This whole thing with Dad… I know he’s not a good father. He left you behind when you were just a little kid. He always put hunting monsters over us. He was never a real parent.”
Sam looked suddenly sour. “But ‘ he’s still our dad’, right?”

“What?”

“You’re still taking his side.”
Dean regarded his brother sorrowfully. “I’m sorry it seems like I take his side. I thought that if I could keep the peace somehow I could keep our family together. I thought I was making it easier for you, but I wasn’t. I was the reason that you had to live with him at all. If I’d just done something…”

Sam looked softer now. “You always try to protect me, Dean.”

“Well, I did a shit job of it. You don’t deserve everything you’ve gone through. I mean, it’s insane you went through it at all. I could have taken us to Bobby’s sooner. I could have-”

“Please. You’ve always helped me. I know why we couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to hurt Dad either. I’m not mad.”

“Thanks,” of course, Sam wasn’t mad. He had always been more forgiving than most people. “Things’ll be different now. You won’t have to put up with him and you can go to school like you wanted. You could even go to college. Right, nerd?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”
“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean grinned, then sobered. “I’m sorry, Sam,” and he said it with the weight of the past thirty-five years.

“It’s okay.”

Dean was sure it wasn’t. 

◉◉◉

“What if past me is gone after this? I mean, what if Sam is alone?” Dean asked. 

“I can take care of this Sam. You gotta take care of your Sam.”

Dean laughed. “He’s thirty-two. But yeah, I know I gotta go.”

The ritual was short and sweet. Bobby anointed him in cow’s blood and read the spell. For a second, it seemed nothing would happen. Then a bright light blinded him, his knees wobbled, and when he appeared back in the bunker, he was in his room. 

His first priority was finding Sam. “Sam!” he yelled, jumping up and racing out of his room. He nearly ran headfirst into his confused looking little brother. “Sammy!” he pulled him into a quick hug. 

“Where have you been?” Sam demanded.

Dean ran a hand through his hair. “1985.”

“What?”

“Yup. Miss me?”

“I was really worried.”

“Listen, Sam, I wanted to tell you something. I’m sorry that I never left Dad. We shoulda gone somewhere. Bobby’s or anywhere honestly. If I’d just-”

“Stop it.”

“Huh?” 

“You don’t need to apologize.”

Dean disagreed.

“How long have you been beating yourself up over this?” Dean didn’t reply so Sam answered for him, “Long enough. You protected me. I could be a jerk about it sometimes, but I was never angry with you. You were the only reason I could put up with it all. I wanted a family too. It’s not like this was just happening to me. You were living with it too. You were just a kid, Dean.”

You were just a kid. Dean’s eyes were wet with tears. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. After everything he’d been through with John, even after his father was dead and burned, he struggled to move past it. He’d punished himself for years, and he never expected to stop. Maybe though, just maybe, he could forgive himself a little bit.

A/N: Dean ilysm