Chapter 3
We got up early the next morning and took another long shower together, and Dean gave me a spare toothbrush, razor, and brush to use. He'd carefully laundered my clothes last night to remove the bloodstains, and I doubted anyone would notice it was the same company polo and generic khakis I'd worn yesterday. Once we were dressed, he made us egg-white omelets with spinach, onions, and tomatoes and cappuccinos from his fancy coffee maker for breakfast.
"How should we handle leaving Sandover?" I asked as we ate. "Do we need to do the whole two weeks' notice crap?"
"I mean, these aren't exactly normal circumstances, and it's not like we'll need the references for our new gig," he pointed out. "I'm first going to look into some options to give us starting funds, like liquidating some stocks or borrowing from my 401(k), and then I'll meet with Adler to let him know that I'm leaving effective immediately. I'll let you know when that happens, and you can meet up with me after you've done the same with your department. Sound like a plan?"
I nodded and finished my meal, then grabbed my laptop bag for what was hopefully the last time. We drove to the office in his silver Prius and rode the elevator in silence, since I at least was too nervous to make small talk in front of the others there. At the IT cubicle farm, everyone was buzzing with the news of a security guard getting decapitated and the company history exhibit getting vandalized last night, in addition to the previous day's deaths. I pulled up some busywork on my computer and prepared to kill time until I heard from Dean.
It was a couple of hours later when I finally got a text stating, Meeting with Adler now. I stood, took one of the crowbars we'd used last night out of my bag, and whaled on the ringing phone until it was smashed to bits. I then took a deep breath, pushed my hair back, and told my staring former coworkers, "I quit."
I hurried to the elevator before anyone could call security. We hadn't specified a rendezvous spot, so I decided to go up to Dean's office to see how the meeting with Adler was going. I could hear their voices through the closed door as I approached.
"I see big things in your future.—maybe even Senior VP, Eastern Great Lakes Division. Don't get me wrong, you'll have to work for it. Seven days a week, lunch at your desk, but in eight to ten short years, that could be you," Adler was saying when I quietly opened the door and slipped inside.
"Well, thank you. Thank you, sir, but uh . . . I can't accept this." Dean pushed a piece of note paper towards the other man. "I actually asked you here to give my notice."
Adler looked shocked. "You're kidding me! This is a joke, right?"
"No, I've—I recently . . . uh, very recently realized that I have some other work I have to do. It's very important to me," Dean explained.
"Other work? You mean at another company?" Adler demanded. "Because we can beat whatever offer those people gave you."
Dean shook his head. "No, I . . . it's hard to explain. It's just that this—this isn't . . . it's just—it's not who I'm supposed to be."
Adler unexpectedly grinned. "Dean, Dean, Dean—finally!"
He snapped his fingers, and suddenly I remembered. I was Sam Winchester, and I'd been a hunter for nearly all of my life. Sam Wesson never existed, just a figment that someone had interposed over my true memories for the past several weeks. And Dean . . . Dean was my brother, my older brother who'd practically raised me and spent most of his life looking after me. From the growing shock and horror on his face, it was clear that Dean realized this too.
Dean shot to his feet. "What the hell is going on? Is this some kinda sick joke?"
Adler merely continued to smile. "Welcome back—and you too, Sam."
"Wait, did I . . . did we just get touched by . . . you're an angel, aren't you?" Dean glared at him. "Oh great! That's just what we need, another one of you assholes!"
"I'm Zachariah, and I'm hardly 'another one,' Dean—I'm Castiel's superior. Believe me, I have no interest in popping down here into one of these smelly things if it wasn't urgent." Zachariah indicated his vessel with a moue of disgust. "But after the unfortunate situation with Uriel, I felt it necessary to pay a visit and get my ducks in a row."
I strode across the office to Dean's side and turned to face the angel. "Neither of us are one of your ducks! So what was this then—this was all some sort of lesson? Is this all just some kind of hallucination—is that what you're telling us?"
"Not at all—real place, real haunting. We just plunked you two in the middle without the benefit of your memories," he replied calmly.
"Why—just to shake things up? Or so you guys can have fun watching us run around like assclowns in monkey suits?" Dean leaned forward, his face flushed with anger.
"To prove to you that the path you're on is truly in your blood. You're a hunter, not because your dad made you, not because God called you back from Hell, but because it's what you are. And you love it—you'll find your way to it every single time, and you're miserable without it," Zachariah explained. "Dean, let's be real here—you're good at this. You'll be successful, and you will stop the Apocalypse. You'll do everything that you're destined to do—all of it."
"Don't give me more of that destiny shit!" Dean snapped. "And what about Sam? Was this a fucking test for him too?"
