Chapter Text
- 1 -
The motel hadn't been about to win any comfort awards or anything, but Dean definitely remembers the existence of a freakin' mattress.
Bedsprings creak and groan in a rusted accompaniment to his shifting weight, momentary disorientation quickly leading to all-out confusion as he registers that this is not the room he fell asleep in. He sits up, lifting an arm to shield his eyes from the piercing grey light of morning. A quick catalogue of his surroundings reveals several startling facts:
The window is a hole--there is no actual window.
The atmosphere reeks of decay, and looks like it too; a layer of dust covers every surface. The wallpaper is peeling off the walls and the bedside table is three-legged and rotted through.
He’s not alone. Someone is lying next to him, and it's not just anyone.
It's Sam.
“Dean?”
Sam is stretching and blinking himself awake, one huge hand coming up to rub at his eyes.
“What...?”
Dean shifts a little to the side so the dip of the maxed-out bedframe isn’t pushing them together. He has no fucking clue ‘what’, but whatever the hell is going on it brought his brother close to him immediately after Dean told him they had to stay apart. ‘What’ stinks of fucking angels.
“Where are we?”
He’s about to reply with the truth; he doesn’t know, this is yet another occasion of them being tossed about in the tide of events bigger and badder than them, out of their fucking control as usual—and then he takes a second look at the strips of wallpaper.
The same wallpaper.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be shittin’ me,” he groans.
This is definitely not the room he fell asleep in... except that’s exactly what it is. Somehow, this is the crappy motel room he rented for the night only it looks like it’s been abandoned for years.
“What?” Sam asks urgently, sitting up as well and eliciting a shrill creaking from the bedsprings that were never meant to hold two large dudes like them. Dean takes that as his cue to get up off the framework and walk over to the wall, double-checking to confirm his suspicion.
“Dean, what is it? Where are we?”
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, Sam, but...” Dean laughs without humor, hand rubbing at the top of his head. This would be a potential comedy goldmine in any other circumstances. “The question,” he intones tiredly. “Isn’t where... but when.”
- 2 -
Sam’s heart is still thundering in his chest, still recovering from Dean’s sudden and unexpected presence even as his brother’s actual words start to register.
“When?”
Dean walks over to the gaping hole that probably used to be the window. “This is the motel room I was crashing in. I told Cas I needed a couple of hours of sleep and...” he trails off, lifting a hand to brace himself on the jagged frame. “Jesus.”
Sam quickly gets up and crosses the space between them in a couple of strides, to stand next to (but not overly near) his brother.
The city is a wasteland. As in it looks like an abandoned, completely destroyed skeleton of what it used to be; buildings in clear ruin and rusted cars in haphazard pile-ups. It looks like the set of a disaster movie. There are even plants cracking the sidewalks open; the time it would take for a street to get like this is years.
He gets why Dean said when, but he’d assumed Dean meant the past. This isn’t anywhere on the Earth they’ve ever known; this is something else, something new.
The future.
“D’you think... Lucifer...”
“You said he’s barely holding on to the vessel he’s got, right? Does he even have the juice to pull something like this off?”
Sam thinks he probably does, but if this is some ploy to get him to say ‘yes’ it’s much more convoluted than the Devil’s style has been so far. So maybe it’s the other guys.
“Angels, then?’
Dean nods.
“Is this... the apocalypse?”
“You’re askin’ like I know any more than you.”
“But... if it’s angels, why am I here? They hate me.”
Before answering, Dean deliberately looks away from Sam and back out of the window. “Any chance you crashed the party yourself?”
“What?"
"You know..." still not meeting his eyes, Dean shrugs defensively. "If the angels sent me here and you followed me with your own mojo."
And that... that hurts.
"Dean, I’d never... You told me ‘no’, remember? We’re weaker together?” The words are hard to get out, taste like a putrid lie in his mouth. “I wouldn’t come after you once you told me ‘no’.”
“Well, if they want us to be the rubbers in their sword-fight I guess it makes sense that this little life-lesson includes the both of us.”
