Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/904443.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Castiel_(Supernatural), Zachariah_
      (Supernatural)
  Additional Tags:
      Character_Death, Resurrection, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Sibling_Incest,
      Underage_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-30 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 9587
****** he, who clothed with transcendent brightness didst outshine myriads
though bright ******
by larienelengasse
Summary
     We have to fall to know grace and to be reborn. Dean is tormented by
     both lost happiness and the prospect of enduring suffering. But
     neither adamantine chains nor penal fire, nor Satan's grasp can keep
     him from what he loves most, and that's Sam.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** The Choice *****
Dean would like to forget.
He would like to forget the image of his brother's soul borne to Hell in the
grip of evil.
He would like to forget how Sam sacrificed himself so that he could defeat
Lucifer.
He would like to forget the empty ache inside that nothing or no one can heal
but Sam.
But he can't.
* * * *
“Dean.”
Dean blinked, his red-rimmed eyes opened slowly as he drew a rasping breath.
“Sam,” he croaked.
“Wake up, Dean.”
He focused his gaze and saw Zachariah standing above him.
“Wake and reap your reward.” The angel extended his hand.
“Where’s Sam?” Dean asked as Zachariah pulled him to his feet.
The angel didn’t answer him.
“Where the fuck is Sam!” he barked, and then he coughed as his lungs filled
with clean air, air that felt foreign after the stench of death. “You have to
get him out. I have to get him back!” He coughed again as he bent over, his raw
lungs and throat rejecting fresh air, and he placed his hands on his knees. He
felt like he’d been used as a punching bag.
“You served us well, Dean. You fulfilled your destiny. You vanquished Lucifer
and have earned your reward. Enjoy it.”
“Enjoy what? Where am I? What is this?”
“We have granted your greatest wish. I was going to give you the two virgins
and seventy sluts, but it seems that this is what you really want. Of course,
it shouldn’t be a surprise.”
Dean wanted nothing more than to be able to wipe the smart-assed grin off of
Zachariah's face. “Sam? Is Sam here? Wait. Where’s—”
Zachariah disappeared.
“Goddammit!”
He hated that bastard.
Dean heard the sound of the sea and smelled salt on the air. Gulls cried out
and he heard the surf breaking on the rocks below. He was in a large house with
floor to ceiling windows that faced the ocean. It had modern furnishings and
expansive, open rooms. It looked like something from MTV's Cribs. He walked
around slowly, checking out his surroundings, and then he entered a bedroom
through a set of double doors.
“Sam?” he called.
There on the bed lay his brother, sheets covering Sam’s lower body, his upper
body was bare. Dean blinked and rubbed his eyes because he wasn’t just seeing
Sam, he was seeing seventeen-year-old Sam. He looked just the way Dean
remembered he did before he left for Stanford: long, floppy bangs, and leanly
muscled, lanky limbs.
“What the fuck?” Dean murmured to himself. “Sam?”
The Sam in the bed drew a deep breath and shifted on his stomach, one hand
sliding out from beneath the pillow to the vacant side of the bed, as if he was
looking for something, or expecting someone to be there.
Dean approached quietly, and then knelt beside the bed so that he could get a
closer look. It was Sam all right, just like he remembered. The Sam in the bed
blinked slowly and opened his eyes, and then Dean was staring into their green-
blue depths. Sam smiled, flashing dimples and white teeth and Dean swallowed a
lump in his throat.
“Dean? You okay?” this Sam asked, his smile fading.
“Sammy?”
“Last I checked. You were expecting someone else?”
“I don’t . . . I…”
“Dean? Hey, what happened to you? You look like you’ve been in a fight.” Sam
pushed himself up and began to turn over as Dean stood quickly.
This Sam was naked. Dean backed up a couple of steps.
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay. You’re all beat up… Holy shit, Dean! You’ve got blood all
over you,” Sam said as he began to climb out. “Let me—”
“Whoa! Uh, put something on, Sam.”
Sam looked at him strangely. “What?”
“Put something on, dude. You’re in your birthday suit.”
“So?”
“Just . . . just put something on.”
Sam frowned and grabbed a pair of briefs off the floor and pulled them on under
the covers. “Dean, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I just don’t want to watch my little brother traipse around naked,
that’s all.”
“Since when?” Sam smiled – it was a mixture between sweet and sensual. “I
thought naked was how you liked—”
Dean put his hands up and shook his head and started to leave the bedroom.
“This is a hundred different kinds of fucked up,” he muttered. “Cas!” he
shouted as he stepped back into the living room.
“Dean?” Sam began to follow. “What is going on? What’s wrong with you? You said
you were going out for coffee and then you come back and you’re covered in dirt
and ash and your clothes are bloody—”
“Just give me a minute, Sam!” Dean barked.
Sam froze and blinked. “Uh, okay.”
“Cas! Dammit, what in the Hell is going on here?”
“Who’s Cas?” Sam asked.
“Cas. Castiel . . . never mind. CAS!” But no answer came from his angelic
friend.
Sam took Dean’s hand. “Dean, you’re scaring me here, man.”
He looked at this version of Sam, one that came from his memories, one that had
occupied more than one guilty dream in Dean’s youth, and if he were honest, his
adulthood too. He looked so earnest, so like his Sam.
But the real Sam was being tortured in Hell while he held hands with a memory.
“Please, let me just be sure you’re okay. Please.”
Dean allowed this Sam to lead him into the bathroom where he stood motionless,
beaten down, afraid for the brother he’d swore to protect – for the brother
he’d lost. He’d died and gone to Hell once and still he failed to protect Sam.
He’d never felt so worthless.
This Sam slowly peeled off his button-down, then reached around and tucked the
amulet inside his t-shirt and pulled the soiled cotton over his head. This Sam
thoroughly and gently checked him for injuries, washing away the dried blood
with a warm washcloth. There wasn't a mark on him, not even Castiel's
handprint.
“I don’t understand,” Sam said. “You’ve got blood all over you but you’re not
hurt.”
It was all so familiar, the way this Sam touched him so carefully, the way he
chewed his lower lip as he went about his work, his brow furrowed as he
concentrated.
“I don’t see anything. Whose blood is that, Dean?”