"Sam was here in a purely supporting capacity—this little live-action instructional video was meant for you. Of course, none of us expected that events would take such an interesting turn when you two heathens no longer remembered your true relationship." Zachariah's smile turned into a cruel smirk. "I guess this gives you even more to atone for—and even more reason to step up and do your duty, O Righteous Man."
"Angel or not, I'm gonna stab you in your face!" Dean snarled, his fists clenching.
"Most folks live and die without moving anything more than the dirt it takes to bury them. You though get to change things, save people, maybe even the world—all while you drive a classic car and fornicate with women . . . well, mostly. This isn't a curse, it's a gift—so for God's sakes, Dean, quit whining about it! Look around—there are plenty of fates worse than yours. So are you with me? You wanna go steam yourself another latte, or are you ready to stand up and be who you really are?" Zachariah crossed his arms and stared challengingly at my brother.
"You think that makes it all okay, what you've done to him, what you've done to us? This is just more of the same 'ends justify the means' bullshit you angels have been shoving at us for months!" I retorted furiously.
"Frankly my boy, I don't give a damn what you think." The angel snapped his fingers again, and the office around us disappeared.
We reappeared in what seemed to be a typical crappy motel room—two double beds with worn comforters, tacky wallpaper and dingy carpet that hadn't been updated since the 70's, kitchenette with equally ancient appliances, and a door presumably leading to the bathroom. Our duffel bags were at the foot of the beds, my laptop bag was on the dinette table, and the Impala was visible through the front window. From the brochures for Carlsbad Caverns on the nightstand, I guessed that we were in southern New Mexico.
Dean opened his bag, yanked out some clothes, and rushed into the bathroom without a word, slamming the door behind him. He emerged a few minutes later in his usual attire of worn jeans, plain t-shirt, flannel over shirt, and work boots, his hair once again styled in tousled spikes instead of swept back from a side part. He pulled a trash bag out from one of the kitchenette cabinets and stuffed his Dean Smith outfit into it with a disgusted expression.
"I'm gonna take these outside to burn 'em—and your fugly yellow shirt too—and then I'm heading to the nearest liquor store to get enough booze to erase this entire shitty incident from my memory," he announced as he walked toward the door.
I reached out and grabbed his arm. "Wait, Dean! We need to talk about what happened, okay? This isn't the time for the usual Winchester repression through alcoholism therapy!"
He stared down at me. "What's there to talk about? Those goddamn angels fucked around with us like they always do, and it'll be better for both of us if we enact Vegas rules here. So gimme that godawful shirt and let's just move on."
"Who gives a crap about the damn angels? I'm talking about what we did, about what happened between the two of us! That's not something that we can simply ignore or pretend will just go away!" I argued.
He jerked his arm free and shouted, "You really wanna talk about that? About how I fucking molested my own little brother? How's your sharing and caring bullshit gonna fix this, Sam?"
"Dean, no!" I caught hold of both arms this time and pulled him down to sit beside me. "That's not what happened! I was the one who instigated things turning more than platonic back there, and trust me, I consented wholeheartedly to everything we did together."
"That don't make what I did right, dude. I—I let shit out that I swore I'd keep buried until the day I died, and I used it to—to take advantage of you when you were vulnerable. Now I've fucked up everything!" He slumped down and rubbed a hand over his face.
"What . . . what did you . . . You mean that you had these feelings before the Sandover incident, that you've thought of me as more—more than a brother for a while?" I demanded, seizing his hands tightly.
Dean looked startled and then horrified as he realized what he'd let slip out. "No, I—I . . . that's not . . . sonofabitch! Fine, yes! Yes, I'm a goddamn pervert who's had the hots for my baby brother for years, who's been in love with the same kid I raised and swore to protect! Are you fucking happy now?"
I laughed in disbelief and wonder. "I'm fucking ecstatic, man—because if that makes you a sicko, then so am I! I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember, and I've been fantasizing about you since I first knew what sex was! I've kept this hidden for years because I thought you'd hate me if you ever found out—and all this time, you've felt the same way!
"And before you even try to suggest it, you didn't do anything to corrupt me or whatever. I fell for you because you're gorgeous, brave, caring, funny, and—and awesome, because you've always been there for me, because you're the best person I know. So you've got nothing to be ashamed of, okay?" I told him.
"Wait . . . what?" His expression was now adorably confused.
"Let me spell it out for you then, dumbass." I cupped his face between my hands, leaned forward, and kissed him deeply. His lashes fluttered as his eyes closed, and his lips parted beneath mine with a soft moan.
I sat back but kept my hands on his face. "Is that clear now? Listen, an argument can be made for dubious consent earlier due to that douchebag Zachariah's manipulations, but we were both victims—you didn't hurt me, alright? Now we're both in full possession of our faculties though and capable of deciding what we want—and what I want is you, in every possible way I can have you!"