Sam thinks Dean is really taking the vessel-condom metaphor a little far.
“At least I’m not in suspenders this time.” Dean adds, and rubs his hands together. “And we got to keep our memories for a change. Much appreciated!" This he says to the ceiling, thick sarcasm lacing his voice. "C’mon Sam, let’s go figure out what the hell is going on. Looks like the Walking Dead out there.”
A flash of infected red eyes and a mouth dripping with gore makes Sam flinch. It feels like a premonition, like Dean’s tempting fate just by saying it.
- 3 –
The streets are empty of people, and they can’t find signs of life at all... recent life, anyway. It’s unkempt, a mess, and eerie as fuck.
And then Sam’s steps conspicuously slow to a stop.
“...Dean.”
Dean had been checking out a tragically sweet Rolls with what looks like a ferret’s nest in the back seat, but he quickly turns to follow his brother’s gaze.
Sam’s staring at a graffitied wall to their left, only partially visible at the end of a darkened alleyway. Standing out amongst the mess is the cut-off end of a word painted in large letters, the obvious color of dried blood, and it reads:
-ATOAN
Dean’s stomach drops.
He doesn’t need to see the rest of it around the corner, he knows what it says. What this means.
“We gotta get out of here.” Sam mutters. “Now.”
“And go where?” Dean growls, but he’s backing away as he says it, trying to remember if the city outskirts are far from here and in which direction they need to start running.
Sam doesn’t answer for a long moment, but instead of getting the hell back the idiot is leaning forward, carefully stepping around the fucked up sidewalk to squint at something presumably at the end of the street.
“Sam? What do your elf-eyes—“
“Shut up.” An arm is thrust out in Dean's direction as Sam takes another slower, quieter step forward.
And then Dean hears it too. A shuffling sound, a rattling like somebody is going through the garbage a few blocks down, only audible because of the eerie quiet. Could just be a survivor. Some sort of non-threat. Maybe.
That's never been their experience, though.
“Stray dog, for fucking once in our lives...?" he mutters, but he's turning around so they stand back to back and keeps an eye out to cover the opposite side.
“I don't think...”
The sound stops.
Dean misses it instantly, because somehow the quiet is much, much worse.
"Oh."
"What?" he can't turn to see for himself, can't leave Sam's back unprotected. "Sam?"
"It's not a dog, Dean." Something in Sam’s voice makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end, and he doesn’t even have time to check out what caused it before his brother is grabbing his sleeve, tugging brusquely so Dean stumbles after him. "Definitely not a dog!"
“Wh—“
He throws a look over his shoulder but barely catches a flash of movement not far behind, trusts Sam’s judgement when it’s time to run.
Croatoan. This city is already dead.
They sprint down the cracked asphalt, jump over debris and car-parts and one landing in particular makes a crunching noise that tells Dean all he needs to know about how long there have been bodies lying in the middle of the street.
“Left!” Dean snaps at Sam, who turns accordingly instead of going towards the second ominous noise, this time to their right. A glance is all it takes for Dean to confirm that there are a bunch of bodies coming at them from the side as well; limbs running into each other and tripping over their own legs but fast and never stopping, clothes in rags and dirty with blood and gore and, well... dirt, he supposes. Nasty sight.
A narrow alleyway cuts between a liquor store and a decrepit Starbucks and they go right in. Ahead of him, Sam’s long legs make it hard to keep up—hard, but not impossible, because Dean is a deceptively good sprinter and he’s bringing up the rear by choice. The threat is behind them therefore he's between it and his brother.
“No,” Sam gasps, abruptly skidding to a stop and throwing out an arm that catches Dean full-on in the solar plexus, not hard enough to stop them colliding painfully. Dean doesn’t need to know what exactly made his brother stop running away from the bloodthirsty infected zombies. It's bad enough that it got Sam to stop trying to get away from bloodthirsty infected zombies; either it’s more zombies or it’s something worse, and now what?
