Fic: Your Blood in My Heart (In My Head). RPS. Jensen/Jared. Sam/Dean. NC-17

[felisblanco]

Title: Your Blood in My Heart (In My Head)
Author: felisblanco
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 22.400 words
Summary:
Sam breathes out in relief and smiles, but it still feels wrong. Dean’s looking at Sam except it’s not Sam. He knows it’s not Sam. And he knows he’s not Dean, not really. But he feels like him. He feels like Dean. All broken, and bruised, and guilty and terrified. And his memories are still all there. No, not all. Glimpses, like there are chapters missing. And even the ones he does remember, from their childhood, it’s like they happened to someone else, in a story he read. He has this image in his head, of him carrying Sam out of their burning home, but as much as he tries, he can’t bring up the physical memory of Sammy’s baby weight in his arms. And he should. He should.
Warnings: Character bleed. Blurring of realities. Mentions torture (Dean's time in Hell). Non-graphic flashbacks of sexual abuse/rape, including underage. John is a horrible father. Jensen's parents aren't much better. Totally made up mental health stuff, no research at all this time, except re-watching early seasons of SPN and falling heads over heels in love with Dean all over again.
Author's note: Beta'd by the lovely candygramme but all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Title is crap but after two days of trying to come up with something I give up. This work is also available on AO3.



Sometime mid-season four, Jensen forgets to leave Dean behind at the end of the day. That’s how easily it happens. He takes off Dean’s leather jacket, his soft flannel shirt, his jeans, his t-shirt, his amulet, but Dean… Dean, he keeps.

Jared tries to talk to him in the car on the way home but Dean is brooding, black clouds of angst hovering over him like vultures. Eventually Jared gives up and leans back, closing his eyes, tiny lines of hurt by his mouth. Jensen wants to say ‘Sorry’ and ‘I think there’s something wrong with me’ but Dean doesn’t do sorry and Dean doesn’t share his fears. Dean stays silent, jaw tight, his breaths short and calculated.

When they get home Jared heads straight for bed but Jensen stands for over an hour in the bathroom, staring at his face in the mirror, trying to figure out where he ends and Dean begins. He can’t see it. Maybe there is no line. Maybe there is only one of them. If it is, he doesn’t think it’s him.

That night he sleeps on the couch, and when he wakes up he’s reaching for the knife under the cushion before he realizes 1) he doesn’t have one, and 2) what woke him up is not an intruder but Jared, watching him.

“Are you alright?” Jared asks, when Jensen relaxes back on the couch, heart still hammering in his chest. “Is this… Did I do something?”

It takes Jensen a moment to realize what Jared’s talking about. That whatever Dean might be telling him, Jensen is not Dean, and Jared is not Sam. They’re not brothers, they’re not cursed or dead twice over. They’re not fighting, or keeping secrets or trying to live with everything they’ve done and been through. They’re Jensen and Jared, and they’re supposed to sleep in the same bed, together.

He knew that. He did. He just forgot.

“Must have fallen asleep over the TV,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face to hide Dean’s shocked expression. ‘You’re sleeping with him?’ Dean growls, voice filled with disbelief. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

‘I’m not you,’ Jensen tries to say. ‘He’s not Sam. So back off.’

But Dean isn’t listening. Dean is seething with rage, lips curling into a sneer. ‘Friggin’ fantastic,’ he spits out through grit teeth as he gets to his feet. ‘I need coffee for this.’

Jensen doesn’t argue. He needs coffee too. As he takes the first sip, painfully aware of Jared watching him from the doorway, he wonders if that’s how it started, Dean giving him his addiction for coffee. Then his love for the Impala, followed by his love for Sam. Except it’s not Sam, is it? It’s Jared. Jared who is still watching him. Jared who is quiet. Except Jared doesn’t do quiet.

Sam does.

Jensen puts his mug down carefully and turns around. “Sam?” he says hesitantly and Jared frowns.

“What?” he says and takes a step forward. “What about Sam?”

Jensen blinks. Breathes. Feels Dean’s panic rise in his chest at the realization that his brother isn’t there. “Jared?” he tries.

Jared looks at him expectantly, obviously getting worried. “Yeah?” he says, and Dean starts yelling hysterically in Jensen’s head.

“Jared.” Jensen nods. Ok, so it’s just him. That’s good if not exactly comforting. “I think…” he starts but then he stops, not sure how to go on. It will sound crazy but maybe that’s just it. Maybe he is crazy. Maybe that’s what’s happening.

“Jen, seriously, are you ok? You’re acting kinda weird.”

He has to shove Dean back to keep him from punching Jared in the face when he puts his large hands on Jensen’s shoulders, gazing into Jensen’s eyes. “Hey,” Jared says. “What’s wrong?” He leans in to kiss Jensen on the lips, and Dean jerks Jensen away, sucking in his breath and staring at Jared in shock.

“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Jared asks, starting to sound angry.

Before Dean can say something that they can never come back from Jensen blurts out, “Dean!”

“What?” Jared steps away to get a better look at him. “What about Dean?”

“He’s here. He’s…” Jensen swallows. “I think I might be having a nervous breakdown.”

Jared looks taken aback, staring at him wide-eyed for a moment. “Okay,” he finally says in a slow gentle voice. “C’mon, let’s sit down.” He pulls Jensen along into the living room to sit beside him on the couch. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” He’s about to tell Jared he’s hearing voices when Jared’s hand lands high on his thigh, squeezing it reassuringly, and Dean freaks the hell out. He’s on the other side of the living room, looking for a way out, when he glances back to see Jared sprawled on the couch, blood running from a split in his lip.

“Shit, Sammy, I’m sorry,” he blurts out before he remembers Sam isn’t here.

“Jesus fuck, Jensen! What the hell is going on with you?”

Jensen blinks. “Help me,” he says before Dean can stop him, “I think I’m losing my mind!”