“I don’t remember,” Dean answered. It was a lie of course, but so was
everything else right now. It seemed the angels saw fit to heal him but not to
clean him up.
“You don’t remember? Dean, this could be . . . You need to remember, man.”
“Let it go, Sam.”
Sam frowned, then stepped inside the huge shower and turned on the water,
testing the temperature with his long fingers before gently ordering Dean to
sit on the toilet so he could unlace his boots.
“We’ll get you cleaned up and fed, then I think you should rest,” Sam said.
Dean watched him, numb, exhausted, shaken to his foundations.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
Sam looked up, tossing his head to the side to get the bangs out of his face as
he reached for the snaps on Dean’s jeans.
“You notice anything different about me?” Dean wondered if Sam saw the way he’d
changed. It wasn’t just everything he’d been through – he was now nine years
older than this Sam would remember. He was thirty years old, not twenty-one.
“Just that you look tired,” Sam said. “And something’s got you really upset. I
wish you’d tell me what it is. What happened, Dean?”
“Where’s Dad?”
“You know where he is.”
“No, I don’t.”
“He’s off with Caleb, after something he won’t talk about, like usual.”
“Where are we?”
Sam frowned. “Did you whack your head or something?” He set to checking Dean’s
head.
Dean batted Sam’s hands away. “Just tell me where we are.”
“It belongs to some friend of Dad’s – some lady he knows. I think he saved her
son, or something. Dean, you know all this. Why are you—”
“Nothing. Never mind.” He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I got it from here.”
Sam frowned, then stood up and left Dean alone.
Dean shucked his jeans and briefs and stepped into the cavernous shower,
letting the warm water wash away the ash and caked blood. He tilted his face
into the stream, eyes closed, tears mingling with the water from the shower. He
didn’t hear this younger Sam step in, and he jumped when he felt his hands on
his back.
“Let me take care of you, Dean.”
“Sam…” Dean’s voice was barely a broken whisper.
Sam wrapped his long arms around Dean’s waist and leaned his head on the back
of Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen you like this. Something has happened and
you’re scaring me. Just let me…” Sam slowly turned Dean to face him. “Just let
me…”
Dean felt Sam’s long fingers cradle the back of his head and he couldn’t stop
looking at him – this Sam that was so good, that somehow remained hopeful and
believed in what was right, believed in the good in the world; this Sam that
had not been touched by the knowledge of the demon blood inside him, that had
not been touched by so much death and grief. This version of Sam, his Sam, the
memory that he had held onto in the years since he had got him back from
Stanford, especially in those last dark months with Ruby, before Sam had…
This Sam was comforting Dean, and, God forgive him, Dean let him do it.
“Sammy,” he whispered.
Sam smiled gently and pressed his forehead against Dean’s and said, “It’s all
going to be okay, Dean. As long as we have each other, it’s all going to be
okay.”
Dean let Sam kiss him softly on the lips, then cradle his head on his shoulder.
Dean wrapped his arms around this Sam, this memory that he loved so very much,
and silently wept for what he had lost.
* * * *
Dean looked at himself in the mirror. He half expected that he’d be younger,
but he wasn’t. He still had the beginnings of crow’s feet around his eyes and
his forehead was also beginning to crease. There wasn't a fresh mark on him,
but the scars from past battles were still there. He remembered what Bobby once
told him: What the mind believes the body makes manifest. He knew himself to be
older, so that is what he saw when he looked in the mirror.
His young Sam’s reflection appeared in the mirror, peeking in through the
doorway. He was dressed in loose, faded jeans and nothing else. There was
something about his lean, naked chest and bare feet that made Dean's stomach
quiver with nervous excitement.
“You know the story of Narcissus?” Sam asked.
“Shut up.”
Sam smirked. “There’s beer in the fridge and I thought I’d cue up some burgers.
Sound good?”

“Yeah, sounds good. Hey, Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“Come ‘ere.”
Sam stepped inside the bathroom. “What?”
“You see anything different about me?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Look at my face.”
Sam sat on the counter and took Dean’s face in his hands, donning an overly
serious expression as he looked at him.
“I’m serious, dude.”
“Okay, sorry.” Sam looked at him thoughtfully. “Well, you do look a little
tired.”
“You see any wrinkles?”
Sam snorted. “Jesus, Dean. When did you get so vain? Next you’ll be asking me
to look for grey hair.”
“Sam, come on, man. I’m serious.”
“So am I. You look just like you did yesterday, and the day before that, and
the day before that. Now come on. I think you need a drink.” He hopped down off
of the counter.
Dean couldn’t make sense of it. He knew he looked different than this Sam would
remember, but this Sam couldn’t see it. Sam took his hand and led him into the
kitchen.
* * * *
Dean closed his eyes as his body sank into the mattress. The sheets were soft
and cool on his skin and a breeze carried clean, ocean air into the bedroom. He
could hear Sam loading the dishwasher in the other room, and a basketball game
was on the big screen TV. His mind wandered.
Zachariah had told him that this was his reward for sending Lucifer back into
the pit. Since when did God reward faithful service by setting up shop for Dean
to have an incestuous relationship with his little brother, especially when
said little brother isn’t even of age and he’s now well into adulthood himself?
It didn’t make sense. But then again, Zachariah didn’t make sense; he never
had. Dean didn’t trust Zachariah any further than he could toss him, and he
wondered who was really in charge up there anyway.
He had to figure out something. He had to figure out where he was and how to
get the real Sam out of the pit, and pronto. He began ticking off his options
when he finally fell asleep.
* * * *
Dean used to dream about Hell, about Alastair and the rack, about how he was
tortured, and most of all how he carved and tormented the souls put before him
after Alastair finally broke him. He still dreamt about Hell, but now he dreamt
of Sam down there, suffering as he suffered, suffering because he gave himself
to help Dean fulfill his destiny, to save Dean and to save the world.
Alastair’s cruelty had been without measure; he could only imagine what
Lucifer’s was like.
Dean drew a deep breath as he woke, almost swearing he could feel the heat and
smell the stench of sulphur and burning flesh. Upon opening his eyes he found
his young Sam wrapped around him, naked, legs entwined with his own. This Sam’s
face was tucked into the crook of Dean’s neck and shoulder.
