Chapter Text
Dean and Cas had vanished right before his eyes following Dick Roman’s demise, Crowley up and left with both Kevin and Meg to God knows where and Bobby’s spirit departed from the world of the living. For the first time since that foggy night where Sam had fled from his family with his brother left standing at the side of the road as he took off for Stanford, Sam was alone.
It looks like you are well and truly on your own.
Crowley’s parting words had struck a chord within his psyche, the taunt striking him across the face like a mean punch. When it was all over, Sam’s feet walked him out of the building until he was standing in front of the Impala, bruised and hurting, an infectious sting clouding his vision as he collapsed onto his knees, hand smacking against the car’s hood, scrambling, clawing. When the strength returned to his legs, he pushed himself up, got into the driver’s seat, and set off on the road.
He drove away from Seattle for twelve hours straight before he had to force himself to pull the car to the side after a dangerously close call. It was instinct when his eyes snapped open at the blaring sound of the oncoming truck, swerving away from its direct path at the very last moment. When the adrenaline began to wear off and the bone-deep exhaustion sank its teeth back into his flesh, Sam gripped the steering wheel tighter before lashing out and striking it with his clenched fist.
A part of him wished he’d have met that truck head-on. At least, then, he wouldn’t have had to deal with the fallout of Dean’s absence and the rotten, bottomless pit in his chest that came with it. He lived the next three days in devastating silence and completely hammered on booze, blipping in and out of consciousness. The moments he was sober enough to start forming a speck of coherent thought, he took another swing, and another, until he was working three, four bottles empty. For three days, Sam lived with the thought that Dean was dead. A soul-etched agony that he never thought would experience again, not when the first time nearly destroyed him, intimately familiar with the pain of having to cradle his brother’s mauled body as he took his last, dying breath.
Only this time, there was no body to bury.
It took him three days to snap into a manic state of survival, stuffing himself with enough caffeine that sleep was no longer an option on the horizon. When he was sober enough, Sam did not hesitate to drive to the closest crossroad and hastily bury the box underneath the gravel.
“And what do we have here?” A masculine voice spoke from behind him only seconds after. “Not that your presence is not wanted, Winchester, but to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Sam whipped around, eyes zeroing on the crossroads demon before him. “You know why I’m here.”
“Do I, now?” The demon tilted his head, manipulating the attached strings of the shorter man he was possessing.
“Cut the bullshit.” Sam snapped, fingers spasming, hands clenching and unclenching, carving crescents into his palms. He took a threatening step closer, but the demon’s grin only widened, eyes flashing with glee. “I’m here for my brother’s soul. I don’t care about my time, I just want him back- and you will, you will bring him back.”
And then, something odd happened, something that caused him to straighten his spine ramrod straight, the voices in his head suddenly falling silent as the amusement froze on the demon’s face, a pause of pensiveness, of stark confusion. Through the haze of his spiraling, for the first time in four days, a newfound clarity swept him off his feet, hope alleviating the corrosion in his chest.
Dean wasn’t dead.
“He’s not dead,” he whispered the realization into the world, breathless and struck, wobbling on his feet. With a shuddering exhale, he pulled out his knife, and within a flash, he had the blade against the demon’s jugular.
“Where is he?”
“Whoa, hey, we’re all friends here, no need for that. I know you’re missing your sweet Bonnie and Clyde action, but I have no idea where he is.” The demon said, raising their hands placatingly. They smiled up at him, charming and foul.
“But even if I did, you’d be the last person to know.”
Before he even had time to blink, the dark smoke was violently purging from the man’s mouth and nostrils, the body convulsing as he finally collapsed on the ground. He cursed under his breath, staring at the John Doe who slowly started to regain consciousness, blinking at his surroundings in obvious distress.
Because if Dean wasn’t dead, then it meant that wherever Dick went after his death, the gravitational pull had managed to yank both Dean and Cas with him. The only plane of existence that was created for Leviathans, for all monsters, a place only for the most vile of souls.
Dick had taken Dean and Cas with him to Purgatory.
With a newfound hope, every passing second was of the essence, critical in his brother and best friend’s fate. He figured a human and an angel at Purgatory were not going to be welcomed with open arms. Therefore, Sam spent day and night researching everything he could get his hands on about Purgatory, but there was absolutely nothing on how to access it. Purgatory was never designed to hold anything other than the wretched souls of monsters, certainly no humans. Every lead came up empty, every demon tortured either unwilling or clueless, throwing him back to square one.
When he was at his wits' end, teetering on the edge of surrender, for a brief, terrifying moment, Sam considered allowing himself to turn into a monster, to allow himself to become once again the thing he always feared, and take his own life in order to save Dean. Before he even began to consider the idea, Sam rejected it soon after, only on the reasoning that Dean would never forgive him.
Sam could learn to live with his brother’s hate, with his violence and distrust, but the dull spark of disappointment in those green eyes, staring at him with choking regret at having wasted the entirety of his life on something (because Sam was no longer human, never was; he was made of flesh and bones and marrow but there was nothing human about him) Sam would not survive it. Not again.
Nearly eight months later, as his last resort, he turned to the very last person he wanted to see.
“I must say you surprised me, Moose. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Or ever, for that matter.” Crowley flashed a smile full of teeth, a smile of open honesty, friendly and harmless, meant to disarm and rattle. “You miss me?”
“What did you do with Kevin?”
The corner of Crowley’s lips twitched, the barest trace of something struggling to be reigned in before the aggravating facade of smugness was back in place. “Oh, the little prophet? Worry not, he’s been having a great time with my boys from down under.”
Sam didn’t rise to the bait; instead, he took a few seconds to bask in the strained silence when the realization dawned on him. He huffed in amusement, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “You have no idea where he is, do you?”
Crowley’s eyes flashed with something keen and dangerous, and he braced himself for an attack, fingers flexing around the hilt of the demon knife. He frowned at the unusual innocence dancing in the other’s eyes, head tilted as if he looked bored all of a sudden.
“If you’re here to waste my time, you’re doing a splendid job at it so far. If you won’t be needing anything else, I think I’ll be going now. Ta-ta.”
“No, wait!”
A deliberate pause, a clever dip of his chin. “Yes, dear?”
“I’m not here to play your games, Crowley.” Sam retorted through gritted teeth, tightening his fingers around the hilt of the knife.
“No? You wound me. And here I thought we had something special.” Crowley said with a tilt of his head, keen eyes silently studying him, taking him apart piece by piece.
A red, violent sea raged inside him, ugly and miserable. He had covered the abandoned warehouse with any and all patterns of devil’s traps he could think of, most of them hidden from plain sight, but he knew that his chances of successfully capturing Crowley in one of them were slim. In truth, Sam had summoned Crowley in careless haste, going through with it without any solid plan beforehand. He was desperate and sloppy. Any shred of rationality had long since exited his system, making him operate purely on instinct.
“You will bring him back. He doesn’t belong there.” He threatened, slightly raising the knife, pointing the razor-sharp edge at him.
Crowley’s lips curved in a clever arch, having the audacity to look proud of Sam for figuring it out as if it were that much of a mystery. “And why would I do that? You don’t have much going on for you, Moose- and these devil’s traps? I must say, not your finest work.”
Sam gritted his teeth, struggling against every cell in his body that wanted to lash out and slide the knife against Crowley’s throat. He sucked in a shaky, strangled breath, forcing himself to loosen the death grip around the knife. He was not above torturing Crowley into bringing Dean back, but in his current malnourished, sleep-deprivation-riddled brain, he doubted he would succeed at it. At best, he’d be dead before he even attempted to make the first move. And as the seconds ticked by, marked by the consistent dripping sound of a leaky pipe, hope and grit began to trickle out of his body, a fragile flickering flame that was soon to be extinguished, drawn out of his lips like a dying breath.
“But, perhaps, I could help you with your brother’s situation if...“ Crowley deliberately trailed off, starting in a slow saunter closer to Sam’s side.
“What?” He bit out.
“A deal.”
“No.” He was quick to reject the offer, a reflex almost, knowing that making a deal entirely on Crowley’s terms was a death sentence. For all he knew, he could throw Sam down in Purgatory along with Dean and get rid of them both once and for all.
But what other choice did he have? He hated to admit it, but this, right now, was his best shot at getting Dean back. Was he going to risk it and take the leap of faith, or stand down and live the rest of his life with the faux excuse that he tried everything and failed, a lie hidden in the mouth of the ugly monster of his conscience?
