This is an author AU in which Sam is the one Zach brought to the future. He shows him the version he thinks will push him just the right way, but he doesn't understand humans and Sam breaks.
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoy! Be warned, this has quite the amount of attempted suicide in it. No character death, just a lot of suicide references.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not this story, not this life, not even myself because it's all an allusion and nothing is real.
Bob's Bar and Grill (buy mostly bar) was crowded and smoggy. The air smelled like warm breath and cigarettes. Dean was itching to leave.
He forced himself to stay, because this was what he wanted; a crappy dive bar in some no-name town, surrounded by drunk, middle aged men going through their personalized mid-life crisis and waitresses with huge racks. He wanted time for himself, a night out getting trashed without a little brother to worry about. He wanted a life away from Sam.
If he was being honest with himself, that whole "freedom and independency" bullshit had lost its glamour after the second week of drinking himself into oblivion and then walking back to an empty room. Cas made it more bearable when he felt like sticking around (he didn't feel like the world was trying to swallow him whole), but those days were few and far between.
What Dean really wanted was to go back to how it was before. When Dad was still around and Sam hadn't left for college yet and Dean could pretend that they were going to stay like that, hunting things and being a family until they retired. He wanted a little brother who trusted him and could hold an actual conversation and wasn't angry all the time and who still thought Dean's word was gospel.
He wanted Sammy back.
But he didn't know how to get him back, or where to even begin. Maybe that guy didn't even exist anymore. He didn't suppose it mattered anyway, what with the apocalypse on their hands and Sam in about the same shape as a recovering junkie. It was so much easier to just split up and focus on one thing at a time.
Dean was also finding it increasingly difficult to look at Sam. They were walking on eggshells around each other, Sam always one word away from snapping and Dean not far behind. He just couldn't look at him and see anything past the betrayal. He saw Ruby, and the demon blood, and Sam blatantly ignoring him right up to the very end. He was so fucking tired of chasing after someone who didn't want to be helped.
By the time he'd finally let himself leave the bar, sufficiently buzzed and planning on finishing the job with a bottle of Jim Beam back at the motel, he had nine new messages on his phone. All from Sam.
Dean felt the irritation prickle at his chest. They'd just talked, what, a couple days ago? He thought he'd been pretty clear in his "we're done for a while". He'd built his walls (well, he'd at least started to build them) around Sam. He needed this break. That, and, if he was being honest with himself, he was tired of Sam.
He was tired of protecting his little brother, playing watch dog, always putting Sam first. He was tired of Sam not talking for days and then flinching when Dean tried to touch him. He was tired of Sam's outbursts, random and ten times worse than the fights he'd picked with Dad. Dean was tired of getting scolded for drinking until he passed out, because that was the only way he knew how. He was tired of Sam's mood swings, because Dean was pretty busy keeping his own head on straight, he shouldn't have to worry about Sam's, too. He was tired of not being able to enjoy anything because his happiness depended on Sam, and the kid was dead set on misery.
And yeah, maybe he did sometimes buy too much food from the gas station (always twizlers, because those were Sam's favorite), and maybe he did deflate a little when he started singing loud and off key to the empty passenger's seat. Maybe he still hated the single motel rooms, because they reminded him of a different time with a different brand of betrayal when he at least knew Sam was safe. And happy. And hunting alone sucked ass, but he would adjust.
He just needed Sam to stop calling him. He was supposed to be dealing with the end of the world (another one of Sam's mistakes) while Sam got over his demon blood addiction. They were supposed to be picking hemispheres. Dean needed space.
But Dean was buzzed, and he really did miss Sam's voice.
So he backed out of the parking lot and played the first message.
"Hey, Dean. I was just calling to let you know I'm killing myself in a few minutes." Dean could swear he heard his blood turn to ice, could hear it climb down his spine.
"It's not that—I'm not giving up. I know that's what it looks like. But I'm not. I know I don't deserve an easy out on this mess. But, uh, Zachariah showed me something. I don't know how the hell he found me, but he did. And if he can find me, I'm pretty sure he can get to you. So, you know. Watch out. Anyway, point is, I say yes. Some time in the future, probably sooner than later, I give Satan the go ahead to destroy the world with my body. Really, though, did anyone not see that coming?" Sam sighed at himself. Dean stopped the car for pedestrians.