Jesus he was hard, and so was Sam. This was the manifestation of every
incestuous dream he’d ever had about his brother. Those dreams had stayed with
him most every day of his life, from the time Sam hit puberty right up until
his deal came due and the Hellhound dragged him into the pit, and then they
were used to torment and humiliate him, because there are no secrets in Hell.
“Sam,” he whispered. It was more a call to the brother he lost than the brother
he held now, but this memory wrapped around him responded nonetheless.
This Sam’s hand slid down Dean’s torso and cupped his hard dick through the
cotton of his briefs.
“Mmm, Dean,” Sam murmured, then rolled his hips, rubbing his own hard cock
against Dean’s hip. A sweetly wicked smile curved Sam’s lips and he began
kissing his way down Dean’s chest. “Whatcha got for me this morning?” Sam
murmured.
“Sam. Sam. Sam, you gotta… Oh, God.”
Sam’s mouth was apparently good for things other than backtalk, as Dean rapidly
discovered. Sam mouthed Dean’s cock through his cotton briefs. Dean could feel
his warm, wet breath through the material.
“Sammy, please…”
“You don’t have to beg me, bro. I love sucking your dick.”
Long fingers deftly slid his briefs down his hips and thighs, then off his
legs. Dean saw them sail through the air and land on the corner of the dresser.
“Fuck!” Dean ground out as Sam drew his tongue up his length. “Sam this . . .
we . . . oh, holy shit.”
Young Sam swallowed him down, drawing him in and then sliding his lips up and
down, his long fingers accommodating what he couldn’t readily take into his
mouth.
Dean was weak. He’d be the first to admit that. But even he didn’t think that
when it came right down to it that he’d let Sam, whether this Sam or the real
one, ever do this. Yet, it was happening, and God forgive him, he reveled in
it.
He grasped Sam’s head at the back, fingers knotting in his longish brown hair,
just a little pressure on the down stroke, but not enough to force anything.
Sam had shifted and was now lying between Dean’s legs, hips rolling as he
rutted against the mattress, his long fingers grasping the tops of Dean’s
thighs as Dean fucked his mouth in shallow thrusts. Dean knew he should stop
but he couldn’t - it was all too much, it felt too good.
Then Sam stopped, abruptly pulling off and Dean groaned. Sam reached across and
opened a drawer in the bedside table. Without a word, Sam squeezed lube down
Dean’s length then quickly slid two slick fingers up his own ass.
“Sam…” Dean began, but Sam grabbed Dean’s jaw and planted a possessive kiss on
him.
Then Sam climbed into Dean’s lap, and before Dean could further protest, he was
enveloped by his brother’s hot, tight body.
“Ah, God,” Dean groaned. Fuck it felt so good. Sam rode him, hands grasping the
headboard, thighs flexing, hips rolling and circling as he rose and sank.
Dean’s hands flew to Sam’s hips, grasping him tight as he thrust up inside,
guiding Sam up and down his length, and Sam kissed him again, their moans and
grunts of pleasure filling the space between them.
“Fuck, yes, Dean,” Sam moaned. “God I love how you fuck me, how you fill me up,
how you make me yours. I’m yours, Dean. Always have been, always will be.”
“Sammy,” Dean groaned. He felt like he was coming apart inside. He shouldn’t be
doing this. He shouldn’t be doing this but he couldn’t stop. Not now, not with
Sam begging him to fuck him harder, faster, with this Sam writhing on his lap
and whispering the filthiest things he’d ever heard in his ear.
He grasped Sam’s thighs and pulled them up, withdrawing only long enough to
flip Sam to his back, gather up his brother’s long legs, and enter him again.
“God I love your cock, Dean,” Sam breathed as Dean thrust forward. “So good,
make me feel so good…”
“Sam. Sam…” Dean grabbed Sam’s jaw and held it. He looked into Sam’s dark eyes,
pupils blown, lips swollen from kissing, face flushed and sweat beading on his
forehead and neck. “Sammy,” he whispered.
Sam smiled and chewed his lower lip, then pressed his forehead to Dean’s.
“So good, oh God, so good, Dean. There, right there…” Sam growled and dove in
for another kiss.
Dean fisted Sam’s hair and plundered his mouth, gripping Sam’s wrists and
holding them above his head with his free hand. Sam’s knees were wrapped over
his shoulders, his breath hot on Dean’s mouth. Dean wanted this to go on
forever, the sounds, the feel, the scent of Sam all around him, wiping it all
away, wiping all of the pain and every bad memory away.
Sam came first, a broken cry shook loose from him as he shot all over both his
chest and Dean’s and Dean fucked him harder, as hard as he could, making the
bed rattle and the iron headboard smack the wall. When Dean came, he came with
a shout, Sam’s name carried out to the sea on the breeze, then he collapsed on
Sam, Sam’s long legs sliding off his shoulders and wrapping around his waist.
“Sam?” Dean whispered hoarsely. “Sammy, you okay?”
Sam turned his head and opened his eyes, then smiled lazily at Dean before
kissing him. “My ass is gonna be sore, but I’m more than okay,” he murmured
against Dean’s lips. “That’s one thing you aren’t bullshitting about,” he said
quietly.
“What?” Dean asked, frowning.
“You are a monster stud in the sack.”
Dean laughed despite himself, dropping his head to Sam’s shoulder and wrapping
his arms around his young Sam.
* * * *
Dean’s eyes darted left to right as they walked down the quaint little street
that was populated with art galleries and boutiques and gourmet food shops.
People walked their dogs, ate at bistros, carried Starbucks cups and shopping
bags with names like Hermes and D&G, and drove by in their convertible Mercedes
Benz, totally oblivious to the fact that the apocalypse had just been narrowly
averted, that all this would have been destroyed by fire and horror beyond
imagining.
This was a far cry from their usual haunts but that wasn’t what concerned Dean.
This didn’t look like the afterlife, it looked like real life, and no one
seemed to take notice of the thirty year old man dressed in faded, tattered
jeans, motorcycle boots and a black t-shirt, who walked along with a seventeen-
year-old boy who licked an ice cream cone and had his hand in shoved in the
older man’s back pocket.
Sam offered his cone to Dean once again. Dean shook his head.
