PART ONE: The Choiceless Hope
It takes Sam less than twenty-four hours after Dean dies to figure out what to do.
When he summons Rowena and tells her he needs her help to find another Dean, she isn’t even a little surprised.
“Ach, Samuel, you know Dean wouldna like it.”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m not breaking my promise,” he insists. “I won’t try to resurrect him. I know he’s safe in Heaven with Jack, probably Cas, too. I’m still hoping I’ll join him there one day. I just need a way to get through the next thirty years or so.”
Rowena sighs and rolls her eyes. “Winchesters.”
“So you’ll help me?”
Rowena clucks her tongue and shakes her head slowly. “Seems I must, since I owe you a debt for making me the Queen of Hell.”
Sam nods briskly. He doesn’t argue with her on that point, even though it isn’t strictly true. Dean’s death is still too fresh, and Sam’s got work to do.
He leads her down the hall to his bedroom and pulls back the curtain that hangs over his closet. When he puts his hand on the doorknob, it warms to his touch. It’s been a while. He turns back to Rowena as he opens the door, displaying an empty closet, dust gathering on the floor and shelf above the hanging rod.
“It’s a portal,” Sam says unnecessarily, since Rowena can obviously sense the closet’s power.
“Yes, Samuel, I can see that,” Rowena says. “Where does it go? A magic land full of talking animals, perhaps?”
“It used to take me to my Dean, in another time,” Sam says, ignoring her snark. “Now, I want to use it to travel to another universe. Another Dean. Preferably a Dean who doesn’t have a Sam.”
“Ah,” Rowena says, her tone soft with sympathy. “You want to use this portal to find a replacement for your brother.”
Sam flinches. “Not a replacement,” he insists. “A temporary substitute. For the Dean in the other universe, too. If he’s never had a brother, or if he’s lost him, he’ll be better off with me. Dean doesn’t do well when I’m dead.”
Rowena steps past Sam and into the closet before he can stop her, but nothing happens. She doesn’t disappear in a flash of light. She doesn’t disappear at all. Sam watches helplessly as Rowena stands perfectly still inside the three walls, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again to gaze up at him.
“It’s powered by soul magic, Sam, as I’m sure you already know,” she says. “And not the kind that needs to burn off in order to work, either.”
Sam nods. “I know.”
“Then you know how to make it work,” Rowena shrugs. “What do you need me for?”
Sam takes a deep breath, closes his eyes against the wave of frustration rising in his chest. “I need it to take me to a different Dean. Not mine. Not the one who shares his soul with me.”
Rowena shrugs. “Timeline, multi-verse, it’s all the same thing. Just close your eyes, tap your heels together three times, and use your infamous mind powers to make this thing take you where you want it to go.”
Sam shakes his head. “It can’t be that easy.”
“I assure you, my poor boy, it is.” She hesitates. “But if it’ll make you feel better, I can devise a potion that will ensure you find your way back to this universe, if things don’t work out. A magic trail of bread crumbs, if you will.”
She steps forward, out of the closet, gazing up at him in that knowing way that always makes Sam feel more confident in his own powers. She sees him, accepts his powers as part of who he is, not an aberration. Not as something that makes him a bad guy. An abomination.
Of course, Rowena’s not exactly the poster child for goodness herself. Sam probably shouldn’t put so much stock in her opinion of him. She’s not Dean, after all.
But Dean’s not here now, is he?
Which brings Sam back ‘round, full circle. His trust in Rowena has always been his fallback when Dean was missing or dead or not himself.
“There’s no guarantee that the Dean you find will be someone you want to know,” she reminds him. “As you said before, a Dean without a Sam isn’t a good thing. Even if you find one who never had a Sam, that just means part of his soul is missing.”
Of course, she’s right.
“I’ll take my chances,” Sam says.
Rowena sighs. “Well, suit yourself.”
She saunters toward the bedroom door, swinging her hips. Just before she gets there, she turns to look at him, lifting an eyebrow.
“You know, you’re always welcome to join me, spend the rest of your mortal life helping me rule Hell. It’s still your destiny, after all.”
Sam clenches his jaw. “No, thanks.”
“Ach, such a shame,” Rowena murmurs, closing her eyes. When she opens them again she stretches her hand out to him, revealing a small vial of something purple, glowing, and viscous. “This should do the trick, whenever you’re ready.”
Then she’s gone.
//**//**//**
Sam leaves Miracle at the Doggy Day Care in town, then calls Jody and leaves a voicemail requesting that she come to Lebanon to pick up the dog at her earliest convenience.
“I’m leaving town for a while,” he says into Jody’s voicemail box. “Not sure when I’ll be back.” He pauses, then continues. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I just need some time to clear my head.”
Then he knocks back the disgusting potion Rowena left him and steps into his time closet, now an interdimensional multiverse portal.
//**//**//
Sam spends the next few months universe-hopping, searching for a Dean he can live with.
The first few Deans he encounters are all murderous, suicidal, self-loathing men so damaged by their loss of a brother as to be barely human. A couple of them have killed their Sam, one in demon mode and the other with the help of the Mark of Cain. Those are the worst, of course. They look at Sam with such hatred, yet with so much desire and longing at the same time, that Sam has to look away.
Dean 1 launches himself at Sam with a knife, black eyes glaring, and Sam beams back to his closet on reflex.
Dean 2 attacks him in the bunker, shoving him up against a wall with demonic strength, just as he did in one of Sam’s Chuck-induced visions. Sam barely has time to beam himself to safety before the demon runs him through with the First Blade.
Dean 3 glares at him from the piano, where he’s picking out a tune one finger at a time, just like Sam’s Dean did all those years ago when he was a demon. He’s wearing the same red shirt that he wore then, and he’s sipping a glass of whisky, neat.
“What do I gotta do to make you stay gone, Sammy? Do I gotta kill you again?” he asks, his voice gruff with bitterness.
Sam sets his jaw, fighting the urge to run.
“You’re still you, Dean,” Sam says because he can’t help the impulse to help, to find a way to fix the damage. “Beneath it all, you’re still my brother.”
Dean sneers. “I’m a brother-killer, Sammy. A monster. You should leave before I kill you again. Believe me, it gets easier.”
“Let me help you,” Sam pleads.
“Help me?” Dean sneers. “You’re not my brother. My brother’s dead. I killed him. There’s no coming back from that.”
The urge to fix, to redeem, to save this damaged version of his brother is almost too much for Sam. He has to make himself close his eyes, to force the power that will take him away.
He lies on his bed back in the bunker afterward, weeping, his grief as fresh as ever, his sense of failure a crushing weight on his chest.
Then his stubborn determination returns and he renews his vow to try again tomorrow.
//**//**//
Sam has a strong intuition that there are other universes where Sam himself is alone, an angry, empty husk without his soulmate to ground him. He knows he could become that miserable wreck of a man himself if he lets himself wallow in his grief too long, so he gets up and tries again. He tweaks the power so it won’t take him to any more versions of his brother who killed his Sam or became fully demonic.
