Disclaimer/Spoilers: See Chapter 1

A/N: Thank you to everyone who took the time to review, I love you all, and thank you for those who take the time to read. I hope y'all continue to enjoy the story.

Back In Time

Don't bet your future

On one roll of the dice

Better remember

Lightning never strikes twice

Sam stood leaning against the sink in Bobby's kitchen; he let his eyes drift across the room to the figure sleeping on the couch, the figure that said he traveled from the future, from two thousand nineteen, into the past to fix a world that had gone to hell. He'd spent the better part of the night rolling the information around in his head and still came out empty handed, no closer to working through it than when he initially heard it.

Despite the impossible story, Sam couldn't help but find himself believing it. There were things he'd discovered or had happened over the last few months that had been bothering him that suddenly made sense, or at least more sense than before. Things like Dean forgetting about Hendrickson being on their tail, knowing about Bobby's hunt with the Dream Root kid, but more importantly Dean's attitude, ticks, and habits Sam couldn't remember him ever having before.

For Sam, Dean had always been relatively easy to read. He didn't wear his emotions on his sleeve and hid a lot of what he was feeling, but Sam always knew his brother, knew when he was hurting, when he was trying to hide something, and when he was being pushed beyond his limits.

But this Dean wasn't his brother.

This Dean confused the hell out of him.

This Dean was smoke and mirrors—one moment he was smiling, laughing without abandon or care; then, like a heartbeat later, he would have this dark, intense look, filled with a pain so deep it stole his breath.

It wasn't even a matter of words or expressions—it was something else entirely, something Sam could feel. That's how he knew his brother was telling the truth.

The heavy thud of footsteps on the stairs pulled Sam from his thoughts. He gave a slight nod as Bobby walked in. Despite having gone to bed hours ago, the older hunter looked to have gotten about as much sleep as Sam had.

"How's he doing?" Bobby asked in a hushed voice, gesturing over toward the study.

Sam followed Bobby's gaze, worrying on his bottom lip. "Quiet, finally."

They had settled Dean on the couch after he had passed out the night before. Not long afterwards, maybe an hour, his brother became restless. His temperature spiked, not enough to be dangerous but enough for Sam to force a Tylenol or two down his brother's throat and lay a cold cloth across his forehead. For his part Dean spent the night kicking out, tangling himself up in the blanket they had covered him with, and alternating between distressed whimpers Sam didn't even want to consider the source of and crying out names. Some he knew—most he didn't.

Sam and Bobby had spent most of the night trying to wake or at least calm the distressed man with very little success. At some point, Sam suggested Bobby go to bed since there wasn't much they could really do and promised to wake him if anything happened or they needed anything. It wasn't until a few hours ago that Dean had finally calmed down enough to fall into what Sam could only assume must have been an exhausted sleep, one which Sam felt the need to fall into soon before he fell over.

"How you doing?" Bobby interrupted his thoughts once more as he moved over toward the coffee machine.

Sam pushed away from the counter. He took a few steps toward the study then turned on his heel as he gave Bobby a small shrug. "Honestly? I don't know. I mean, it's weird, right? Even for us?"

Bobby pulled a tin from one of the cabinets, filling the top half of the coffee maker. "It's certainly a new one." He looked over his shoulder back to the younger hunter as he set the empty pot under the faucet.

Sam moved over to the small kitchen table; he pulled out a chair and dropped bonelessly into it. He scrubbed his face with both hands, feeling a deep ache hum through his body, begging for some sleep. "I just . . . I can't imagine how bad the world must have been in the future for Dean to decide time travel was the better option."

"That could just be failure of imagination on your part."

Sam narrowed his eyes, giving the back of Bobby's head a stern bitch face.

Bobby pulled the pot from the sink, sliding it into place and flicking the switch on. The sound of brewing caffeinated crack filled the air. He turned, leaning back against the counter, and folded his arms across his chest. "Look, we don't know what happened in the future. For all we know, it was a split-second decision. Your brother never was the type to really think things through before acting."

"Our Dean."

Bobby's eyebrows drew together. "Come again?"