"I know you're probably pissed at me, but I'm fixing it. I can't say yes if I'm dead." Someone honked at Dean for running a red light.
"I can fix this, Dean. I'm sorry I can't help with the rest of it, but I think this way's better. More damage control." There was a pause and Dean held his breath, had been holding his breath, because Sam left this message hours ago. Sam was dead.
"I guess, uh, this is goodbye then. Thank you. So much, Dean. I know you tried your hardest to keep me clean, but I was a lost cause from the start. Nothing you could do. Uh, I don't—you can't bring me back this time. I don't know if you'd ever even consider doing that again, and I'm probably just embarrassing myself by asking this, but just in case. Please. Let me just die this time." Dean ran another red light and finally made himself pull over. He thought he might be going into shock.
"For what it's worth, you were the best big brother I could've asked for," Sam's voice cracked and then the call ended and the voice was telling him which buttons to press to save and what buttons to delete and Sam was dead.
He'd never get to meet up with Sam, tell him he's sorry and that they weren't better apart. Sam would never get married, or have kids, or a real house, or go to Disney World like they'd promised each other they would in elementary school. Sam died thinking Dean never wanted to see him again.
Dean flung open the car door and retched onto the pavement, the whisky burning twice as much on the way back up.
When there was nothing left to throw up, Dean sat against the cool metal of the Impala (he was going to smash it he was going to shatter the windows and tear up the leather and rip out the dashboard because none of it meant anything if Sam would never be in the passenger seat again) and counted his breaths. He'd dropped his phone on the pavement, and was fully prepared to stomp it until there was nothing left (like Sam where was he how did he do it did he use Dean's gun did he use the knife Dean'd given him did he jump off a cliff so there was no mess to clean up where was he) but when the screen lit up, he stopped.
Eight unread voicemails.
Dean took two deep breaths and pressed play.
"It didn't work." Dean laid down on the pavement the second he heard Sam's voice. He thought he would probably throw up again if he didn't. "Well, it did. But only for, like, five minutes. Leave it to fucking Satan to care about my health. Jesus, if that doesn't say something about my character—" Sam broke off. Dean regretted letting Sam leave. He'd known it was a bad move the second Sam got in the car, but he was angry. He'd known Sam was all but drowning in guilt and self-hatred and shame and probably a hundred other shitty nouns but so was Dean, and he really couldn't find it in him to care. He figured it was about time Sam learned to own up to his mistakes (and God was he owning up to his fucking mistakes).
"So. I called to tell you he didn't lie. And it didn't work." Sam sniffed. His voice was remarkably stable. Frustrated, but not in the least bit hysterical. Dean had always marveled at Sam's resolve.
"I'm so sorry Dean." And then he hung up.
Sam left that message at 11:40. Dean had been flirting with the moderately-hot waitress.
He'd always been a good kid. Angry as hell, but generally nice and easy to get along with. He'd argued for ages when he'd found out about the scams Dad had been pulling, refused to hustle pool with Dean even though he could. Going grocery shopping with him was a pain because he had to help every old lady he saw carry bags to her car. He left an apology note every time they had to break someone's window and, if he could, a couple bucks. Secretly, of course, so Dean and Dad didn't find out. And after he realized how scarce food was for them, he went out of his way to bring what he could. Dean and John always got presents on their birthdays and on holidays, even if they weren't around for weeks. Sam took as many bullets for Dean and John as they took for him. Maybe more. He cried when they left towns he'd really gotten used to and begged Dad to move on when he could tell Dean hated the city, but was too proud to say anything. When he learned to drive, he insisted on getting an honest job in every town. He barely slept sophomore year, juggling a job, homework, and training, until Dean finally made him quite and focus on school.
Sam was a really great kid. An even better adult.
Granted, he had ended the world, but what did anyone expect when they raised a kid on the foundation that it was their responsibility to saveeveryone, and breaks weren't really in the job description? Sam had only done it in the first place because he thought he'd been saving the world. That's a pretty noble cause, isn't it?