“Fire escape?” he pants, craning his neck and furiously checking for himself, but there doesn’t seem to be one here and all they’ve got is a bunch of overflowing trashcans with ill-fitting lids that will make for a terrible fighting ground.
"I..." Sam pats his pockets, the back of his jeans, but it seems that he's not packing. Of course not, he'd only just changed his mind about going back to the civilian life.
Dean deftly takes the knife out of his ankle guard but that's all he's got. Gun was under his pillow and it didn't make the trip.
"Hop up, c'mon," he instructs, but before either of them can actually do it the alleyway gets flooded by a loud rattling machine-gun noise. Bullets from what looks to be--shit, there's an actual machine-gun mounted on a big-ass truck at the far end on Sam's side.
"Sammy, duck!"
- 4 –
Sam obeys the order without question, just in time for a spray of bullets to burst through the air he'd been occupying and hit the infected people behind Dean.
"What the...?"
He feels Dean's hand grip the back of his shirt and wrench him down lower, making him a smaller target and trying--dammit, trying to shield him with his own body which is not gonna happen.
Sam kicks his brother's ankle out from under him, toppling him over and thus making it possible to throw himself onto Dean. Dean squirms and bucks and swears and fights him tooth and nail, and they end up quasi-wrestling right there on the putrid sidewalk while infected blood rains over them until the gunfire stops.
"Hey! You two!"
Dean gives a huge heave and manages to dislodge Sam from his position, finally squirreling out from under him and quickly getting to his feet. "Don't shoot!" He shouts, hands raised. "We're not infected!"
Sam hurriedly scrambles to a stand as well, hands in the air.
"Don't move and I'll have no reason to shoot!" a voice returns. The red mist hasn't dissipated enough for Sam to see more than their outlines but it sounds like their rescuers can see him and Dean just fine.
"You got it," Dean calls back. "But ain't nothing here for you to worry about, we promise. No cannibalism whatsoever." He tosses his head to the side. "Thinking of going vegan after this, actually--"
A sudden gust of wind clears the air, like a bloody curtain being pulled aside.
The truck is military issue, cam-paint with rusty red streaks on its sides. Sam still can't get a good look at the person behind the machine gun mounted on the roof (it remains pointed right at them and hides them from view) but he can finally make out the two on the ground. Both have semis braced against their hips, a defensive crouch helping aim the barrels at the Winchesters as well.
And then the figure on the right straightens up.
Sam’s jaw drops.
“What is this?” The one keeping her stance (and her cool) is a tall woman with a high ponytail and dark brown skin.
The guy next to her has lowered his weapon and he looks exactly like... no. No way.
"What the fuck, Dean?" the woman spits, shifting her stance slightly and aiming straight for Sam's brother. Only she isn't talking to her target; she's talking to the man beside her.
The man who looks like a perfect replica of Dean.
He's standing all the way on the other side of the pile of bodies, but there's no mistaking that face, the body... it's Dean--or a man identical to Dean, wearing a dirty military jacket and a thigh holster over his dusty jeans. Unlike the real Dean, however, this one's arms hang limply by his sides.
And he’s staring at Sam with pure, naked horror.
"Shifter?" the woman says, glancing at her companion quickly upon getting no response. "Dean. You want him taken out?"
But the man--Dean, the other Dean--doesn't answer her. He also hasn't looked away from Sam for one second, and Sam has to wonder whether he's even registered that there's a clone of him standing a few feet away.
"Well, this can't be good," the real Dean murmurs. "Did we just Back to the Future this or what?"
"Dean," the woman says again, clearly impatient. "We have to get out of here now. Either we drop them or we take them in, which one is it?"
"We come in peace," Sam calls out. The way the other Dean is looking at him is really starting to become unnerving. "If you'll just give us a chance to explain--"
"Shut up!" the woman snaps. And then, when the Dean beside her still fails to react in any visible way, she lashes out and kicks him in the shin. "Hey. Get it the fuck together." Her voice is lower, clearly meant only for him, but it carries and resonates in the narrow space. "Do we kill the shifter or interrogate it in case—are you listening to me?"