Sam shifted in his chair. "Our Dean is the 'shoot-first-check-the-bodies-for-answers-later' type person. This Dean—" Sam gestured vaguely in the direction of the study. "This Dean has lived, what, twelve years we know nothing about. It's impossible to know how much he's changed in that time. For all we know he doesn't even like cheeseburgers anymore."

Bobby held his hands up, patting the air in front of him. "All right, calm down. Let's not get too crazy here."

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, an exasperated smile tugging at the very corner of his lips. "You know what I mean."

The coffee pot sputtered as it finished brewing; the rich aroma filled the air, prompting Bobby to turn and pour himself a cup. "Yeah, I know. But we can sit here all day pondering over the whos and hows and the whys of this whole mess and still not be any closer to understanding any of it." He took a deep drink from his coffee, relishing its life-giving properties for a moment before continuing. "Unfortunately, the only person that really knows anything is your brother."

Sam ran his fingers through his hair and then let his hand drop to the table. "Yeah, 'cause we know how forthcoming he is with information."

Bobby shrugged. "At least you know some things haven't changed."

"Lucky us," Sam muttered with a vaguely petulant tone. He scratched his nail against the scrubbed wooden table before his eyes bounced back up to Bobby, a new thought relighting the fire in them. "Which brings up one other question."

"Just one?"

Sam ignored the comment. "If Dean's from two thousand nineteen, if his memories, his consciousness, and his soul were sent back to this time to merge with our Dean . . . I mean, what does that mean? Does our Dean cease to exist completely? Isn't that like murdering your younger self?"

"Sort of, yes and no."

Sam turned around in his chair as his brother's answer stretched the short distance across the room.

Dean sat hunched over on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands pressed against his face. His hair stood up in different directions, revealing just how rough the night had been.

Sam waited a moment before asking, "What do you mean 'yes and no'?"

Dean gave a sniff then let his hands drop between his knees; he narrowed his eyes, staring sightlessly at the ground as if all the answers were written in the threads of the well-worn carpet. The silence dragged on to the point where it was almost uncomfortable before Dean pushed up off the couch and ambled into the kitchen, stopping halfway there to lean against the doorframe.

"It's complicated—"

Sam snorted.

Dean rubbed a finger across his lower lip. "When the . . . future version of myself was sent back to this time to . . . merge with my past self . . ." He paused, his eyes dropping back to that middle ground Sam had seen him drop into a few times in the last day or so. "Some things from each of us survived. I think it was the feelings or thoughts or habits that were the strongest in each of us. I mean, obviously there are a lot of things that we both had in common, seeing as we are the same person. But . . . there are things that I . . . hadn't thought about or done in a long time that are suddenly at the forefront of my mind again."

"Like what things?" Sam braced his forearm against the back of his chair as he turned to get a better look at his brother.

Dean shrugged. "Little things." A half smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "If you're waiting for me to spill my deepest darkest feelings . . . then I'm sorry to burst your bubble there, Sammy, but as Bobby said: there are some things that just don't change."

Sam was about to respond when the shrill sound of a phone ringing cut through the room. Bobby quickly covered the distance to the phones, grumbling something under his breath that had Sam vaguely hoping that whoever was calling wouldn't be within shotgun distance before Bobby could finish his coffee.

While Bobby talked on the phone, Sam turned his attention to his brother. Dean was still leaning up against the doorframe, his shoulders hunched slightly inward around his chest and his face still a little paler than it should be, though all in all he looked a sight better than he had a few hours ago.

Bobby hung up the phone, looking between the two boys before asking, "Up for a trip to Florida?"

Dean hummed under his breath while his fingers tapped out the rhythm to Asia's "Heat of the Moment"against the Impala's steering wheel. From the corner of his eye, he studied his brother, who'd been oddly quiet since leaving Bobby's. While the silence was a nice change, a quiet Sam was never a good thing: it usually meant Sam was either pissed at him or something was eating at the kid. Judging by the glances his brother kept shooting his way when he thought he wasn't looking, Dean was pretty sure Sam wasn't pissed at him. Which then left the question: what was eating at Gilbert Grape?