"Hey Dean. So. This is the sixth time I've committed suicide tonight. The rooms a fucking mess. You should probably call if you want me to stop updating you on this shit. I know you do, but I just. I need to hear you say it. C'mon Dean. Tell me you never want to hear from me again. Tell me you hope next time sticks. C'mon, tell me how pathetic I am. Tell me I'm a monster.
"I know you said you'd do this yourself. Why didn't you? What the fuck stopped you?" When? When the fuck had he said that? "Never mind. It doesn't matter. I'm taking care of it. Kind of. I mean, I'm not really being too successful over here. Anyway, I'm gonna go. Figure I might as well try the knife again. Seriously, please call me back. I need you to tell me to stop. Calling you, I mean. Not sure if I can stop killing myself at this point."
Dean was sweating and shaking and he was fucking freezing cold. He couldn't stop looking up at the stars, comparing them to the ones he'd looked at with Sam on the hood of the impala. When Sam had still been somewhat happyish. When he hadn't been abandoned by his older brother and then handed to Lucifer on a silver platter by fucking angels. The stars seemed dull tonight. Less three dimensional and more like a cover painted over to keep humans in check.
And who the fuck decided Sam had to handle being Lucifer's vessel alone (that was Dean of course)?
He played the next voicemail.
"I had to leave the motel. I tried a lot of things, Dean. I thought drowning myself would do the trick, because when I came to I would just drown all over again, but he drained the water. I really pissed him off, Dean." Sam started to laugh then, and it grated against Dean's ears. It sounded painful. It settled in the pit of Dean's stomach and made him sick. He's never heard Sam laugh like that.
"Anyway, I had to leave. I wanted to try the gun and people would definitely hear it and call the cops. So I'm in a forest now. I forgot my jacket, and it's starting to rain." There was a few seconds of silence. Dean prayed to whoever was listening that Sam was alive still.
"I love you, Dean."
Dean was cussing and yelling and punching the ground and nothing registered.
When he had finally worn himself out, he dropped back onto the dead grass on the side of the road and tried very hard not to think.
This was worse than Cold Oak. This was worse than Dad. This was raw, and it was final and it was all Dean's fault. If Sam had actually managed to do it, Dean was alone again. His trip to Hell meant nothing, and saving the world meant nothing, and waking up tomorrow morning meant nothing. His lungs felt too small and his heart felt too big. He put his hand on his chest to relieve the pressure.
When he played the next message, at first all he could hear was his own breathing. He was about to restart the message when he heard Sam, his voice scratchy and rough and kind of broken.
"Do you remember when Dad hit me? You were so fucking mad. But he was drunk and I was being a little shit again and you literally dragged me out of the motel room and yelled at Dad until we were in the car and he couldn't hear us anymore. And then you took me out to my first concert. You had to sneak us in because we were both underage, and the security guards almost caught us, but you managed to get us beers and somehow got us to the front.
"I don't remember any of the bands, or where it was, but I remember that you kept looking over at me and I felt like we could do anything. I know, it sounds so fucking cheesy. But I swear to God, Dean, I didn't care about whatever was going on around us, I just felt like you would do anything for me and I would do anything for you. And you kept making sure I was having fun, and saying we could leave whenever." The band had been AC/DC, they'd been in Nevada. It was hot as hell until the sun went down. Dean had been pissed for the first half of it, until Sam told him he was the best big brother for getting him beer and Dean had punched him in the arm and stolen his drink.
"I don't know. I didn't even regret Dad hitting me, because if he hadn't then you would've gone with someone else. And I looked up to you so much, and we didn't spend enough time together, and you just swooped in and I thought you could save me," Sam took a few breaths. "You can't." Deancould.
"I still think about that. When I feel like this life is sucking everything I have out of me. But it's nice to remember what it was like, before we knew what I am. When we could pretend I was worth something, you know? Fuck." Dean clenched his teeth.
"What am I even doing anymore, Dean?" His voice was quiet, resigned. Dean's stomach clenched.
He sat there, listening to the sound of the full moon circling over his head. He didn't want to listen to anymore voicemails. But there were only four left and he had to finish them.