“Relax, man,” Sam said softly. “These people don’t care about you and me. They
don’t even see us. It’s not like they know us or anything. We’re cool.”
“Don’t they notice how….”
“What?”
“How much older I am?” Dean said quietly. “I mean, don’t they think this is….”
“You’re not that much older than me, dude. I know you like to think you are,
but you’re not. Just chill out and enjoy this. This is the first real vacation
we’ve ever had. Besides, it’s my birthday, sort of.”
“It is?”
“Jerk. I knew you forgot.”
Dean stopped at a newspaper box and peered in.
May 3rd, 2000.
What in the Hell? he thought. So, he had been transported back in time nine
years. Was this real? Was this really Sam? Or was this all some sort of grand
illusion, as the song said.
“Come on,” Sam said. “Let’s go back to the house. I feel like going for a swim
and you need to make this up to me.” He popped the last of his nibbled-down
cone in his mouth.
“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean said absently, his mind still turning round, trying to
figure everything out.
Sam smiled and nuzzled Dean’s mouth before kissing him soundly in front of God
and everyone. Dean’s hands slid down Sam’s back, coming to rest at the tops of
his faded, loose jeans as he licked the taste of Cold Stone Creamery Oreo
Overload ice cream from inside Sam’s mouth.
“Mmm… well, you’ll get to apologize properly when we get home,” Sam said low,
his voice full of wanton promise as his hands caressed the flesh of Dean’s
waist beneath his t-shirt.
Dean swallowed and looked around. No one seemed to notice that they just made
out on the street corner.
No one seemed to notice them at all.
* * * *
Three weeks. He had been in this new world for three weeks, and with every day
that went by he grew more comfortable with it. He stood on the front step,
coffee in one hand, looking at the newspaper that was in the other.
May 17th, 2000.
It hit him suddenly. Sam had been in Hell for three weeks, which would feel
more like almost ten years. Dean closed his eyes; his mind was spinning.
What the fuck was he doing here? Where was here? How could he have forgotten
about Sam for even one minute? Where was Cas or Zachariah? They had dumped him
here and disappeared. Was Sam really in Hell? Had the angels turned time back?
Maybe that was it. Maybe this was like a do-over. They’d definitely earned a
do-over.
Dean closed the door behind him and crossed into the living room. Sam was
swimming in the pool inside the large atrium. He was floating on his back with
his eyes closed.
Dean watched Sam. If this really was a do-over, then why did he still look like
he did before he came here? Although, he had noticed that his skin seemed
smoother lately, but Sam said it was the salt-water from the pool that did it.
If the angels turned time back, then why didn’t he look like he was twenty-one
years old? Or maybe he was starting to grow younger. If he was, Sam didn’t seem
to notice. None of it made sense.
No. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening to him. Things like this
never happened to him.
“Dean?”
Dean opened his eyes and Sam was standing in front of him, dripping on the
slate floor.
“Sammy?” Dean said quietly.
“You okay, Dean?” Sam asked.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
Sam pressed up against him and nuzzled his ear. “You’re okay. It’s all okay,”
he whispered. He slid his hands inside Dean’s robe, over the bare skin of his
waist and back.
It would be so easy to just accept it, to close his eyes and fall into this
Sam, to have what he’d always wanted. To have Sam safe, and happy. No more
deals, no more demons, no more looking over their shoulders or waiting for
something horrible to happen. Just this. Just the feel of Sam wrapped around
him.
Dean turned his head and pressed his lips to Sam’s shoulder.
Just the feel of Sam, the taste of salt water on his skin.
Sam arched against him and ran his fingers into his hair.
Just Sam touching him, holding him, kissing him. Just Sam safe, whole and
happy, and his. Just Sam with him, forever. It was all he had ever wanted.
“Come on,” Sam whispered in his ear, his voice deep and soft, like silk and
honey.
“Where are we going?” Dean asked quietly.
“Outside, on the patio.”
This young Sam led him outside to where the sun shown bright and gulls drifted
on the currents above them. The bright blue sea roared and crashed below them
and Sam pushed him down to the wide, white, cushioned chaise. Sam straddled his
legs and began sliding the robe off of his shoulders.
“You’re too pale. You need some sun,” Sam said.
Dean sat up as the robe slid off, then laid back and lifted his hips as Sam
pulled his boxers off his legs. Dean watched as Sam followed suit, removing his
swimming trunks, and then crawling onto the chaise next to Dean.
Dean ran his hand down Sam’s long leg, pausing to run his thumb over the jagged
scar on his knee. Dean remembered that scar well.
“You’ve had to work so hard all your life,” Sam said. “You don’t know how to
relax, man. We’ve got months to hang out in this insane house, go to the beach,
sleep in late….”
Sam was doing things to Dean’s ear that went straight to his dick.
“…fuck each other stupid. How often do we get a chance like this?” Sam
whispered.
Dean grabbed Sam and hauled him in to his lap. “Not often enough,” he said,
grabbing handfuls of Sam’s ass as he pillaged his brother’s mouth.
 
* * * *
Dean woke with a jolt, sitting straight up in bed as his pulse pounded in his
ears. The full moon made their room glow pale sliver.
He hadn’t dreamt of Hell in a while, not since the first night in this place.
He bolted out of bed, hearing his young Sam calling to him as he staggered into
the bathroom and threw up. He kept hearing Sam’s voice. It was here in the room
with him, at the bathroom door, asking him if he was okay. It was also in his
mind, screaming in agony, begging for help.
Dean turned on the shower and climbed inside, cold water rushing over bare skin
as his young Sam, his memory, knocked on the bathroom door. He felt like he was
going mad. This was all wrong, no matter how much he wanted it, it was all so
very wrong. And he had been so close to accepting it and abandoning his real
brother.
“Dean!”
Young Sam was pounding on the door now, and the real Sam was calling out to him
for help in his mind.
“I’m okay, Sam,” he called, his voice sounding anything but okay. “Go back to
bed, I’ll be out in a minute.”
Sam left the bathroom door and Dean slid to the floor of the shower and began
to weep.
***** Resurrection *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean makes his choice and worries about the consequences
Dean’s eyes snapped open - Castiel was standing beside the bed. Sam was wrapped
around him again.