“It must be your lucky day. I’m not one to feel very... sentimental. Perhaps I am incapable of resisting the pathetic look in those beautiful, sad eyes of yours, Samantha.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m having a hard time understanding how bringing Dean back would benefit you.” He said, ignoring Crowley’s witty remark.
“Well, that’s for me to worry about, isn’t it?”
He steeled himself, squaring his shoulders once Crowley prowled closer, reaching up to playfully fiddle with the collar of his flannel, flinching when a blunt nail grazed against the hollow of his neck.
“So? What’s it gonna be? This is your only chance to be back at your brother’s side again, cruising across the states in a romantic road trip.” He glared down at the transparent glee in those dark eyes, wanting nothing more than to plunge the knife in Crowley’s gut.
“Clock’s ticking.”
“Fine. Fine,” Sam snapped, a desperate reconciliation of what he was about to do. Maybe this time, Dean wouldn’t forgive him for it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. As long as he had his brother back, Sam would endure. “What do you want?”
“A favor.”
“A favor,” Sam echoed in a flat tone. “Really? That’s it?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to cash in on it when the time comes.”
He blew out a short breath through his nose but remained silent. He knew what followed, what needed to be done to seal the pact, his skin crawling when Crowley slithered a hand behind his nape and yanked him down. The kiss was a brand; Crowley’s rotten smile taking shape against his lips. Sam dug his fingernails into the other’s shoulder, meaning to push him away. With a physical strength that was no match for him, Crowley kept him in place, sharp teeth sinking into his lower lip before he finally relented. Sam scrambled back two steps, shoving the back of his hand against his mouth.
“You should consider buying some chapstick. Who knows, we might need it for another time.”
Heat rushed to his face, burning all the way up to the tips of his ears. Before Sam had the opportunity to rip Crowley a new one, the man snapped his fingers and was gone in a blink. He waited for two seconds, tense and straining. Then, he finally crumbled under the audience of one, burying his face in his hands.
When Sam drove back to the motel that night, he must have been sitting by the coffee table, staring at this phone for hours before he decided to pick it up and dial Dean’s number. When the automated voice played for the first time, he didn’t let it destroy him, keeping the tears at bay. Dean’s phone could be dead, smashed to pieces- anything. It was a gamble, and he suspected that getting zipped back from Purgatory was not the easiest thing. Dean would find a way to reach out first. He only needed to wait.
That night, Sam slept with his phone hanging loosely in his palm, his big frame curled up on the couch as the TV played on.
The first thing he noticed while sprawled on his back, half-riddled still with the lethargy of sleep, was the sudden prickly and soggy surface underneath his body. When the fleeting thought that he had fallen asleep on a banged-up couch of the motel passed the front of his mind, Sam snorted wide awake with a sudden jerk. He jumped onto shaky feet, rubbing the drowsiness away from his eyes with the heel of his palms. With his head reeling, his hand latched onto the knife on his back, eyes frantically darting back and forth, a full circle before he came to a panicked stop.
A forest with thick, tall trees that nearly shielded the direction of the sun. The sound of rustling leaves and branches chiming against each other. The wind howled, a chilly breeze slipping through the open buttons of his flannel, near his collar. The melodic hum of birds, a fluttering of wings in his heart. Nothing but greenery for miles.
Something told him he was far from the motel in Hudsonville, Michigan, that he had been staying at for the past couple of nights. He pulled out his phone from his front right pocket and tapped at the screen. With a frustrated scowl, brows furrowing together, Sam shoved the phone back in his pocket, now useless, and slowly surveyed the woods around him once more. He should have expected that there would be no signal since it seemed like he was dropped in the middle of nowhere, but that begged the question of how he had gotten here in the first place.
He highly doubted a third unknown party would be involved in his apparent abduction. What reason would they have for unceremoniously hauling him in the middle of nowhere and leaving him alone? Sam’s world was left with more enemies than allies, and if someone was to get the drop on him, they would’ve killed him off in his sleep instead, quick and efficient. Be rid of the world of its final deformity. Although Sam knew it for a fact, nothing about this made any sense whatsoever-
Then, it struck him like a lightning bolt, every crevice in his body flooding with the heavy realization, with the only logical observation that would lead to an explanation. His deal with Crowley, merely hours ago. Awoken in a forest that spoke nothing to him. He suspected it- expected it, really. Crowley had no intention of ever bringing Dean back which could only mean, hopefully, that he had sent Sam to Dean. There were worse places to be, he thought, if he was in Purgatory. Once he was able to find his brother, perhaps it wouldn’t have been all for nothing.
He caught sight of a snapped branch toward his far right side, eyes flicking down, lingering over the trampled grass, an artificially carved path. With his knife clutched, poised at his hip, Sam cautiously followed the trail. He tracked the prints, seeming human, mostly. Soon, they grew erratic, outlines of soles breaking away from the usual line. All traces disappeared soon after, yet Sam continued steadily as if the desired path he was supposed to follow was forming before him. He took a turn and slid down the slope, crossing a small stream. He climbed up on the other side, his palm dragging against the coarse tree trunk when he heard faint, frantic voices.
“-sorry. I’m so fucking sorry!”
Sam slowly peered over the tree, eyes zeroing on the three figures up ahead in the small clearing. A man on his back, wearing a black long coat, fingers clutching the younger man’s arm who knelt beside him.
“Sorry for what?” Came the younger man’s faint response, hand on his shoulder, carefully helping him up.
The third figure, dressed in a pastel blue shirt, falling too long and big on his lanky figure, hissed unintelligible words under his breath, head darting around every now and then, agitated and keyed up.
Even from a simple glance, it was obvious that these people were anything but the monsters they were supposed to be. Was it possible that other humans had somehow gotten themselves yanked into Purgatory? Unlikely. They looked like plain civilians, and Sam wondered if he was wrong in his deductions. If he was wrong and this wasn’t Purgatory at all, then where on earth was he?
Then, he sensed it before the fourth figure walked into sight; an overwhelming presence, a familiar light, a familial warmth that never failed to strangle and stifle the air in his lungs. An inescapable tug in his chest, luring him forward, there, look, it said, we did it. He’s here.
Sam dug the heels of his feet in the dirt, flinching as he watched a knife travel through the air and pierce the blue-shirt man’s right eye from the side. Pained screams, a trembling hand coming up to yank the knife out. The other two men scrambled into a defensive position, but remained back, watching. Sam didn’t care. He couldn’t will his eyes away even if he wanted to, rapt, like a man possessed, tracking, watching, feasting on the sight of heavy, dark green armor, a shield on his left arm as he stalked closer with purpose.
Older, rugged, hair longer and disheveled, a stubble for a beard; this did not look like the brother he left behind all those months ago. He looked different, battle-worn, and vicious. Sam would recognize the call of his brother’s soul even in death. He felt his body breaking down, yielding under the pressure, under the reassurance that his big brother was here, taking a step into sight, lips parting, eyes stinging with unshed tears.
And then, he watched what transpired in a matter of seconds; animalistic and primal. Inhumane. Dean was onto the man in a flash, wrapping a white bag over his head and slamming him onto his back.
“Hey! Hey, wait, wait-” The younger man stepped up, hands held up as if trying to placate a wild beast. Dean slowly turned at the other, a tight, steeled hardness in his eyes, a self-righteous fury in his face that looked alien and all wrong. He knew how formidable his brother could be, a force to be reckoned even if only human, but there was something fundamentally wrong in the way his mind screamed wrongwrongwrongdangerdangerdanger at the sight of the only person that Sam ever called his safespace.
His heart lurched to his throat when Dean’s punch sent the man flying thirty feet away because Dean was human, Dean was not able to do that. The man in the black coat looked murderous, fist clenching and unclenching, and then his eyes started to fucking glow, and Sam was able to feel the heat all the way from his position. Three seconds later, he stood down and headed for the other, kneeling protectively by his side.
In a world where nothing made sense but this brother, for the first time, Sam was lost.
A shuddering breath was choked out of his lips, aching, wanting nothing more than to run up the rest of the way and curl himself in Dean’s strong, secure arms. His mouth moved on its own, forming the name of his brother, his voice traveling out, caught in the first syllable. The rest was shoved down his throat when Dean crouched over blue-shirt, seething words spat at the face that was hidden behind the bag.