It makes Sam furious to think that Chuck created these universes as part of his little experiments, just to observe the travesty of one brother existing without the other one.
Sam also suspects there’s a universe where he finds a reason to go on without Dean. Maybe there’s a world where he even finds someone to love, someone who would help him assuage his grief and live with it, someone who loves him and helps him feel worthy of that love.
But Sam’s too driven, too stubborn, and far too impatient for that. His determination to find a Dean he can live with, who can help him get through his loneliness and grief until he can be reunited with his brother, overwhelms his every waking hour. It becomes an obsession he can’t shake.
He doesn’t sleep much, eats less, keeps himself just healthy enough to keep going, to keep the magic working. After the first few months, he stops returning to the bunker, keeps moving between universes, searching for the next Dean.
//**//**//
When he finds a Dean who never had a Sam, he hangs out for a while, trying to figure out what’s going on with the man. But within a day or two, it’s obvious. This Dean is the saddest of all. He’s lonely, empty, unsatisfied with life for reasons he can’t begin to understand.
The next few Deans are similar. Most of them are suicidal, alcoholic, always unmarried or with a string of divorces behind them. Always childless. Always without anyone to love them for more than a night. Wanted by the police, more often than not. Unhappy to a degree that Sam can tell he’ll never be able to fix. Living a life without Sam has conditioned these Deans to a state of utter and complete failure and despair.
“Why do you care?” they demand suspiciously when Sam talks to them, sits next to them in a bar. “What difference does it make?”
They don’t recognize Sam, or see in him anyone they care to know, and in the end that’s the thing that drives Sam away. He can’t live out his life with a Dean who doesn’t know him, who doesn’t want to be loved any more than the demonic Deans wanted to be saved.
Maybe it’s selfish of him. Maybe a better Sam would stay with one of the Samless Deans, just to give back in some way for the way they were made, just to try to fill the hole in their empty lives as well as he could, however temporarily.
But Sam’s not a saint. He’s not even his best self, without Dean. If he were, he wouldn’t be doing this in the first place. He would stay in his universe, alone and grieving, until the end of his natural life.
Sam’s never had any delusions about himself. He’s not a good guy. For a long time, he thought he was a bad guy. But now, after everything he’s been through, he knows the truth. He’s just a guy. And right now, over the past year since Dean died, he’s been a guy who needs his brother more than he ever thought possible.
He stays with the Samless Deans too long, unable to leave, unwilling to give up. When one of them falls in love with him, not knowing that Sam’s soul belongs to someone else, Sam finally sees that he’s inflicting real cruelty on the man, torturing him with the promise of something Sam can never provide.
“I’m not your soulmate,” Sam tells him sadly. He’s grown fond of this sad, lonely Dean, who finally mustered the courage to tell Sam how he felt. “I can’t stay with you. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Dean gazes blankly at him, huge green eyes wide with disbelief, then narrowing as he understands, or thinks he does.
“Of course, you can’t,” he spits out bitterly. “No one can. Don’t know why I thought you might be different.”
They’ve been together three months, which is longer than this Dean’s ever stayed with anyone, longer than Sam’s stayed with any Dean since he started universe hopping. They’ve found a little house, a lot like Bobby’s place in Sam’s old universe, and they’ve both found local jobs, settled into a kind of domestic life that Sam had only dreamed of in his previous life.
After sex one evening, Dean dropped the bomb, awkwardly and angrily and so much like Sam’s brother it made him maudlin and sentimental.
”You’re it for me, Sammy.” He cleared his throat. “So if you wanna, you know.”
”Dean?” At first, Sam stared, uncomprehending.
”Don’t make me spell it out,” Dean barked, angry. “You know what I’m trying to say.”
And Sam did. He kissed Dean tenderly, made love to him with all the longing in his heart, let Dean fall asleep in his arms, probably happier than he’d ever been.
Which is why Sam has to leave, and soon, before he makes things worse, before Dean starts doubting him, before he starts doubting them. Before he begins to turn his bitterness and self-loathing onto Sam. He’s already promised Sam as much.
“Anyone who tells me they love me is lying,” Dean had claimed not long after they first met. “No self-respecting man or woman ever wants anything to do with me, and if they do, they’re lying to themselves, and to me. Even my own mother didn’t want me.”
Sam had hoped he could stay, but they’ll never get past this, and now Sam wonders why he ever thought they might.
He feels cheap and mean, leaving this Dean, doing exactly what the poor man expects. But staying would be deeply wrong for both of them, and he won’t be the abusive boyfriend, nor will he allow himself to be abused.
Some things are just not meant to be.
//**//**//
After the disastrous year of hanging out with the Deans-who-never-had-Sams, Sam tweaks the magic again, this time so that he can seek out a Dean whose Sam has died, but not because he was murdered by his brother. It doesn’t surprise him that he finds the first one alone in a bar, drinking. That’s where most of the Deans are, without Sam.
He watches the man silently for a few moments before approaching him. It’s been almost two years since Dean died. Sam’s been on his quest ever since and he’s not feeling particularly lucky today. He’s tired, maybe finally ready to give up. But he’s lonely. He needs to hear his brother’s voice.
“Dean.”
At this hour of the day, the bar is almost empty. Sam’s brother - or rather, this particular version of Sam’s brother - sits alone at a table, whisky bottle beside him, half-full glass between his hands.
He wears that deep red shirt Sam hates so much because Dean - Sam’s Dean, his brother - used to wear it when he was being his most self-loathing.
This Dean broadcasts, “I’m a monster. A killer.” Maybe he’s even demonic.
If Sam hadn’t already met about half a dozen of those versions of Dean already, he might have slipped out of the bar without addressing the man.
But he’s been on the road too long. Sam needs a drink.
At the sound of his voice, Dean looks up. His eyes don’t flash black, but his expression is stormy, wary. His lips tighten, then curl up in a smirk. His dimples pop in a familiar expression of disdain.
“Sammy,” he says without a hint of surprise. “Thought you were dead.”
His tone is dark, almost a growl, and Sam shivers.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks, gesturing at the other chair.
“Suit yourself.” Dean takes a sip of his whisky, gestures at the bartender to bring another glass.
It’s a better greeting than Sam expected, and it’s more than he deserves after what he’s been doing over the past year or so.
“So what are you?” Dean asks as he pours Sam a glass of the whisky. “Ghost? Revenant? Universe-hopping-not-brother?”
Sam chuckles. “That last thing,” he acknowledges. “How’d you know?”
Dean smirks. “You’re not the first one,” he admits. “A couple of you came through early on, right after Sam died. Another one just last week.”
He raises his eyes, locks gazes with Sam, and Sam shivers again. He should have realized he wasn’t the only Sam doing this.
“I’m not your brother, Sammy,” Dean growls. “I can’t be him for you. Like I told those other copies: you won’t find what you’re looking for here.”