“No shit!” Jared mutters angrily but then he looks up and catches the terrified look in Jensen’s eyes. “You’re serious,” he says slowly.

“I have Dean in my head. I can’t get rid of him. I can’t… He’s freaking out, because he thinks you’re Sam, and I’m fucking Sam, except I’m Dean, so he thinks he’s fucking Sam, and he’s freaking the hell out. Shut up!” he yells at Dean who’s cursing up a blue streak in his head. “Go away!”

“Oh whoa. Dude, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Dean growls. He has Jared up from the couch and shoved against the wall before Jensen even knows what’s happening. “This is what I brought you back for? This is what I died and went to Hell for?”

“Jensen, stop it.” Jared pushes him back, looking as freaked out as Jensen feels. “Jesus, man! You’re not Dean!”

“I know! I’m not doing anything! He is! He…” Jensen closes his eyes, back against the wall as he sinks to the floor. “Jared, I think I’m having a nervous breakdown,” he says again. “I think… I think we need to call someone.”

“Okay. Yeah. It’s gonna be okay,” Jared says, but his voice is cracked, and he’s standing way over there, as far away from Dean - no, Jensen, no, Dean - as he can in the small room that seems to be getting smaller by the minute, and God! It’s too hot in here! Too hot, and too loud, and everything smells of blood, and fire and burnt flesh and…

Dean’s up and running, pushing past Sam, who keeps yelling for that Jensen guy, and then he’s finally out, breathing in fresh air. It’s raining, it’s cold, and he has no idea where he is. He looks frantically around, trying to get his bearings. Looks like any place, he could be anywhere from Kansas to friggin’ Alaska, and where the hell is his car?

“Jensen, come on. Come inside. We’ll figure this out.”

Sam is tugging at his arm, except it’s not really Sam, is it? It’s one of Alastair’s tricks, one of his damn hallucinations. It took Dean a long time, too long, to be able to see what was real, and what wasn’t. Never thought he’d had to relearn it, never thought he’d be back here. He wasn’t supposed to ever be back here! How did…? Castiel. It must be. Dean doesn’t even believe in angels but an angel that serves Hell, he never thought he’d see that. But that must be it. Castiel tossed him back, and he’s never getting out. He’s never getting out!

“Dean!”

He turns on his heel. No, it can’t be… But he looks like Sammy, he’s dressed like Sammy, he even… he smells like Sammy. He never could get that right, Alastair. The face, the body, even the way Sam talks but not, not his smell. Of too many hours spent in Baby, curled up against the window, filling the car with the stink of recycled burritos. Of motel rooms with spunk-stained comforters, and soap that makes your skin itch. Of sweat, and blood and brother. His brother.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?” Sam takes a step closer; his forehead has that rubbery fold that means he’s worried. Never used to have that fold when he was younger, but he’s all grown up now. All big, and real and not dead. “Where you running off to?”

“I thought…” Dean looks around. Even through the light drizzle he can hear birds chirping. There are no birds in Hell. “Where are we?”

“Minnesota,” Sam says after a moment’s pause. “Squatting. Real nice digs though. Got great showers.”

“Yeah?” Dean swallows. “Where… where’s my car?”

“Aw, man,” Sam says. He looks more relaxed, like he’s settling into his skin. “Feds on our trail again, remember? Had to park her for a while. Should be able to get her back in a couple of weeks. Bobby lent us a truck though.” He waves his hand at a big ass Toyota standing in the driveway. Dad would have loved it, Dean thinks, and the thought stings.

“Don’t know what came over me,” he says, embarrassed, as he walks back to the house with Sam. “Must have slept wrong.”

Sam reaches out for him but halts at the last second. They don’t do casual touching but just this once Dean thinks he wouldn’t have minded a little clap on the back, something to let him know Sam is solid and here.

“Hell?” Sam asks quietly.

“Something like that,” Dean dismisses. Sam knows he won’t talk about it. What’s there to talk about anyway? It happened, now he has to learn to live with it, with everything he did. He steals a glance at Sam’s concerned face. Bottom line, it was worth it. Sam is here. It was worth every goddamn second.

Dean pulls off his wet socks and the dampened shirt in the hallway. It’s a nice shirt, he notices, not something he usually wears. Sam must have been at Goodwill again. Dean can’t remember putting it on, but he’s not gonna mention that to Sam. He looks worried enough as it is.

The house really is nice. Huge-ass TV, comfy couch, fridge filled with expensive beer and surprisingly much food, considering the owners are away. “You go shopping, Sam?” he asks. “How long are we staying here anyway?”

“I thought a week maybe. Figured we might as well stock up.” At Dean’s quirked eyebrow Sam puts on an irritated face and adds a bitchy tone that Dean is way too familiar with. “Don’t give me that. You agreed to this. I need some time off after all that’s been going on, we both do.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, far be it from me to interfere with your beauty sleep, princess.”

“Jerk,” Sam huffs, and Dean throws back “Bitch,” and it feels almost like before. Before Hell and Dad and…

“You said something about a shower,” he says, before he starts losing his shit again.

“Upstairs. On the left,” Sam adds after a moment’s hesitation. “Take your time. Ain’t got nothing on today but watch TV, drink beer, maybe throw a couple of steaks on the grill.”

“You know, I’m starting to like this vacation idea of yours,” Dean grins and pushes aside the ever-present guilt of not doing enough, not being out there, saving people, making up for… everything.

The bathroom is big but looks like it hasn’t been used much, with a barely topped off shampoo bottle, some fancy brand that smells amazing, a brand-new bar of soap that smells even better, and big, fluffy towels. The shower is friggin’ awesome. He jerks off, just because, taking his time for once in a shower where the water doesn’t turn cold before he even has time to get his dick interested. Takes a bit more these days to get in the mood, not that he’s ready to admit that to anyone, not even himself. Once you’ve seen your dick ripped off, along with the rest of your limbs, you tend to get a bit nervous about tugging too hard.