The obvious answer seems to be ‘no’. Sam feels trapped by his gaze, its intensity petrifying. He can’t even tell whether it’s in a positive or a negative way, there’s just something basilisk-like about this new Dean’s stare, something that could kill.
"Why don't y'all put down your guns and we can talk this out," Dean (the real one) calls, most irritating charming smile in place.
That finally seems to make his presence register with his doppelganger. Other-Dean looks away from Sam for the first time, even though it seems to take visible effort.
“Surprisingly,” the real Dean continues. “There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”
“What is ‘this’?” the woman calls. “In four words or less,” she adds warningly.
“It’s a long story.” Dean motions to his double again. “But I promise there’s a reason why I’m just as handsome as your boyfriend.”
The woman huffs out a breath that isn’t exactly a laugh. “Fine. I vote we hear the joker out.” Then she shifts to train the gun on Sam, cocking it carefully. “His tall friend, on the other hand--”
“Don’t even think about—“ Dean starts, but he barely has time to take a step forward before his armed double has wrenched the gun out of the tall woman’s hand and thrown it violently to the floor.
“Nobody touches him,” he snarls over the heavy clatter. His voice is rougher than the real Dean’s, harsher. And his eyes... Sam almost wants to say ‘Christo’ to see if they’d reveal the darkness they hint at.
“Fucking hell, Winchester.” She raises her hands mockingly, making it three of them now with their arms up. “Do you know him?”
“Yes. We need to take him—them in. Figure out what the fuck this is.” His eyes dart back to Sam as though the need is automatic but then wrench away again. An angry hand gets rubbed over his hair. "Stun them."
"Whoa whoa whoa--!" Dean starts to shout but it's too late, the woman moves before they can duck for cover and in one swift second she's taken out another gun and shot a hissing dart at each of their throats.
The fast-acting tranquilizer drops him like a stone; Sam feels his legs buckle and his knees hit the floor (something that will probably hurt later but he's not feeling any pain right now). His vision blurs and his thundering heart is only pumping the drug to his brain more quickly, but he's freaking the hell out--they don't know what the rules are in this alternate universe and they are completely at the mercy of a version of Dean who scares him.
Distantly, he hears a growl of; “No one can know about them, Risa.”
“I will gladly keep my trap shut after your evil twin’s explanation.”
"... Fine. Radio the camp to tell them I want the bunker empty by the time we get back. Don't say anything about what we’re bringing in, ‘cause we’re going straight to my cabin to check them out. You hear that, Nate?"
“Got it! Mum’s the word on the Dean clone and his tall boyfriend.”
He fades into unconsciousness right as the other Dean lets out a strangled barking sound that’s far, far from being a laugh.
- 5 –
The man with his face has been staring at Sam’s unconscious body for the past five minutes, minimum. Dean knows this because he woke up around that time and the dude was already at it. In order to keep his alert state under wraps as long as he can, Dean has mostly managed to not move--unfamiliar press of paneled wood against his body tells him he's on the floor; the tug of a metal ring around his wrist that he's handcuffed, and the stale smell of old nachos that it’s been a while since anyone cleaned anything around here.
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Sam lying beside him, which took care of that panic attack, but the second was the person at the table only a few feet away from their unconscious bodies. The person who looked freakishly like him. The other Dean. Potentially the Dean from the future, or the alternate reality, or hell, the parallel dimension a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away—whatever, the other Dean was there. Sitting on a chair and looking at Sam.
Upon realizing they had company Dean had considered faking unconsciousness for a little longer, but then he'd realized that his counterpart was staring at Sam so hard he hadn’t noticed Dean was awake. And it looked like he would continue not to notice if Dean kept his eyes open.
This was, for obvious reasons, useful to him because it meant he was free to check out their surroundings, try to plan their exit strategy and try to figure out how royally fucked they were in the adapted Winchester scale of ‘fucked’ degrees. But instead of any of that, Dean has somehow found himself focusing on the other man’s weirdly intent expression, and not doing any of the shit he should be doing.