“What? That’s impossible.” A shout, words which no longer required an answer. Dean lifted the shield, the sharp, lower end glittering under the sun. Then, he brought it down with a sickening crunch, straight across what Sam imagined was the man’s nose and forehead. And then, with a guttural scream, Dean continued beating the man’s face with his shield, one, two, three, four, five, six, until he lost count at ten, until there was nothing left but a clean break in the middle where his head was supposed to be, the white bag now doused in molten red and brain matter, splattered over the shield and his hands.
Sam took a staggering step back, chest contorting with every rapid and sharp breath, a rising panic, an unknown fear clawing at his insides. He never had any reason to be afraid of Dean. Even when they had their differences and did not see eye to eye, even when they were left with shattered hearts and torn knuckles and broken noses, Sam still trusted his brother with his life.
Sam knew of monsters; of filth and rot and of absolution undeserving. There was only one monster that ever hunted the Winchester bloodline, one of the two brothers that was sin wearing the meatsuit of faux innocence, and Dean was not that brother.
However, the man that stood tall, bathing and reveling in blood and flesh, wearing Dean’s face- that was not his brother. It couldn’t be.
Maybe this wasn’t Purgatory at all. Maybe Crowley had fucked with his head, trapping him in a recurring nightmare where Dean was alive, except it was someone else living in the shell of the man that used to be his brother.
He blinked, breathless, helpless, but when Dean’s head snapped toward him, Sam pressed his back flat against the tree, a protruding bump of the tree trunk digging painfully at his lower back.
“You have five seconds to come out. Five seconds unless you want to join our friend here.” Dean’s voice called out, carrying through the forest. A bark of an order, simmering with a kind of rage and authority that had Sam’s spine going rigid, shoulders hunching. He could run, but he wouldn’t know where he’d be running to. Under normal circumstances, Sam would take his chances and try to fight them off. But he couldn’t. These people weren’t normal. There was something about them, these foreign powers they seemed to possess that left Sam stumbling in the dark, and whatever it was, Dean had it, too.
Not Dean. Not your brother, he reminded himself and hid the knife away inside the back of his jeans. Then, he slowly stepped away from the tree, arms coming up by his shoulders in surrender.
“Listen,” he licked his lips, throwing a glance at the other two, taking in their guarded stance, suspicious eyes raking over his form before he turned back to Dean- to him. “I don’t want any trouble. I’m just looking for my brother. That’s all.”
A half-truth. Technically, not a lie because he was looking straight at his brother but not seeing any traces of him. Any sudden move, anything that might strike them wrong, would seal his fate. Sam had just witnessed what seemed to be an unintended, violent murder, but a murder nonetheless. He was a stark witness. They weren’t about to let him walk free.
“Who are you?” The younger man asked.
“My name’s Sam.”
“Well then, Sam,” the man in the coat with a heavy accent spoke up, lips pulling in a sharp smile. “Awfully long way from civilization, ain’t ya? What kind of business do you and dear brother have all the way out here in the middle of buttfuck nowhere?”
There were a hundred excuses that spun in his mind, all but to get rejected. Even if he came up with a decent cover-up story, it wouldn’t hold up long enough to buy him time. They didn’t seem to have bought his act either way, anything else would just make it worse. Sam had bought a one-way ticket the moment he set foot into the area.
He wordlessly looked at the decimated corpse before dragging his eyes back to those two, actively ignoring looking toward his general direction.
“Last night, I went to sleep in Michigan. Today, I woke up here. By the looks of it, it’s not exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
The man in the coat narrowed his eyes, studying him with a small spark of intrigue from his undeterred behavior. Perhaps he should have acted afraid, distraught, as if what he had witnessed was not without its sense of normalcy. They didn’t seem like the usual kind of monsters he hunted, but they were something. Not entirely mortal, but human enough.
“We can’t let him go, can we?”
“Afraid not, unless Rapunzel here starts talking. This ain’t no accident, so why don’t you start telling us who you really are before we get down to it, yeah?”
Fuck, fuck. Okay, yeah, sure, he could totally admit that his brother had been blasted to Purgatory by one of earth’s oldest abominations and he had spent months on a witch hunt to find a way to bring him back, only to end up making a deal with the King of Hell, only to wake up here, accidentally coming across something he was never supposed to witness because of his brother’s calling, who, apparently, crazily, woefully, did not seem to be his actual brother, or at least didn’t seem to remember him. He totally would not sound off his fucking mind.
“I say we kill him. We don’t have time to waste. All in favor? Great.”
“Wait, Butcher, just wait, there must be something-”
The man in the coat, Butcher, apparently, (and what kind of name was that) took a step closer, ignoring the other’s protests. Sam’s fingers twitched, itching to grab his knife. It would probably do jackshit against them, but he refused to go down without a fight.
Before things could escalate, suddenly, an arm shot out, planted firmly in Butcher’s way. Armor of silver and blood. Sam’s breath hitched in his throat, forcing himself to keep his eyes lowered, focused on the arm.
“No.”
The low rumble of Dean’s voice was vehement and left no room for argument, causing great impact on his already crumbling resolve. All this time he had been a quiet, uninvolved presence, but there was not a single moment that Sam did not feel the crushing weight of his eyes drilling into his head, demanding and all-consuming.
“We’re not going to kill him.”
Foolish hope fluttered in his stomach at the finality in those words, incapable of stopping himself from looking up and meeting familiar, devastating green eyes. Any flicker of surging hope was instantly snuffed by the lack of recognition, his brother’s face regarding him as if he was nothing more than the squished insect you happened to notice on the sole of your shoe.
“We’re... not?”
“He knows me.”
The younger guy huffed, hands planted on his hips. “Uh, yeah, everyone knows you.” He paused, hand coming up to rub at the bridge of his nose. He threw Sam a look of bleeding regret, a silent apology of finality. “And he just saw you blow Mindstorm’s brains out. Fantastic.”
“No, not like that.”
Sam tensed, a bead of sweat trickling down his temples as the man with his brother’s face prowled closer. It took everything in him to stand still, arms frozen in place and not reach for the knife. He stopped an arm’s length away, piercing eyes sizing him up.
“Are you with the Russians?”
The question seemed to rattle the other two in a way that spoke of information that he was completely in the dark for. Whatever it was, though, the implication was a death sentence. Maybe this wasn’t his brother at all, maybe he had no memories of who Dean Winchester was supposed to be, but the calm before the storm was identical; the uncontrollable spasm of his lip, the muscles along the jaw clenching, going taut- and that look, the immediate shut-down, the acute suffocation of emotions from his eyes, leaving behind a dull numbness, a poorly concealed facade of apathy as a front for the unadulterated rage bubbling beneath.
“Wait, you fucking know this guy?” Butcher asked.
Intense and invasive, familiar emerald eyes attempting to dissect and take him apart, searching- hunting for something he failed to find. Perhaps Dean was no longer himself anymore, perhaps he didn’t recognize him, but it seemed as if something was trying to make sense as to why he hesitated, why Sam’s presence made him second-guess.
“I don’t know who you’re referring to, but I have no ties with any of them. I didn’t lie when I said I have no idea how I got here. I’m as lost as you are, okay?” He slowly lowered his arms, a dim ache in his joints from the suspension in the air. “Frankly, I have no idea who any of you are, and I couldn’t care less about your business here. All I want is to find my way back. We can both walk away. Like nothing happened.”
Butcher scoffed, “This ain’t our first rodeo, Rapunzel, so why don’t we cut the bullshit, yeah? If Soldier Boy here is suddenly too much of a pussy to do the job, I’ll happily take over and clean the mess.” He jeered and started forward, a faint glow dancing in his eyes.
“You fucking try anything and the deal’s off.” Soldier Boy turned to the side, enough to make his threat known, a deal that only sent Sam into a further spiral, finding himself stranded, drowning.
Soldier Boy, he thought incredulously, biting back the sudden hysterical laughter that threatened to escape his mouth. It seemed fitting, in a fucked up way. Dean with his hero complex, a good fucking soldier, always following daddy’s orders. This persona wasn’t far off from it. A caricature version of it, as he was dressed in actual hero-styled armor and went by the alias Soldier Boy. Jesus.
“Alright, touchy much.” Butcher said and backed down.
He took it as his cue to move then, half a step backward, cautious, silent, before boldly taking another.
“You take another step I’ll break both your fucking legs.”
He froze, his left foot barely having touched the ground. For a brief, deluded moment, it seemed as if his big brother was glaring up at him, fierce and protective, eyes flashing with a touch of wildness, of Dean’s self-righteous entitlement to ensure Sam’s safety no matter the cost.