He’s wrapped up in a huge-ass robe, big enough to fit Sam, and making his way downstairs when he hears Sam talking. Must be on the phone, although it doesn’t sound like he’s talking to Bobby or Ellen or any of the other handful of people that don’t hang up as soon as they hear who it is.

“I don’t know. I’ll try, but he’s edgy. I don’t know how long I can keep it up.”

Dean slows down, hackles rising. What the hell? Is that Ruby? Is he talking to that bitch Ruby, again?

“Just get here soon, okay?”

Dean watches Sam hang up, feeling pissed as hell until he sees the way Sam’s shoulders slump. He’s leaning into the kitchen counter, breathing heavily into his chest. There’s a soft sound, almost like a sob and then Sam straightens up, rubs one hand over his face and turns around. For a moment they stand staring at each other, Sam with wide, red-rimmed eyes; Dean fighting a battle between anger and worry. His anger wins, for now, but only because he really doesn’t get what might be so awful that Sammy is crying.

“Who you talking to?”

Sam falters for a moment, his gaze skittering as if he’s playing the conversation back in his head. Then he relaxes and grins. “Pizza guy. He says it’s gonna be a while.”

Dean frowns. “Thought we were having steaks.”

“Well, yeah. For dinner. It’s only noon, dude. Thought you looked starved enough to appreciate a proper lunch.”

“There’s a full fridge, Sam. Can’t be throwing money around, just ‘cause it ain’t ours,” Dean points out. “I could have just made us something.”

“Can’t I do something nice for you without you being a bitch about it?” Sam huffs. He looks almost pissed off enough for Dean to believe him. Except…

“What’s going on, Sam? You look like I just died. Again. What the hell?”

Sam blinks, then wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Fuck you,” he spits out. “We can’t all drink our nightmares away.”

Dean flinches. So okay, he’s maybe been hanging on to Jack and José a bit too tight since he got back, but that’s still a pretty low blow. On the other hand, he hadn’t noticed Sam was having such problems. Which makes his shitty brother award way bigger than Sam’s.

“You… You wanna talk about it?” he tries. Sam glares at him. Right. “Well… pizza sounds awesome. I’m just gonna…” He turns around, feeling stupid and childish in the oversized robe. “Put some clothes on.”

He’s halfway up the stairs when it occurs to him. “Dude, where’s my bag?”

There’s silence and then Sam shouts back, his voice a little hoarse, “Still in the car. Figured I’d do a laundry run later. Check the drawers in the room on the left. Should fit you well enough.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “We just did laundry last week!” he grumbles but climbs the stairs anyway. The room on the left doesn’t really look lived in. The air smells stale, and the bed hasn’t been slept in, not for a while at least, because there’s dust on the comforter. There are clothes in a set of drawers that fit surprisingly well, even the jeans feel like they’re tailormade. He checks the closet and finds some nice-looking suits and shiny dress shoes in his size. Would be tempting to pack a few items when they leave but they’re not thieves. Not like that anyway.

He’s about to go downstairs when he pauses and opens the door to the other room on the floor, which is clearly the master bedroom. It’s got a huge bed with rumpled sheets that stir a strange feeling in his stomach. He checks the closet and finds more suits, along with flowery shirts that he’d think belong to the wife, seeing how pink they are, except they’re way too big. Big enough to fit Sammy, even. Huh. There’s an ensuite bathroom with two toothbrushes by the sink, two towels by the shower and a double set of shaving kits. Dean frowns. He turns to look back at the bed, sniffs the air. Pulls out a couple of drawers and chuckles when he finds an enormous dildo in one of them.

“Hey, Sammy,” he says loudly as he descends the stairs. “Hope you checked the sheets for stains. Seems like we got ourselves a couple of-”

He stops. There are two guys standing in the living room, a short bald one, and a fat old dude with whiskers; white, middle aged, obviously not hunters. They still look familiar, which is disturbing, because he has no idea who they are, or where he should know them from. They’re watching him with matching worried expressions. And Sam is just standing there, doing nothing.

Dean reaches automatically for his gun and curses when he realizes he doesn’t have it. He doesn’t even remember where he left it. “Sam? You didn’t mention we were having company.”

The strangers stare at him, looking shocked. Sam just looks pained.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “What’s going on?”

“Dean, c’mon. Let’s sit down,” Sam says.

He reaches out, like he’s going to take Dean’s hand, and Dean jerks back. “What the hell is this?”

He looks around for a weapon and grabs a candlestick off a shelf, knocking a turned down picture frame onto the floor in the progress. It lands face up, and his own mug stares up at him. His and Sammy’s. Except it’s not. He’s got a beard, which is more facial hair than he’s ever bothered with, even Sam is unshaven to the point of looking feral. And they’ve both got douchey, Ray-Ban sunglasses, reflecting four tiny versions of Castiel, holding up a damn iPhone, of all things. They’ve got their arms around each other’s shoulders, and they’re grinning, looking more carefree than Dean ever remembers being.

Dean stares at it. He looks up at Sam. Sam who looks like he’s about to start crying again. “Sammy?” he breathes.

“Jensen-” the bald guy says, but Sam throws up a hand and shuts him up.

“Can you please just come sit down with me?” Sam says. “Just to talk. It’s gonna be okay.”

“What happened?” Dean whispers. “Am I… am I dead?”

Sam’s mouth quivers as if he’s trying to smile but failing miserably. “No, you’re not dead. This isn’t… Hell.”

“I know. I know this isn’t Hell. That doesn’t mean I’m not dead. Are you dead? Is this… Is Dad here? Mom?”

Sam swallows. “No. We’re not dead. But… we’re not who you think we are.”