He pressed play.
"It's so fucking cold out here, Dean. Maybe I'll get pneumonia." Sam was quiet. Everything was quiet.
"I shouldn't have gone to college." And that was not at all what Dean expected. "I was just so scared. Everywhere I looked, all I saw was death. I had nightmares about you dying young and painfully and never even having a real girlfriend. I was next, because if you died there would be nothing. When you died last year there was nothing. I mean, there was Lilith, but if that hadn't panned out, then. Well. After me would be Dad, because he was gone from the second I killed mom." Dean's chest was swollen; he couldn't get enough air in. He'd never heard Sam talk about Mom that way. Did he know Sam at all?
"I wanted something more, Dean. I wanted to be able to have dinner without feeling guilty because either we stole it or there was barely enough for one and we were both starving. I was going insane, man. I didn't see a point in sticking around just long enough to get killed by some monster that we weren't prepared for. I needed to wake up to something that wasn't Dad shaking me awake for training, or to make sure everyone had made it through the night. But I get it now, Dean. I was so goddamn selfish. I killed Jess. And Dad. Fuck, I killed you- I should've let the life kill me before I could destroy the entire world. I was so selfish, Dean. What the fuck is wrong with me?" If Dean ever sees Sam again, he's going to punch him in the face until he realizes most of that shit was someone else's fault.
"It's so fucking cold, Jesus. I'm gonna head back soon. I've just gotta try a few more times. While I'm out here." Dean had the worst headache. And his ass hurt from the pavement. And he couldn't stop imagining Sam's brains splattered all over the forest, because apparently they were.
The next message was from 2 hours ago. Dean played it before he could talk himself out of it.
"I forgot my mother fucking keys in the mother fucking room. Like it's not enough that I'm not allowed to finally do the right god damn thing, I'm stuck in the cold. And I look like a fucking maniac because I'm covered in blood and I just really need some sleep. I would say that I wanna kill myself, but I've already tried. Multiple times. Don't wanna sound cliché." Turn that knife a little harder, Sam.
"This isn't, uh - this isn't even the first time I've tried, Dean. Those six months the trickster put me through, I made it through two before I pulled off the side of the road in Alabama and tried to—ya know. I'd taken out a Wendigo, and the only reason I hadn't handed it off to Bobby was because I thought it would kill me. And it should've. I guess it would have, if the trickster hadn't been trying to teach me something. Anyway, I took it alone and I was so pissed when I come out alive. I made it a few states before I broke down and pulled over. I walked far enough down the road to keep your car clean, but the gun jammed. Shit, Dean. I laughed myself sick over that. And when I finally got you back I knew that was how it was going to end up. Except there wouldn't be anyone to jam the gun. You were going to Hell and I would be right behind you, because I wasn't planning on waiting 6 months again. Too bad I didn't follow through, huh?" Dean didn't know what to do with that information. He just—didn't.
"I guess making the wrong choice is just in my blood. Sorry." Sam sounded genuinely apologetic for not being able to kill himself. "Ok, I'm going to go try to find a paperclip, because I think I need to try a few more times." Dean wished he'd answered his phone. He wished Sam would stop killing himself.
He listened to the next message.
"I ruined the room. I think I'm gonna have to burn it. I really fucked up, Dean.
"Did I ever tell you about the future? Zachariah dumped me in the middle of a fucking warzone. Lucifer hit us with the Croatoan virus. It was bad. It was so fucking bad. Anyway, when I finally caught up to you, you almost killed me. He—er, well, you, I guess— you looked awful. I mean, you all did. There wasn't any food, or running water, and you just looked sad. So when I finally half way convinced you I was actually me, you told Cas to watch me while you went out on some mission or something. Bobby died. And Ellen and Joe. And pretty much half the world." Sam paused. He was guilty. A beat later he cleared his throat and continued.
"When you got back, you got drunk. I mean shitfaced, black out drunk—and when you were finally able to look me in the eye you told me I said yes. I ended the world. You asked me why and I have no idea. I have no fucking clue why I would willingly end the world and it's killing me.