Dean had known Sam for his entire life, plus twelve years. Over those years Sam had grown, matured, learned hard-won lessons, and became better for them. However, no matter how much time had passed, no matter what they went through, together or separately, there were a few things about Sam that remained constant. First, the kid couldn't lie to save his life, at least not to those who knew him. Second, the man will never let Dean give him a proper haircut. The one time he had tried ended in a wrestling match, blood, stitches, and a whole new scar. Third, and perhaps most important, was when something was gnawing at Sam, one only had to be patient and wait. Sooner or later—usually sooner—Sam would speak up and share what's on his mind. While Dean had a habit of internalizing everything, his little brother was the polar opposite. Not only did he feel better, but Sam operated better when he shared his thoughts aloud, like saying them to someone helped him in whatever he needed to do with the thoughts, regardless of if it was just coming to terms with something or it was trying to solve some problem on a hunt.

Of course, there were times, for one reason or another, when Sam would just stew in his own thoughts trying to figure things out. As much as Dean hated it, whatever question was on the tip of Sam's tongue would have to be coaxed out of the kid before he drove them both batty.

This was one of those times.

"Sam." He cast a quick glance over to his younger brother. "Whatever it is you wanna ask, just ask it, preferably before your head explodes. Brain goop and blood is a pain in the ass to get out of the interior."

"I—wait. Have you had to . . ." Sam trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the seats.

Dean flicked something between a glare and look of utter exasperation over in Sam's direction before returning it to the road.

Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, turning so his back was more against the door. "I was just wondering, uh . . . Ruby. I mean, did you know her before, in your time? Is that how you . . . ?"

"Knew she was a demon? Yeah, Sam. She was a pain in the ass manipulative bitch that deserves nothing less than a very slow, very painful death."

"So not on the Christmas list."

Dean gave his brother a sidelong glance. "Somehow I feel who's getting a Christmas card this year isn't what you've been chewing on for the last couple of hours."

"No." Sam tugged on the sleeve of his shirt. "No, I was just, uh, wondering. If she was . . . is a demon, then . . . how'd she eat salted fries with no problem?"

Dean opened his mouth then snapped it shut. "Really? You find out that I have traveled back in time twelve years and that's the question that has been eating at your brain for the last—" he glanced at his watch "—six hours?"

Sam gave a small shrug that reminded him of an older Sam asking off-the-wall questions about something he discovered while rummaging through the bunker.

"If demons can't cross salt, how can they eat it?" Sam pressed the question again.

Dean heaved a much put-upon sigh, muttering under his breath, "I never had a problem."

"What?"

"What?"

Sam squinted softly, tilting his head. He was about to respond when Dean cut him off. "It's actually a rather simple explanation."

"Really?"

"Really."

"And that explanation is . . ."

Sam shifted, leaning a bit toward him, once more reminding him of an older Sammy.

Dean rubbed his thumb across his eyebrow. "Okay, so you know salt repels demons because it's pure."

"Right," Sam responded slowly.

"When you cook with salt, or add it to things like oils and grease, the salt loses that purity. Sort of like the breaking down of an element. It's still salt, and it still burns, but it's more like . . ." Dean trailed off, searching his memory for the best description of what salt was like to a demon. "Like eating a Carolina Reaper."

"A what now?"

Dean shot a quick glance over to his brother. "Carolina Reaper? It's a pepper, the hottest one in existence."

Sam's brow furrowed deeply. "I thought the hottest pepper was the ghost pepper."

"Nope, well. . ." Dean flicked his eyes skyward. "Might have to give that one a few more years." He shook his head. "It's like the ghost pepper but twice as hot."

"Oh." Sam sat silent for a moment, chewing on the information. After a long pause he looked back over to Dean, his eyebrows raised in an arch. "Wait, how do you even know that?"

Dean gave Sam a sidelong glance then shifted in his seat as he cleared his throat. "It's, uh, a long, boring story." He turned his attention back to the road, purposefully not looking at his brother in the hope that Sam wouldn't ask. It wasn't exactly his proudest moment and certainly not one he wished to rehash with his little brother. Dean let out a silent sigh of relief when Sam turned his attention back to the passenger side window. He leaned forward, turning the music up, Metallica filling the air between them.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam glanced over from the passenger seat to his brother, waiting a moment to make sure he had his attention before continuing. Sam licked his lips, carefully choosing his words before asking, "Who's Charlie?"