Sam shuffles lightly in his sleep (maybe a sign of his impending wakefulness) and the other Dean tracks every move, his gaze sharp and focus complete. It's not entirely unlike the way Dean's caught himself looking at his brother more than once, but from the outside it looks...
Okay, it looks vaguely creepy is what it does.
Sam moves again, a distressed frown pulling his eyebrows inward, and Dean-lite actually sits forward in his chair, following the little changes in Sammy's expression. He has no damn right to look at Sam like that. None. Sam belongs to Dean, and this guy is not--where's his Sam, anyway?
“Dean?” Sam murmurs, and what it does to the other dude's face is what finally makes Dean sit up, foregoing his fake slumber.
“Dude, seriously,” he grunts, enjoying the disconcerted flash of surprise on his double’s face. “Get a hold a’yourself, huh?”
“Dean,” Sam says again, alert this time, and other-Dean turns back to him so fast Dean worries he’ll get whiplash. “Where are...?” but he goes quiet the moment he opens his eyes.
His gaze has landed on other-Dean, and stayed there. There’s a pause while they assess each other, and then other-Dean stands from his chair so abruptly it topples backwards, the noise awkward in the dense silence. It’s loud and embarrassing but the look passing between them is intense, charged with a tension that flows both ways; Sam clearly aware of the fact that other-Dean is not Dean-Dean, not his Dean, but the concentrated power of the man’s gaze flows right back at him.
Dean feels like he's been relegated to 'furniture'.
“Don’t know about the where, Sammy,” he says casually, and doesn’t miss the little start as Sam registers his presence, his position so close by. “But I think we’ve finally got the when.”
“W-what?”
“When?” other-Dean echoes skeptically.
Dean nods at a calendar that’s precariously hung on the wall next to them. The paper is dirty and yellowing but the fact that this month appears to be covered in post-it notes and red marker tells Dean it’s being used currently, and therefore a reliable source. The year is clearly visible; 2014.
“You’re me from the future. Four years into the future, to be exact.”
Other-Dean looks away from Sam at the words, finally turning to him. And all of a sudden it hits Dean, why his double is acting like this. Why he looks a hundred years old and rotten inside, as though he’s an automaton with nothing left to live for.
His eyes lose their light when he’s not facing Dean’s brother. As though he’s already dead.
He doesn’t have a Sam anymore.
“Time-travel?” other-Dean grunts. He sounds like he took up smoking or something; voice gruff and at a lower register than comes naturally to Dean. Almost reminds him of Dad. “Really.”
“Not by choice, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at,” Dean informs him.
“Wasn’t,” other-him snorts. “But you’re not a shifter and you’re not a demon, so what the hell else could you be?”
“Exactly. We’re telling you the truth,” Sam pipes up. Dean almost wishes he hadn’t; the hunger in other-him’s eyes when he immediately turns back to look at Sam would be pathetic if it didn’t remind Dean so much of a starved dog let loose at a banquet. He’s right. He knows he is, this other-him hasn’t seen Sam in a long time--maybe years.
“Ain’t buying your ‘truth’ without some proof,” other-Dean tells Sam. It sounds less harsh than it was probably meant to. Dean is starting to find himself torn between disgust and an embarrassed kind of pity.
“How can we prove it to you when we’re not even sure how it happened?” Sam says.
“You each tell me something only Sam-n’-me would know,” other-Dean says. “You let me check out your anti-possession tattoos and keep still like the good little boy you are.”
Dean doesn’t miss the slip back into singular at the end there.
Like he said... creepy.
“Start with me, then,” Dean says. “And after that we’re gonna want some explaining on your part, too.”
He gets ignored for his troubles. Again. Other-him takes a few greedy steps forward (toppled chair abandoned) and stops to crouch down in front of Sam, shoulders hunched in a sort of protective set that really rankles Dean’s nerves.
“Sam,” he says with a nod. “You go first, Sam.”
