AN: This takes place in season 6 between Mannequin 3: The Reckoning and The French Mistake.
As with most of my fics, the focus is primarily on the brothers' relationship. No Wincest but definite schmoop.
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"Bobby said it had to be us," insisted Sam, which didn't ease Dean's irritation in the slightest. "I know you wanted to take it easy for a while, but Bobby doesn't usually ask for help…"
He trailed off, and even though his expression stayed even, Dean knew he was still struggling with guilt, even though he didn't remember attacking Bobby. And Dean didn't just "want to take it easy," he was downright worried. He couldn't help but think about Sam's terrifying seizure, and the look on his face as he'd tried to apologize to Brenna. They'd jumped right into their next case, and ended up getting an innocent girl killed while they protected a bunch of jackasses from the ghost of her (very rightly) pissed off sister. So, yeah. Time off wasn't just what the doctor ordered; it was damn near necessary.
Too bad they couldn't stay with Bobby and take a few weeks off. Despite everything, Dean knew they'd be welcome, but with how skittish Bobby and Sam were around each other at the moment, it would hardly be restful. When they were there, Bobby prowled around like he expected to be attacked at any time and Sam tiptoed around with a haunted look. Not real conducive to relaxing. And far too likely to make Sam brood, and subsequently poke at The Wall, which was not conducive to anything except disaster.
As a result, they were in a lovely little motel hell called – no lie – The Dazed Inn and looking to lay low for a little while. Bobby knew this. Which also meant he wouldn't call on just a whim.
"Why does it have to be us, anyway?" Dean demanded. If this had anything to do with Sam's year soulless or had the potential to break things open, it was a no-go unless the world was going to end. And possibly even then.
"It has to be two Hunters who work together," explained Sam.
"And Bobby knows others who hunt together. There are plenty of others who could do it."
Sam wasn't looking at Dean, but he wasn't seeing the laptop screen in front of him either. "Or we could. Since when do we pawn off jobs?" Dean didn't need to be psychic to guess at what was on Sam's mind. Kid had a guilt complex the size of the Milky Way. No matter how much Dean said it, Sam couldn't accept that he wasn't culpable for everything Sam-bot 3000 had done. He was trying to do enough good to be able to forgive himself, but Dean knew there would never be enough to tip the cosmic scales in his favor, at least in his own mind. Some things, you just couldn't forgive yourself for. Dean had a few of those.
But if Sam wallowed in his (misplaced) guilt, he was going to end up busting the dam in his head, and then all Hell would break loose for him, literally. And Dean wouldn't risk that, not even for Bobby.
He'd gone to Hell for Sam. He'd bargained with Death for Sam. He'd become Death for Sam. He was hardly going to stop protecting him now.
"I just…I need to stay busy, ya know?" Dean hated the kicked puppy note in Sam's voice. Sam should be bitching about how he was an adult and Dean didn't get to make unilateral decisions, or quoting some geeky facts to prove his point, or even folding his arms, glaring, and pouting. He should be the man who'd stared down John Winchester, Samhain, Lucifer himself. He shouldn't be all but begging for Dean to listen, broad shoulders hunched under the weight of the world.
What could Dean do in the face of that? He could remind Sam that he wasn't really responsible, that even Bobby knew that. But that wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference, not yet. So instead, he would be his normal big brother self and hoped it coaxed out a little of Sam's normal little brother self. "Fine. No beach, no sand, no bikinis." Dean sighed loudly and dramatically. "But you're doing all the research and I get to pick the music for the whole drive to South Carolina." He was deliberately petulant, flopping back on his bed.
"How is that different from normal?" asked Sam, and yes, he rolled his eyes. Dean counted it as a win.
"We can leave in the morning after you buy me breakfast."
"Good. That gives me some to research." Wonder of wonders, as Sam turned back to the laptop, a little smirk teased the corner of his mouth. "You're a cheap date, you know that, Dean?"
And Dean savored it. Even as he threw an empty pop can at Sam.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Any progress Dean had made with Sam seemed to have disappeared by morning. He'd found something or read something that had disturbed him. That was glaringly obvious. He'd given up on sleep by five and had slipped out the door before six. He'd come back sweaty, taken a shower, and disappeared again. This time, he came back with strong coffees and fresh doughnuts that were definitely an apology for waking Dean up.
Dean accepted the offering with ill grace, muttering something about little brothers who didn't sleep enough. He froze suddenly, cursing his caffeine-deprived brain for not realizing how that comment could be taken. But Sam just smiled a little ruefully and started in on his own coffee. He was restless, though, not sitting down, but sort of aimlessly packing while he sipped. Hmmm. Time for a Deantervention, perhaps?