Dean jerked his head back, his eyes snapping over to Sam's then back to the road. "What?"

Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "The girl the Naveath turned into? Short, red hair—"

"I know who she is!"

"I was wondering who she was." Sam shifted again.

"Why?"

Sam knew this wasn't a conversation his brother wanted to have, but he couldn't help his curiosity. Part of it was wanting to understand and get to know this new brother, and another was because of the things the Naveath had said. He swallowed thickly. "Because she was obviously someone important to you."

When Dean shot Sam a look that bordered somewhere between surprise and "shut the fuck up," he knew he was on the right path. "You shoved me against a wall last time I asked about her," Sam reminded him before his brother had a chance to deflect or dodge the statement. "I know she's not nobody."

Dean pressed his lips into a tight line then gave a dejected sigh. "She was a friend." He paused and then added, "Like the sister I never wanted." A ghost of a smile brushed across Dean's face before it slipped away with a clearing of his throat. "She got caught up in some of our crap a while back when some monsters decided to try their hands at role reversal and hunt us instead."

Dean kept focused on the road away from his brother, but Sam knew without looking that the same pain he had seen in the motel room after the Naveath was clouding his brother's eyes.

"She helped us out on some things, saved our lives." Dean released a snort. "Saved Oz." The almost smile slipped away once more. "She gave more than anyone could ever ask. Than anyone should. Then, uh, a few years back I . . . I got into some trouble. And you were trying to help me." His voice turned hard as his gaze flickered over to Sam. "Even though I told you to leave it be."

Dean dragged a hand down his face and cleared his throat. "Anyway, you asked her for help and she . . . she got caught in the crossfire. She was killed, senselessly, like a bad plot twist." Dean clenched his jaw tightly, the muscles bouncing and rippling in response. Sam could see the hint of wetness in Dean's eyes.

Sam took a deep breath. "Dean, I'm sorr—"

"Don't," Dean cut him off before he could finish.

"Dean, I—"

"Sam." His voice held a cold edge to it. "You weren't there and you don't know. Don't apologize for something you can't possibly understand."

Sam attempted to swallow around a painful lump that had lodged itself in his throat. "Dean," he started in a hushed voice, but before he could say another word Dean leaned forward and cranked up the volume on the radio, Metallica's "Disposable Heroes" cutting off any further attempt at conversation.

Dean frowned at his little brother as he slid into the booth across from him. Sam was still wearing a look that seemed to be a mixture of moody concern sprinkled liberally with brooding. He couldn't blame him. If he were in his shoes. . . . Dean stifled a sigh. That didn't mean he was going to let the younger man spend the whole trip looking like a kicked puppy. Dean nudged Sam's foot with his own. "Come on, man. Smile. Look—they have the Tuesday special." Dean gestured to a large sign. "Pig 'n' a poke."

Sam glanced up, his eyes trailing to where Dean was pointing. "You even know what that is?"

Before Dean could answer, a busty, slim-cut waitress stepped up to their table, a notepad in one hand and pencil in the other. "You boys ready?"

Dean pressed on his most charming smile. "Absolutely." He looked at the nametag half hidden beneath blonde strands of hair. "Alex."

A blush filled her cheeks, causing Sam to roll his eyes.

"I'll have the special, side of bacon, and a coffee."

"Make it two coffees and a short stack," Sam added, handing her his menu.

Sam waited until the waitress was out of earshot before shaking his head at his brother. "Dude, she's like sixteen."

"What?" Dean gave him his best innocent face. "I didn't say anything."

"Uh-huh."

Dean leaned back against the seat. "All right, so tell me about this . . . haunted house thing Bobby wanted us to check out."

Sam cocked his head to the side and let out a soft snort. "Good to know twelve years hasn't made your hearing any better."