“You’re coming with us.”
“No.” It was instinctual to reject the command, the reawakening of the rebellion in his bones to clash with Dean. This wasn’t that. Sam wanted nothing more than to stick by his brother’s side, his brother who went by Soldier Boy and had the ability to crush skulls with a flick of his thumb. For once, Sam didn’t feel like he could trust him. If he went, he had a feeling he’d fall far too deep to be allowed an out.
“No the fuck he isn’t.” Butcher hissed at the same time, their voices overriding each other. He threw him an unreadable glance before directing the brunt of his rising impatience at Soldier Boy. “I don’t know what the fuck’s up with you, but this is non-negotiable. You want me to let him walk and ruin this whole fucking operation? Fine. Peachy. But we’re not bloody carrying his ass back with us.”
“Good luck killing Homelander without me, then.” He said, not once taking his eyes away from Sam.
Butcher shoved a hand across his beard, eyes alit with a hue of red. “Fucking cunt. Fucking wanker, this is the last thing- don’t fuckin’ touch me, Hughie.”
“Alright, alright, sorry,” the younger man, Hughie, held his palms up but hovered near Butcher’s shoulder. “I mean, I’m not ecstatic about it either, but don’t you wanna know who he is? It’s no coincidence he’s here. Maybe he can prove to be... useful, somehow.”
A chasm of strained silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He could see movement from his peripheral vision, but he ignored it. As it was, as it always was, Sam only had eyes for the man in front of him.
“Jesus, fine. Grab your new boytoy and let’s fuckin’ go.”
The other two, Butcher and Hughie started down a path. Soldier Boy didn’t make any movement, feet planted in place. Neither did Sam.
“I’d advise against putting up a fight.”
“My odds are that bad, huh?” He said, shifting on his feet. “Do I not even have a fighting chance?”
And the smile that curved on his lips, razor-sharp and sinful and full of teeth, was a jarring echo of Dean. “Not in the fucking slightest, kiddo.”
In the end, he didn’t try to run. It would be downright idiotic to attempt anything at that moment and render himself with a few broken limbs or more. He needed to be prepared for when the perfect chance arrived, and until then, he could tolerate the ride along and keep not-Dean in his sights. Maybe get some information out of him in the process. His best guess- well, the only thing he had to go on was that obviously something had happened to Dean. An override of his memories, another personality stuck in his mind with false memories.
This wasn’t Purgatory, that much he knew. If he had to guess, they were somewhere in the US. Speculations aside, even if someone had fucked with Dean and completely erased his identity, the obvious physical signs of age threw him off the loop. Perhaps it was the longer, disheveled hair or the beard that helped create that image, but even from a single glance Sam could tell that there was something off about him. Both of them had actually lived longer than normal, mentally at least, with their respective time in Hell and in the Cage. They knew of battle and torture and blood and pain. This felt different.
The ride in the car was deadly silent. He was put in the back along with Soldier Boy while Butcher drove with a white-knuckled grip and Hughie rode shotgun. They didn’t bother restraining him or searching him, leaving his limbs free and the knife secured safely inside the back of his jeans. After a few hours on the road, having passed signs that situated him somewhere on the North side of Vermont, they pulled up to a mansion.
He got out of the car, filtering the new, unknown grounds. A second later, not-Dean was slamming the door shut with a kind of force that sent the car skidding two feet and booked it towards the front entrance of the mansion, not sparing a single look over his shoulder. For all the obstinance about keeping Sam alive and dragging him along, he sure seemed like he couldn’t care less now.
“What crawled up his ass and died?” Butcher said as he ducked out of the car, eyes tracking his retreating form.
“Do you think it was something Mindstorm said to him? Y’know, before he...“ Hughie grimaced, probably recalling images of the brutal killing. “He seemed pretty shaken.”
“Yeah, well, whatever it is, it definitely ain’t good news for us. C’mon, Rapunzel, it’s time to lock you up in the tower.”
He rolled his eyes but followed after only a second of hesitation, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the massive, spiked gates that automatically closed behind him. True to his words, only minutes later, Sam was locked in one of the numerous bedrooms on the top floor, most likely to be left there until further notice- or, if they were lucky enough, until he keeled over from dehydration.
He gave the room a scope before going through every cabinet and shelf, searching for anything that could be of use. Information was the most crucial thing in his search, which he definitely wasn’t going to find in a lavishly decorated room, but he worked with what he could.
He pulled the top shelf from the nightstand, quirking a brow at the tube of lube along with a pair of handcuffs. Okay... Continuing on, when he came across the seventh bottle of lube and sex toys he had never seen before, a faint tint of red dusting his cheeks, Sam decided to give up and moved towards the window by the bed. He gave it a firm push and it yielded easily, allowing him to poke his head out. He was three stories high, but it wasn’t a straight drop down. When the time came, he was pretty certain he could maneuver his way around the roof and climb down to the ground without any severe injuries.
“Looking for a way to escape?”
He whirled around and shoved his back against the wall beside the bed, accidentally bumping against a framed drawing on the wall as it clattered and shattered on the floor.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Hughie said with a sheepish smile and gestured at the tray in his hands. “Butcher’s gonna kill me if he knows I came up here alone, but I, uh, I figured you’d be hungry so I fixed something up for you.” He set the tray on the coffee table, a plate with two cold sandwiches, and a bottle of water.
“It’s not much, so you’ll have to excuse me for that.”
“No, it’s- it’s great. Thanks- Hughie, right?” He said, smiling briefly. They both stood awkwardly for a few seconds, with Hughie stealing glances at him and immediately averting his eyes once their gazes crossed paths.
“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about. I made it myself. But I guess you’d find that hard to believe. Can’t blame you. After all, we did just kidnap you from the woods.”
He shook his head, “No, it’s not that-”
“Y’know what? Lemme just-” Hughie leaned down and cut out a small part of one of the sandwiches before tossing it into his mouth and swallowing around it theatrically. “See? Safe.”
He huffed in amusement and nodded in gratitude, the taut lines of his shoulders beginning to unwind. It was nice to know that there was someone in here who didn’t resort to violence immediately as a solution.
“I know you have a lot of reasons to be suspicious of me and I get that, but can I ask you a question? That man back there, the one who...”
Hughie dipped his head, leveling him with a knowing look. “Soldier Boy, you mean?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded. “What’s his deal? Who is he?”
Hughie blinked, lips parting soundlessly before clamping shut. “You seriously don’t know?” When Sam remained silent, the other man folded his arms against his chest. “His name is Ben- well, Benjamin, actually, and he’s America’s first superhero. He helped end World War 2. Allegedly. Not sure how much of that’s actually true. But anyways, he-”
Sam filtered out most of what was said after the first two sentences. Superhero. America’s first. World War II. The words rang inside his head like a broken record player, a recurring, mocking tune. Okay. Sure. Superheroes were a thing, and not-Dean was old enough to have lived through World War II and was still kicking. Oh, and America’s first and greatest superhero, apparently.
They had gone up against angels and demons and Archangels for Christ’s sake, Sam wasn’t about to get stumped over superheroes. In his reality, though, none of what Hughie mentioned existed, and Dean was simply his big brother who was, possibly, still stuck in Purgatory. It was Sam who didn’t belong, who was out of place.
The sheer suggestion of that thought brought forward a pounding headache, lifting his clenched fists to press his knuckles against his eyes.
“Hey, you... you okay, dude?”
No, he couldn’t be jumping to conclusions of such an enormous, uncharted scale. There were a million other, more plausible explanations for whatever had happened to him than interdimensional travel. Unfortunately, he and Dean weren’t entirely unfamiliar with the concept, but Sam hadn’t done anything of the sort to warrant it, and simply making a crossroads deal was not powerful enough to result in it.
Was it?
At the very least, he knew that Crowley did not possess that kind of power. The more he thought about it, however, the more it began to make sense, the jagged, unfinished lines taking shape and form all around him, connecting one by one.
“Could I use a laptop? Or a phone?” He asked, knowing that his chances were extremely slim, but he had nothing to lose.
“Sorry, no can’t do. I’m not even supposed to talk to you, man.”
Sam held up his hand, “I get it, it’s all good. Thanks, anyway.”
After a few seconds, Hughie clasped his hands and then pointed at the door with his thumb. “Well, then, I’ll- I gotta go. Try not to do anything... dangerous.”