“How do you know what I’m looking for?” Sam asks, defensive but curious despite himself.
“Your brother died, Sam,” Dean says bluntly.
Sam winces. “How do you know that?”
Dean waves a hand at him. “Look at you,” he says, dismissively. “Clothes all wrinkled, hair’s a mess. Not sleeping. Barely eating. You wouldn’t be here, looking like death warmed over, if your brother was still alive.”
Sam flushes, drops his eyes to the table, to the glass of amber liquid he hasn’t even touched.
“Takes one to know one, right?” he suggests, lifting his eyes to Dean with an accusing stare. “Your brother died, too. On your watch.”
“My brother died because of me,” Dean says bitterly. “I might as well have pulled the trigger.”
“But you didn’t,” Sam clarifies.
Dean leans back in his chair, takes a sip of his whisky, and gazes at Sam with narrowed eyes.
“You think it makes a difference?” he says, shaking his head. “It doesn’t. It was my job to keep him safe. I failed. End of story.”
Sam shakes his head. “No, Dean. Your brother was a grown man who had the right to make his own choices. He knew the risks and accepted them willingly. You’re not responsible for his death.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Dean growls menacingly. “‘Cuz from here, it sure looks like you feel pretty damned responsible for your brother’s death.”
Sam shakes his head.
“I don’t,” he insists, although the little pit of guilt in his stomach says otherwise. “Dean knew the risks. He chose to walk into that barn that night. I respected his right to make that choice, and I accept what happened. I’m just grieving, that’s all. It’s normal.”
“Normal.” Dean scoffs, taking another sip of his whisky. “Using magic to travel to alternate universes to talk to other versions of your dead brother is so normal.”
Sam looks down at his glass, turning it slowly between his hands. His palms are sweating.
“As normal as anything about us can ever be,” he mumbles stubbornly. “Besides. I made a promise.”
“Ah.” Dean leans forward, raising his eyebrows, and Sam can’t look at him, at the smirk he knows too well. “That’s what this is.”
Sam clears his throat, shifting awkwardly on his chair. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sure about that? I seem to recall those promises we made to each other, about what we’d do if the other one got killed. How we’d find a girl, settle down, have an apple-pie life.” Dean’s voice is soft, intimate, almost seductive. “How’s that working out for you, Sammy?”
Sam’s chest tightens with grief. His throat clenches.
“He made me promise not to bring him back,” he spits out, but his voice sounds broken. “No more resurrections. That’s the promise.”
Dean nods. “Right. But nothing about universe-hopping to find a substitute brother. You didn’t promise not to do that, did you?”
Sam’s eyes smart.
“I can’t,” he gasps, closing his eyes against the sudden urge to sob, to reach across the table and grab this not-brother, haul him up close so Sam can hug him tight, maybe even kiss him.
His hands tighten around his whisky glass. He feels a single, hot tear roll down his cheek. It drips off the end of his nose into his whisky.
When he lifts his eyes to Dean, he knows he looks pitiful. He can feel how flushed his cheeks are, how bright his eyes must be, shiny with unshed tears.
“I miss him so much,” Sam says, voice cracking.
He lifts the glass, hand shaking, and downs the whisky in a single gulp. It burns in a good way going down, loosening the tightness in his throat and chest just a little.
Dean’s expression has softened, his amusement turning to fond sympathy.
“Me, too,” he murmurs, downing his own glass in a single gulp.
They leave together, in sync, and Sam allows himself to pretend that the man beside and slightly ahead of him is his brother. It’s broad daylight outside, and Dean’s obviously spent much of the day so far drinking alone in that bar, but Sam doesn’t chastise him for it. He gets the feeling that this man spends most of his time these days in that bar, slowly drinking himself to death.
They cross the parking lot to the two-story motel, Dean leading the way to the room on the end. The Impala looks like she hasn’t been driven in a while, and that makes Sam sad until he thinks about the fact that he doesn’t drive the car enough in his universe to keep it running. The battery’s dead and the carburetor needs repairing.
The room smells like sex and dirty socks. The blinds are drawn. In the semi-darkness, Dean pushes Sam up against the door, pulls his head down, and kisses him.
“I’m not your brother,” Dean hisses against his mouth, as if that makes this less wrong, less fucked-up.
“I don’t care,” Sam gasps, fumbling to get under Dean’s clothes, to find bare skin. He wants to crawl up inside this man and never leave. He wants to keep him alive just so Sam can have this, over and over, for the rest of his (probably short) life.
Desperate and frantic, Sam uses his greater height and weight to turn them around, shoving Dean against the door, kissing him long and hard and dirty until they’re both gasping. He shoves the offending red shirt down Dean’s arms, then peels Dean’s t-shirt off over his head, letting it drop to the floor as he mouths his way over Dean’s jaw to his ear.
“Gonna fuck you,” Sam promises hoarsely. “But first, I’m gonna blow you.”
“Okay.”
Sam slides his hands down Dean’s bare chest, followed by his mouth as he sinks to his knees. He gets Dean’s belt unbuckled, pops the buttons on his jeans, and shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips so that his erection bobs free, so that Sam can lick up the underside and close his lips around the head, just to hear Dean moan, just to feel Dean’s thick fingers in his hair.
Dean’s head snaps back, hitting the door, exposing his stubbled neck, his cleft chin with its little scar. Sam remembers exactly how Dean got that scar, just like he remembers how Dean’s nose got busted and set wrong, so it’s a little crooked now. Sam was there for most of Dean’s injuries, patched up a few of them himself. There are three shiny lines just above his hip where a black dog clawed him. There’s the raised skin just under his belly button, where a demon pushed him into the sharp edge of a table as it bent him over, intending to snap his neck or worse if Sam hadn’t run it through with the demon knife.
Mapping this man’s body, finding all the ways he’s just like Sam’s brother, bends his brain. He knows exactly how to get this body to hum, to cry out, to moan with pleasure. He wraps a hand around the base of Dean’s cock, sucks the rest of it into his mouth until it hits the back of his throat, making him gag. Dean’s hand tightens in Sam’s hair, pulling just enough, clutching reflexively in time with Sam’s sucking.
Despite the drink, despite everything, it doesn’t take Dean long before his balls tighten up and he spills long and hard down Sam’s throat.
“Sam. God, Sammy. Fuck.”
Sam milks him through the aftershocks, then pushes to his feet to gather Dean’s spent, relaxed body into his arms, kissing him tenderly as he half-carries him to the bed, lays him out on his back. He unties Dean’s boots, pulling them off one by one, then pulls his jeans and boxers all the way off his bowed legs, noting more familiar scars as he goes.
As he pulls Dean’s socks off Sam’s chest tightens. His brother’s feet were never bare. Sometimes Dean slept in his clothes, with his boots on. Seeing this man’s bare feet, holding them in his hands one by one, almost undoes Sam completely. There’s a vulnerability about Dean, every Dean, that always gets to Sam, a quality that he thinks of as Dean’s inner lost child, the lonely little boy abandoned by his mother too young.