"Shut up." He gestured to the papers as Sam unfolded them and laid them on the table. "Ya gonna tell me or should we play Fifty Questions?"

A small smile played at the corner of Sam's mouth before disappearing under his words. "All right, so this professor—"

"Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?"

Dean winced, rubbing at his ear with the heel of his hand.

"I remember you were pretty whacked out of it yesterday."

"—last week when he vanished."

"I just had a really weird dream."

Dean glanced around the small diner, his face scrunching up. There was something vaguely familiar about the place, but it was more like a tickle in the back of his mind rather than anything concrete.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" Dean slid his attention back to his brother.

"You okay?" Sam leaned forward against the table, focusing on the man across from him.

Dean nodded softly. "I know this place. We've been here before." His eyes roamed across the diner and its patrons, looking for some kind of hint that would pull loose the memory he wanted.

"We've been here before as in you and me, or as in you and . . ." Sam made a vague gesture. "You know. In the future."

Dean's eyes snapped back over to his brother. "What?"

"You know, you and the future . . . version . . . of me."

"Oh." He gave a small nod. "Yeah, that one." Dean ran his thumb across his forefinger. "Where did you say the guy disappeared at?"

Sam looked back down at the papers on the table. "It was, uh, the Broward County Mys—"

"Shove over, kiddo! Make some room for your elders."

Sam and Dean both started; their heads whipped around in unison as an elderly man forced his way onto the bench Sam was sitting on, shoving the much larger man toward the wall with more strength than anyone would expect from the smaller thinner-framed man.

"Uh . . ." Sam looked over to his older brother for help.

Dean gave a small shrug accompanied with an equally clueless expression. "Do you . . . ?" He turned his palm upward, gesturing to the older gentleman. "Are you . . . ?" Dean frowned and shrugged, unsure of what was happening.

"So there I was." The older man leaned forward, his hands splayed out animatedly as he talked. "Sitting in a diner enjoying my pancakes and maple syrup when these two yahoos walk in." A crooked smile fills his face. "I think to myself: now there's some entertainment for the next . . ." He blew out his cheeks with a laugh. "Well, let's just say a while. Then I saw you." The man's eyes locked on to Dean's, his voice adopting a sharp edge. "And all I could think was: wow, someone cast a spell without reading the fine print."

Dean's eyebrows knitted together; he looked at the old man sitting across from him then around at the diner. A sharp lance of pain seared across Dean's chest, knocking loose the memory he'd been looking for, then quickly faded back into the dull throb that had been dogging him since he woke up on Bobby's couch. "I know who you are."

"You think so?" The elderly man sitting across from him disappeared in a shimmer of air, being replaced by a much younger-looking man. "And they say Sam is the smart one."

Sam jerked in his seat. "Wait, we killed you. How . . . ?"

"Hello . . ." He gestured to himself. "Trickster." He shook his head as if that fact was completely obvious and shouldn't need explaining.

Dean gave a thoughtful frown then shook his head. "No." He locked his gaze on the Trickster. "I know who and what you are."

The smile melted off the Trickster's face, turning down at the corners as his eyes turned cold. "Trust me, kiddo, you don't know anything."

Dean leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "Really? How 'bout I tell your family where you are? Because, you know, witness protection only works when no one knows about it."

The Trickster's eyes narrowed into pinpoints, and before either Sam or Dean could react the Trickster shot to his feet, hands snapping across the table to grab a handful of Dean's shirt. He yanked the older Winchester out of his seat, half dragging him across the table, then roughly slammed his palm against Dean's forehead.

Dean clenched his jaw against the pressure ripping through his mind, threatening to crack it into pieces so small they would never be able to put him back together again. Flashes of lights and sound sped across his vision, searing into the back of his eyes. He could hear his brother call out, but the sound was muffled, like yelling through several feet of water.

Then, as quick as it had started, it was over. The Trickster pulled his hand away, letting Dean fall back against the seat with a heavy thud.

Dean curled forward, pressing his palms tightly against his head. He flinched when a hand against his shoulder kept him from toppling out of his seat.