“Cas?”
“Dean.”
Dean carefully extracted himself from Sam’s arms and sat up. “I have to get Sam
out. You have to help me.”
“You have Sam,” Cas said. “He is there beside you.”
“That’s not really him,” Dean answered. “You know the truth. Lucifer has him; I
have to get him back. It wasn’t his fault, Cas. He didn’t know. He thought he
was doing the right thing—”
“That is really Sam. He is as much Sam as the Sam you saw die. They both
exist—”
“No, no. He’s down there; I feel it. I can hear him. Come on, Cas. You’ve got
to help me. I did everything you asked.”
Castiel sighed. “What we did, Dean. Defying Zachariah – there was a price to
pay for that. I cannot—”
“Goddammit, Cas! This is wrong and you know it. You know Sam did what he did to
save me. He thought he was saving the world from the apocalypse. He never would
have gone that far with Ruby, not if he knew the truth.”
“Sam was deceived, this is true. But—”
“Are you telling me that you think he deserves to suffer for all eternity in
Hell because he was deceived? Is that what God thinks? Is this God’s mercy?”
“God looked into your heart and saw what you wanted most. He saw—”
“God’s reward to me is allowing incest?”
“He saw how much you loved Sam. This is the Sam that you’ve always wanted. This
Sam will never leave you, will always look up to you and trust you, he will
always be with you, always love you. This is what you wanted in your heart of
hearts, and God gave it to you because you saved what He loves most.”
Dean frowned. “What?”
“His creations, His children. You saved the world and you saved humanity, Dean.
Nothing is more precious to Him than that.”
“If I did something so great, then God should reward me by giving me what I
want more than anything else, and that’s Sam, out of the pit. I saved what was
most precious to God, now God has to save what is most precious to me.”
“You cannot have them both. They cannot both exist on the same plane. You must
sacrifice one for the other. If I bring that Sam back, this one must fade.”
“Dean?”
Dean turned and saw his young Sam looking at him so earnestly. Dean gently
pushed the bangs out of Sam’s face. This Sam really didn’t know. This Sam
thought this was real.
“What’s going on, Dean?”
“Dean, you must choose.”
Dean looked at his young Sam, who took no notice of Castiel. He was so
optimistic and peaceful, so very, very beautiful and happy. “I’m sorry, Sammy,”
he said quietly. Sam deserved to be like this, more than anyone Dean knew. But
this was not real, no matter how much Dean wished it was.
“For what? Dean? What’s going on?”
Dean took Sam’s face in his hands and kissed him once. “I love you, Sammy. I’m
always going to love you, no matter what. I’m always going to remember you just
like this.”
“Dean, you’re scaring me.”
Sam started to fade before his eyes.
“Dean? What’s happening to me? Dean? Dean!”
The young Sam was gone. Dean felt tears roll down his cheeks and he closed his
eyes. He drew a deep breath and said, “Now get him out of there.” He turned and
Castiel was gone.
* * * *
Sam woke with a pained gasp, lashing out at the pillows and blankets on the
cheap motel room bed. Dean came rushing into the room with a glass of water in
his hand; he’d been waiting for Sam to wake up for almost 24 hours.
“No!” was the first word from Sam’s mouth, and then he fell as he scrambled out
of the bed.
He was wild-eyed; his pupils blown and sweat beading on his forehead, his voice
rough. Dean remembered what he felt like when he woke in the coffin, but this
was worse, so much worse.
“Sammy,” he began.
“No! Get away from me! You’re not him; you’re not him! You’re not Dean!”
“Sam. It’s me. It’s really me.”
Sam covered his ears and backed into the corner. His back hit the wall and he
slid down, cowering. Dean had never seen Sam this way and it scared him more
than anything ever had before.
“Get away, get away from me…”
“Sammy, it’s me. I promise.” He knelt down in the floor and spoke softly. “When
you were twelve you cut your knee on a piece of rusty bailing wire when you
jumped out of a hayloft that was filled with pixies. I had to stitch it myself
and you got mad at me because I put the stitches in crooked. Remember?”
Dean remembered well. He had caressed that scar just two days ago.
Sam shook his head and hid his face. “Get out of my head! Stop stealing my
memories!” he shouted.
Dean couldn’t stop his own tears from falling. What had been done to him was
bad enough, but this….
Dean reached out slowly and touched Sam’s knee and Sam flinched and kicked out
at him. “It’s me, Sam. Cas pulled you out. It’s me, look….” He pulled up his
shirtsleeve and showed Sam the handprint on his shoulder. It had returned when
Dean came back to reality.
“Liar! This isn’t real, it’s not real….”
Dean flopped to the floor and leaned back against the bed as he watched Sam
turn away from him and curl into himself. “Sammy,” he said softly.
Dean sat on the floor and watched Sam rock back and forth like a frightened
child. Eventually, Sam quieted and the rocking ceased, but he was still curled
in a ball. Dean could see bright, angry red marks on Sam’s back, just barely
showing beneath his t-shirt.
Bobby's words echoed in Dean's head and that's when Dean realized what was
happening to Sam: The mind can make a Heaven of Hell and a Hell of Heaven.
Sam believed he was still in Hell, and those were Lucifer’s marks on his skin.
Rage built inside Dean. It was a dark, threatening rage at what Lucifer had
done to his brother. No one hurt Sam; no one marked his brother like that and
got away with it. He had half a mind to march back into Hell and kill him all
over again, if he could figure out how to do it. He could kill the bastard a
thousand times and it would never be enough to slake his rage at what he had
done to Sam. No one took what was Dean's.
Sam was broken: he was a frightened, confused, half-insane shell of himself and
Dean had no idea what to do. The more he reached out to Sam, the worse it got,
so he resigned himself to waiting it out. Maybe, if things didn’t change, and
Sam didn’t get hurt, he’d start to believe that he was really out and free.
He leaned his head back against the mattress and dozed in and out for a few
hours. Finally, when he couldn't stay awake any longer, he fell asleep.
* * * *
Half-crazy with fear, Sam peeked out from beneath his arms and saw what he
believed to be Satan, wearing his brother’s form, asleep. It was always so much
worse when he took Dean’s shape, and he had been doing that more and more.
