A/N - Firstly, I would like to thank all of you for your continued support. Not a single one of my fanfictions up to this point has gone without at least one positive review, and for that, I am very grateful. Secondly, I would like to address this work particularly. You know those ideas for fanfictions that you get in the most random places? The shower, your car, geometry . . . The ones that stick with you and eat away at your very soul until you finally cave and begin to write? That is what this idea was. But no more! Since the placement of this story is Season 1 and Season 8, and we are currently IN Season 8, let's just pretend that the episodes that have currently happened or are happening just go with the plot. It really doesn't matter anyway . . . I don't think I'll be bringing Benny into this at all, and Amelia may only be mentioned at best. Alright, without further ado, here we go!
/
Sam stared out the window of the Impala, trying to clear his head. Everything that had happened lately with Jess was still fresh in his mind, and despite his older brother's many attempts to distract him, it seemed like the pain would never completely go away.
Dean noticed his brother had been in a particularly emo-boy mood that day, and wasn't quite sure how to deal with it. He could joke around like he normally did-but he also didn't want to make Sam annoyed with him. He feared that staying silent for too long, however, would give the impression that he didn't care or hadn't noticed.
Finally, he couldn't take the ongoing quiet any longer. "Hey, Sammy?"
Sam turned his head and faced Dean but said nothing.
"Got anything that looks good?" he tilted his head towards the newspaper on the dashboard.
Sam shrugged. "A few weird murders in Oklahoma City."
"Weird how?"
Sam reached over and picked up the paper. After a few moments of page turning, he found what he was looking for. "People keep getting struck by lightning on perfectly sunny days, and there have been a few wild animal attacks."
"Sounds like two monsters in the same area," Dean said. "Lightning and animal attacks . . . That can't be related, can it?"
Sam shook his head. "Doesn't sound like anything we've ever faced before. But then again—I find that we say that a lot."
-8 Years Later-
Sam stared out the window of the Impala, trying to clear his head. Everything that had happened lately with Amelia was still fresh in his mind, and his older brother's constant harassment about Sam not having looked for him while he was in Purgatory wasn't helping at all.
Dean noticed his brother had been in a particularly emo-boy mood that day, and wasn't quite sure how to deal with it. He thought that maybe joking around with him would help-but he also wasn't very keen to cheer his brother up in the first place. They may have been able to get over the whole "you're working with a vampire"/ "you didn't look for me while I was in purgatory" thing, but that didn't mean their relationship was back to the way it had been before. He feared that staying silent for too long, however, would give the impression that he didn't need Sam to snap out of it.
Finally, he couldn't take the ongoing quiet any longer. "Sam?"
"What?" Sam asked, not bothering to look away from the window.
Dean used one hand to tap the laptop resting on Sam's legs. "You got anything?"
Sam shrugged. "Something in Oklahoma City looked weird."
"What was it?"
The lack of Wi-Fi permitted Sam from opening his computer and checking, and he silently cursed himself for not having written the information down. Why hadn't he just picked up a newspaper anyway? That was how they had always found hunts in years past! "Something about lightning and animal attacks I think?"
Dean's eyebrows arched together. "That sound familiar to you?"
Sam thought a moment, and then shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Not like anything I've ever faced before."
Dean nodded. "Alright, Oklahoma City it is then."
/
The drive was a long one, and with only each other for company, the Winchester Boys resorted to their usual antics of pranks and tom foolery. Would they ever grow up? Probably not.
Dean had already played two rounds of his favorite game—put things in Sam's mouth while he slept, and Sam had already gotten him back by shoving the cassette tapes where he couldn't reach while driving and putting it on the Top 40 Station.
"My ears!" Dean howled as the Black Eyed Peas blasted through the Impala.
"'S what you get," Sam told him, and then proceeded to obnoxiously sing along including—much to Dean's dismay—the rapping sections.
Dean opened his mouth to complain once more, but just as they were crossing the border into Oklahoma, the radio turned to static. Dean let out a sigh of relief. "Never in my life have I been so grateful for a crappy signal."
Sam smirked. "Alright, alright. Hey, it's getting late, why don't we stop somewhere and pick up the hunt tomorrow?"
Dean nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Nearest motel?"
Sam shrugged and looked down at one of the tourist maps he had picked up at a rest stop three miles back. "Looks like . . . St. Mary's Inn."
"Oh great," Dean commented. "Religious freaks who run a motel. Friggin' perfect."
-8 years later—
The drive was a long one, and with only each other for company, the Winchester Men resorted to their usual arguments and bickering. Would they ever put aside their differences? Probably not.
Dean had already called Sam out twice for not searching for him while he was in Purgatory, and Sam had already gotten him back by going on and on to no end about Benny and how he couldn't believe Dean would trust a vampire—especially after all the grief he had once given Sam about Ruby.
"Enough!" Dean howled as Sam's argument grew more intense.
"Can't handle the fact that I might be equally justified?" Sam snapped. He continued to defend himself long after Dean had stopped listening and cranked the radio up to ungodly levels of sound.
Dean opened his mouth to yell at his brother once more, but just as they were crossing the border into Oklahoma, the radio turned to static. Dean hit the dashboard three times as hard as he could, with no effect. "Goddamn it . . . Of all the times for a crappy signal."
Sam rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. He didn't feel like being in the same car as his brother any more. "Let's just find somewhere to stay and pick up the hunt tomorrow."