What it boils down to, according to Sam, is that Dean isn’t Dean, and Sam isn’t Sammy. Dean and Sam aren’t even real. They’re fictional characters in some damn TV show. Like, people actually pay them money to live this miserable life. They have fans, for God’s sake! The two guys who are standing over in one corner of the room, whispering among themselves and shooting him increasingly worried glances, are apparently their bosses. They look more like nerds that never grew out of their mommy’s basements.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean says.

“I know,” Sam sighs. He’s stopped trying to correct him. Dean doesn’t care what he says, he is still his Sammy. What kind of name is Jared Pada-Pada… whatever anyway?

“No, I mean, what the hell!” he says. Repeats. Feels like they’ve been having this conversation a million times. Even Dean is getting sick of it. “Is it a Djinn? Is this your friggin’ fantasy? ‘Cause it sure ain’t mine!”

“No, Jensen, listen to me,” Sam says. He’s beginning to sound desperate again. “None of that is real. If we’re Sam and Dean, where are the monsters? Where are the demons, the angels? It’s not real, man. None of it. You’re an actor. We both are. You got too deep. You’re like that.” Sam eyes go soft with affection. “You love your job, but sometimes you love it a bit too much. You give it too much. And then you can’t shake it off.”

Dean’s upper lip twitches. “This is such bullshit.”

Sam sighs. “No. No, Jen, it’s not. You’ve had character bleed before but never like this. You forgot to let go.” Sam grabs his hand. “You need to let go. Let Dean go. Please, for me.”

The knot in his belly is so tight he can hardly breathe. “I’d do anything for you, you know that, but I can’t just... I’d die for you! I did. Died and went to Hell! For you, Sammy. Because you’re my brother.”

Sam looks like he’s about to cry. Again. “You didn’t. But… You would. You don’t need to be Dean for that. I know you’d die for me in a heartbeat.” He shoots a glance at the two guys and lowers his voice. “Because you love me.”

Dean swallows. “Sammy…”

“Because you love me. And because I love you. We’re not brothers, Jen. You are my best friend. And…” Sam breathes in. “And more. You and me? We are more.”

Dean stares at him. He feels dizzy. “What? But we’re…”

“No, we’re not,” Sam says softly. “Not brothers. It’s okay, Jen. We’re not brothers.”

Now Dean feels like crying. “How can you say that? How can you…? Then what the hell’s the point of me?” he asks angry.

“Jensen, you are so, so much more than Dean’s ever been. You are a wonderful actor. You are a great friend. You have a family that loves you. You have millions of fans…”

“We have a family?” he cuts in, refusing to separate Sam from himself. It’s always been Sam ‘n Dean. No matter what Sam says, he can’t have a family unless it’s got Sam in it.

“Yeah, Jen. You have a mom, and a dad, and a brother, and a sister and even nieces and nephews. You fly home regularly to visit them. We’re in Vancouver, Canada,” he explains when Dean blinks, confused. “They live down in Texas. We’re from Texas. Not Kansas,” he adds when Dean opens his mouth to argue. “You were raised in Richardson. I’m from San Antonio. We met when we started working on Supernatural. The TV show,” Sam reminds him, once again. “None of this ring a bell?”

Dean frowns. Sam’s words bring up the memory of his mother, the one he most often comes back to when he misses her, when she kissed him goodnight the very last time he saw her alive. But the image of her flickers and suddenly it’s replaced with another. Shorter, still blond but different. His dad, thinner, older… not John. Alan? And his mother’s name… “Donna?”

Sam sits up straight beside him. “Yes! Your mama’s name is Donna. You have a sister…”

“Mac… Meg?”

Sam smiles. “My sister’s name is Meg. Meghan. Yours is Mackensie. Mac. Your brother is Josh and mine is?”

“Jeff.” He doesn’t even know where it’s all coming from. There are just suddenly these faces in his head - familiar, even if he’s sure he’s never met any of them - with names attached to each one, like price tags.

“Yes. And I am?”

“Jared,” Dean says, not because he remembers, or even agrees, but because Sam’s been repeating it over and over again. “Your name is Jared.”

Sam breathes out in relief and smiles, but it still feels wrong. Dean’s looking at Sam except it’s not Sam. He knows it’s not Sam. And he knows he’s not Dean, not really. But he feels like him. He feels like Dean. All broken, and bruised, and guilty and terrified. And his memories are still all there. No, not all. Glimpses, like there are chapters missing. And even the ones he does remember, from their childhood, it’s like they happened to someone else, in a story he read. He has this image in his head, of him carrying Sam out of their burning home, but as much as he tries, he can’t bring up the physical memory of Sammy’s baby weight in his arms. And he should. He should.

Instead he’s got these other memories screwing with his mind. Of playing with an older brother. Of a little sister, much younger than Sam. And of living a life that despite its normality, doesn’t feel real. Not as real as the life he had with Sam and Dad.

Dad.

“What about Dad?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “John? He’s not real either, Jen. He’s played by an actor. Jeffrey Dean. We can call him. We can call Samantha too. Who played our mom. If you want. If you think it helps.”

Dean stares at him. His heart hurts so much he can hardly breathe. “Mom’s alive?” he chokes out.

Sam closes his eyes briefly, like his own heart is breaking. “Sam and Dean’s mom is… I mean, sort of? Yeah. She’s not real, but the woman who played her is very much alive. Your own mom, the woman who gave birth to you, she is also alive. We can call either of them, right now. Would you like that?”

Dean shakes his head. He wants to, more than anything. He feels like crying just thinking about being able to see his parents again, talk to them, hug them. But if they’re not really them… it just might break him.

“So, if it’s not a Djinn, how do we fix this?”

He jumps when the bald guy clears his throat, standing less than six feet away from them. Only Sam’s hand, grabbing him by the wrist, stops him from jumping up and taking a swing at the guy. He’d totally let his guard down, forgotten they were not alone. The hell?