Sam didn’t know what to do. Did he try to escape? That was stupid - you can’t
escape Hell. Did he just wait to be beaten and tortured and have all manner of
unspeakable things done to him? It was so much worse when Lucifer looked like
Dean, when he sounded like Dean; but he never felt like Dean, he was always
cold, so cold and hard. Sam shivered violently and felt his stomach lurch. What
choice did he have? He couldn’t kill Satan, not here, not in Hell.
The room hadn’t changed. It was so much more real this time, which scared Sam
all the more. Right down to the ugly olive green shag carpet and floral
wallpaper, it looked like every piece of shit motel room they’d ever stayed in.
The sounds were real and this time he couldn’t hear the screams of tortured
souls beneath the trucks and cars and people outside.
No. No point in running when he’d just end up right back here. No point in
trying to kill Lucifer, because he couldn’t, even though he’d tried a hundred
times already. His powers failed him; he had nothing left. There was nothing
left for him but to suffer.
Hours passed in the same fashion, nothing changing, Lucifer sleeping and
wearing Dean’s form. Sam had never seen him sleep. It crossed his mind that it
was another trick - that he’d make Sam believe he was safe then start in on him
again. Still, it did seem real in a way that it never had before.
Sam reached out slowly when he suddenly felt the weight of his body and he
collapsed to the floor. He felt weak. This was new. He hadn’t felt his body in
a long time. His arm ached and burned. He lifted his shirtsleeve and saw it - a
raised, bright purplish-red handprint that looked just like the one on Dean’s
shoulder.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. The air was real, his body was real, this was real.
Not even Lucifer could fake that mark, not like that.
He reached out and grasped the leg of Dean’s jeans. Dean woke up.
“Sam?” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “Sammy, what happened?” he leaned
forward and helped Sam up to his hands and knees.
“Dean, it’s really you. It’s really you,” Sam said, practically climbing into
Dean’s lap.
Any other time Dean wouldn’t let the sheer ludicrousness of his six-foot-three-
inch, one-hundred-ninety pound brother climbing into his lap like a toddler go
by without a wise-ass remark, but he was so relieved to have Sam back that he
really didn’t care.
“Yeah, Sammy. It’s really me,” he said, wrapping his arms around Sam and
holding him as best as he could given Sam’s size.
“Dean,” Sam whispered, afraid that at any minute he’d change. But he didn’t. He
was warm and his skin soft. Sam could feel Dean’s heart beating against his
chest, could feel the warmth of his breath on his neck. It was really Dean.
Dean just held Sam tight. Sam picked up his brother’s amulet and turned it in
his fingers. He lifted the collar of his shirt and ran his finger over Dean’s
protective tattoo. Dean allowed Sam his child-like exploration. He didn’t
speak; he just held Sam and let Sam touch his fill.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt a sense of calm.
It wouldn’t be easy – Sam had to recover from what he’d been through – but for
the first time in a long time Dean felt like he was in charge again, and that
he’d keep Sam safe, no matter what.
* * * *
Bobby found them a place to stay. It was a fishing cabin in the north woods of
Minnesota, near Vermillion Lake. There were a few people around, but not many,
and neither Dean nor Bobby had seen any sign of demons since Dean sent Lucifer
back to the pit. They knew they were still around, but they had gone deep
underground to hide from the forces of Heaven.
The cabin was secluded, which was exactly what Sam needed. His nerves were raw
and he wasn’t sleeping. The hallucinations and auditory memories had faded over
the weeks, but the dreams were vivid and Dean wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used
to Sam waking up in a cold sweat or screaming in the middle of the night.
Sam wasn’t telling him what happened, and Dean understood. Talking about it
only made it worse. Sam looked drawn, haggard – he had lost weight and was pale
with dark circles under his eyes. He drank himself to sleep every night. Dean
understood that too. For the first time in their lives, Dean understood Sam in
a real way. He’d been there; he knew what it was like to survive Hell.
All this said, Sam was better, and getting better still, slowly. Sam wanted to
keep hunting, but he was too far off his game. Dean told him he needed to get
his strength back, gain weight, go back to training first. So they sparred
during the day, Dean taking it easy on him and Sam getting pissed off about it.
They went for runs in the woods, Sam did research on the Internet, and Dean
shoveled as much food into Sam as Sam could take.
A couple of months of this had almost returned Sam to his former vigor. Dean
wondered if the demon blood was still inside him; if it was, Sam wasn’t saying.
Dean sat on a dock that looked a lot like one he had seen in a dream once.
Summer was in full swing and there was all manner of waterfowl on the lake. He
reached inside the cooler beside him and drew out a cold beer. The float on his
lure bobbed slowly in the water and he could hear birds and insects buzzing
round. The smell of bug repellent gave him a strange sense of calm that was
something like normalcy. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d
been fishing in his life - it seemed there had never been time for such a
luxury. He heard Sam’s soft footsteps behind him and he smiled.
“The day’s not come that you could sneak up on me, Sam,” Dean said.
Sam shrugged and swatted at a mosquito on the back of his neck. “Can’t hurt to
try.” Sam looked into the empty pail next to Dean. “Nothing yet?”
“Patience, Sam. Fishing takes patience.”
“My stomach’s not feeling too patient.”
“Since when did you turn into such a chow hound?”
“Since you made me run up the ridge and back this morning.”
“Yeah, that was an ass-kicker, wasn’t it?”
“Your idea.”
Sam sat on the dock beside Dean and swatted at another mosquito.
“Cutter’s in the bag. Put it on so you don’t get eaten up.”
Sam reached in and retrieved the spray and coated his arms and neck. He put it
back then pulled the last beer out of the cooler.
“Looks like we need to make another supply run.”
“Yep.”
“I haven’t found anything.”
“What?”
“To hunt. I haven’t found anything.”
“Something will come up sooner or later.”
“Since when have you been so . . . accepting? Normally you’d be climbing out of
your skin with boredom by now.”
“Well, maybe I’ve had my fill of excitement. I mean, it’s hard to top sending
Lucifer to Hell.”
Sam huffed. “You always were one to downplay things.”
Dean grinned. He glanced sideways at Sam. “How are you, you know, doing?”
