A few strategic edits to make the story stronger and flow better. Please review and let me know what you think. I'll be very encouraged if you do. J
This is a different take on what would happen if Sam died, but without the cross-roads demon and thus, no hell. Yup. The story might not agree with what the series lays out to be true. And … I'm mixing up seasons on purpose. Uh huh.
About characterization: I feel sad for Dean, really, but I do sympathize with Sam's situation. Security and a settled family have a powerful pull.
Sam wants a normal life. Dean can't live without him. A deal is made.
Very brief, non-explicit Wincest scene. A LOT OF DENIAL.
/
The Good Life
The fights start small. Cramped in a car, in a motel room, the brothers are only to be expected to squabble. Sam hates how Dean hits on every remotely attractive woman and his awful jokes about Sam's supposed lack of experience. Dean's handwriting is abysmal and Sam can't read his notes on what they're hunting. Dean deliberately drives over every speed limit. Regardless, Dean never lets Sam touch the wheel. To all this Dean either yells back that Sam isn't Mr. Perfect himself, or shrugs off what Sam says, and doesn't change.
Sam stews over the latest irritation of his brother singing off-key in the shower when he knew Sam was trying to sleep as Dean walks in. "I'm going out," he announces, getting up and flinging on his jacket. He doesn't feel like dealing with Dean now.
Dean looks at him in surprise. "Dude, it's 3 in the morning."
"I know that," Sam says in annoyance. He plans to get very drunk—an unusual desire for him—and hopefully forget the sinkhole his life's become.
Sam goes to a bar and drinks hard liquor for the rest of the night. In fact, he drank too much, he realizes woozily as he finally stops, an impressive feat in itself considering his size. He doesn't notice several pairs of eyes observing how liberally he's squandering the little money he has.
Sam lurches down what he thinks is a street but turns out to be an alleyway, the lights of an actual street shining only in the far distance. It's dark here and he's wavering, turning around when a terrible pain rips into his back, and twists up as something—a hand, he dimly recognizes—shoves into his pockets.
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The next thing he knows, he is squinting up at Dean, who scowls as he holds out a hand to help him up. "You got mugged," he accuses.
"I did?" Sam asks muzzily. "Oh. Right. I was drunk—"
"Off your ass, yeah," Dean frowns some more. "What were you thinking?"
"I don't … I don't remember." Sam rises with Dean's assistance, blinks, and feels at his back. Besides what is probably an enormous bruise, he vaguely remembers … something. "I could have sworn—"
Dean looks at him oddly when he simply trails off. "What?"
"Nothing," he finishes. "Nothing."
"Whatever. Let's go back." And they do.
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The arguments get worse. They fight over everything—Sam on Dean's blaring music in the car, Dean on how Sam complains about it. The lines are old and well-rehearsed, but keep the festering scabs open.
Sam, Dean says angrily, is a prickly PMS-ing bitch who doesn't appreciate the greatness of what he hears.
Dean, Sam shoots back, is a stupid prick who only likes the bad music because he doesn't know any better. And, he says to forestall Dean's retort, he'd expect better from a grown man, except that Dean was a high school drop-0ut.
There is silence after this, but it is tense and hurt. They both know that Dean had followed Dad's direction and accordingly foregone going on to higher education, even community college. Sam wants to take back what he said, but that would mean apologizing, and he is still too furious to admit he's wrong.
On those nights Dean leaves for the nearest bar, supposedly to find out information from the locals, and returns with the smell of cheap perfume, smoke, and beer. Sam spends his time hunched over his laptop, pretending to research but blindly surfing any sites he can click on simply for something to do.
And all at once Sam is sick of it. He desperately misses Jessica, who is dead, who died just when Dean came back into his life, and he can't help associating the two in his heart, even if his mind knows there is no relation. That it isn't a fair trade.
And Stanford, where he had friends and a bright future ahead of him.
He needs to escape.
Dean glances up from the table where he's cleaning his guns as Sam starts to throw his things into a duffel bag. "Where're we going?"
"I'm leaving," Sam corrects. "For good."
"What?"
"You heard me."
Dean stares at him, eyes wide and incredulous. "Look, man, I know things haven't been good for a while—"
"A while? Really? They haven't been good since Mom died. I'm tired of this. Aren't you?"
Dean stammers something about family. Sam laughs mirthlessly. "Get a life, dude. Seriously. There's a whole world outside of you and Dad. And Dad's gone." He moves to the door, duffel swung over his shoulder.
Dean is on his feet, reaching out for him. Sam grabs his wrist and uses the grip to slam his brother against the wall. Dean lets him; his mouth trembles and pleading green eyes silently say what he can't voice.
Abruptly Sam wonders if this is what's been brewing between them, this unresolved tension. Dean's uncharacteristic vulnerability pulls something … strange and coiled tightly inside him. Something hot and heavy. Something that snaps.
Still trapping Dean's wrist, Sam shoves his lips onto Dean's, tastes the salt and wetness as he licks at the seam of his mouth, oddly soft in striking contrast to the hardness of his body. At college Sam's experimented, unsurprisingly, but he doesn't quite recognize the desperation of wanting so badly, either with a man or a woman.