“I’ve had a word with the hospital, they’re waiting for you. Dr. Purcell,” the guy, Eric something - Krip, Krib? - says, handing Sam a piece of paper with the details. Like he doesn’t trust Dean to not throw it away. Which, fair enough, he probably would. “Call me as soon as you know anything. I mean it, boys, full disclosure.”

“Dude, I don’t even know you,” Dean snaps.

The guy stares at him then shakes his head, like he can’t believe this is happening. “Jesus. Jared,” he says, fixing his eyes on Sam. “Just… be careful.” The stern look makes Sam flush red as he nods.

Dean frowns. What the hell is that about?

Dean looks around the white room, fingers tapping against the paper coffee cup he’s been clutching like a lifeline ever since they got here. The coffee’s gone cold, the taste too horrible to stomach (when did he get so particular about his caffeine anyway?) but since they won’t allow him to have his gun (and he still doesn’t know where it is), his amulet is gone, and he can’t remember where he put Dad’s leather jacket… He feels like coffee, however bad, is the only tangible part of himself he’s got left.

They’ve been poking him with needles and scanning his head. Blood and brains, apparently that’s all it comes down to. Not demons, or spirits or curses. Somehow that doesn’t make him feel reassured, quite the opposite. At least those things he knows how to fight. This, whatever this is that’s going on in his head, it’s out of his control. And damn does that scare the shit out of him. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he’d rather face Hell again, but it’s a close second.

Waiting for the results is driving him nuts. He’s never been good with waiting. That year before his time was up made him almost regret not going straight to Hell. Almost, not quite. He did after all get a whole extra year with Sam. That one year, and every day since, was worth those forty years. Despite everything, he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Except he didn’t, did he? He never died, and he never went to Hell. Because Sam never... Oh, Dean realizes, with a sudden burst of happiness. Sam never died. In this world, Sam never died. Whatever else happens, at least there’s that.

He smiles softly at Sam who smiles bewildered back. “What?”

“Just-” He stops. Right. This isn’t Sam so what would he care anyway? “Nothing.” When Sam continues to look at him, Dean shrugs and adds, “Just… you never died. Right?”

Sam’s smile turns soft. “No, I never died.”

“Good, that’s good.” Dean breathes out. “I’m glad. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’ll tell Sera you said so,” says Sam gently, reminding him once again that everything that’s happened in their lives was thought out and written down by other people. Seriously, what kind of sickos write shit like that? Damn psychos.

“When the hell are they gonna let me out of here?” he asks, slugging the last of the coffee and throwing the cup in a wastebasket by the door.

Sam sighs again. “Jensen…” he starts, and Dean rolls his eyes. What the hell kind of name is Jensen anyway? “Jensen,” Sam repeats, more firmly. “You need to get better. That means talking to the doctors. And allowing them to help you.”

“Help me realize I’m not real? That we’re not real?”

“That Sam and Dean aren’t real!” Sam says, starting to sound frustrated. “Dean isn’t real, Jen!” He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. “I don’t get why you’d choose to be that alcoholic, fucking traumatized wretch of a person over yourself anyway!”

Dean stills. “That’s what you think of me?”

“That’s what he is, man!” Sam snaps. “You’ve said so yourself! He spent forty years in Hell, for fuck’s sake! It’s a fucking miracle he can even function at all!” His voice breaks, and he rubs a hand over his face, lips trembling. “I just don’t get why this is happening.”

“Sammy…” He sighs when Sam closes his eyes, tears spilling over. “Jared. I don’t know why any of this is happening either. If what you’re saying is true… You think I would choose this? You think anyone would choose being, being me? I don’t want to be me. I’m a friggin’ mess, man. I’m a, a…” He swallows. “I’m a bad sonofabitch. I kill, I hurt people, I drink too much. I’m lucky I don’t have fifty kinds of STDs collected from every damn state in the country. And you’re right. I’m barely holding it together. The only thing that’s got me through these last few months is knowing that it was worth it. That I would do it all over again if it meant you not being dead. You, my brother. Except now you’re telling me that’s all fake. That all these memories I have of being carved and sliced, that all that pain that I can remember like it was friggin’ yesterday, was never real. And that you, the brother I did it all for, the brother I love more than anything in the whole damn world, that I would die for, would go to Hell for five times over, you don’t even want to be my brother anymore?”

He got up sometime during his rant, pacing the room that earlier had seemed spacious but now makes him feel like a tiger in a cage. Sam has gotten up as well, face stained with tears that he doesn’t even bother wiping away, his breath still hitching, but he’s looking more scared than devastated, and Dean can’t really see that as an improvement.

“Jensen, I am your brother in every way except blood,” Sam says, voice shaking. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I love you so damn much. And all those things, if they were all real, I know you’d do them for me. You’d die, you’d go to Hell, you’d take on the whole world for me. But you don’t have to, Jen. You don’t have to do any of these things, and you didn’t, because it’s not real. I need you to understand that, please. None of it really happened. And that’s a good thing!”

“How is us not being brothers a good thing?” Dean asks, voice rising. “That’s all I’m good for, taking care of my baby brother! Taking care of you, Sammy. That’s my friggin’ job! What the hell am I even doing here if I don’t have a brother anymore?

Sam is about to answer, more of the same damn crap judging by the look of him, when the door opens, and the doctor steps in. She doesn’t look like she’s about to give Dean a death sentence, but she doesn’t look too happy either. More… puzzled.

“So, what’s the verdict, doc?” Dean asks, going for carefree, but ending somewhere between snarky and defensive in his panic. Sam takes his hand, and for once Dean allows it, even if it feels damn weird, especially in front of a stranger.