And with that, Sam was left alone once more, locked inside. He blew out a deep, shaky breath and allowed his body to collapse on the bed. He sat at the edge and leaned his elbows on his knees, running a hand over his face. An hour passed. Maybe two. When his stomach began to growl, he ate the sandwich that Hughie had taken a bite out of and jugged down the bottle of water.
When the fourth hour rolled in, he heard the familiar jingle of the lock getting turned. Probably Hughie to take back the tray or check up on him. When he heard the heavy set of a footstep, Sam sprang up from the bed and faced the door, a tingling sensation traveling down his body.
Soldier Boy walked in, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. Sam catalogued every sharp line, every slope that reminded him of Dean, struggling to convince himself that this couldn’t be his brother, all but failing. A mirror-perfect image of his brother, a variation of his brother- only in this universe, they were nothing to each other.
His body immediately clammed up at the staggering realization. Sam’s heart thudded fiercely against his ribcage as he watched the image of his brother inch closer, perhaps an unconscious thing, the gravitational pull of their souls woven together through space and time. They weren’t related, they held no history here, two individuals who never crossed paths, and Sam ached at the loss. A forlorn hurt, to break down and reach out with his hand, small, small and lost, because under the watchful gaze of his big brother, Sammy was a complete stranger.
And then bursting relief, because for a moment, for a fleeting moment, he can pretend that they do not bleed the same. Sam can pretend that he hasn’t been fucked in the head since he was thirteen, since he learned what love and lust and want meant for him, taking shape in the form of his big brother. And Dean was seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one, protective, confident, a womanizer and breathtakingly gorgeous and never his. And when he learned about Azazel and the demon blood coursing through his veins he thought now it makes sense, it’s not my fault, it’s not me but that was nothing more than a consoling lullaby, lies, lies and more lies to stifle down the fact that wanting to sink down to his knees and worship his flesh and blood brother was purely him.
For that very reason, when he reached eighteen and received the acceptance letter from Stanford, Sam didn’t think twice about packing his bags and fleeing like a coward, running as far away as possible from his father and that damned life. From his brother for whom Sam did not- could not afford to spare a second glance over his shoulder. Could not stomach the desolate silhouette of his brother standing alone at the side of the road. For four years, he locked away his ties with the past, burying Sammy in the darkest recesses of his mind. For four years, he was finally normal, until Dean showed up again that fateful night and made him realize, choking on his tears as he watched Jessica burn for his sins, that he was never going to escape it; the job, the life.
He was never going to escape him.
“You got a last name, Michigan?”
Despite the familiar nausea churning in his stomach, a vile guilt, a scorching heat, an infinite pit of misery, Sam’s chest felt hollow.
“Yes.” He said flatly, eyes fleeting down at the armor instead, focusing on what made the stark difference. Dean had filled out over the years, a gain in muscle and strength, but this... the man in front of him was double Dean’s size. He took up so much space- he demanded it.
“Not gonna say anything?”
There was a thinness to his voice, assuming that, much like Dean, Soldier Boy did not like to repeat himself. “Why? Will that change anything? Nobody likes a desperate-”
Sam jumped back a wide step when he saw movement, his heel hitting the wall behind him. His eyes were locked back onto the threat before him, now alarmingly closer.
“I could kill you.” He said, a heated declaration- and it was the truth, in a sense. If it really came down to it, Sam wouldn’t stand a chance, though whether it was cockiness or whatnot, for the most part, he believed that Soldier Boy wouldn’t go through with it. Perhaps he was in over his head and would soon come to regret it, yet the threats fell empty. Why would he go through all this trouble to haul Sam along just to kill him now? He wanted something from Sam, that much he understood, but that something was going to dig through flesh and burrow into his bones and marrow and take hold, an inherent itch that would destroy him from the inside out.
“What’s stopping you, then, Benjamin?”
A flare of nostrils, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Half a second later, he was barreling forward. It was a mistake to defend himself, hardly an easy feat to override instinct. That’s why, when Sam allowed his body to take the force, the breath nearly punched out of him as his back was roughly hurled against the wall, he had the knife out and against Soldier Boy’s jugular within a flash.
He stilled, inquisitive eyes flicking down to the knife. “Try it.” Soldier Boy goaded with a daring grin, his fingers flexing, digging into Sam’s collarbones. Sam held onto his grip around the knife, licking his chapped lips. With a raging pulse, blood thrumming in his ears, he ignored the eyes that tracked the movement of his tongue. White-knuckled grip, fingers trembling. A second of hesitation was enough.
“Pretty boy can wield a knife but is too much of a pussy to actually use it?” And Dean pushed forward, hard and unyielding, dragging his throat against the sharp edge of the knife straight across the middle.
“No-” the protest withered on his lips, dropping the knife as if it burned to the touch and scrambled to push his hands against his brother’s hemorrhaging neck-
He faltered, a flash of clarity through his white-hot panic. His hands touched prickly skin, the ends of the beard but completely dry and the skin intact as if nothing happened. Sam struggled to control his erratic painting and gently prodded two fingers against Dean’s unscathed neck, brows shooting up to his forehead at the wonder unraveling before his eyes.
“How...“
“My turn.”
Soldier Boy backhanded him, sending him nearly toppling over from the force, his mind reeling and his right ear ringing. Fingers snugged a fistful of his hair, wrenching his head back against the wall at an uncomfortable angle, neck straining.
“Looks like one of us bleeds.”
His mouth was filled with a familiar metallic taste and he was eighty percent convinced that his left eardrum had ruptured if the persisting pain and muffled hearing were anything to go by. A single hit, and Sam could barely stand on his feet without support.
“You wanna play smart with me, Sammy?” The low growl of Dean’s mocking voice came near his left ear, a courtesy, he thought, a small mercy since he couldn’t hear jackshit from the other side. “Don’t fucking try me. It’ll be the last thing you do.”
You know better than that, Sammy. I’m disappointed in you, kiddo. Dean’s voice echoed in his head, using the eerily soft yet firm tone that Sam had grown to despise over the years as a kid. A single word met by that tone, followed by the knowing look, condescending and demeaning, treating him as if he was incapable. And all of a sudden, Sam was fourteen again, seeking Dean’s approval and attention as if he were a starving beast.
“Sorry, ‘m sorry, Dean, I won’t do it again, I-”
A vice-like grip around the roots of his hair snapped him back to the present, branches of trepidation sprouting in his lungs at the accidental slip-up, burning eyes, a forest suffocating from a raging inferno staring back at him.
“What did you just call me?”
It was instinct to shake his head, a useless attempt on his part as the slightest movement only resulted in getting his head smacked against the wall again. “Nothing, I didn’t- fuck, just let me go already.”
“Say it.”
He closed his eyes, slumping against the wall behind him, Dean’s presence and weight and heat the only thing keeping him in place, surrounding him, drowning out everything else. Sam allowed himself to break, enough for the cracks to appear, enough to lose all strength in his voice, his vocal cords tied up in knots. He breathed out his brother’s name, a barely audible whisper, a sigh of regret and longing and hurt.
Soldier Boy wrenched himself away, running a hand through his hair as he stared off at the wall on the other side for five dreadful seconds. He turned back to Sam, expression shut-off and cold, but there was an underlying spark of agitation peeking through the mask of indifference.
“Who the hell are you?” Sam sucked in a breath, lips parting. He paused when an accusatory finger was lifted, pointing at him. “And don’t you even think about lying.”
He lifted a hand, cupping his throbbing ear with a wince. He didn’t need to guess, Sam knew that opening his big mouth and spilling was the worst possible idea. To reveal himself and lose any sort of advantage he had over the situation would be gone alongside his sanity, but if he didn’t talk, he might not live long enough to regret it. The same bluff wouldn’t work twice in his favor.
He cleared his throat, resisting the urge to spit out the built-up blood and saliva in his mouth. “Your brother.”
Soldier Boy’s eyes narrowed, patience running thin. There was a millisecond of hesitation before he said, “I have no family.”
“Maybe not, but I’m not from... around here.” He revealed, letting the words flow out in the thick atmosphere between them. Sam could see the furrow of confusion, the distortion of his facial expressions, struggling to make sense of Sam’s cryptic declaration. And then, Soldier Boy’s expression cleared, wide and astonished. The corner of his lips twitched into something harsh and incensed.
“I’ll tell you one thing, nutjob, you better start talking or you’ll be meeting your insides in a second.”