Sam shrugged. “It’s relative, I guess.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve been better, and I’ve definitely been worse.”
“Right.”
“What about you?”
“Right now? Pretty well, I’d say. But like you just said, it’s relative. I’ve
got what I want.”
“Yeah.”
They sat in silence for a while. Dean had always appreciated how they could
just be together. Sure, Sam was the one that had a usually had a need for
conversation, but once he let it go, Dean really liked how they could just sit
beside one another. Although, he had to admit that the last months before Sam’s
death and subsequent resurrection had been way too quiet for his taste.
Dean’s lure bobbed once, twice then dipped below the surface.
“You’ve got one!” Sam exclaimed.
His brother’s enthusiasm took Dean a little by surprise, and he gained his feet
and began reeling the fish in. “It’s a fighter.”
“It’s friggin’ huge,” Sam said leaning over and scooping it up in the net.
“Looks like a trout.”
“Dinner’s gonna be good tonight, Sammy.”
Sam smiled as Dean removed the hook from the fish’s mouth. Dean froze. It was
the first time Sam had smiled since he came back. Dean wiped his face with his
arm, quickly sweeping away the tears in the guise of wiping sweat from his
brow. He’d missed Sam’s smile, so much.
Sam broke the fish’s back, making sure it was dead before he laid it on ice as
Dean packed up his gear. “Now we gotta clean it,” he said.
“That’s your job. I caught it, you clean it.”
Sam wrinkled his nose then closed the cooler.
“You remember how?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, I’ve helped Bobby clean more than one fish, you know.”
Dean smiled and folded up his chair. “Come on. We’ve gotta head down to the
store before dinner.” Sam followed him back to the house, carrying the cooler
with the fish.
* * * *
Sam downed a glass of water and picked up the knife. In a smooth motion, he
gutted the fish, then skinned it, then removed its head and the blood vein, and
washed it off. Dean offered him a beer and he shook his head, washing his hands
and setting to work on a marinade of lemon juice, olive oil, and salt and
pepper.
Dean pulled up a stool and watched Sam work. “Where’d you learn that?”
“Jess. Her cousin was a sous chef in a restaurant that specialized in fish.”
Dean nodded. “Sure you don’t want a beer?”
“I think I’ve had enough booze lately for a lifetime. I’ll take a glass of iced
tea, though.”
Dean nodded - he couldn’t argue with that, and he was relieved to see Sam
backing off the sauce. “Okay.”
Dean rounded the counter and retrieved a glass from the cupboard, loaded it
with ice, then poured tea from a large Kool Aid pitcher.
“Wanna cook it outside, so it doesn’t stink up the house?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Sam placed the fish in a large baggie that contained the marinade, then zipped
it shut and placed it in the fridge.
“I grabbed some of those little red potatoes that you said you liked. I could
steam them and dress them up a little.”
“Sounds good.”
“I think I’ll make a salad too.”
“Knock yourself out, Sammy.”
Sam smiled a little and set to work preparing the rest of their dinner. “You do
realize this means you get to clean up, right?”
Dean grinned. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” He watched Sam work, cleaning the
potatoes and getting them into a basket to steam.
“Hey, Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever think we’d be doing this?”
“What?”
“Normal things, like making dinner and keeping house.”
“Nope. I thought those days were long gone.”
“Is this what it was like with Jess?”
Sam nodded and grinned a little. “Yeah, but without all the sex.”
Dean snorted, even as his gut flipped over at the memory of his time with the
other Sam. He stood and moved to the living room, picking up the remote and
turning on the television.
Sam put the knife down and looked up at Dean, who was channel surfing.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?” Dean answered without looking up.
“I’ve got what I want too.”
Dean closed his eyes for a second and smiled. “Glad to hear it, Sammy.”
* * * *
Dean grilled the fish outside while Sam prepared the rest of their meal in the
kitchen. They ate outdoors, then watched the sunset over the trees. Sam sat on
the step next to Dean, who leaned back on his elbows, legs crossed at the
ankles.
Dean noticed that Sam was fidgeting, knee bobbing up and down as he picked at
the treads around a hole in his jeans. Even though Sam was doing better, he was
far from healed. Dean knew it would take time, lots of it, probably. All he
could do was be there for Sam, when he needed him, even if that took the rest
of their lives.
Sam swallowed and shifted nervously on the step. His gaze flitted from the lake
to Dean - first to his bowed legs encased in soft, faded denim that was
threadbare in places, then to the pale grey t-shirt that clung to his torso, to
his ringed hand that swirled his beer bottle in a slow arc, to the amulet that
rested against his chest, to his neck, with its fine sheen of sweat, his beard-
stubbled jaw, his freckled cheeks, his eyes that were so round and full of
peace after a lifetime of being on guard, then finally to his lips, relaxed,
full, and damp from the beer.
He tried to imagine what it would be like to touch a man, to kiss a man, to do
both to Dean. He wasn’t any good for anyone else, not anymore. No woman would
ever be able to give him comfort. He couldn’t find solace or pleasure in their
soft skin and yielding bodies. He needed to be grounded, safe, protected, and
there was only one person on Earth that could do that.
Under the guise of changing position to get comfortable, he moved a little
closer to Dean. Dean didn’t seem to respond - he stayed right where he was.
Sam was scared. Scared of not doing anything, because he needed to do so much,
and scared to do what he was thinking, because it was Dean, and while Dean
would do, and had done, anything for Sam, this was . . . well, it was asking a
whole lot. Maybe too much.
Slowly, he reached out and laid his hand against Dean’s, pinky to pinky. Dean
didn’t move, he just raised the bottle to his lips with his other hand. Slowly,
he slid his hand on top of Dean’s. Dean still didn’t move, he just lazily
sipped his beer and watched the lake.
Dean’s heart was rabbiting in his chest, Sam’s large, warm paw laid over his
own hand, fingers slowly curling around his hand, shoulder to shoulder now,
Sam’s body heat seeping through their t-shirts and into what felt like Dean’s
bones. He knew that even though Sam was doing better, he still needed this from
time to time – needed to touch and be reassured, needed to be grounded in the
here and now. Dean earnestly tried not to think about his other Sam and that
dream-like time at the beach house, where he briefly had what he had dreamed
about all his life.