“The blood test didn’t show anything, and your scans look normal.” Dr. Purcell puts the charts away and gives Dean a sympathetic look. “Honestly, for now we’re going with stress. Our brains can play havoc on our minds when we’re under a lot of stress. I understand you’re in a rather high-stress job?”

Dean reels back, shooting Sam a glare. What the hell? They’re telling everyone now?

But Sam just squeezes his hand and nods. “Don’t know if you watch the show,” he says, “but yeah, it’s been getting pretty intense.”

Ah. The show thing. Ok. All right. Whatever.

“Not telling you any spoilers, but it’s … yeah. I’m not complaining, I know we’re lucky, but the long hours, and the emotional, sometimes grueling scenes, they get to you. And Jensen has been taking the brunt of it these last few months.”

He rubs Dean’s hand, shooting him a look so filled with love and concern it makes him embarrassed for the both of them.

“He tends to get a little too method when Dean’s going through the bad stuff. Usually, it just means being quiet and broody but now…” Sam’s face falls, and he looks away, like that means Dean can’t see the tears in his eyes.

“That might have been what triggered it,” she says, nodding.

She pulls out her tiny flashlight and points it at Dean’s eyes - again! - checking first one and then the other. Dean wants to slap the damn thing out of her hand.

She shakes her head, frowning. “Like I said, Jensen, as far as we can see you are perfectly healthy. I’d go so far as to say remarkably fit, based on your work versus sleep hours. But you’re overworked, and overstressed, and that affects your whole body, including your brain. You need rest, away from the workplace.” She turns to Sam. “That means now, not when you’re done shooting.” Sam nods, but he looks worried.

“No rest for the wicked,” Dean quips but it sounds lame even in his own ears, and Sam and the doc just look at him, Sam with those sad eyes that make Dean want to murder things, and she with what can only be described as pity. “Whatever. I just mean … in our line of work, there are no days off.”

She smiles then turns back to Sam. “You said occasional glimpses of reality come through?”

“Yeah. At first. I don’t know, feels like if anything he’s getting worse.”

They both turn to look at Dean like he’s a sick dog, waiting to be put down. Screw that. He’s had enough of this. “Are we done here? Can I go?”

“We’d like to keep you overnight, for observation. And for your own safety as well as …” She glances at Sam’s split lip that is still red and swollen. “Well.”

Dean swallows his guilt. He doesn’t remember hitting Sam or why, but he must have because Sam doesn’t deny it, just nods, then smiles reassuringly at Dean, like he doesn’t blame him for whatever happened. It doesn’t reassure him at all.

“I’m also recommending psychiatric evaluation. I’ll see if someone is free to come talk to you today, just to get things started.”

Oh hell no. No way. He stands up and rips off the taped cotton from the blood tests and rolls down his sleeve. “Forget it. You’re not locking me up.”

She looks taken aback. “No, of course not. That is not what I meant at all.”

But that’s what will happen as soon as he starts telling them the truth. About what he does and what a scary friggin’ nightmare the world really is.

“You say I need rest. So I’ll rest. At home.” Which apparently they have now. A home. Guess this reality has some perks.

“I really think …”

“No offence, doc, but I don’t care. I’m going.” He grabs his jacket and shrugs it on. “Sam, you coming?” They both look at him, and he sighs. “I mean Jared. Jared. His name is Jared, my name is Jensen, we’re not brothers, we’re …” He pauses when Jared subtly shakes his head. Right. This is Hollywood. Well, no skin off his nose, not like he’s on board with that anyway. “Co-stars. Whatever. All right? Can we go now?”

Sam seems to hesitate but then he sighs and shakes the doc’s hand. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Alright. And we can talk tomorrow.”

By ‘we’ Dean figures she means her and Sam because Dean sure got nothing more to say.

They walk the long corridor to the elevator, falling in step as they always do and have done since Sam’s legs finally got long enough to match Dean’s. And then of course they got longer as Sam grew into a friggin’ Sasquatch but still they walk in sync. Which means Sam probably slows down to match Dean’s shorter steps. Something Dean has never thought of before, but somehow he can’t get out of his head now, because how the hell can Sam say they’re not brothers when they are obviously so attuned to each other they might as well be joined at the hip?

They have to hail a cab, because the Impala is still missing. No, not missing. At the set. She’s at the goddamn TV show set. Because she’s not really his, she’s a prop. Just a damn prop. His beauty, his Baby! His only constant home since Yellow Eyes torched his whole childhood. Not his. Not real. Even if he can remember her purring underneath him, can feel the wind in his hair, can hear music blasting from the speakers and feel Sam’s hand sneaking over his thigh to stroke …

“Hey, hey. Jensen, breathe. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. What is it? Jensen?”

“Tell me my name.”

“What?”

“My name! Tell me my friggin’ name!”

“Your name is Jensen Ross Ackles. Jen to your friends. Jenny, if they’re Chris or Chad because they’re assholes.”

“And your name.”

“My name is Jared Tristan Padalecki. You call me Jay.”

Dean blinks. “Tristan?”

Sam - no Jared - chuckles. “Yeah. You make fun of me for it all the time.”

“What … what are we?”

“We’re actors, Jen-“

“No. What are we?”

Jared hesitates a moment, glancing at the cab driver before taking a deep breath. “We are partners, Jen, we’re … boyfriends. We are best friends. I love you, and I know you love me.”

He wants to cry! “Sam…”

“If Sam were real he would love you too, Jen,” Sam says softly. “Because you’re amazing, and wonderful and the best man I know. You’re just a bit lost right now. Because you’re tired, and stressed and frankly a bit crazy. But you’re gonna be fine. I promise.”

He breathes in a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

The cab stops, and Sam pays the driver before dragging Dean out of the car and towards a house Dean recognizes from his freakout this morning. Was it only this morning? Feels like a lifetime ago, like the whole universe has taken time, and realities and smashed them up into this incomprehensible mess.