"You took me with you the next day. You wanted me to see what I'd done. The world was a dump, and everyone was scared shitless. Then Lucifer showed up, wearing me, and he killed you. With my body. And I can't let that happen. I really, really can't. But I'm running out of ways to get creative, Dean.
"Fuck, I really need this to work. I'm scared of what I'll turn into if I'm alive tomorrow. I'm not sure I'll be remotely close to sane." Sam whispered. And then he hung up.
One message left. One more, and then Dean could get to work on fixing Sam (because that was his job and there was no other option).
"Dean. I'm so fucking exhausted. But I know I won't be able to sleep. So, uh, I'm going to do some research and figure out a way to do this right. I am so, so sorry for losing it. You're probably disappointed in me. And pissed. I shouldn't have called. Just—trust me. Please. I promise I can do this." Sam took a deep breath on the other side of the line.
"Goodbye, Dean."
And that was it. And Dean was so lost. The only thing he was certain of was that he needed to talk to Sam. Desperately.
The first try went to voicemail. So did the second try. And the third and the fourth. He left threats on Sam's answering machine, in case Sam actually listened to them. The sixth time, Sam answered.
"Dean?" His voice was groggy and wrecked, and Dean wondered if he'd just woken up from slitting his wrists again.
"Sammy? Thank God. Jesus. Where are you?" His voice wasn't much better than Sam's, but he doubted Sam would mind.
"What? Where—?"
"Please. Please, Sammy, I just need to make sure you're... okay," alive.
Sam didn't answer.
"Sammy," Dean whispered (pleaded), because he needed to hear Sam talk to him, not at him.
"Okay. Yeah, okay. Halfway, then. I'm in Telluride." Dean let Sam pick the city and then they hung up because Dean couldn't think of a reason to keep talking.
He drove 20 over the speed limit and got tailed by 4 cops. He didn't let himself stop once, even though he's had to piss since Knoxville.
When he pulled into the first motel in the yellow book and got a room under the name Jim Rockford (and peed for like an hour), he realized he hadn't needed to rush. Sam probably wouldn't show up until the next day. He flipped on the TV to calm his nerves. When there was absolutely nothing left to put protection on, he cleaned his guns. It was another hour or two before he heard a knock on the door.
He had the sudden urge to run, to book it the fuck out of there because he hadn't seen Sam in weeks and he didn't know what to say or how to act or how to apologize—
"You look like shit."
Sam didn't even blink.
"Here, come in, do you want coffee? Or water, or we could go out. I'll pay, I saw a diner on the—"
Sam shrugged off Dean's hands and said "Dean," so quietly he almost didn't hear it.
"I got your messages." Dean blurted.
"I figured."
They were standing just inside the doorway, close but not close enough, because Dean had just listened to Sam talk about killing himself all night and he wanted to touch.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you to fuck off when you called." He reached out and tried to grab Sam's arms, to check Sam's pulse, something, but Sam jerked away.
"It's fine. I was the one who wanted to separate." Sam wasn't looking at Dean.
"You just wanted my help. I know I screwed up there, Sam."
"It wasn't your problem in the first place. The only reason I'm in this mess is because I trusted a demon and I was too stubborn and strung out to actually listen to anyone. If I were you, I would've ditched myself months ago," Sam said, trying to smile. He was holding himself awkwardly, ready to bolt if Dean tried to touch him again.
"Cool it, hot shot, it's not like you started the apocalypse single handedly. We had angels breathing down our necks and Ruby riding your ass since the second I dropped out of the picture. I broke the first seal. If anything this is my fault, because I got the ball rolling." He flinched a little at the memories, still warm and fresh. Ten whole years of guilt free torture. But he needed Sam to see that the world wasn't resting on his shoulders. They were sharing the weight. Always have been.
"You were being tortured. And you were in Hell," the because of me went unspoken, but Dean heard it anyway. "Thirty years is longer than most would've held out. I knew what I was doing. I knew everyone was telling me to stop, but I was so fucked up I didn't care. I screwed this entire world because I trusted a demon." Sam was shaking. He held his back strait against the door, because God forbid he let himself get comfortable.