“I’m not lying.” He insisted, pushing off the wall. “Look, I know how this sounds but if you let me explain-”
Soldier Boy cut him off with a snarl. “Explain? What, you’re gonna explain to me how you’re Alice in motherfucking Wonderland and this is your little LSD-filled trip? Jesus fucking Christ, I should just kill you and be done with it, I should kill you and that asshole. Fucking family, why the fuck do I care about-”
A flickering light began to thrum from the center of Soldier Boy’s chest, the floor trembling beneath their feet with its rapidly rising force. Whatever it was, swelling into a blinding crescendo, Sam had an inkling that if they didn’t put a stop to it, it wouldn’t end well for any of them.
“Hey, hey, you’ve gotta calm down, man, I don’t think lighting up like a Christmas tree is a good sign.”
He closed the remaining space between them, reaching out to curl his fingers on his shoulder. As soon as his hand made contact, his wrist was snatched and bent at an odd angle. Having expected this violent outburst, Sam swept at Soldier Boy’s feet, sending them crashing to the floor. He was rolled on his back and pinned, but he wrestled his other arm free, shoving his palm flat against the other’s burning sternum.
“C’mon, snap out of it!” He yelled, eyes beginning to sting from the emitting heat of the light, the skin of his palm feeling like it was being melted. After a moment, the body above him stilled. Slowly, the excruciating heat began to ebb away, the glimmer following suit as it soon vanished back into the depths of his chest. When Dean’s pinched expression of concern and shock looked down at him, he let out a heavy breath and peeled away his hand, letting it flop on the floor. He didn’t need to look to know that a thin layer of his skin was burned off, red and swollen, the sizzling pain was an indicator enough. Great, now he was left with not only one functioning ear but also one hand less.
“Fuck,” he heard the faint curse from above and lifted his head.
“Dude, you almost went supernova. What the hell was that?” He clamped his mouth shut at the glare he received, but pressed on nonetheless. “I know you think I’m lying, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s the truth. You can either choose to believe it or not.”
“Brothers.” Soldier Boy deadpanned.
“Yup.” He said.
Soldier Boy scoffed and stood up, stepping away from him. Suddenly, the door opened to reveal Butcher, the man pausing in his tracks, words stalling on his lips as sharp eyes gave him a quick once-over, cataloguing his injuries, no doubt.
“This changes nothing.” Butcher said, turning to Soldier Boy. “We do in Noir and then Homelander just like we agreed, yeah?”
When Soldier Boy remained silent, a muscle spasmed on Butcher’s face, jaw clenching. With a silent, pointed look of something grave, Butcher walked out, disappearing down the hall.
“I have some business to take care of.” Soldier Boy had his back turned, heading for the open door. “You’ll sit here and wait for me to come back, you understand me?”
“Where are you going?” He asked instead, the question slipping from his lips before he could stop it.
“To kill my son.”
The door was slammed shut, the lock being turned in place only a second later.
“Jesus,” he muttered, letting his head fall with a thump back on the floor. His mind compelled him to stay seated and wait for his brother to get home. You know it’s dangerous out there, Sammy. Now, why don’t you listen to your big brother and sit tight, yeah? But this wasn’t his brother, not really, and Sam wasn’t an awkward, lanky kid anymore. Now that the jury’s out, he didn’t particularly think that waiting to deal with whatever was in store for him was wise. Honestly, he was surprised that he managed to get away only with a split lip and a second-degree burn. Besides, he wasn’t going to find any information by loitering around. He needed to find a way to get himself back, and his choices were already slim enough as it was.
Sam grabbed the fallen demon knife, forced himself to his feet to stand by the window, pulling it open. He stalled, waiting for any sign of movement. After no more than a few minutes, he heard the roar of an engine, a car speeding off the property. Taking it as his cue to move, he headed for the en-suite bathroom, rummaging through all the cabinets. When he found a small, first aid kit, he placed it by the sink and stuck his burned hand under the tap. He sighed at the cold water hitting his irritated skin, letting it soak for about a minute before he pulled back and wrapped his palm with a clean, dry dressing. He caught sight of the pack of cotton swabs, the gears in his mind turning. He plucked off the fluffs from one end and proceeded to cut the plastic, squeezing to make a semblance of something sharp and pointed. Then, he walked out and knelt by the bedroom door, jamming two of the cotton swabs into the keyhole.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he mumbled, grimacing at the twinging pain from his burn since he had to use both hands. When the pain began to build up, a numbing sensation seizing his entire hand, the lock turned with a quiet click. Sam kept his back planted against the walls as he navigated his way through the manor, steering clear of any oncoming voices and unwanted attention.
He slipped out the back door from one of the kitchens, rounding the building in hopes of finding an escape vehicle, for he knew that he wouldn’t be getting far on foot. His prayers were answered in the form of a silver Mercedes sedan. He needed to force entry and he would only have about ten seconds before they’d notice the alarm, so he’d need to move fast. Sam positioned himself by the driver’s side, taking a deep breath before smashing the window in with his elbow and hauling the door open. Immediately, the siren blared to life. He ducked under the wheel, ripping off the front panel and grabbed the red and white cable, tying the exposed ends together to create friction. In only six seconds, the engine was up and running, its purring having replaced the jarring wail of the car’s alarm.
When the faint sound of agitated voices reached his ears, Sam didn’t spare another second. He slammed the driver’s door and rammed his foot down on the gas pedal. He crashed through the gates of the property, eyes flickering every other second to the rearview mirror and checking whether he was being followed. Sam stayed behind the wheel for a while, wanting to put as much distance between himself and that manor as possible. When he was certain that he had driven far enough, he pulled by the side of the road and leaned his head against the headrest, eyes sliding shut.
He supposed that since his only lead on his little interdimensional trip was his deal with Crowley, he would have to try and summon him again and pray that it would somehow work (though he seriously doubted it would be so easy). For all he knew, even the supernatural rules of this reality could be entirely different from the ones he was familiar with. What if creatures of the deep and monsters weren’t a thing here? For better or for worse, what if Heaven and Hell did not exist? At least, not in all the ways that Sam had grown to intimately know over the years. Sam was willing to settle for anything in order to right this wrong and get himself back where he belonged.
To what end? A cajoling voice hissed from the depths of uncertainty. You have nothing. Everyone you love is dead, gone and lost forever. Your very attempts at helping your brother, nothing more than a pathetic illusion to stifle the truth that he’s dead and never coming back, backfired in such ways that could bring cosmic catastrophe. Don’t you get it? He’s gone and there’s nothing you can do.
Sam tightened his fingers around the steering wheel, the erupting pain granting him a moment’s respite. It didn’t matter. Even if- even if Dean was truly gone, he would let him rest. In their line of work, in their fucked up lives, he considered death mercy. Above everyone else, Dean deserved the peace of mind and soul for everything he had sacrificed, an exclusive piece of Heaven just for him. He thought, then, that perhaps it was time to let go. Sam had tried it once, he could learn to do it again.
But he didn’t deserve that kind of peace, no. Sam would hold out for the rest of his miserable years knowing everything he’s lost, every tear shed, and every life taken was because of him. And when his time inevitably arrived, he’d await the sweet embrace of eternal suffering with open arms. His divine punishment, his holy repentance, and the purification of his tainted soul.
Sam got back on the road and followed the signs toward the nearest town. Jeffersonville was a ghost town. He steered clear of the main streets, even though a few hours over midnight would have that common desolating effect, leaving them empty, not a single soul in sight for miles. The only sign of life was the occasional roadlights and signs, flickering in and out of existence. Still, he didn’t want to risk it. He parked the car at the outskirts of the town, near the beginning of the thick forest, mostly hidden from view. He settled in for the night, pushing the driver’s seat back and curling his arms over his chest, allowing the itch of exhaustion to pull him under.
Having slept more than he would have preferred, Sam set out the following morning to gather all the needed items for the summoning. Thankfully, it wasn’t anything crazy, but he made haste before disappearing from sight. The few folks he came across stared at him with something unreadable yet unsettling in their eyes, a reserved hostility. In such a small town, he was an outsider and stuck out like a sore thumb. They hardly spared a word for him, but it was evident that his presence was not wanted.
He drove outside of town and pulled over to make quick work of the ritual, setting the lit candles in alignment with the sigil, taking out the knife and cutting hard across his left forearm, bleeding into the wooden bowl. The mixture erupted in fire when he threw the matchstick into it, reciting the familiar incantation under his breath. The flames swayed and flickered with each passing second, and Sam waited with bated breath, eyes surveying the woods, searching for any hint. No more than ten seconds later, he glanced back at the bowl, barely catching the last crackle as the fire was snuffed out, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke.