Sam makes quick work of removing his own clothing, grabs a bottle of cheap motel lotion, then kneels between Dean’s legs. Dean’s all but passed out, snoring lightly, but when Sam shoves a pillow under his ass and bends his legs back, he scoots down the bed, closer to Sam, anticipating what’s coming.
The scar on the inside of Dean’s left ankle is a memory that makes Sam’s stomach swoop. He presses a kiss there, feels Dean squirm awkwardly, smiles against the soft skin. When he pushes Dean’s legs back, he can’t resist pressing another kiss to the tender underside of his knee, then the inside of his thigh.
“Get on with it!” Dean mutters crossly. “Enough with the foreplay.”
Sam slicks up his cock, strokes Dean’s hole with slippery fingers, then slides them inside, one at a time.
Hot and tight as ever.
Dean bears down on his fingers, mutters, “Get to it already!” And that’s all the encouragement Sam needs. Pulling his fingers out, he lines up his cock and pushes.
Dean moans, gritting his teeth and tipping his head back, clutching the sheets as Sam pushes inside him, relentless. He knows it hurts, knows Dean needs it to hurt, needs all of Sam inside him if he can get it. Dean’s a gentle top, slow and careful when he does this to Sam, but he always wants it hard and fast when he bottoms, won’t stand for it any other way.
There’s probably something pathological about the way Dean wants this, but Sam’s not thinking about that now. All he can think about is how hot and tight Dean is, how familiar. How alive. As he bends down to kiss him, Dean’s legs hooked over his shoulders, Sam lets himself pretend, just for a moment, that this is his brother. The love of his life. The only thing worth living for.
Dean’s so far gone, moaning, cock hard and dripping between their bellies, he can’t even kiss back. His eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking out of the corners. Sam kisses his slack mouth, his stubbled cheeks. He gasps Dean’s name into his ear as he comes.
Dean somehow manages to get a hand on himself, stroking his cock so that he comes again almost immediately after Sam, sucking in a breath and letting out a small cry as he does.
Sam rolls off him, hissing as his dick slips free of Dean’s heat and hits the cool air of the room. He drifts in and out of consciousness as Dean gets up, runs the tap in the bathroom, brings a warm, wet washcloth back to bed and wipes Sam’s belly for him.
It feels so good, Dean taking care of him like this. Sam’s missed him so much. He’s missed this, knowing and loving his partner like this, trusting him. He’s missed having a Dean who really knows him. Things were so good between them when Dean died, which is why it felt beyond unfair. They were finally free of all the angel manipulation, all of Chuck’s interference in their lives. Finally, their lives were their own.
And they were together, as much as any two people ever could be, soulmates, brothers, best friends, partners, lovers, home.
It’s just so damned unfair.
“Come on.” Dean’s still there, standing beside the bed, dressed in jeans and black t-shirt again. “Let’s get some food in you.”
Sam hauls himself up reluctantly, reaching for his jeans and t-shirt. He desperately needs a shower. It occurs to him that Dean likes him this way, likes to smell the sex on him, the evidence of what they just did.
There’s a diner across the street. Dean leads them there, opening the door for Sam, making his chest ache with grief. It’s always the little things that bring it all back, the loss and longing and general desire to collapse into a heap on the floor, sobbing.
“Did you bring those other guys here?” he asks after the waitress brings them water and menus.
“One of ‘em,” Dean admits. “The other two didn’t want my help. Too stubborn, I guess.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t blame them. I’m not their brother.”
Sam can’t imagine rejecting Dean, especially a Dean who isn’t trying to murder him. Especially not after what it took Sam to get here. After the other Deans he’s met, he can’t imagine rejecting this one. He’s gruff and self-loathing, sure, but in a familiar way, in a way Sam can understand. He’s seen his Dean like this, back in the days after Gadreel, when he was full of regret and self-hatred for doing what he did to Sam, for stuffing an angel into him without his consent. For being unable to let Sam go, whatever the cost.
“Well, you’re more like my brother than a lot of guys,” Sam says. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to stick around for a while.”
Dean looks up at him and Sam catches the flash of surprise and sheer terror in his eyes. This Dean has suffered, no doubt about that.
“Like I told you before, I’m not your brother,” he growls, making it sound like a threat.
Sam nods. “I know. And I’m not yours. But I have a feeling we could make it work anyway. I get the feeling we can help each other stay alive.”
Dean snorts. “Who says I want to?”
Sam shakes his head. “Nobody. And if you’d rather keep drinking yourself to death in that bar, I won’t stop you, although I may not be able to stay around and watch that. I can’t lose you. Again.”
“Not sure I’m ready to stop, Sam,” Dean says bitterly. “Drinking and grieving is pretty much what I know, these days.”
The waitress arrives to take their order, and Dean makes Sam order a cheeseburger along with his salad.
“You need some meat on your bones,” he insists.
Sam sighs. It’s been too long since anybody cared what he ate. If he slept. He’s been too long without a brother to look out for him.
“How long has it been, for you?” he asks.
Dean takes a sip of his water, sets it down before answering.
“Six months, two weeks, three days, and about five hours, give or take a few minutes. Not that I’m keeping track. You?”
Sam nods. “Almost two years for me,” he says.
“And you’ve been looking for a replacement ever since,” Dean notes grimly.
“Pretty much,” Sam admits. “I kept my promise. I didn’t try to bring him back. But this universe-hopping thing, it’s something I can do, something I’m good at. I couldn’t just pretend. I couldn’t not do it.”
Dean nods. “I’m guessing you’ve met some pretty messed-up versions of me, since you don’t seem to mind how messed-up I am.”
“You could say that.”
Their food arrives and they eat in silence for a few minutes, darting glances at each other. Sam can tell that Dean’s curious, despite his bitterness.
“What about you?” Sam breaks the silence finally. “You try to bring your brother back?”
“Maybe,” Dean admits. “Didn’t work.” He looks up at Sam. “At least, not exactly.” He shakes his head. “Makes me wonder if those other times, was it really my brother I got back? Or some other version of him?”
A shiver goes up Sam’s spine. It never occurred to him that the multi-verse existed before Jack, or before they learned about Chuck creating all those other worlds. But, of course, it probably did.
“That’s an interesting question,” he agrees, nodding. “I suspect the answer is pretty complicated, like quantum physics.”
Dean smirks. “Quantum physics, huh? You study that in school?”
“Not much, actually,” Sam says. “I’m just thinking of the idea that two opposite truths can co-exist. Maybe Chuck’s multi-verse existed before we knew about it, but at the same time maybe it didn’t, you know?”
Dean shakes his head, looks down at his empty plate, reaches over to Sam’s plate and grabs a handful of fries.
“I got no idea,” he says. “All I know is, I wanted my dead brother back, and now I’ve got you.”
The smile that splits Sam’s face open almost hurts. It’s been so long since anyone made him smile.
