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[Ah, yes. The sign of all hope draining from someone's face.

Lucifer had seen this very same expression, when Sam had told him he'd kill himself before ever letting him in. Now, Dean gets to see the same thing on a younger, tear-splotched face. He's trying to wrap his mind around it — but it makes more sense than not. The weird light... the waking up in that sigil, and then...

His voice is small and horse. Thready.]

... I already did all of it?

...Yes. But look - I'm telling you, kid, it wasn't your fault. I swear, it wasn't. You did what you thought you had to do. You and me, we were on the outs, some stuff happened... [ He shakes his head, because he's not gonna...go into all the stuff with Ruby. Christ, Sam is fourteen.

Fuck, he needs a drink. ]

But listen - he's gone. Okay? He's gone, and that's the most important thing. He's gone, and he can't hurt us anymore.

So I was... here. Older and - I was the devil.

[He says it numbly, slumping back with his legs folded beneath him. The jacket smells like liquor and car oil and gunpowder. It smells like Dean. Like Dad. Like a Winchester - a hunter. It's a comfort because it's been in his life since he was a baby. Hard to say how much it's comforting him now, as he unconsciously pulls it close.]

I... I... [He trails off, despondent.

He's not sure what to say, but something tumbles from his lips anyway:]

Dad must hate me.

No. You weren't the devil, Sam. He might've been in you, but that ain't who you are, you and I both know that. You're a good egg.

[ He's not gonna go into Dad tonight, because Dean probably has some choice words about that subject these days, but he shakes his head and scoffs, wrapping his baby brother in tight. ]

Screw Dad.

[Sam looks a shade surprised by the last words spoken. They're alien, sounds that neither of them have ever made -- and certainly nothing that he would ever imagine Dean would say in a million years. Not with his idolization, the way he hangs on their father's every word. It makes him a little worried, but a little at ease, too. It's hard to even explain.

But it's hard to feel anything but a pit in his stomach. Dean says it'll be okay, that it isn't the end, that he's not what it sounds like. He couldn't help but imagine some older version of him with those red eyes, heartless and cold and snapping limbs like twigs.

... He tries to calm himself, a headache pulsing hard in his temples. He sniffs.]

What... what about the other Sam?

[ It’s just them, now. Dad is gone, and while he doesn’t tell Sam that, it doesn’t matter here because Dad isn’t here, therefore it’s a non-discussion.

Something to discuss with the other Sam. There’s enough trauma. Leave Dad out of it. ]

What about him?

I mean... Is he —

[He stops, swallows hard.]

He's from... a different — timeline? Right? But he's still him?

[He has to assume that the one that hangs around isn't possessed by the devil. Honestly, he still can't quite process that right. But he does know that Dean treats him like a brother and not like a villain or some monster, and that must matter. It must mean something.

Sam's imagining this 'spell' Dean had mentioned being done on a bound and gagged Sam Winchester with red, glowing eyes, fully overtaken by the devil. He can't possibly conceive of the idea that he used to live here as his older self. No way.]

What... did he do right that I didn't?

Different timeline, yeah.

[ Dean closes his eyes, heart squeezing, the familiar dull pain of old aches sharpening into laser focus. ]

He had me. Other me.

Edited 2021-05-20 22:36 (UTC)

[Sammy's brow furrows, and he sits back. Everything's broken apart and a mess and he isn't sure what to do, and yeah, Dean's older, but this is them. They're sitting here like they always do, sometimes on a cabin bed, sometimes on a hotel room couch, sometimes in some tent in the middle of nowhere. But they're together.]

What do you mean?

I've got you, too.

[ They are. And he meant what he said about not letting Sam down - hopefully, Sam will forgive him.

Again. ]

Other me- he was there for him. I wasn’t for you, and I should’ve been. I messed up. That’s why you said yes. We weren’t together, and you felt like you had to. You didn’t think you had another option.

... Doesn't sound like it was your fault, just because I did something when you weren't there. [That's the more childish, naïve response, anyway. But after a moment, something more knowing, more mature, it flashes in his eyes. He's been around hunters. Monsters. He knows a thing or two about evil.] If I was — um. 'Good'. Then I guess the devil must've done a lot to me. If it made me... let him in.

[He's not really sure how the possession part works, but he imagines there must be something to it, if the devil couldn't just... possess him whenever, regardless of what he'd actually wanted.]

But if... if the devil's real, and all of this happened — didn't the angels do anything? Angels like Castiel. There has to be a lot more than just him. A lot more. Maybe we — you just... need to ask them for help.

It isn't that simple.