Sam slammed his bandaged hand against the hood of the car, swallowing down the bubbling pain that tried to claw its way out of his throat, and slid down against the passenger’s seat.
Crowley’s prophetic vision echoed in the chambers of his demise, a razor-sharp hook piercing the fragile shell of his heart. He was well and truly alone, stranded in a world of the unknown. Maybe this was a new opportunity to start over, maybe this was as far as his story went, the curtains falling and the credits rolling in. The world liberated by his filth, forever to be forsaken, a haunting memory of the past.
But maybe, just maybe, here, he could start anew with a clean slate. No monsters, no expectations to be met, a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. Just... this. This, and the likeness to his deceased brother, something that he could finally have for himself.
Sam scoffed as he gathered his knees close to his chest, applying pressure against the bleeding cut on his left arm. If he were to do this, he needed to start fresh, to renounce the last fragments of his self that crossed realities for him.
For the next several days, Sam hit the road, picking up any kind of side gigs to earn a living. It was the dirty, grunt work that nobody wanted to get involved in, but he made do. He familiarized himself with this world’s history, similar in most aspects right up until the part where he read up on Vought International, an American multi-billion-dollar superhero entertainment conglomerate. Once he managed to wrap his head around the fact that yes, superheroes were indeed very real in this world (after all, he had seen America’s sweetheart with his very eyes), he delved deeper into his research about this corporation. They marketed and managed licensed superheroes, though from the few videos and clips he managed to catch on the news, it all seemed... fake and grossly put-together, a marketing scheme to gain the people's favor rather than a genuine effort.
A mean punch to the gut was the presence of former U.S. Secretary of Defense Robert Singer, running a campaign for president as a Democrat with Congresswoman Victoria Neuman. The first time Sam saw Bobby on the big screen- friggin’ Bobby, running for president, he nearly tripped over his own feet and face-planted straight into a light pole. He told himself to leave any part of his past behind, but the stubborn man just couldn’t leave him alone, seeing his face at every corner on a poster, at every public TV broadcast. Once the overwhelming feeling to recklessly approach the Bobby of this world washed over him, he could only cast a wistful look at the familiar face and keep on walking.
“Per Homelander’s official statement, the emergency evacuation of Vought Tower two days ago was a false alarm, the person responsible apprehended. Some claim this was an organized terrorist attack, yet it remains to be seen as evidence is being withheld from the public eye...“
Sam tuned out the live broadcast on the TV above the bar in the diner and lowered his eyes back to the map stretched out before him. Making a pit stop through New York was a risky choice since he was so close to everything that transpired, but he could hardly deny himself the curiosity of it. The fact that among all the superhero identities, Starlight and Queen Maeve grew on him the most was totally unrelated and inconsequential. This whole superhero shtick smelt of sketchiness and deception from miles away, an empire of lies built upon who knows what, but goddammit the songs were catchy.
Besides, if they hadn’t tracked him down until now, he doubted they cared that much to continue pursuing him. If anything, Butcher and Hughie would have already forgotten about him. He didn’t know what to think of Soldier Boy. Sam tried not to think of the man, but it proved difficult to keep the man who carried his big brother’s face out of his head. He hoped that he’d write it off as a fever dream and go back to his life uninterrupted. If he came back unscathed from whatever they were trying to pull. He had heard bits and pieces, an operation that seemed final. Killing your own son was certainly quite a lot to unpack, but it was none of Sam’s business.
“You find everything okay?”
He looked up, shooting the waitress a small smile. “Yeah, everything was perfect. Could I get the check, please?”
“Sure thing, hon.”
He paid with a debit card (a stolen to no one’s surprise. For all the preaching about starting anew, he easily slipped back into old habits, but the credit card scams was easy money in case of emergencies and he tried not to use it as often) and tipped before collecting his things, ducking out of the diner and out into the busy streets of New York. He headed back to the rundown motel where he was renting for the night in Brownsville, Brooklyn, having hand-picked the area specifically for its notorious activity, knowing that people wouldn’t pry into his personal affairs.
When he got back, the sun hidden behind the tall building lines, he should have noticed there was something off before even reaching his room. However, the moment he grabbed the handle and noticed the door had been jammed unlocked, it was already too late. He barely managed to push the door open when a hand snatched his wrist, dragging him inside and throwing him across the room.
“I told you to sit on your ass and wait, but you didn’t want to fucking listen. You should've listened, Sammy.”
He groaned, jumping to his feet at the sound of thundering footsteps. “It’s Sam.”
Sam had no chance of getting out of this alive. The searing rage in that murderous look and that predatory expression nicked an intimate fear, one that he had not experienced since he was a young and naive little boy. The man was out for blood and his big brother’s face would be the last thing he’d see before leaving this world.
He was on the floor in a matter of seconds, his face being smashed against the cold surface, a vicious grip in his hair keeping him there. A weight covered the expanse of his back, the outline of a hardened body pressing down, down, pinning him against the cold floor.
“When I say something you better fucking drop to your knees and gag for it, you understand me?”
He gasped, struggling and twisting, bringing his right arm behind him, aiming to jab his elbow at Soldier Boy’s side but failing catastrophically. His futile attempts only spurred the other further as his arm was gripped and twisted behind his back with a sickening crunch. He let out a strangled sound, white-hot pain exploding over the area of his shoulder.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.” His brother’s rumbling voice pressed against the side of his head, words grinded out between clenched teeth. The grip on his arm tightened, pulling and pulling, feeling his ligament tear, ripping his shoulder apart-
“Yes! Yes, I understand, I got it. Fuck, fuck.”
His arm was let go, and it fell limply to the floor, probably dislocated or worse if the pain was anything to go by.
“Don’t try to leave, and don’t try to run. Next time I won’t be so forgiving.”
He licked his lips, brimming with indignation and high on pain, the words leaving his mouth in a rush even if the answer was glaringly clear. “Why do you care? You don’t give a shit about me, you-”
“‘Cause it’s my job to look out for my little brother, ain’t it?”
His body went rigid, every single muscle locking in place. Sam let out a harsh breath, digging his forehead into the floor. He knew. He was no saint, no fool to the sensation of the body keeping him captive, a leg wedged between his thighs, the hard lines of hips against the swell of his ass.
“Don’t,” he said in a broken whisper, his cock twitching and his gut churning at the cruel bark of laughter above him in Dean’s voice.
“Christ on a fucking cross, you’re getting off on this.” The fingers around his hair clenched, his neck straining as his head was yanked back. A warm breath tickled the back of his neck, lips stretched into a vicious grin, branding his skin.
“Yeah? Is that it? You get on your knees and let your big brother feed his cock down your throat? Lettin’ it sit hot and heavy on your tongue while he shoots his load in you? Is that all it takes for you to break the rules, Sammy?”
“No.” He said, though the denial fell weak even to his own ears. His face burned with shame, his mind reeling with the taste of bile and nausea in his stomach whilst he writhed, pulling away only to push forward, seeking relief against the dirty floor, hips stuttering. “Stop. Get off- get off me, I’d never, I would never-”
“No?” The stubble grazed against his jawline, biting down on his lip as Soldier Boy rolled his hips against him. “Maybe you wouldn’t. You’d never let yourself have this, and he’d sooner plant a bullet in his mouth than taint his little brother like that.”
“But I’m not like him, and you’ll be good for me, ain’t that right? You’ll sit here and take it. You’ll let me have you, you’ll let me have this tight cunt of yours ‘cause you wanna be good for me. My good little girl.”
And his body spasmed with the sweet promise of it, his balls aching and full and heavy, his hole clenching at the phantom-shaped fingers of Soldier Boy’s fingers, of his brother’s, of his cock sliding and sheathing inside him.
“Ben-” he started in a frail protest, his final attempt at normalcy immediately ripped from his lips.
“That’s not my name, sweetheart.”
Heated revulsion stabbed at his chest, a shudder trickling down his spine. For twenty-seven years he had tried to suppress this vile greed inside him. A Herculean effort to keep it hidden and under wraps when he was a hormonal teenager, boiling with jealousy and possessiveness at every hand that dared to touch his brother and every pair of eyes that leered with carnal hunger. After, roughly a decade now, this ugly beast of want and claim in the image of his brother lay dormant, fallen into a deep slumber yet never quite free from its shackles. His own Judas’ Betrayal to everything good and holy, the mere thoughts of him tainting Dean’s purity. Even at his lowest, even when he walked the earth with no soul, an abomination with no inhibitions, he abstained from giving in.