"It's not like you went out with the sole purpose of raising Lucifer. You thought you were saving the world. Hell, I thought you were, too, until Zach told me that he'd been lying to us." Maybe, if Dean hadn't lost complete faith in Sam after the demon blood, if he hadn't been too pissed off and betrayed to actually see Sam, he might've been able to stop him.
Dean walked to the kitchen table and sat down, waiting for Sam to follow. Dean looked at him pointedly until he did. Sitting across from each other, in good light, Dean couldn't help racking Sam's body for evidence. Sam noticed.
"He healed me. When he brought me back. Didn't leave any scars." Sam shrugged, staring at the kitchen table. "Didn't wanna mark up the packaging."
"Did he find you again?" Dean asked.
"Yes. I mean, no, not in person, but in my dreams. I would say you don't have to worry, because I'm not going to say yes, but apparently I do."
"We don't know why, though. You're not a bad guy, or evil or a monster or whatever the fuck. You're my brother. And I'm not leaving you again. I'm not. So if you wanna go out with a bang, save this shithole one last time, then I'm coming with you. You better save a bullet for me, because you are not doing this alone." Sam finally looked Dean in the eye, desperate and confused.
"Dean, that's not what—"
"I don't give a rat's ass. Screw angels, screw demons. Hell, screw the whole damn world. We're a team. I can't do this without you."
Sam was quiet.
"I trust you," Dean said. Sam snorted.
"Yeah, well you shouldn't."
"With my life, Sam."
Sam nodded. He didn't look convinced.
"'Sides. Have I ever been known to do the smart thing?"
When Sam smiled, it almost reached his eyes.
"So, what? We're just gonna go back to tiptoeing around each other? We weren't exactly a well rounded team before I left."
"I was pissed. And you were pissed. And now we've had some time off to pull our heads out of our asses. So let's just—forget about it. Huh? Put it all behind us and focus on whatever comes next."
"Do you think we can?"
"Fuck yeah. We're the Winchesters. That's what we do." The corner of Sam's mouth twitched and he shook his head a little, still looking down at the table. They were silent for a while.
"You didn't kill mom." Dean watched Sam's head snap up, his eyebrows draw together.
"No, not intentionally, I mean-He was there for me. I don't know. I can just, feel it. Inside me. I know he picked me for a reason. I'm, like, a fucking virus or something. I know I wasn't the one who killed her, but it was my fault."
"Mom would've died for you in a heartbeat. She loved you. Yellow Eyes killed her. Okay? Jesus, no one blames you for that. No one." Dean looked Sam in the eye until Sam's eyes darted away.
"Okay, Dean." Sam said, resigned. Some tension seeped out of his back, though. His hair was greasy and unwashed, his eyes swollen red and puffy from lack of sleep, and he looked almost grey in the motel lighting. His cheeks were sunken in, and he looked stalkier than usual. He looked like a man at the end of his rope. Dean felt his eyes start to sting. Was this what Sam had looked like before he'd left? When had he let it get this bad? Sam was killing himself (literally and figuratively), and Dean didn't know how to make him stop. But he was sure as hell going to try.
"You don't have to kill yourself to save everyone else, or whatever. If you say you're not going to say yes to him, then you're not. I'm not gonna let you. We're doing this our way."
"And which way is that?" Sam asked.
"Taking down the Devil and every single angel or demon that gets in our way." Sam raised his eyebrows, still leaning towards the let-me-sacrifice-myself-for-the-greater-good plan. "Look, Sam, I ain't saving this world if you're not in it." Sam thought about that, looked out the window. Dean was fidgeting around in his seat, ready to hit the road. He wanted to grab Sam by the collar and go.
"I'm tired, Dean."
"How 'bout this. After we kick the Devil in the ass, we'll have a vacation. A long ass vacation. We'll sneak into Disney World." Sam laughed, surprised.
"If it's still around." Sam added.
"Okay. If we haven't burnt it to the ground, we'll go to Disney World. So, until then, we'll have to settle on weekends in Vegas." He smiled at Sam and Sam almost smiled back. Dean was going to take what he could get.
"Okay, Dean. Let's save the fucking world."
I hope you enjoyed concrit is always welcome :)