Facing Reality chapter 2
AN: thanks for following along everyone! <3 I hope you like this chapter, it sets things up a bit more :P
Chapter Two
“Dean?”
Maybe it should have felt worse, ignoring his brother so blatantly but all Dean felt was cold shock.
This was all wrong. The last time he’d been attacked by a djinn
Dean had been transported, or so he’d thought, into a world where everything that had gone wrong in his life hadn’t happened.
Right now he was, what, playing house with his own brother? It didn’t add up.
“Dean, seriously, open the door.”
Dean looked toward Sam’s voice. The washroom door was locked in between them and for an exhausting moment Dean entertained the idea of opening it. The thought alone of reasoning with Fake-
Sam was tiring.
Sam wouldn’t believe him, dedicated as he was to this false reality, and Dean would be stuck just like last time trying to convince him of the truth.
Hell, he’d even dragged his fake brother off to hunt the djinn the last time. He wouldn’t make that same mistake twice.
This wasn’t Sam or any form of him. They didn’t and never had done anything to make them more or less than just brothers. That thing on the other side of the door was an extension of Dean’s and the Djinn’s minds working in twisted unison to fool him.
Well he wouldn’t be fooled again. The only way out of this was death.
Sitting up on the toilet Dean wracked the washroom for something sharp. His eyes rested on the bathtub.
Call him melodramatic, but Dean just didn’t think it was classy to die in a bathtub. He needed something quick, something that would make the ordeal as painless as-
“You lose something in there?”
Dean jumped and swiveled to face Sam, who was standing in the open doorway with his lock pick in hand.
“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” Dean asked.
“I did knock,” Sam said, coming into the room. “Repeatedly, actually.”
He sat down on the edge of the tub after glancing in to find what Dean had been staring at. When he saw nothing was there he fixed his eyes on Dean.
“You want to tell me what’s going on yet?”
Dean considered it, actually genuinely did because Sam was doing the puppy-eyed thing and Dean had never been able to resist it.
Judging by how hard Sam was laying it on, he knew that too.
Instead, Dean laughed and looked away. The sound came out rough, more disappointed than happy and he grimaced.
“What’s the point Sammy, you’re not even real.”
That got Sam’s attention.
His eyes widened, his body going incredibly still.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked slowly.
Dean shut his eyes, stealing himself for what was about to happen.
Finally he stood up.
He felt Sam rise to his feet behind him, follow him from the room.
Dean’s pack was still by the door, but Sam’s was laying open on the table, the butt of a knife poking out the side pocket where Sam carried his spare.
Dean pulled it out, flipping it in his hand. When Sam didn’t move
Dean turned to him, finding his brother standing still with his hands raised in surrender.
“Dean, whatever you think is real right now, you have to put the knife down. Its really me here.”
Dean tried to smile, but this was just too twisted. How did he end up in this same situation twice?
“This knife isn’t for you Sammy,” he said, and swung the blade toward his stomach.
Either Sammy was a lot faster than Dean knew or Dean was slower because the knife never touched his skin and in an instant it was being wrestled from Dean’s grasp.
“Dean, no,” Sam gasped desperately and they fell back onto the bed, still fighting. Dean was reminded perversely of previous fights, the nasty witch attack on one of Sam’s last hunt’s before Stanford, their first time fighting the Trickster. When Sam whispered “please,”
it was all Dean could do to loosen his grip and let the knife fall free.
Sam didn’t move like Dean expected him to, to grab the knife, tie him up maybe, instead he stayed put, laying on top of Dean, breathing hard. When he lifted his head and looked down at him his eyes were wide and scared.
“What would make you try that Dean?” he demanded.
Dean looked away.
“Let go of me.”
Sam shook his head.
“No,” he whispered and his grip on Dean’s wrists tightened.
Damn it, he couldn’t do this if this Sam was so convincing.
“You need to tell me what got you?” he pressed on. “You need to tell me what you think is really going on here, man.”
Dean groaned.
“It was a Djinn, okay! A Freaking Djinn got me and you know it, now let me go.”