“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “Now you’ve got me.”
PART TWO
When he summons Rowena and tells her he needs her help to find another Dean, she isn’t even a little surprised.
“Ach, Samuel, you know Dean wouldna like it.”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m not breaking my promise,” he insists. “I won’t try to resurrect him. I know he’s safe in Heaven with Jack, probably Cas, too. I’m still hoping I’ll join him there one day. I just need a way to get through the next thirty years or so.”
Rowena sighs and rolls her eyes. “Winchesters.”
“So you’ll help me?”
Rowena clucks her tongue and shakes her head slowly. “Seems I must, since I owe you a debt for making me the Queen of Hell.”
Sam nods briskly. He doesn’t argue with her on that point, even though it isn’t strictly true. Dean’s death is still too fresh, and Sam’s got work to do.
He leads her down the hall to his bedroom and pulls back the curtain that hangs over his closet. When he puts his hand on the doorknob, it warms to his touch. It’s been a while. He turns back to Rowena as he opens the door, displaying an empty closet, dust gathering on the floor and shelf above the hanging rod.
“It’s a portal,” Sam says unnecessarily, since Rowena can obviously sense the closet’s power.
“Yes, Samuel, I can see that,” Rowena says. “Where does it go? A magic land full of talking animals, perhaps?”
“It used to take me to my Dean, in another time,” Sam says, ignoring her snark. “Now, I want to use it to travel to another universe. Another Dean. Preferably a Dean who doesn’t have a Sam.”
“Ah,” Rowena says, her tone soft with sympathy. “You want to use this portal to find a replacement for your brother.”
Sam flinches. “Not a replacement,” he insists. “A temporary substitute. For the Dean in the other universe, too. If he’s never had a brother, or if he’s lost him, he’ll be better off with me. Dean doesn’t do well when I’m dead.”
Rowena steps past Sam and into the closet before he can stop her, but nothing happens. She doesn’t disappear in a flash of light. She doesn’t disappear at all. Sam watches helplessly as Rowena stands perfectly still inside the three walls, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again to gaze up at him.
“It’s powered by soul magic, Sam, as I’m sure you already know,” she says. “And not the kind that needs to burn off in order to work, either.”
Sam nods. “I know.”
“Then you know how to make it work,” Rowena shrugs. “What do you need me for?”
Sam takes a deep breath, closes his eyes against the wave of frustration rising in his chest. “I need it to take me to a different Dean. Not mine. Not the one who shares his soul with me.”
Rowena shrugs. “Timeline, multi-verse, it’s all the same thing. Just close your eyes, tap your heels together three times, and use your infamous mind powers to make this thing take you where you want it to go.”
Sam shakes his head. “It can’t be that easy.”
“I assure you, my poor boy, it is.” She hesitates. “But if it’ll make you feel better, I can devise a potion that will ensure you find your way back to this universe, if things don’t work out. A magic trail of bread crumbs, if you will.”
She steps forward, out of the closet, gazing up at him in that knowing way that always makes Sam feel more confident in his own powers. She sees him, accepts his powers as part of who he is, not an aberration. Not as something that makes him a bad guy. An abomination.
Of course, Rowena’s not exactly the poster child for goodness herself. Sam probably shouldn’t put so much stock in her opinion of him. She’s not Dean, after all.
But Dean’s not here now, is he?
Which brings Sam back ‘round, full circle. His trust in Rowena has always been his fallback when Dean was missing or dead or not himself.
“There’s no guarantee that the Dean you find will be someone you want to know,” she reminds him. “As you said before, a Dean without a Sam isn’t a good thing. Even if you find one who never had a Sam, that just means part of his soul is missing.”
Of course, she’s right.
“I’ll take my chances,” Sam says.
Rowena sighs. “Well, suit yourself.”
She saunters toward the bedroom door, swinging her hips. Just before she gets there, she turns to look at him, lifting an eyebrow.
“You know, you’re always welcome to join me, spend the rest of your mortal life helping me rule Hell. It’s still your destiny, after all.”
Sam clenches his jaw. “No, thanks.”
“Ach, such a shame,” Rowena murmurs, closing her eyes. When she opens them again she stretches her hand out to him, revealing a small vial of something purple, glowing, and viscous. “This should do the trick, whenever you’re ready.”
Then she’s gone.
//**//**//**
Sam leaves Miracle at the Doggy Day Care in town, then calls Jody and leaves a voicemail requesting that she come to Lebanon to pick up the dog at her earliest convenience.
“I’m leaving town for a while,” he says into Jody’s voicemail box. “Not sure when I’ll be back.” He pauses, then continues. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I just need some time to clear my head.”
Then he knocks back the disgusting potion Rowena left him and steps into his time closet, now an interdimensional multiverse portal.
//**//**//
Sam spends the next few months universe-hopping, searching for a Dean he can live with.
The first few Deans he encounters are all murderous, suicidal, self-loathing men so damaged by their loss of a brother as to be barely human. A couple of them have killed their Sam, one in demon mode and the other with the help of the Mark of Cain. Those are the worst, of course. They look at Sam with such hatred, yet with so much desire and longing at the same time, that Sam has to look away.
Dean 1 launches himself at Sam with a knife, black eyes glaring, and Sam beams back to his closet on reflex.
Dean 2 attacks him in the bunker, shoving him up against a wall with demonic strength, just as he did in one of Sam’s Chuck-induced visions. Sam barely has time to beam himself to safety before the demon runs him through with the First Blade.
Dean 3 glares at him from the piano, where he’s picking out a tune one finger at a time, just like Sam’s Dean did all those years ago when he was a demon. He’s wearing the same red shirt that he wore then, and he’s sipping a glass of whisky, neat.
“What do I gotta do to make you stay gone, Sammy? Do I gotta kill you again?” he asks, his voice gruff with bitterness.
Sam sets his jaw, fighting the urge to run.
“You’re still you, Dean,” Sam says because he can’t help the impulse to help, to find a way to fix the damage. “Beneath it all, you’re still my brother.”
Dean sneers. “I’m a brother-killer, Sammy. A monster. You should leave before I kill you again. Believe me, it gets easier.”
“Let me help you,” Sam pleads.
“Help me?” Dean sneers. “You’re not my brother. My brother’s dead. I killed him. There’s no coming back from that.”
The urge to fix, to redeem, to save this damaged version of his brother is almost too much for Sam. He has to make himself close his eyes, to force the power that will take him away.
He lies on his bed back in the bunker afterward, weeping, his grief as fresh as ever, his sense of failure a crushing weight on his chest.
Then his stubborn determination returns and he renews his vow to try again tomorrow.
//**//**//
Sam has a strong intuition that there are other universes where Sam himself is alone, an angry, empty husk without his soulmate to ground him. He knows he could become that miserable wreck of a man himself if he lets himself wallow in his grief too long, so he gets up and tries again. He tweaks the power so it won’t take him to any more versions of his brother who killed his Sam or became fully demonic.