Once they’re inside Sam steers him to the couch and makes him lay down. “Just … close your eyes and try and sleep a little. I just need to make a few phone calls.”

“Okay. Okay. Sam?”

“Not Sam, Jared. My name is Jared. Your name is Jensen. You are not Dean. You are not Dean. Okay?”

No, it’s not okay. Nothing is okay. Nothing is okay. But he is too exhausted to fight so he nods and closes his eyes. Maybe the world will be back to normal when he wakes up.

It’s not.

Took him some time, after he got back from Hell, to get used to seeing himself in the mirror, not just whole, but without any of his old pre-Hell scars. Like all the bullet holes and knife wounds and cuts and burns he’d collected over the years had all been in his head. The callouses left on his hands by hundreds of hours driving Baby, of handling a gun, were gone. Even the thin faded lines he had on the inside of his arms, as a reminder of his pathetic year of weakness after Sam left, were not there anymore. It had been unsettling. Like he’d left a part of himself down there, a part that made him who he is.

He’s received his fair share of cuts and bruises in these past few months since he got back though, started up a brand-new collection of scars, big and small. Except…

He stands naked in front of the large mirror in the bathroom, staring at himself, or the person he is supposed to be, and there is no trace of any of them. The angry red handprint Castiel left on his shoulder when pulling him out is gone as well. He doesn’t even have the anti-possession tattoo anymore, and for a moment he thinks that’s it, that’s what happened, except he’s never heard of a demon renewing a person’s body. And it doesn’t explain Sam not being Sam, and everyone else acting like this is how the world is supposed to be.

When he can’t put it off any longer, he raises his head and stares into his eyes. He’s not sure what he was expecting but there’s nothing there. He’s… normal. Confused and scared, but the despair and self-hatred that so often meets him in the mirror these days, it’s not there. This person he’s supposed to be has crows feet by his eyes, laugh-lines around his mouth. His hands are soft, the fingernails unbroken, with no dirt underneath. They might as well be manicured. Maybe they are, with him apparently being a metrosexual pansy now. His fingertips are only slightly calloused and somehow he knows they’re from strumming a guitar. He can’t remember picking up a guitar since that spring he stayed at Sonny’s when he was sixteen. Does this mean he knows how to play now?

Only yesterday Alastair had beat him bad enough to dislocate his shoulder. In his mind he can see the blood and bruises, but he can’t feel them, the memory of them, or the pain from Sam putting his shoulder right. Just like he can’t feel the claws of the hellhounds ripping him apart, or even Alastair’s knives torturing him, a pain which has lived rent free in every nerve of his body ever since he came back from Hell. And he can’t feel Sam’s baby-fine hair, brushing his cheek as Dean kissed him goodnight, the night mom died.

“Jen, are you-”

“Sam, what the hell?” He grabs the jeans from the floor, jerking them on. His cheeks are burning from being caught naked. Being caught staring at himself naked, like some friggin’ weirdo.

“It’s Jared,” Sam says quietly but he turns around, allowing Dean some privacy while he gets hurriedly dressed. “Not like I ain’t seen it before.”

“I’m not even sure who the hell you are, man,” Dean gripes, “so excuse me for not wanting to strut around butt-naked in front of you. Jeez.”

“I’m Jared, Jen. Not Sam, not some stranger, not a, a demon or something. Jared. Although I bet Sam’s seen more of Dean than he ever wanted.”

Dean’s head snaps up, the memory of catching Sam spying on him banging a girl in that barn in Idaho the summer Sam turned fifteen, suddenly vivid in his mind. Of later, at the crappy motel they were staying at, asking Sam if he’d enjoyed the show, and Sam blushing deep red, but then sneaking glances at Dean as he got ready for bed. And Dean slowing down, removing one layer after the other in a striptease, pretending he didn’t see Sam’s hand moving under the covers. Then jumping a mile high when the Impala rumbled to a stop out front, door slamming. Remembered pulling down the t-shirt he’d been about to remove so quickly it ripped at the hem, and then slipping under the covers, at the edge of the bed but still feeling Sam’s heat, like a fire beside him, hearing Sam’s breath, quick and shallow. Squeezing his eyes shut and hoping Dad would be drunk enough to stumble straight to bed, so Dean wouldn’t have to help him undress or clean up if he threw up, because he was so damn hard, and Dad would notice-

“They practically live in each other’s pockets,” Sam says. “And Dean’s not exactly shy.”

Dean breathes out. “Got nothing to be shy about,” he gloats, then adds, “Bitch,” but it feels all wrong even if Sam answers, “Jerk,” after only a moment’s hesitation.

Sam grills them steaks. Big and juicy, tastiest meat Dean’s eaten in his whole damn life. Guess actors can afford to eat all fancy like that. There are baked potatoes with butter, green beans, and a salad that Sam insists he try. It doesn’t taste half as bad as he expects. When he mentions it, Sam smiles. “You actually like salad, Jen. Dean’s the strict carnivore.”

“Not strict,” Dean grumbles and takes a sip of the beer Sam had tried to keep him from having. Like he’s a friggin’ child. He drinks plenty on a good day, excuse him for wanting a goddamn beer when his whole world is apparently gone. Fake. Whatever. “Pie ain’t meat. Beer ain’t meat. Whiskey ain’t meat.”

Sam chuckles. “Those last two are drinks, not food.”

“Whatever, Samantha.” He sighs when Sam’s face falls. “I mean Jared. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. How are you feeling?”

Scared. Lost. Scared. Confused. Scared, scared, scared. Friggin’ terrified. “Fine.”

“Have you remembered anything else?”

He sounds so hopeful Dean wishes he could tell him yes. But it’s not like he can lie. As soon as Sam starts asking him what he remembers, the jig will be up, because how is he supposed to lie about something he has no idea about?