The sudden comprehension in Sam’s eyes would have been comical if it wasn’t so frustrating.
“You think this is a Djinn acid trip?” he asked.
Dean sighed and nodded.
Sam frowned.
“Dean we had our asses kicked by Angels not too long ago. I had no soul for a year. You-you were kidnapped by fairies, what about that sounds like a dream come true?”
Dean opened his mouth to answer but stopped. It was a valid point but…
“Well then how do you explain this sudden development?” he asked indicating the bed with an awkward head jerk.
Sam looked at him funny, pushing up so that he was almost straddling Dean, his frown deepening.
“Dean… this isn’t a sudden development.”
Of all the things Sam could have said, this was the last that Dean expected.
Stunned, he stared up at Sam.
“This has been going on a long time Dean. Since-god since before I left for Stanford.”
If Sam hadn’t been holding Dean down Dean was sure he still wouldn’t have been able to move.
“Something’s screwed with your memories,” Sam said. “You don’t remember any of it?” he asked.
He looked down at Dean so full of regret that Dean suddenly wished
it had happened, that he remembered it just so Sam wouldn’t be
looking at him that way.
Instead he shook his head.
“Its not true,” he said.
Sam swallowed, his fingers digging into Dean’s wrist.
“It is Dean, I promise.”
Dean snorted. What good was a promise from a mirage?
“One week,” Sam suddenly said. “Give me one week, Dean.”
“For what?”
“One week to prove to you that this is real. Without you putting up a fight or trying to kill yourself.”
The determined tone of his voice made Dean grimace. His brother was stubborn as an OX. When he got that tone things went his
way, or else.
“And at the end of the week? Then what?”
“Then we go on like normal, because you’ll be yourself by then.”
Dean turned away, he didn’t want to agree, didn’t want to give in without a fight, but his eyes landed on Sam’s hand, gripping him tightly.
“What’s that?” he demanded. “Sam, are you bleeding?”
He fought to pull his hands free but Sam just shook them still.
“Not until you promise,” he said.
“Fine, fine, just let me go.”
Sam lifted off him at once, freeing Dean to wiggle the feeling back into his fingers while he stooped to pick up the knife and stuff it back into his bag. He shot Dean a look and then carried it into the washroom with him. Unnecessary really considering that Dean had his own weapons…
After a moment of staring dejectedly up at the stained ceiling, he pushed out of the unnecessarily soft bed.
The door was still unlocked, the Impala sitting in the parking spot clearly in view of the window, Dean’s pack was still sitting where he’d left it, the keys were jingling in his pocket.
If Sam was trying to keep him on lock-down he was failing miserably.
All that meant was that he was doing the exact opposite. He was trusting Dean.
He pushed the frilly curtains back further, watching as a beat up
Honda rattled out of the lot. Last time this had happened everything
had been spot-on real. Did that mean there really was a-he looked
up at the sign-Flamingo Inn here in real life?
If that were the case then the only thing not real here was…
He looked over at the washroom where a sliver of Sam was visible through the slightly open door.
Dean guessed that was an invitation.
He found Sam sitting on the toilet holding toilet paper to his hand.
The little garbage was filled with red bundles of it and Dean felt a stirring of guilt despite himself. He really should leave, there was no point in helping him when the only reason Sam was even here was to keep Dean trapped. But curiosity and the big brother gene won out and Dean sat on the edge of the tub in a reverse imitation of before.
He took Sam’s hand in his own, ignoring any implications and pulled the paper away. It was almost done bleeding now, the skin cleanly sliced in three spots from their struggle with the knife.
“I didn’t think you were gonna bother coming in here,” Sam said tersely.
“Why not?” he asked. “I thought we were… closer in this place.”
Sam shrugged.
“Maybe,” he said.
He watched in silence as Dean pulled out the alcohol, pouring it into a cotton ball from the first aid kit and didn’t so much as flinch when
Dean dabbed it along the wound.
“I don’t get it,” he said finally. “I can’t imagine our lives without what we have as a part of it.”