It makes Sam furious to think that Chuck created these universes as part of his little experiments, just to observe the travesty of one brother existing without the other one.
Sam also suspects there’s a universe where he finds a reason to go on without Dean. Maybe there’s a world where he even finds someone to love, someone who would help him assuage his grief and live with it, someone who loves him and helps him feel worthy of that love.
But Sam’s too driven, too stubborn, and far too impatient for that. His determination to find a Dean he can live with, who can help him get through his loneliness and grief until he can be reunited with his brother, overwhelms his every waking hour. It becomes an obsession he can’t shake.
He doesn’t sleep much, eats less, keeps himself just healthy enough to keep going, to keep the magic working. After the first few months, he stops returning to the bunker, keeps moving between universes, searching for the next Dean.
//**//**//
When he finds a Dean who never had a Sam, he hangs out for a while, trying to figure out what’s going on with the man. But within a day or two, it’s obvious. This Dean is the saddest of all. He’s lonely, empty, unsatisfied with life for reasons he can’t begin to understand.
The next few Deans are similar. Most of them are suicidal, alcoholic, always unmarried or with a string of divorces behind them. Always childless. Always without anyone to love them for more than a night. Wanted by the police, more often than not. Unhappy to a degree that Sam can tell he’ll never be able to fix. Living a life without Sam has conditioned these Deans to a state of utter and complete failure and despair.
“Why do you care?” they demand suspiciously when Sam talks to them, sits next to them in a bar. “What difference does it make?”
They don’t recognize Sam, or see in him anyone they care to know, and in the end that’s the thing that drives Sam away. He can’t live out his life with a Dean who doesn’t know him, who doesn’t want to be loved any more than the demonic Deans wanted to be saved.
Maybe it’s selfish of him. Maybe a better Sam would stay with one of the Samless Deans, just to give back in some way for the way they were made, just to try to fill the hole in their empty lives as well as he could, however temporarily.
But Sam’s not a saint. He’s not even his best self, without Dean. If he were, he wouldn’t be doing this in the first place. He would stay in his universe, alone and grieving, until the end of his natural life.
Sam’s never had any delusions about himself. He’s not a good guy. For a long time, he thought he was a bad guy. But now, after everything he’s been through, he knows the truth. He’s just a guy. And right now, over the past year since Dean died, he’s been a guy who needs his brother more than he ever thought possible.
He stays with the Samless Deans too long, unable to leave, unwilling to give up. When one of them falls in love with him, not knowing that Sam’s soul belongs to someone else, Sam finally sees that he’s inflicting real cruelty on the man, torturing him with the promise of something Sam can never provide.
“I’m not your soulmate,” Sam tells him sadly. He’s grown fond of this sad, lonely Dean, who finally mustered the courage to tell Sam how he felt. “I can’t stay with you. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Dean gazes blankly at him, huge green eyes wide with disbelief, then narrowing as he understands, or thinks he does.
“Of course, you can’t,” he spits out bitterly. “No one can. Don’t know why I thought you might be different.”
They’ve been together three months, which is longer than this Dean’s ever stayed with anyone, longer than Sam’s stayed with any Dean since he started universe hopping. They’ve found a little house, a lot like Bobby’s place in Sam’s old universe, and they’ve both found local jobs, settled into a kind of domestic life that Sam had only dreamed of in his previous life.
After sex one evening, Dean dropped the bomb, awkwardly and angrily and so much like Sam’s brother it made him maudlin and sentimental.
”You’re it for me, Sammy.” He cleared his throat. “So if you wanna, you know.”
”Dean?” At first, Sam stared, uncomprehending.
”Don’t make me spell it out,” Dean barked, angry. “You know what I’m trying to say.”
And Sam did. He kissed Dean tenderly, made love to him with all the longing in his heart, let Dean fall asleep in his arms, probably happier than he’d ever been.
Which is why Sam has to leave, and soon, before he makes things worse, before Dean starts doubting him, before he starts doubting them. Before he begins to turn his bitterness and self-loathing onto Sam. He’s already promised Sam as much.
“Anyone who tells me they love me is lying,” Dean had claimed not long after they first met. “No self-respecting man or woman ever wants anything to do with me, and if they do, they’re lying to themselves, and to me. Even my own mother didn’t want me.”
Sam had hoped he could stay, but they’ll never get past this, and now Sam wonders why he ever thought they might.
He feels cheap and mean, leaving this Dean, doing exactly what the poor man expects. But staying would be deeply wrong for both of them, and he won’t be the abusive boyfriend, nor will he allow himself to be abused.
Some things are just not meant to be.
//**//**//
After the disastrous year of hanging out with the Deans-who-never-had-Sams, Sam tweaks the magic again, this time so that he can seek out a Dean whose Sam has died, but not because he was murdered by his brother. It doesn’t surprise him that he finds the first one alone in a bar, drinking. That’s where most of the Deans are, without Sam.
He watches the man silently for a few moments before approaching him. It’s been almost two years since Dean died. Sam’s been on his quest ever since and he’s not feeling particularly lucky today. He’s tired, maybe finally ready to give up. But he’s lonely. He needs to hear his brother’s voice.
“Dean.”
At this hour of the day, the bar is almost empty. Sam’s brother - or rather, this particular version of Sam’s brother - sits alone at a table, whisky bottle beside him, half-full glass between his hands.
He wears that deep red shirt Sam hates so much because Dean - Sam’s Dean, his brother - used to wear it when he was being his most self-loathing.
This Dean broadcasts, “I’m a monster. A killer.” Maybe he’s even demonic.
If Sam hadn’t already met about half a dozen of those versions of Dean already, he might have slipped out of the bar without addressing the man.
But he’s been on the road too long. Sam needs a drink.
At the sound of his voice, Dean looks up. His eyes don’t flash black, but his expression is stormy, wary. His lips tighten, then curl up in a smirk. His dimples pop in a familiar expression of disdain.
“Sammy,” he says without a hint of surprise. “Thought you were dead.”
His tone is dark, almost a growl, and Sam shivers.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks, gesturing at the other chair.
“Suit yourself.” Dean takes a sip of his whisky, gestures at the bartender to bring another glass.
It’s a better greeting than Sam expected, and it’s more than he deserves after what he’s been doing over the past year or so.
“So what are you?” Dean asks as he pours Sam a glass of the whisky. “Ghost? Revenant? Universe-hopping-not-brother?”
Sam chuckles. “That last thing,” he acknowledges. “How’d you know?”
Dean smirks. “You’re not the first one,” he admits. “A couple of you came through early on, right after Sam died. Another one just last week.”
He raises his eyes, locks gazes with Sam, and Sam shivers again. He should have realized he wasn’t the only Sam doing this.
“I’m not your brother, Sammy,” Dean growls. “I can’t be him for you. Like I told those other copies: you won’t find what you’re looking for here.”
“How do you know what I’m looking for?” Sam asks, defensive but curious despite himself.