"Dean?" It was Sam's hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

"'m fine." He sat still for a moment before dropping his hand and shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the pain lingering just behind his eyes. He looked up just in time to see a myriad of emotions warring for dominance across the Trickster's face before the neutral snarky mask dropped down once more.

"The hell was that?" Sam shot the trickster an accusing glare.

For a moment Dean was surprised that their commotion hadn't drawn the attention of the patrons and workers in the diner; a glance around the area quickly told him why: They were all frozen in time.

The Trickster pressed his lips into a thin line. "Memories 2.0: Dean Winchester style."

"Memories two point . . ." Sam lifted his chin, the muscles corded tightly. "You viewed his memories?"

The Trickster shrugged as he sat down, relaxing against the seat. "Oh yeah, and let me tell you." He let out an appreciative whistle. "The things this one's done . . . become." He leaned forward, folding his arms on the table's surface. "Unleashed."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the Trickster, giving the man a decidedly dirty glare. He felt more than a little violated at the thought of someone rummaging through his memories.

The Trickster merely returned the glare with an unimpressed glare of his own. "So, I guess the rumors are true."

Sam gave his brother one last look-over before motioning to the man to slide over a bit and taking a seat next to him, his shoulder pressing against Dean's. "What rumors?" Sam tilted his body forward, almost mimicking the Trickster's posture.

"That big bro here"—he shoved a finger in Dean's direction—"did the time warp. Can't say I blame him." He shrugged nonchalantly. "I mean, considering what all happened, how badly you screwed up the world." He held Dean in his gaze while shaking his head.

"All right, you know what? Blow me." Dean tapped a finger violently against the table. "Seeing my memories doesn't give you the right to judge them. You weren't there."

An unidentifiable expression jumped across the Trickster's face before disappearing once more under a mask of unconcerned amusement. An awkward silence filled the small still-frozen-in-time-diner as the oldest Winchester and Trickster exchanged glares full of meaning and unspoken words.

Sam cleared his throat, attempting to grab both men's attention. "You said rumors. From where? I mean, how would anyone even know?"

The Trickster shifted his attention to Sam. "You really think you can hurl a soul through time without anyone noticing?" His eyes flicked back to Dean. "Every creature with a connection to the supernatural knows something big happened, that someone is screwing with the timeline, and they are all looking at you two." His gaze shifted from Dean over to Sam and back again. "Congratulations, boys. You are on everyone's most wanted list."

"Both of us?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Why would they be after Sam? He didn't even know anything about this until just recently. Like yesterday recently."

"According to the rumor mill, no one actually knows anything beyond the fact that whatever happened, you two were both at the center of it." The Trickster leaned back against the bench, propping an arm up on the back of the seat. "Fortunately for you, knuckleheads, no one seems to be able to find you. Plum up and fallen off the grid."

"How—"

"Hex bags," Dean interrupted Sam's question. "Extra crunchy. They, uh, they hide us from every supernatural being in existence." Dean glanced up at the ceiling for a brief moment. "Well, minus one or two."

Sam opened his mouth, a question on the tip of his tongue, but instead just shook his head and directed a different question to the man across the table. "Then how'd you find us?"

The Trickster's smile grew. "Because of all the diners in all the world, you had to walk into mine."

"Really?" Sam's eyebrows shot up toward his shaggy hairline.

The Trickster merely shrugged, holding his hands out wide. "Call it coincidence, call it fate, call it a mid-summer night's dream."

Sam gave a short nod. "All right then, if you weren't looking for us . . ." He paused, shifting in his seat and leaning forward. "Then why bother talking to us at all? Last time we saw you, you tried to kill us, and we thought we had killed you."

"Because I like this world. Carved out my own little corner. And I would rather this walking, talking supernatural atomic bomb . . ." The Trickster kept his eyes on Sam as he gestured to Dean. ". . . to not blow a hole in it."

"What?" both boys asked in unison.

"You really don't know, do you?" The Trickster gave them both appraising looks before letting out a short whistle. "You sorry sons of bitches."

Dean's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Know what?"

"You're burning out, bucko. And judging by the giant crack running right through the center . . ." The Trickster squinted, looking at something only he could see. "I give it a week or so, a month at the most."