Dean didn’t know how to answer that. The thousands of questions that suddenly rang through his head didn’t seem like the right response. Why? What’s so important about your life that you think it’s better than mine? What’s worth destroying your relationship with your brother for? What is it that we have exactly? What do we do?
What are the differences?
They all flooded his brain at once fighting for room through his lips and all getting jammed in his mouth on the way out. So he just sat there with his mouth hanging open until Sam spoke again.
“Did our mom die when I was six months old?” he asked.
Surprised, Dean nodded.
“The yellow eyed demon, right? And then we were raised on the
road?”
Dean finally found his voice.
“Yeah, but what--?”
“Jus humor me,” Sam interrupted.
“How did Dad die?”
Dean swallowed.
“He traded his soul, Sam you know that.”
He nodded.
“Yeah Dean I do. And then you did the same for me.”
If this was supposed to be a guilt trip it was freaking working.
He nodded. So much for having his voice back.
“By the time you came back I was--”
“Shacked up with Ruby I know, Sam why are you doing this?”
“Because I need to know if anything else is different, Dean.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Dean reached for the first aid kit but Sam handed him the gauze before he got to it.
“So what’s the verdict?” he asked, despite himself.
“Everything’s the same.”
“Except us.”
“Except us.”
They fell silent as Dean rolled the gauze carefully around Sam’s hand but again he broke the silence with a question that Dean didn’t know how to answer.
“How do you live with me?”
Dean just glanced at him this time, then quickly back to his work.
He knew what Sam meant unfortunately but what was there to say?
“We drive. We hunt. We sleep in shit motels and eat junk food and save the world from evil.”
Sam didn’t seem to see the humour.
“It sounds lonely.”
Dean frowned.
“How can it be lonely when I have you?”
In retrospect it was a smooth line. Dean usually came on like butter without even trying, but not usually on his brother. That didn’t stop
Sam from leaning in and planting his lips furtively against Dean’s for a heart-stopping moment.
When he pulled back his eyes were shining.
“At least I know that it’s still my Dean in there,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“Because I’m your dream come true.”
chapter 3
Chapter Two
“Dean?”
Maybe it should have felt worse, ignoring his brother so blatantly but all Dean felt was cold shock.
This was all wrong. The last time he’d been attacked by a djinn
Dean had been transported, or so he’d thought, into a world where everything that had gone wrong in his life hadn’t happened.
Right now he was, what, playing house with his own brother? It didn’t add up.
“Dean, seriously, open the door.”
Dean looked toward Sam’s voice. The washroom door was locked in between them and for an exhausting moment Dean entertained the idea of opening it. The thought alone of reasoning with Fake-
Sam was tiring.
Sam wouldn’t believe him, dedicated as he was to this false reality, and Dean would be stuck just like last time trying to convince him of the truth.
Hell, he’d even dragged his fake brother off to hunt the djinn the last time. He wouldn’t make that same mistake twice.
This wasn’t Sam or any form of him. They didn’t and never had done anything to make them more or less than just brothers. That thing on the other side of the door was an extension of Dean’s and the Djinn’s minds working in twisted unison to fool him.
Well he wouldn’t be fooled again. The only way out of this was death.
Sitting up on the toilet Dean wracked the washroom for something sharp. His eyes rested on the bathtub.
Call him melodramatic, but Dean just didn’t think it was classy to die in a bathtub. He needed something quick, something that would make the ordeal as painless as-
“You lose something in there?”
Dean jumped and swiveled to face Sam, who was standing in the open doorway with his lock pick in hand.
“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” Dean asked.
“I did knock,” Sam said, coming into the room. “Repeatedly, actually.”
He sat down on the edge of the tub after glancing in to find what Dean had been staring at. When he saw nothing was there he fixed his eyes on Dean.
“You want to tell me what’s going on yet?”
Dean considered it, actually genuinely did because Sam was doing the puppy-eyed thing and Dean had never been able to resist it.
Judging by how hard Sam was laying it on, he knew that too.