But now, worlds away and in the false safety of this stranger bearing his big brother’s face, Sam broke.
“Dean.” He said hoarsely, pathetically, barely recognizing his own voice through the ecstasy of humiliation and guilt and the sense of wrongness that felt so right. “Dean, Dean, please, want you, God, Dean, I- I need you.”
“Jesus, look at you. Nothing more than a bitch gaggin’ for it. You beg like this to anyone who can get their hands on you? Or you only turn into a fag for your brother?”
“No,” he gasped at the hands that snaked to the front of his pants, unbuttoning him without a hint of finesse. A whimper through clenched teeth when knuckles teasingly grazed over the tent in his pants before pulling away to roughly drag his jeans and underwear just below his ass.
“No, just- just you. Only you.”
“Damn right.” Soldier Boy hummed, blunt fingernails biting into the softness of his right asscheek. “My little bitch. My needy whore of a brother. Gonna give it to you so good, gonna split you open and breed your virgin cunt just how you want it.”
A thumb slipped between his crack, the pad pressing down against the resistance met, prodding an inch into his tight, dry hole. Then, the weight from his back was gone, fingers gripping his ass and pulling him bare and open, the seconds dragging out as he was held exposed. Sam jolted when the sound of spit came from behind him, a glob of something wet hitting his hole. He choked on an embarrassing sound, humiliation tearing the bones of his ribcage, every lash, every sizzling lick flaying his chest open to the lingering thrill.
Only seconds later his hole was stuffed with two fingers, pumping into him with little care. Hand curling into a fist, nails scraping against the wooden flooring. Teeth gritted to have his head pounding, eyes stinging, vision swimming with tears.
When he used to fantasize about this, the Dean of his mind's eye would take his time prepping him. He would take this time, keeping him fixed on the torture of pleasure, those calloused and battle-scarred fingers teasing and opening him up for hours, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of him until it was nearly too much to bear. Then, and only then, when Sam would be a mess of sweat and tears, sinking limply through the mattress, Dean would slide home, seated fully inside his loosened and sensitive walls.
The ghost of his brother had no such regard. Sam blinked, he breathed, the air getting punched out of him when the fingers slipped out to be replaced with the fat cockhead catching around the ring of his muscles.
“Tight fuckin’-” a growl, his only warning before a palm, hot as a branding iron, scruffed his nape, and Soldier Boy’s cock was forced inside, but Sam was too dry and not nearly prepped enough and it fucking hurt, feeling as if his insides were getting torn apart. And he was dying, maybe he was dying, moans of agonized pleasure torn out of the back of his throat with each maddening thrust.
Sam was no stranger to sex between men, having lost count of the many lonely, inebriated nights during his early college years spent at bars, deliberately seeking out men that fit his big brother’s physique and personality; shorter but bulkier, cocky, skilled hands that had him coming prematurely inside his pants like some teenager. No one was ever going to be good enough. Those nights were nothing more than a quick fix, chasing after the ghost of something he could never have.
And this- he knew it wasn’t the real thing, but it would be the closest damn thing he’d ever get, knowing that the weight of Dean’s body held him down, the guttural grunts of his voice rattling around in his head, the fingerprint bruises seared onto his flesh and the shape of his brother’s cock brutally drilling into him.
His suffering and shame, a perversion of what he craved, the belief that this selfish violence and savagery were true and indisputable. It was more than he deserved, he thought in a cruel epiphany.
Sam lay there and took it, he took anything and everything, anything he was offered, panting and gagging for it, a disgusting need to be filled, to be used and claimed by his big brother, for it was his birthright. It didn’t take long before Soldier Boy’s hips were faltering, one, two, three erratic, sharp thrusts before stilling inside him, filling up his insides with a throaty groan. Having gone off the deep end, his sense of self adrift, drowned out by pain and pleasure, he barely noticed when he was rolled onto his back.
When the familiar silhouette of his brother’s face stared down at him, Sam made his first mistake. The mistake of wanting, seeking more than he was owed.
Dean’s blurry face leaned closer, and his lips were moving, but it was all unintelligible to him, falling on deaf ears. He sluggishly blinked, eyes focusing on that stubbled jaw and those full lips. Before he knew it, his body moved on its own, pushing himself forward, chasing after those lips for a kiss.
The closed-fist blow across his jaw snapped his brain back into his head, right hand coming up to cradle his face whilst the other arm lay uselessly on the floor.
“Fuck, don’t-” Soldier Boy held up a finger and shook his head. He swept his disheveled locks away from his forehead and stood up, already tucked in as if nothing had ever happened. “Don’t do that shit. I don’t know what you think this is, but I’m no faggot. Get your ass up and take a shower, you’re a fuckin’ mess.”
He gave a weak nod at the retreating steps, staring blankly at the ceiling. A few seconds later, when the distinct smell of tobacco invaded his nostrils, Sam forced himself onto shaky feet, limping towards the bathroom with the sticky mess of cum and blood sliding down the inside of his thighs.
When he saw the reflection of his face in the mirror above the sink, deformed and hideous, fresh marks adorning his neck like a noose, Sam threw a fist, the mirror shattering into smaller and sharper shards. He got what he always wanted. He had no right to feel anything other than to be thankful.
And yet, he could barely stand to look at himself, his fingers itching to close around one of those shards. Instead, Sam cleaned himself up from any trace of perversion, his shoulder screaming in agony and his heart collapsing in on itself.
Sam expected to be killed, discarded after Soldier Boy, after Ben, had his fill. He expected to be dragged back by his hair and thrown inside a room, left to rot for the rest of eternity. Honestly, he didn’t know what to think, but the last thing he ever envisioned was for Ben to hitch a ride with him and double as the Louise to his Thelma.
Wherever you go, I go, he said the morning after, the scent of tobacco and alcohol flooding the banged-up motel room. Get used to it, kiddo.
So much for leaving the past behind.
Why he decided to believe Sam and stick with him was beyond him. He wasn’t connected to it, to them, he wasn’t a slave to this bond that transcended time and space, not like Sam was. When he brought it up, attempting somewhat of a casual conversation, Ben gave it to him bluntly. Apparently, there was nothing for him in the world, no one to return to. He refrained from asking about the whole killing his son thing. He didn’t need to. Sam already got his answer.
He was dubious about this for the first few days, feeling as if he was walking on eggshells around the man, both fugitives of the state. But as the days blended into weeks and they fell into an inevitable routine, the tension began to seep out of his muscles, and he began to find comfort in this familiar pattern. It was a dangerous path to tread, which he knew better than anyone. He had convinced himself that he couldn’t have this, that he couldn’t allow his guard down, not even for a second. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t give in a second time, that once had been more than enough.
However, once the taste of indulgence entered the mouth of a sinner, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable relapse, and he was oh, so weak against the taste of his brother’s ghost sitting heavy on his tongue.
Ben would usually take him over the edge of motel beds with the cheap wallpaper chipping and peeling off the walls. Other times, when Sam refused to budge under the strain of pressure, planting a firm foot against overindulgence, Ben settled for having him on his knees between his spread legs, a fist around his hair as he fed his cock down Sam’s throat, keeping him there for hours.
Naturally, his hair grew longer and thicker. His locks were falling slightly beyond his shoulder lines, a hindrance more than anything, as he kept swiping stray strands away from his face every two seconds. For days, he had been thinking about giving himself a trim, maybe cutting off two or three fingers while he was at it.
“Don’t even think about it.” Ben had told him in finality when he caught a glimpse of the scissors on the bathroom sink. He stalked closer until his front, a burning furnace, was pressed against Sam’s back. Fingers twisted through his hair and pulled his head to the side, nuzzling against the sensitive spot behind his ear. Ben inhaled deeply, his other hand wandering down Sam’s side, pawing at his hip, yet those eyes never left his inside the mirror, watching closely from behind.
“I like to have something to pull on when I fuck your brains out. It suits you like this.” He ground forward, the hard line of his dick already at full mast. “Though you should probably get rid of that growing stubble. It tends to turn a man off.”
With a heavy sigh and a lingering heat at his back, now alone in the bathroom, Sam stashed away the scissors back in the cabinet above the sink and grabbed the razor. When he went to sleep that night, his eyes bored at the ceiling until sleep eventually came for him like his true calling, his bleeding heart lamenting this wretched loneliness, the blood pooling at his feet taking in the shape of his other half.