“Your brother died, Sam,” Dean says bluntly.
Sam winces. “How do you know that?”
Dean waves a hand at him. “Look at you,” he says, dismissively. “Clothes all wrinkled, hair’s a mess. Not sleeping. Barely eating. You wouldn’t be here, looking like death warmed over, if your brother was still alive.”
Sam flushes, drops his eyes to the table, to the glass of amber liquid he hasn’t even touched.
“Takes one to know one, right?” he suggests, lifting his eyes to Dean with an accusing stare. “Your brother died, too. On your watch.”
“My brother died because of me,” Dean says bitterly. “I might as well have pulled the trigger.”
“But you didn’t,” Sam clarifies.
Dean leans back in his chair, takes a sip of his whisky, and gazes at Sam with narrowed eyes.
“You think it makes a difference?” he says, shaking his head. “It doesn’t. It was my job to keep him safe. I failed. End of story.”
Sam shakes his head. “No, Dean. Your brother was a grown man who had the right to make his own choices. He knew the risks and accepted them willingly. You’re not responsible for his death.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Dean growls menacingly. “‘Cuz from here, it sure looks like you feel pretty damned responsible for your brother’s death.”
Sam shakes his head.
“I don’t,” he insists, although the little pit of guilt in his stomach says otherwise. “Dean knew the risks. He chose to walk into that barn that night. I respected his right to make that choice, and I accept what happened. I’m just grieving, that’s all. It’s normal.”
“Normal.” Dean scoffs, taking another sip of his whisky. “Using magic to travel to alternate universes to talk to other versions of your dead brother is so normal.”
Sam looks down at his glass, turning it slowly between his hands. His palms are sweating.
“As normal as anything about us can ever be,” he mumbles stubbornly. “Besides. I made a promise.”
“Ah.” Dean leans forward, raising his eyebrows, and Sam can’t look at him, at the smirk he knows too well. “That’s what this is.”
Sam clears his throat, shifting awkwardly on his chair. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sure about that? I seem to recall those promises we made to each other, about what we’d do if the other one got killed. How we’d find a girl, settle down, have an apple-pie life.” Dean’s voice is soft, intimate, almost seductive. “How’s that working out for you, Sammy?”
Sam’s chest tightens with grief. His throat clenches.
“He made me promise not to bring him back,” he spits out, but his voice sounds broken. “No more resurrections. That’s the promise.”
Dean nods. “Right. But nothing about universe-hopping to find a substitute brother. You didn’t promise not to do that, did you?”
Sam’s eyes smart.
“I can’t,” he gasps, closing his eyes against the sudden urge to sob, to reach across the table and grab this not-brother, haul him up close so Sam can hug him tight, maybe even kiss him.
His hands tighten around his whisky glass. He feels a single, hot tear roll down his cheek. It drips off the end of his nose into his whisky.
When he lifts his eyes to Dean, he knows he looks pitiful. He can feel how flushed his cheeks are, how bright his eyes must be, shiny with unshed tears.
“I miss him so much,” Sam says, voice cracking.
He lifts the glass, hand shaking, and downs the whisky in a single gulp. It burns in a good way going down, loosening the tightness in his throat and chest just a little.
Dean’s expression has softened, his amusement turning to fond sympathy.
“Me, too,” he murmurs, downing his own glass in a single gulp.
They leave together, in sync, and Sam allows himself to pretend that the man beside and slightly ahead of him is his brother. It’s broad daylight outside, and Dean’s obviously spent much of the day so far drinking alone in that bar, but Sam doesn’t chastise him for it. He gets the feeling that this man spends most of his time these days in that bar, slowly drinking himself to death.
They cross the parking lot to the two-story motel, Dean leading the way to the room on the end. The Impala looks like she hasn’t been driven in a while, and that makes Sam sad until he thinks about the fact that he doesn’t drive the car enough in his universe to keep it running. The battery’s dead and the carburetor needs repairing.
The room smells like sex and dirty socks. The blinds are drawn. In the semi-darkness, Dean pushes Sam up against the door, pulls his head down, and kisses him.
“I’m not your brother,” Dean hisses against his mouth, as if that makes this less wrong, less fucked-up.
“I don’t care,” Sam gasps, fumbling to get under Dean’s clothes, to find bare skin. He wants to crawl up inside this man and never leave. He wants to keep him alive just so Sam can have this, over and over, for the rest of his (probably short) life.
Desperate and frantic, Sam uses his greater height and weight to turn them around, shoving Dean against the door, kissing him long and hard and dirty until they’re both gasping. He shoves the offending red shirt down Dean’s arms, then peels Dean’s t-shirt off over his head, letting it drop to the floor as he mouths his way over Dean’s jaw to his ear.
“Gonna fuck you,” Sam promises hoarsely. “But first, I’m gonna blow you.”
“Okay.”
Sam slides his hands down Dean’s bare chest, followed by his mouth as he sinks to his knees. He gets Dean’s belt unbuckled, pops the buttons on his jeans, and shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips so that his erection bobs free, so that Sam can lick up the underside and close his lips around the head, just to hear Dean moan, just to feel Dean’s thick fingers in his hair.
Dean’s head snaps back, hitting the door, exposing his stubbled neck, his cleft chin with its little scar. Sam remembers exactly how Dean got that scar, just like he remembers how Dean’s nose got busted and set wrong, so it’s a little crooked now. Sam was there for most of Dean’s injuries, patched up a few of them himself. There are three shiny lines just above his hip where a black dog clawed him. There’s the raised skin just under his belly button, where a demon pushed him into the sharp edge of a table as it bent him over, intending to snap his neck or worse if Sam hadn’t run it through with the demon knife.
Mapping this man’s body, finding all the ways he’s just like Sam’s brother, bends his brain. He knows exactly how to get this body to hum, to cry out, to moan with pleasure. He wraps a hand around the base of Dean’s cock, sucks the rest of it into his mouth until it hits the back of his throat, making him gag. Dean’s hand tightens in Sam’s hair, pulling just enough, clutching reflexively in time with Sam’s sucking.
Despite the drink, despite everything, it doesn’t take Dean long before his balls tighten up and he spills long and hard down Sam’s throat.
“Sam. God, Sammy. Fuck.”
Sam milks him through the aftershocks, then pushes to his feet to gather Dean’s spent, relaxed body into his arms, kissing him tenderly as he half-carries him to the bed, lays him out on his back. He unties Dean’s boots, pulling them off one by one, then pulls his jeans and boxers all the way off his bowed legs, noting more familiar scars as he goes.
As he pulls Dean’s socks off Sam’s chest tightens. His brother’s feet were never bare. Sometimes Dean slept in his clothes, with his boots on. Seeing this man’s bare feet, holding them in his hands one by one, almost undoes Sam completely. There’s a vulnerability about Dean, every Dean, that always gets to Sam, a quality that he thinks of as Dean’s inner lost child, the lonely little boy abandoned by his mother too young.