Sam swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut at the tears that were threatening to
betray him. He felt like he was suffocating, drowning, dying slowly, every day
that he wanted what he couldn’t have. It had come on him so suddenly, aside
from a few fantasies that he’d had when he was much younger. They’d spent years
on the road, just the two of them, alone, always alone, and now, after all that
time, he felt like if he didn’t kiss Dean right there and then, he’d die.
“Sammy?”
Dean’s voice was so quiet, deep and concerned.
“Dean,” he whispered.
Dean put his beer down and shifted to face Sam. “What’s wrong, Sam? Is it the
visions?”
“No,” Sam answered, eyes still squeezed closed, afraid to look at Dean.
“Open your eyes. Look at me, Sam.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s me, Sam. All you’re gonna see is me. I promise.”
Dean reached out and placed his hand on Sam’s jaw, turning his brother’s face
toward his own. “Sammy…”
Sam reached out and wadded Dean’s t-shirt in his fist. “I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. It’s not what you think.”
“What is it, then?”
“I’m scared that . . . that I’m going to lose you.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Sam.”
“You might . . . if you knew…”
“Knew what?”
Then Sam opened his eyes.
Dean felt both his heart and his stomach flip as he looked into his brother’s
gaze. He knew what he saw there, but he was afraid that he was seeing things,
that this was some cruel trick.
Sam placed his hand on Dean’s face and Dean parted his lips, a little quick
inhale of breath as he trembled for a second. Despite that, Dean still looked
him in the eye, his gaze reassuring.
“It’s okay, Sam,” he said quietly. “It’s more than okay.”
“Dean?” Sam whispered, slowly, nervously closing the distance between them
until their lips almost touched. “You sure?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dean breathed, and then he surged forward pressing his mouth
against Sam’s.
Sam didn’t hesitate or balk, rather he placed his hand on the back of Dean’s
head and held him there as he opened his mouth. Dean’s tongue slid inside and
he leaned forward. The step was digging into Sam’s side but he didn’t care.
Dean’s warm and wet tongue was doing things he hadn’t even dreamed of, and he
moaned into Dean's mouth.
Dean pulled off abruptly and grabbed Sam by the shirt, hauling him to his feet.
Sam followed, allowing Dean to guide him inside. His shirt came off first,
landing on the back of the sofa as they passed it, Dean’s hands all over him,
gripping, holding, caressing and Sam felt himself coming apart inside. He
couldn’t breathe, he trembled and shook like a little girl and he really didn’t
care. It was like he was a virgin all over again and then he remembered
something Dean said to him not long after he came back.
Sam stifled a chuckle and Dean’s mouth moved to his ear. “Something funny,
Sam?” he said hoarsely, fingers working the snaps on Sam’s jeans.
“I’ve been re-hymanated,” Sam said, snorting.
“Dude, you’re ruining the mood here,” Dean half-heartedly protested. He
couldn’t help but smile at the first laugh he’d heard from Sam since he came
back, even if it was at his expense.
“I’m sorry.” Sam regained his composure. “Seriously, I just . . . I think I
finally know what you meant.”
Dean slid Sam’s jeans off his hips, as he looked him in the eye. “Feels pretty
awesome, doesn’t it?”
Sam smiled. “Yeah, it does.” He reached out and pulled Dean’s shirt over his
head, careful not to take the amulet with it. He stared at Dean’s chest as he
placed his hands on it. He’d seen it a thousand times in his life, but it
suddenly looked so different, like he’d never seen it before. He ran his hands
over it, palms grazing Dean’s nipples and causing him to hiss a little. “I
don’t exactly know how to do this,” he said quietly, leaning in and pressing
his mouth to Dean’s chest.
Dean closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I’d say you’re doing a fine job
so far.”
Sam laved Dean’s nipple with his tongue, noting the way Dean pressed into his
mouth as his hands tightened on his shoulders. “Yeah?”
“Mmm, fuck, yes.”
Sam sucked the hard nub into his mouth and closed his teeth around it gently.
Dean groaned as his hands moved to Sam’s lower back.
“Naked, now,” Dean ground out, kicking his shoes off.
Sam kicked his tennis shoes and jeans off, then stepped forward, right into
Dean’s grasp.
It was late afternoon and the light of the sunset filtered into the room. The
crickets were singing loudly and a soft breeze caused the plaid curtains to
sway. It was like they were the only two people on earth, and that was fine
with Dean. Dean pressed against Sam, knee to shoulder, his hands sliding over
Sam's warm skin, over muscles that were just beginning to rebuild, over a
roadmap of scars that contained their history. Sam was nuzzling his neck, his
brother's warm breath fogging his skin.
"Let's slow down," Dean said softly.
"Do you want me to stop?" Sam asked as his hands slid inside Dean's jeans and
briefs to grasp his ass.
"No. I just . . . I want this to be…"
Sam pulled back and smiled. "I know," he said. "Me too." Then he leaned forward
and kissed Dean slow and deep, cupping his neck, rubbing his thumb over Dean's
stubbled jaw.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam whispered.
"Yeah, Sammy?" Dean answered.
"I . . . you know," Sam replied.
Dean swallowed and threaded his fingers into Sam's hair. "Yeah. Me too, Sammy.
Me too."
They stretched out on the bed and were bathed in golden sunlight and Dean felt
at peace for the first time in his life. If we make our own heaven and our own
hell, this surely was his heaven. He had Sam safe, and while he wasn't totally
healed he was on his way. All he had ever wanted or needed was Sam, and now he
knew that Sam felt the same way. They had seen so much together, been through
so much together and finally they were where they belonged, they were how they
were supposed to be, together in the truest sense of the word.
He laid his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes as Sam mapped out his
body with his hands and mouth. He thought for a moment about that other,
younger Sam that he had for a while, then he said goodbye to him in his mind.
He only had room in his heart for one Sam, and the one that was with him now
was the one he really wanted. He mouthed a silent thanks to God before
surrendering his body, heart, and soul to his brother.
~Finis
End Notes
     Something that would never happen in canon, but hey, that’s what fan
     fic is for, right? Title from Milton's Paradise Lost – it's a
     description of fallen angels. This is something that I've been
     working on for awhile.
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