Dean pushes at him with his free hand, momentarily succeeds before Sam uses his sheer bulk to close in again, growling like a predator determined to eat the prey he's just killed, no matter what.
They struggle, but for a few years now Sam has been able to best Dean at hand-to-hand combat and pins him. He can feel the exact instant Dean gives in and starts kissing back. From then on it's a frenzy of fumbling hands and clothes being torn off.
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Sam sits up, breathing hard. The sheets slip from his chest and pool at his waist. Oh God. He'd just had sex with Dean. His brother. He can't even begin to list the wrongness of the last few hours. He runs into the bathroom and looks wildly at the mirror; the violently panicked reflection surely can't be him.
Sam can't face Dean, not ever again. He can barely face himself.
He throws on whatever articles of clothing that fit, grabs his belongings, and heads out into the unforgiving night.
Dean pretends to sleep, doesn't move, doesn't say anything to stop him, but Sam knows that his brother's eyes are open wounds bleeding into his back.
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After the sixth unanswered call and fourth unheard voicemail, Sam grips his phone before making a decision and tossing it.
He hitchhikes rides to Texas and decides it's as a good a place to stay as any. He gets a job doing repairs at a motel and finally manages to buy a used car. On his first day behind the wheel, he hits a dog. He refuses to think about how Dean would have told him this was exactly the reason he didn't let Sam drive, as Sam rushes to an animal hospital.
The dark-haired, pretty veterinarian's name is Amelia, and she tells him flatly that he should take responsibility for the dog. He does. A few days later he's fixing a garbage disposer in one of the motel rooms when Amelia walks in and accuses him of stalking her.
Sam is hurriedly explaining his occupation when the dog, who has been dubbed Riot, runs into the room and jumps onto the sofa near Amelia. This second meeting doesn't end well, as Amelia grows defensive when Sam asks her why she's living in a motel. He leaves.
But it's a small town, and they run into each other occasionally. He keeps in mind her comments on his clothes, how he dresses like a "drifting serial killer" or a "white supremacist," and she approvingly notices the change in his wardrobe.
Dean would have laughed at him, probably snorting up soda in his unsubtle attempts to stop snickering.
He and Amelia begin to eat lunches at the same place, and then dinner. They are comfortable together, and understand each other without saying much. Sam stays over at her room more often, and longer, but Amelia always shoos him back before he actually spends the night.
Despite Amelia's efforts to say and prove otherwise, Sam gets the impression that she too is running away.
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"My husband died in Afghanistan," Amelia tells him afterward as they lie in bed together. Sam strokes her hair and encourages her to continue if she wants.
"I couldn't take everyone's pity, so I ran." She tilts her head and searches his face. "Are you running, Sam?"
"I was. Not now," he assures her. And it's at least partly true. He's found somewhere to stay, and if he can't run ahead of his memory, well, he can salt and burn its corpse and then bury the damn thing where no one will find it and a ghost will not rise up to haunt him.
"Don't pity me," she warns him sleepily.
"I don't," he says honestly. He's a much more pathetic object than she could ever be. Having Amelia in his life allows him some measure of happiness and security, and drives away the demons to an extent.
But sometimes when he's holding Amelia and he's drifting off, he recalls a heated night of desperation, passion, and anger. And he hates himself for remembering.
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Amelia's father Stan isn't happy with his daughter's choice in partners, but he eventually relents. Sam and Amelia buy a house together, and existence takes on a pattern of normalcy—there's the dog, a nicely furnished little home, and a neatly mowed lawn in front even if the cliché white picket fence is studiously avoided by them both.
It's been almost two years, and for a while now Sam hasn't thought of how Dean would react to his present normal life.
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Amelia and he are dozing on a park bench in the evening, their dog running loose on the empty playground, when Sam opens his eyes and sees the dark figure standing at the edge of the grounds, watching them. His first thought is to seize a weapon, but of course he doesn't have one.
His second thought is the realization that the man's his brother, and his third, how weird it is that he didn't recognize Dean right away. Amelia wakes up when he shifts away. Sam tells her he'll be right back. She nods and stretches.
"Dean," Sam starts to say as he approaches, then stops, unsure of how to continue.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean says quietly. The poor lighting cause him to look paler than his usual healthy complexion and the largeness of the trees make him smaller than when Sam last saw him, although Dean has never been a small man.
Silence.
Sam tries again. "So … uh, what are you doing?"
"I was in the area," Dean says quickly, flustered. They both know it's a lie, but Sam lets it pass. "I mean, how've you been?"
"Still hunting. Same old, same old," Dean replies with a grin and shrug. "You? You happy, Sam?"
Sam glances back at Amelia, who is laughing as she calls to Riot and the dog keeps hobbling out of her reach. "Yeah," he says softly. "I am."
"Good. I'm glad for you, man." The words sound sincere, and Sam's heart suddenly clenches tight. His arms move before he knows it, to wrap Dean in a hug, but Dean steps back and the next second the distance between them has grown impassable again.
His brother gives him an unexpectedly sweet and gentle smile, unexpected because as long as Sam has known him Dean has always exuded a tough exterior, except when it comes to him. "See you around, Sammy."