Sam makes quick work of removing his own clothing, grabs a bottle of cheap motel lotion, then kneels between Dean’s legs. Dean’s all but passed out, snoring lightly, but when Sam shoves a pillow under his ass and bends his legs back, he scoots down the bed, closer to Sam, anticipating what’s coming.
The scar on the inside of Dean’s left ankle is a memory that makes Sam’s stomach swoop. He presses a kiss there, feels Dean squirm awkwardly, smiles against the soft skin. When he pushes Dean’s legs back, he can’t resist pressing another kiss to the tender underside of his knee, then the inside of his thigh.
“Get on with it!” Dean mutters crossly. “Enough with the foreplay.”
Sam slicks up his cock, strokes Dean’s hole with slippery fingers, then slides them inside, one at a time.
Hot and tight as ever.
Dean bears down on his fingers, mutters, “Get to it already!” And that’s all the encouragement Sam needs. Pulling his fingers out, he lines up his cock and pushes.
Dean moans, gritting his teeth and tipping his head back, clutching the sheets as Sam pushes inside him, relentless. He knows it hurts, knows Dean needs it to hurt, needs all of Sam inside him if he can get it. Dean’s a gentle top, slow and careful when he does this to Sam, but he always wants it hard and fast when he bottoms, won’t stand for it any other way.
There’s probably something pathological about the way Dean wants this, but Sam’s not thinking about that now. All he can think about is how hot and tight Dean is, how familiar. How alive. As he bends down to kiss him, Dean’s legs hooked over his shoulders, Sam lets himself pretend, just for a moment, that this is his brother. The love of his life. The only thing worth living for.
Dean’s so far gone, moaning, cock hard and dripping between their bellies, he can’t even kiss back. His eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking out of the corners. Sam kisses his slack mouth, his stubbled cheeks. He gasps Dean’s name into his ear as he comes.
Dean somehow manages to get a hand on himself, stroking his cock so that he comes again almost immediately after Sam, sucking in a breath and letting out a small cry as he does.
Sam rolls off him, hissing as his dick slips free of Dean’s heat and hits the cool air of the room. He drifts in and out of consciousness as Dean gets up, runs the tap in the bathroom, brings a warm, wet washcloth back to bed and wipes Sam’s belly for him.
It feels so good, Dean taking care of him like this. Sam’s missed him so much. He’s missed this, knowing and loving his partner like this, trusting him. He’s missed having a Dean who really knows him. Things were so good between them when Dean died, which is why it felt beyond unfair. They were finally free of all the angel manipulation, all of Chuck’s interference in their lives. Finally, their lives were their own.
And they were together, as much as any two people ever could be, soulmates, brothers, best friends, partners, lovers, home.
It’s just so damned unfair.
“Come on.” Dean’s still there, standing beside the bed, dressed in jeans and black t-shirt again. “Let’s get some food in you.”
Sam hauls himself up reluctantly, reaching for his jeans and t-shirt. He desperately needs a shower. It occurs to him that Dean likes him this way, likes to smell the sex on him, the evidence of what they just did.
There’s a diner across the street. Dean leads them there, opening the door for Sam, making his chest ache with grief. It’s always the little things that bring it all back, the loss and longing and general desire to collapse into a heap on the floor, sobbing.
“Did you bring those other guys here?” he asks after the waitress brings them water and menus.
“One of ‘em,” Dean admits. “The other two didn’t want my help. Too stubborn, I guess.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t blame them. I’m not their brother.”
Sam can’t imagine rejecting Dean, especially a Dean who isn’t trying to murder him. Especially not after what it took Sam to get here. After the other Deans he’s met, he can’t imagine rejecting this one. He’s gruff and self-loathing, sure, but in a familiar way, in a way Sam can understand. He’s seen his Dean like this, back in the days after Gadreel, when he was full of regret and self-hatred for doing what he did to Sam, for stuffing an angel into him without his consent. For being unable to let Sam go, whatever the cost.
“Well, you’re more like my brother than a lot of guys,” Sam says. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to stick around for a while.”
Dean looks up at him and Sam catches the flash of surprise and sheer terror in his eyes. This Dean has suffered, no doubt about that.
“Like I told you before, I’m not your brother,” he growls, making it sound like a threat.
Sam nods. “I know. And I’m not yours. But I have a feeling we could make it work anyway. I get the feeling we can help each other stay alive.”
Dean snorts. “Who says I want to?”
Sam shakes his head. “Nobody. And if you’d rather keep drinking yourself to death in that bar, I won’t stop you, although I may not be able to stay around and watch that. I can’t lose you. Again.”
“Not sure I’m ready to stop, Sam,” Dean says bitterly. “Drinking and grieving is pretty much what I know, these days.”
The waitress arrives to take their order, and Dean makes Sam order a cheeseburger along with his salad.
“You need some meat on your bones,” he insists.
Sam sighs. It’s been too long since anybody cared what he ate. If he slept. He’s been too long without a brother to look out for him.
“How long has it been, for you?” he asks.
Dean takes a sip of his water, sets it down before answering.
“Six months, two weeks, three days, and about five hours, give or take a few minutes. Not that I’m keeping track. You?”
Sam nods. “Almost two years for me,” he says.
“And you’ve been looking for a replacement ever since,” Dean notes grimly.
“Pretty much,” Sam admits. “I kept my promise. I didn’t try to bring him back. But this universe-hopping thing, it’s something I can do, something I’m good at. I couldn’t just pretend. I couldn’t not do it.”
Dean nods. “I’m guessing you’ve met some pretty messed-up versions of me, since you don’t seem to mind how messed-up I am.”
“You could say that.”
Their food arrives and they eat in silence for a few minutes, darting glances at each other. Sam can tell that Dean’s curious, despite his bitterness.
“What about you?” Sam breaks the silence finally. “You try to bring your brother back?”
“Maybe,” Dean admits. “Didn’t work.” He looks up at Sam. “At least, not exactly.” He shakes his head. “Makes me wonder if those other times, was it really my brother I got back? Or some other version of him?”
A shiver goes up Sam’s spine. It never occurred to him that the multi-verse existed before Jack, or before they learned about Chuck creating all those other worlds. But, of course, it probably did.
“That’s an interesting question,” he agrees, nodding. “I suspect the answer is pretty complicated, like quantum physics.”
Dean smirks. “Quantum physics, huh? You study that in school?”
“Not much, actually,” Sam says. “I’m just thinking of the idea that two opposite truths can co-exist. Maybe Chuck’s multi-verse existed before we knew about it, but at the same time maybe it didn’t, you know?”
Dean shakes his head, looks down at his empty plate, reaches over to Sam’s plate and grabs a handful of fries.
“I got no idea,” he says. “All I know is, I wanted my dead brother back, and now I’ve got you.”
The smile that splits Sam’s face open almost hurts. It’s been so long since anyone made him smile.
“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “Now you’ve got me.”
PART TWO