"Sounds like a plan. Nearest motel?"
Sam checked the tourist pamphlet he had grabbed at a gas station a few hours before hand. "St. Mary's Inn."
"Oh great," Dean commented. "Religious freaks who run a motel. Friggin' perfect."
/
Sam fell asleep that night faster than he had in months. Lately he had been dreading sleep above all else—the nightmares were too terrible to bare, but for some reason that night, he found himself anticipating a time when it would be late enough for him to doze off without Dean calling him out for it.
-8 years later—
Sam fell asleep the night faster than he had in years. Lately he had been craving more sleep above all else—he and Dean had been nonstop hunting so much lately it was nearly too much to bare, and by some miracle that night, he found himself able to lay down and rest his head at a time so early he was surprised Dean hadn't called him out for it. Then again, Dean seemed to be in a pretty crappy mood lately.
/
When he woke up the next morning, Sam felt as though he had been smashed in the head with a ton of bricks. Funny though, he couldn't remember having a nightmare. As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember having dreamt at all. "Dean?" he called groggily.
Dean grunted in response, clearly not awake enough to pay much attention.
"Dean I'm serious," Sam croaked. "'M not feelin' so hot."
"So get yourself a freaking Advil!" Dean snapped.
"Jeez, what crawled up your ass in the middle of the night . . ." Sam asked, but nonetheless he got up and walked over to his duffel anyway. He rifled through, trying to find the Advil. It wasn't where he had left it . . . "Dean, it's not in here."
"What the hell is wrong with your voice?" Dean asked, ignoring him. "You sound like you got hit in the junk or something."
Sam's eyebrows creased. "I could ask you the same question. What'd you hit second puberty or something?"
That was when Dean sensed something might be wrong. He opened his eyes ever so slightly and found . . .
"Holy shit!" Dean exclaimed. "Sam—what the hell happened?"
Sam looked around the room, unaware of what his brother meant. "What are you talking about?"
"When did you cut all your hair off and where was I?" Dean asked; a smiled creeping onto his face. "You know, I'm actually kind of surprised Amelia didn't make you cut it that whole time you were with her."
"Who's Amelia?" Sam asked, utterly perplexed.
Dean's eyebrows creased. "Your girlfriend? Or . . . She was your girlfriend. I guess something happened—you won't tell me what if I may remind you."
"Dean," Sam shifted his weight to his other foot. "My girlfriends name was Jessica. And you know what happened to her—you were there. Remember?"
That was when it hit Dean. The hair, the voice, the confusion . . . Even his face looked different! How had he not noticed? "Sam . . . How old are you?"
"Really Dean?" Sam asked. "You can't even remember how old I am now?"
"Answer the question."
"Twenty-two," Sam said; his voice thickly layered with irritation. How could Dean forget such a thing?
Dean snatched the motel calendar from the bedside table and held it out to his much younger brother.
Sam read the date. But—no, that wasn't possible. It was 2005, not 2012! He would have accused the motel of screwing up had he not checked the date himself just the night before. Then, it had said 2005. He was sure of it.
And then it all made sense. Dean's voice, the weird questions, hell he even looked older . . . Sam had somehow ended up in the future.
-8 years ago—
When he woke up the next morning, Sam felt as though he had been smashed in the head with a ton of bricks. Funny though, he couldn't remember having any recent head trauma. As a matter of fact, he hadn't been injured within the last few weeks at all. He pulled himself out of his bed and walked over to the duffel bag. He unzipped the front pocket where they normally kept the pain killers. Only now—they were missing. "Dean?" he called groggily.
Dean grunted in response, clearly not awake enough to pay much attention.
"Dean I'm serious," Sam croaked. "Where'd you put the Advil?"
"Inside pocket, just like always," Dean replied into his pillow.
"We always keep it in the front pocket," Sam told him. "We have been for years."
"Sammy what the hell are you talking about?" Dean asked. "And what's going on with your voice? Finally hit puberty?"
Sam cleared his throat—did he really sound that gravely in the morning? "You're one to talk. What'd you get hit in the junk or something?"
Dean turned over onto his back and opened his eyes to find . . .
Within seconds he had grabbed the pistol from under his pillow, sat up, and faced it at the Sasquatch man at the foot of his bed. "Who the hell are you and what've you done with my brother?"
Sam scowled. "Dean now's not the time for jokes. We've got work to do and my head is killing me could you just—"
"Sammy?" Dean asked, taking a closer look. Same face . . . Same height. But, buffer. Definitely buffer. And that hair—what the hell? Then something clicked. "Sam, how old are you?"
"Really Dean?" Sam asked. "You can't subtract four from your own age?"
"Answer the question."
"Thirty," Sam told him, not the least bit surprised his brother had forgotten.
Dean's eyes grew wide. "Sammy . . . You're twenty-two. Or you were last night." He grabbed the motel calendar from the bedside table and tossed it to his younger—older—younger?—brother. It read 2005. Sam would have called the motel out for never replacing their calendars had he not checked the date only the night before. It had read 2012, he was sure of it.
Sam looked up at Dean. He definitely looked younger. His hair was a little longer too—messier. And his jaw line a little less pronounced. Their father's leather jacket was hanging off the back of a chair on the other side of the room. He hadn't seen that since . . . And if none of that had given it away, around Dean's neck was the necklace Sam had given him as a child—the necklace Dean had tossed in the trash years ago.
"Oh no . . ."