[ It never is. Nothing about their lives is simple, it never is. ]

They did do something. See -- they kind of orchestrated the apocalypse, the angels. They wanted it to happen. God has apparently been MIA for ages and they got tired so they started a sequence of events that would kick it off like the friggin' superbowl. But -- get this, angels need permission to use humans as vessels. That's why Lucifer couldn't just take you, he needed you to say 'yes'. He's a douchebag, he's the devil, yeah - but he's still an archangel.

You were Lucifer's. I was Michael's. They wanted to make us say yes so you and I could fight to the friggin' death and wipe out half the population. And --

[ Another deep, deep breath. ]

Like I said. We had a falling out. I split us up, said we'd be better apart. But I was wrong, Sammy. You hearing me? I was wrong.

[Every word that Dean says cuts at him. The angels he'd prayed to, wanting the world to end. God not being there, when he's prayed to him so many times before in the hopes he was real. Them, fighting each other, being possessed by angels.

And them splitting up. Because he messed up, and Dean didn't want anything to do with him.

His eyes well up again, and he swallows hard.]

... I need some time. To think.

I don't feel so good.

[Stress-induced sickness is a thing, right?

He's always been a little sensitive.]

[ He is loathe to let Sammy go, it's his kid brother and Cas is gonna get yelled at for damn sure, but honestly this is Dean's fault because all he said was 'try not to drink around him' and not 'hey maybe don't tell him he said yes to Lucifer and killed a bunch of people', but here they are. ]

Yeah. Course.

[ He swallows thickly, pressing his lips together. ]

...Want some spaghetti? I can make you dinner. [ Like he used to. ]

[Usually, Sam would be a little more petty. Because he knows Dean usually just offers to feed him like that after a rough conversation as one of those few ways he uses his — what was it called....? A 'love language'? But Sam's always been a bit begrudging about the idea that a bowl of mac and cheese or a slice of pizza will make anything any better.

But then again, Dean's got a bottomless pit for a stomach. The less Sam has to think about his body and nourishing it, between puberty and the weird, awful feeling he can't describe, the better.

This, though.

Sam owes Dean to not be petty or angry or turn him away. He sounds like he owes a lot of things. Like he's royally messed up — about as bad as anyone can. The idea makes him want to well up and cry it out, but he just nods instead.]

I'll be out. Later. For dinner.

[He'll pretend things are 'bad', instead of 'more bad'.

Hesitant, he starts to remove the jacket from his shoulders, to offer it back.]

[ It's definitely one of Dean's love languages - please, let me feed you, because it's the only thing I can do right now so just let me do it.

He moves to get up; it's not too far off from dinner now anyway, so he's happy to get it started, let Sam have first pick, see if Dean can soothe at least a little of the ache. He knows it isn't much, but he doesn't know how else to fucking fix this. ]

Keep that for now.

[ The jacket, he means. ]

[Sam rubs a thumb across the leather end of the jacket absently. He's always been a fidgety kid, plucking at loose strings. His eyes are red and puffy and his face is splotchy still, but he looks calmer. Looks like he's not on the verge of hyperventilating. It's better than nothing, right?

Still it's hard to not look like a wilted plant right now, with yellowing leaves, sunless and defeated. He wants to just go to sleep and not think about anything for a while; sleep's always been a good way for him to avoid reality, as long as his dreams don't betray him.]

Thanks, Dean.

... Sorry.

[Isn't that just how it is for them, now? No matter what age, Sam's got an apology ready.

After all, big or small, this is his fault. Isn't it?

He surely thinks so.]

[ It breaks his heart to see Sammy like this, and he reaches out, cups the back of his head to make his brother look at him as he kneels in front of him. ]

You don't have to apologize, Sam.

[ They've made their peace, said their apologies. Sam is forgiven a hundredfold and even if he weren't (which he is), none of that matters because this is a kid, a kid with no memory of the event, who's been basically sent back in time.

Who has a second chance. ]

It's gonna be okay, Sammy. I promise.

[Sam nods at his promise, and while he's not so sure Dean can keep one that big, he doesn't hold it against him. No matter how much his brother's driven him crazy (and vice versa), he knows that Dean has good intentions, even if the implementing isn't so good. In a way, it's at least good to know that even with how messed up and hurt and different the adult Dean Winchester is, there's still so much of the Dean that Sam knows left.

Usually he'd nudge off that arm playfully, and Dean would know that's their song and dance, and everything'll be good with that gesture. But he doesn't feel like shrugging his brother off right now. So he reaches up and gives Dean's wrist a squeeze. Thanks, it says, before he moves to crawl into bed. It's bad, he knows, to be left with his thoughts (they can be dark, biting, awful things, things he's never told Dean, things he's scared to ever bring up to his father). But for now, it'll do.

He just... he's gonna rest.

Or try to, anyway.

If he ends up staring at the far wall where he's lying for a while, so be it.]

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