There’s obvious gusto in the way he says the word twice. Take it down a notch, Dean thinks loudly at him. Freakin’ psycho.
- 6 -
Sam was never one for the metaphor with the fly and the web and the spider, but he feels seconds away from being eaten. And the worst part is that he’d let this version of Dean do anything to him.
“O-okay,” he says, giving a little nod. “Right.”
It’s in the predatory stance future-Dean adopts, maybe, or in the excessive focus he trains on Sam when he looks at him. Like he’s listening to every catch of breath, paying attention to every inflection in his voice—like being in Sam’s presence is a full-body experience. So different from the real Dean’s actions of late, his hurtful words over the phone: “I think we’re weaker.” (‘Bullshit’, Sam should have replied instantly. ‘That’s fucking bullshit, Dean’.)
“Go on. Something only the real Sam would know about me,” future-Dean prompts.
“I...” Sam flounders for a moment, trying to think past this weird willingness he’s finding himself exhibiting, this bizarre urge to tell this version of Dean to come closer, if he wants. Bizarre not because that’s a new thought—it’s one of the oldest, most ingrained urges in him—but because he can almost imagine this Dean saying ‘yes’. “I... fireworks. The year you took me to that field on the fourth of July and it was just us and the car and the fireworks.”
Dean nods. “Go on. Be specific.”
Sam racks his brain. “We... we hugged. I was still midget-sized and you...” Oh God he should have probably picked a different memory. “You, uh, kissed the top of my head and it was... the last time, that that happened.”
Because with the growing pains had come the unstoppable tornado of irrepressible desire for his brother’s body, a boiling hormonal cocktail barely contained in Sam’s too-thin frame. And he’d never gotten so close to Dean like that again, no longer able to maintain that easy physical contact without feeling like a live wire had been rammed up his spine.
Future-Dean nods, but his eyes stay fixed on Sam’s face, never going unfocused with the memory. It’s like he doesn’t even try to remember, but he seems to believe Sam anyway.
“Hey, douche-face.” The real Dean sounds pissed the fuck off. “You gonna take my word for it or is it my turn, then?”
Future-Dean gives Sam one last, lingering look and grudgingly walks over to his body double. The image is truly overwhelming: two Deans, facing off (because there’s no denying that that’s what they’re doing), glaring at each other.
The physical differences are subtle but very much there. Four years has apparently been enough to give Dean a lot of pronounced lines and crow's feet, although he definitely looks like he hasn't laughed in all that time either. Their profiles are the same but future-Dean's skin is dry and maybe a little more tan, more freckled therefore because of it.
“Talk,” future-Dean commands.
The mouths are the same but chapped lips and a more unkempt version of Dean's usual five o'clock shadow make future-Dean look harder, more unforgiving. Not any less kissable for some reason, but something about him suggests he would want to pin you down while you did it just so there was another thing for him to control.
Sam’s Dean smirks maliciously. “Rhonda Hurley.”
That’s all he says. Some girl’s name—a girl that didn’t even stay long enough for Sam to know she existed. It’s ridiculous to feel hurt or annoyed, but Sam does both.
Future-Dean snorts and nods, something in his expression seeming to loosen fractionally.
“All right. Fair’s fair.”
“So you’re going to untie us?”
“Not yet.” He stands up. “But I believe you. We thinking angels did this? Are they still on Earth in your timeline?”
“They’re not in yours?”
A dark huff. “Nope. They left when shit went down in Detroit.”
"What went down in--"
"I said no to Michael. They weren't very happy about that."
There's an obvious missing part of the story, but that's all the information future-Dean volunteers.
Sam needs to know, though. “And me?" he asks, straining against the handcuffs to lean forward (much as his awkward position allows with his hands tied behind his back). "What about me?”
There's no answer, but future-Dean turns away from him to face the cabin door.
“Where am I?”
Still looking away, future-Dean's shoulders tense. He doesn't turn back around when he finally decides to reply.
“You’re gone, Sammy.”