Instead, Dean laughed and looked away. The sound came out rough, more disappointed than happy and he grimaced.
“What’s the point Sammy, you’re not even real.”
That got Sam’s attention.
His eyes widened, his body going incredibly still.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked slowly.
Dean shut his eyes, stealing himself for what was about to happen.
Finally he stood up.
He felt Sam rise to his feet behind him, follow him from the room.
Dean’s pack was still by the door, but Sam’s was laying open on the table, the butt of a knife poking out the side pocket where Sam carried his spare.
Dean pulled it out, flipping it in his hand. When Sam didn’t move
Dean turned to him, finding his brother standing still with his hands raised in surrender.
“Dean, whatever you think is real right now, you have to put the knife down. Its really me here.”
Dean tried to smile, but this was just too twisted. How did he end up in this same situation twice?
“This knife isn’t for you Sammy,” he said, and swung the blade toward his stomach.
Either Sammy was a lot faster than Dean knew or Dean was slower because the knife never touched his skin and in an instant it was being wrestled from Dean’s grasp.
“Dean, no,” Sam gasped desperately and they fell back onto the bed, still fighting. Dean was reminded perversely of previous fights, the nasty witch attack on one of Sam’s last hunt’s before Stanford, their first time fighting the Trickster. When Sam whispered “please,”
it was all Dean could do to loosen his grip and let the knife fall free.
Sam didn’t move like Dean expected him to, to grab the knife, tie him up maybe, instead he stayed put, laying on top of Dean, breathing hard. When he lifted his head and looked down at him his eyes were wide and scared.
“What would make you try that Dean?” he demanded.
Dean looked away.
“Let go of me.”
Sam shook his head.
“No,” he whispered and his grip on Dean’s wrists tightened.
Damn it, he couldn’t do this if this Sam was so convincing.
“You need to tell me what got you?” he pressed on. “You need to tell me what you think is really going on here, man.”
Dean groaned.
“It was a Djinn, okay! A Freaking Djinn got me and you know it, now let me go.”
The sudden comprehension in Sam’s eyes would have been comical if it wasn’t so frustrating.
“You think this is a Djinn acid trip?” he asked.
Dean sighed and nodded.
Sam frowned.
“Dean we had our asses kicked by Angels not too long ago. I had no soul for a year. You-you were kidnapped by fairies, what about that sounds like a dream come true?”
Dean opened his mouth to answer but stopped. It was a valid point but…
“Well then how do you explain this sudden development?” he asked indicating the bed with an awkward head jerk.
Sam looked at him funny, pushing up so that he was almost straddling Dean, his frown deepening.
“Dean… this isn’t a sudden development.”
Of all the things Sam could have said, this was the last that Dean expected.
Stunned, he stared up at Sam.
“This has been going on a long time Dean. Since-god since before I left for Stanford.”
If Sam hadn’t been holding Dean down Dean was sure he still wouldn’t have been able to move.
“Something’s screwed with your memories,” Sam said. “You don’t remember any of it?” he asked.
He looked down at Dean so full of regret that Dean suddenly wished
it had happened, that he remembered it just so Sam wouldn’t be
looking at him that way.
Instead he shook his head.
“Its not true,” he said.
Sam swallowed, his fingers digging into Dean’s wrist.
“It is Dean, I promise.”
Dean snorted. What good was a promise from a mirage?
“One week,” Sam suddenly said. “Give me one week, Dean.”
“For what?”
“One week to prove to you that this is real. Without you putting up a fight or trying to kill yourself.”
The determined tone of his voice made Dean grimace. His brother was stubborn as an OX. When he got that tone things went his
way, or else.
“And at the end of the week? Then what?”
“Then we go on like normal, because you’ll be yourself by then.”
Dean turned away, he didn’t want to agree, didn’t want to give in without a fight, but his eyes landed on Sam’s hand, gripping him tightly.
“What’s that?” he demanded. “Sam, are you bleeding?”
He fought to pull his hands free but Sam just shook them still.
“Not until you promise,” he said.
“Fine, fine, just let me go.”