He wants to ask Dean to stay. "I—" He hears his name said and turns his head.
Amelia is shivering in the chill wind, dark hair blowing against her lovely face. Now leashed, Riot barks at him. "Let's go home!" she calls.
But Dean isn't the settling-down type, and Sam has been at peace, this year and a half with Amelia. "… see you around," Sam echoes tonelessly. He offers a smile back and watches for a moment as Dean trudges away into the shadows before he walks back to his girlfriend.
"Who was that?" Amelia asks as they huddle against each other, Riot walking before them. "A homeless person?"
His mind supplies a single answer, but the explanation would cost too much. That part of his life is over. Sam shakes his head. "Just … someone I used to know."
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That night he and Amelia have a meaningless quarrel about how he doesn't clean up after his own mess. Sam storms out and goes to a bar, sits down at a table in the corner next to two obviously underage girls, and stares moodily at his drink.
"So apparently this guy passed out outside the park," the girl is saying to her giggling companion who is obviously too drunk to really take in what she's saying.
Sam's heart begins to hammer, and he gets up before he realizes what he's doing.
"My sister's friend saw it herself and-"
Sam is at their table. "Where is he?" he demands.
The girl blinks at him. She's a bit pretty, although with too much makeup, and her shirt is too tight, but his vision is tunneling and he can barely see her. "What're you-?"
"Please," he says urgently.
The girl shrugs, having brought up the topic only to make conversation. "At the main hospital. He's in bad shape, they said."
Sam doesn't bother to say goodbye as he hurries away.
"No one knows who he is," the girl calls after him.
I do, Sam thought.
"He's a John Doe!" she adds helpfully, her voice trailing as he gains distance.
No, he's my brother.
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The doctors are baffled. "It's the strangest thing. We don't know why he's wasting away like this. Nothing specifically wrong at all," they keep saying. When Sam stares at them, stricken, one of them adds gently, "We're very sorry."
Another inserts his non-medical opinion: "If I believed in the supernatural, I'd say it's like the hand of death is over him."
Sam calls Bobby.
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Bobby comes immediately, fully outfitted with his stash of knowledge. Sam wordlessly carries bundle after carefully wrapped bundle into the hotel. He finally asks his old friend what he should have asked long before, but had thought he knew.
"How has Dean been doing?"
"What you'd expect. He hasn't contacted me in the past year," Bobby says shortly, and spreads his things. He ignores Sam for the rest of the night.
Sam goes back to the hospital, but Dean's condition remains unchanged. Early next morning as he is dozing in the chair next the bed, he receives a call from Bobby. Bobby sounds very strange, like he's suffocating, but will not explain over the phone.
Back at the hotel Bobby is simply staring at his makeshift table, books and notes strewn on every available surface.
Sam's heart twists in fear. "What's wrong?" he wants to know.
"The idjit's made a deal," Bobby chokes out, his face gray. "The signs—"
Sam is lost. "What? With who?"
"A Reaper. You must have died and so he struck a bargain to bring you back."
And suddenly the distant memory of two years ago comes back in a rush. That night in the dark alley. The creeping sounds of what had been footsteps. The blur of pain and then … nothing.
Dean standing over him with an outstretched hand, telling him with a show of disgust that he'd passed out.
His breath leaves him. "Oh my God," Sam says faintly, and his legs can no longer support him.
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Amelia calls him. She is understandably upset that he's been gone for days and hasn't bothered to return her calls or let her know somehow if he's okay. Sam mutters a quick, "Sorry, I'll explain later," and rushes back to Dean.
In the bright white light of the hospital room, under the thin hospital gown and unhampered by layers of thick clothing, Dean looks terribly fragile. "I'm so goddamned sorry," Sam breathes, tears thick and wet on his face as he collapses by the bed and takes Dean's hand.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice is a whisper. "Where—?" He struggles to focus, but the extreme whiteness of the room is too much for him to take in, and he shuts his eyes.
"Dean, you're in a hospital."
"Oh." Dean doesn't seem surprised. "You're here." It's more of a question than a statement, and Sam's face is hot with shame. "Missed … you."
Sam fights to breathe through his sobs. "I know, man. I missed you too. So much." And he hadn't even realized exactly why, after Amelia had cared for him so much, he hadn't asked her to marry him. Because then the sense of permanence would have been complete, and it couldn't be. Not without …
Dean sighs contentedly and squeezes his hand weakly in return.
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During the night Dean slips into a coma, and the doctors inform Sam, as the next of kin, that he will not wake up again.
Sam begs, but doesn't know the ritual to call a Reaper, doesn't know everything Dean does about hunting, and Bobby resolutely says that the deal doesn't work both ways, shuts his mouth, and drives off. Amelia calls and says sadly that if he doesn't come back in three days, she's moving on. He says something back but doesn't know what he says.
Then he prays to a God he doesn't believe exists.
One day passes. Then two. And it's December 31st.
He is on his knees sobbing when a hand descends on his shoulder, and Sam looks up, blurrily seeing blue eyes in a kind face. "I am Castiel," the man says. "An angel of the Lord."