Next to him, real-Dean’s jaw clenches tightly but he looks like the words just confirm some suspicion. Sam’s not sure how he feels in regard to his future death, or the use of the word ‘Sammy’ by another Dean who acts so unlike his brother.
"Oh."
"... Yeah."
Having caught up on the when they are, both brothers start asking questions about the where. Turns out this is a survivor camp, constructed after the Croatoan virus started taking over—a more virulent strain, deadlier and faster-acting. Future-Dean doesn’t tell them in as many words, but he’s clearly the leader of the place, and he organises weekly raids into town for supplies, which is how they found each other.
“Great. Now... you wanna think about uncuffing us, at least? I’m starting to chafe, here.”
Future-Dean ignores his counterpart’s protests and looks at Sam instead. “What about you, Sam?”
Sam wasn’t expecting the question but he gets a frisson of that feeling again; that weird zinging thrill of focus. Both Deans are looking at him. “Uh... yeah. Sure, I could do with being uncuffed.”
“Then uncuffed you will be,” future-Dean says decidedly.
Sam’s Dean snorts in a loud and pointed manner.
“You got a sinus problem or something, man?” Future-Dean asks. It feels like he’s letting Sam in on it though, like it’s him and Sam mocking the real Dean (past-Dean? No, no, he’s current-Dean at any rate) instead of the brothers being united against a new threat.
But that had been Dean’s decision. Dean had said I think we're weaker.
Sam still thinks he maybe shouldn’t let this one fly.
“Hey man, we don’t.... I mean we don’t really know you from Adam, so... you wanna stow the attitude?”
Future-Dean looks at him with disappointment. “Fair enough.” He shoots his double a dark look. “I didn’t let my baby brother save my ass all the time, you know.”
- 7 -
Dean can't even speak for a moment, he's so fucking angry. Other-him’s attitude has been grating from the start but for the guy have the balls to say something like that—
The fear and the ugly emotions he's been storing up for the past few minutes come out all mixed together in a cocktail of anger when he speaks next.
“Screw you, man; at least I kept my brother alive.”
Other-him flinches like he’s been physically struck. The color (and expression) seems to drain from his face and when he stands up, he’s back to looking the way he’d looked in the beginning, when Dean got that initial impression of him as an imposing, alien figure.
“You don’t deserve—“ he starts to growl, but cuts himself off. “I’mma make sure you get what you deserve.”
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"Wait, wait..." Sam tries to spread his hands placatingly, having briefly forgotten he's handcuffed. There's a clang and subsequent wince, and other-Dean lurches forward and back like a puppet, like Sam holds his strings. "What are you saying, Dean?"
"Yeah, Dean. What the fuck are you saying?" Dean echoes.
"I'm saying I've got a camp to manage. I've got people runnin' scared and croats getting closer to finding us every day. I can’t have you two walking around this place freaking people out. I don't... know what I'm gonna do with you yet."
"But..." Sam levels the puppy eyes up at him in full force. Dean almost expects his future counterpart to actually keel over at that, given how over-the-top his reactions to Sam's every tiny move have been so far. "You said you were going to untie us. You're not gonna keep us here forever, right? We need to figure out how to get back to our timeline. What it was that brought us here in the first place, and why--"
"I don't care about why," other-him says. "I don't give a shit why the angels in your world sent you ahead into mine. You're here now. I just gotta figure out the rest, and I will, I just need some time."
Something cold and afraid has dropped into Dean's stomach. He has the feeling the other guy isn't including him in that 'you'. You're here now. You, Sam, are here now.
"We care. About all of it," he grunts. "And we wanna go back."
It gets him a glare but no answer.
"You're gonna help us get back, right?"
Still, no answer.
"Dude. You can't keep us locked up in here!"
"...Watch me."
The door slams shut behind him and there's the sound of a solid lock slotting into place. Dean's too stunned by his apparently latent dramatic tendencies to even react for a moment.
"Did he just...?" Sam starts, and trails off, also looking incredulous.
"Yeah. Future-me is a fucking dick."