He shakes his head, and Sam’s face turns sad again. “It’s okay,” he repeats, his smile so clearly fake, because Dean knows every single expression on that kid’s face, every grin, every frown, every tick of annoyance. “I’m sure it’ll all be back soon. You just need to relax, ease the stress.”

“Yeah.”

And then what? Hunting is all he knows and, what? He’s supposed to be an actor now? What the hell? Sure, he can pretend to be FBI or whatever else needs must for a case, but how in hell is he supposed to play himself when he’s not even real?

Dean thinks of telling Sam about the dream he woke up from earlier, of drinking and laughing with a bunch of people who he could tell were his friends, but he has no idea who were. Except Sam was there and he was talking to some blond, squinty looking guy, and Dean had felt this acid twinge in his chest when Sam threw his head back and laughed, because Dean couldn’t remember seeing him laugh like that since he was a kid, before the relationship between him and Dad got so bad none of them were smiling anymore. And, goddammit, Dean wanted to be the one making Sam laugh like that. Wanted to be the one Sam looked at with that huge smile upon his face like he was actually happy. God, he just wants Sam to be happy.

“Hey, Sammy,” he starts before he can stop himself. Sam glances up, a pained look in his eyes. “Jared,” Dean grants him. Whatever. “Are you happy? I mean, this world, are you happy here? Like really happy and not…” He blows out a breath. “Not like Sam.”

Sam puts his knife and fork down and leans forward, elbows on the table, hand stretching forward then drawing back again, fingers curling into a fist, like he has to force himself not to grab Dean’s hand in his. “I am,” he says, looking Dean deep in the eyes. “We are. We are really happy, Jen. We have a great life, an amazing job, wonderful families, the best friends. We have each other. We are really, really happy.” His voice breaks on the last word, and his eyes fill with tears.

Crap.

“Good, that’s good,” Dean says quickly. “You deserve to be happy.”

“We deserve to be happy.” This time he does grab Dean’s hand, holding it so tight he couldn’t jerk free, even if he tried. “Both of us. Together.”

“Sam…”

Sam closes his eyes briefly before fixing his gaze on Dean. “It’s Jared, Jen. My name is Jared.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure.” God, this is a nightmare. “Finish your steak, Jared.”

Sam sighs.

“So, what do you do to with your time in this world?” Dean asks when they’re done eating, and Sam’s cleaned up in the kitchen like the good little housewife he apparently is. Dean is feeling antsy, and it’s not like he can go for a drive to look for trouble. If there even is any trouble in this world. Maybe it’s all lollipops and candy canes. God, he hopes not. He’ll die of boredom.

“There’s like a ton of stuff we’ve TiVo’d, we can watch some if you like,” Sam says.

“Teevo? What the hell is teevo?” He fakes a grin. “You been watching porn again, Sammy?”

“It’s Jared,” Jared says patiently, his cheeks slightly flushed. It’s adorable. “And no, it’s a system that records what’s on TV, so you can watch it when you like. We work long hours, we can’t exactly keep up with what’s on, when it’s on.” He looks suddenly embarrassed. “But if you want, we do have some. Porn, I mean.” Dean leers only to have Sam ruin the moment by adding, “It’s pretty much all gay porn though.”

“Gay porn?” Dean repeats confused. “Why?”

Sam gives him a pointed look.

What? No!

“No. No! I like chicks, okay? And I know you pretty much are one, Sam, but… No. Nuhuh. If I’m watching porn with my brother, it better star pretty ladies. Like busty Asians. But I’m not watching porn where the guys are prettier than me.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Again, it’s Jared. Second, I’m not your brother, I’m your boyfriend, which makes the homophobic rant you’ve just been spewing at me pretty damn hurtful. And insulting. And goddamn hypocritical, considering.”

“I’m not homophobic!” Dean protests. “I’m just not gay!”

“You’re right,” Sam says patiently. “You’re not. You’re bi. Bisexual?” he elaborates when Dean stares at him. “You like both.”

That doesn’t sound real. Although … uhm… there was that… And, of course… But that was just… It wasn’t…

Crap.

“And for the record, not one of the guys in those movies are prettier than you,” Sam says, smiling softly.

His eyes are warm, and loving and something else which is a lot more than Dean can handle right now. He’s having a sexual crisis on top of his identity crisis on top of a fake world crisis, not to mention the whole apparently been sleeping with his brother thing, and, Jesus Christ, his dick is being an asshole, and, crap, why did he put those two words in the same sentence?

“Jensen? Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?” Dean snaps. “No, Sam, I am not okay! I’m so far from okay. I wake up, and I’m not me. I’m not real. None of what I know is real, and now… For Christ’s sake, Sam, you just told me I bang dudes!”

Sam looks taken aback. “Jen, I already told you we’re boyfriends. Which part of that was unclear?”

“No, that’s Jared and this Jensen dude you want me to be, but it’s not me! I’m not…” God, he feels dizzy. His heart is hammering so fast he can feel it pounding against his ribcage. “I need to sit down.”

“For crying out loud.” Sam drags him over to the couch where he sinks down, head in his hands. “Never knew Dean was such a homophobe,” Sam bitches, all pissed off, which Dean thinks is totally unfair.

“Again, not a homophobe, Sam!” Damn, is it hot in here? He’s having trouble catching his breath. “I’m just having a bit of a problem with my brother wanting to nail my ass!”

“Not your brother!” Sam yells. “We are not brothers! Okay? You are not my brother! And for the record, you fuck my ass too. In fact, you fucked me first!”

Shit. He can’t breathe. His chest hurts like hell. What is happening? “Sammy?”

“It’s Jared! Jesus Christ! Jensen, you have to snap out of this and come back!”

“Why? Why would I want to stay in this world if we’re not brothers?” he chokes out. “Why would I-” He clutches his chest. Oh God. “Sammy!”

“What are you…? Jensen, what’s wrong? Jensen!”

Continued here