Sam lifted off him at once, freeing Dean to wiggle the feeling back into his fingers while he stooped to pick up the knife and stuff it back into his bag. He shot Dean a look and then carried it into the washroom with him. Unnecessary really considering that Dean had his own weapons…
After a moment of staring dejectedly up at the stained ceiling, he pushed out of the unnecessarily soft bed.
The door was still unlocked, the Impala sitting in the parking spot clearly in view of the window, Dean’s pack was still sitting where he’d left it, the keys were jingling in his pocket.
If Sam was trying to keep him on lock-down he was failing miserably.
All that meant was that he was doing the exact opposite. He was trusting Dean.
He pushed the frilly curtains back further, watching as a beat up
Honda rattled out of the lot. Last time this had happened everything
had been spot-on real. Did that mean there really was a-he looked
up at the sign-Flamingo Inn here in real life?
If that were the case then the only thing not real here was…
He looked over at the washroom where a sliver of Sam was visible through the slightly open door.
Dean guessed that was an invitation.
He found Sam sitting on the toilet holding toilet paper to his hand.
The little garbage was filled with red bundles of it and Dean felt a stirring of guilt despite himself. He really should leave, there was no point in helping him when the only reason Sam was even here was to keep Dean trapped. But curiosity and the big brother gene won out and Dean sat on the edge of the tub in a reverse imitation of before.
He took Sam’s hand in his own, ignoring any implications and pulled the paper away. It was almost done bleeding now, the skin cleanly sliced in three spots from their struggle with the knife.
“I didn’t think you were gonna bother coming in here,” Sam said tersely.
“Why not?” he asked. “I thought we were… closer in this place.”
Sam shrugged.
“Maybe,” he said.
He watched in silence as Dean pulled out the alcohol, pouring it into a cotton ball from the first aid kit and didn’t so much as flinch when
Dean dabbed it along the wound.
“I don’t get it,” he said finally. “I can’t imagine our lives without what we have as a part of it.”
Dean didn’t know how to answer that. The thousands of questions that suddenly rang through his head didn’t seem like the right response. Why? What’s so important about your life that you think it’s better than mine? What’s worth destroying your relationship with your brother for? What is it that we have exactly? What do we do?
What are the differences?
They all flooded his brain at once fighting for room through his lips and all getting jammed in his mouth on the way out. So he just sat there with his mouth hanging open until Sam spoke again.
“Did our mom die when I was six months old?” he asked.
Surprised, Dean nodded.
“The yellow eyed demon, right? And then we were raised on the
road?”
Dean finally found his voice.
“Yeah, but what--?”
“Jus humor me,” Sam interrupted.
“How did Dad die?”
Dean swallowed.
“He traded his soul, Sam you know that.”
He nodded.
“Yeah Dean I do. And then you did the same for me.”
If this was supposed to be a guilt trip it was freaking working.
He nodded. So much for having his voice back.
“By the time you came back I was--”
“Shacked up with Ruby I know, Sam why are you doing this?”
“Because I need to know if anything else is different, Dean.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Dean reached for the first aid kit but Sam handed him the gauze before he got to it.
“So what’s the verdict?” he asked, despite himself.
“Everything’s the same.”
“Except us.”
“Except us.”
They fell silent as Dean rolled the gauze carefully around Sam’s hand but again he broke the silence with a question that Dean didn’t know how to answer.
“How do you live with me?”
Dean just glanced at him this time, then quickly back to his work.
He knew what Sam meant unfortunately but what was there to say?
“We drive. We hunt. We sleep in shit motels and eat junk food and save the world from evil.”
Sam didn’t seem to see the humour.
“It sounds lonely.”
Dean frowned.
“How can it be lonely when I have you?”
In retrospect it was a smooth line. Dean usually came on like butter without even trying, but not usually on his brother. That didn’t stop
Sam from leaning in and planting his lips furtively against Dean’s for a heart-stopping moment.
When he pulled back his eyes were shining.
“At least I know that it’s still my Dean in there,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“Because I’m your dream come true.”
chapter 3