"So if the problem Bobby's looking into started in Montana, why are we going to South Carolina?"
Sam looked Dean over, probably trying to determine if he were awake enough to absorb what Sam had to say. It was a fair thing to do, honestly. Dean's brain cells required an infusion of coffee goodness before they fully engaged. He must have passed muster, because Sam sort of shrugged and started talking.
"Before she offed herself, the witch at the epicenter of everything admitted she summoned Eshu. He's a, um, deity or manifestation from the Yoruba religion."
"Aruba has its own religion? Wish we had to go there to fight this thing. I don't suppose he's the god of sun bathing or something nice like that?"
"Yoruba," Sam corrected absently, and Dean grinned to himself. Sam could never help himself. He always corrected Dean's "accidental" mispronunciations. "And, no. He's the god of chaos, or discord. So he showed up, set off some kind of…I don't know, discord bomb. Now, long time partners and spouses and friends are suddenly at each others' throats. Looks like we're up to 3 murders and half a dozen more attempted. The latest was a little old lady trying to kill her husband of over 60 years."
"So we summon Escher and gank him. Bing, bang, boom, home by noon."
"Eshu. And no, it's not that simple."
"Of course it isn't."
Sam ignored Dean's muttering. "I'm not sure he can be killed. Or that we want to."
Dean paused from licking donut icing off his fingers. "What? Why not? Don't we wanna get rid of discord or whatever?"
"No, Dean. We really don't. If the Yoruba mythos is right, without discord, there would never be any progress. Nobody would ever move out of the parents' house. Or cross oceans in search of new worlds. People wouldn't explore or strive for anything. Ambition requires friction. In fact, the Yoruba believe that he's the only reason creation even happened."
Dean thought, not for the first time, that in another life Sam might have become some type of teacher. A college professor, maybe. He could boil down information and disseminate it clearly and concisely. "So…what's the other option? Call him up and force him to fix it? Cuz it's spreading, right?"
"Yes, it's spreading, but no again. I don't think he can reverse it – he's pure discord. But there are a pair of other deities: Yemoja and Oshun. Except for when Eshu stirred them up and convinced them to create the world, they exist in near perfect harmony with each other. And they create harmony whenever they come to Earth. They're collectively know as The Ibeji."
Dean made a rolling motion with his hand so Sam knew he was taking too long to explain. "So we summon those guys and make 'em fix it."
Sam gave a little smile, but something about the topic was getting close to what was bothering him, Dean could tell. "Not quite. They're super powerful, and would probably figure out a way to screw us over if we tried to force them to help. Bobby thinks, and I agree, that we need to approach them and ask for their help respectfully. And he has a source or spell or something that says they're in Della's Hollow, South Carolina. All we know about their appearance is that they'll be gray-eyed women."
"Why us?" Dean complained. "We're the go-to for killing some big nasty. But why do we get the call for a negotiation?"
Sam didn't look up from the socks he was rolling up with unnecessary precision, and Dean watched him closely, not missing the tiny tremor in the long fingers. "Supposedly, every once in a while, there are two people who are, uh, especially close. Like, uh, soul mates, except not romantic. Usually twins. Almost always the same gender, almost always closely related. They are known as ibeji with a small i, and Yemoja and Oshun are more likely to listen to them than anyone else." Sam wasn't even pretending to pack any more.
"And Bobby thinks you and I count?" asked Dean neutrally, starting to get an inkling of what was rattling around in that big brain now.
"It's probably not even a thing, you know? I mean, they also believe that one twin can't live if the other dies, and a holy man has to make a wooden doll to host the dead twin's spirit or the other one will die too." Sam was talking fast now, his babbling a clear sign of just how agitated he was.
"Sam."
"Plato had a similar idea. He thought people originally had four arms and four legs and they were too powerful, so Zeus cut them in half. So no one can be truly happy until they've found their soul mate, literally their other half. Not sexual or anything. I mean the word platonic comes from Plato's name. He – "
"Sammy."
Sam stopped, clenching and unclenching fists.
"What's wrong? Is it that you think we're ibeji, or that you think we're not?" Dean didn't directly look at Sam, but began to slowly work his way toward him, like he was approaching a wild animal.
Sam was silent for so long that Dean didn't think he was going to answer. "We aren't," Sam said finally, sounding like he was talking through clenched teeth. "But it may not matter. We're brothers and we work together. And we've saved each other's lives, so that's probably good enough."
"Why aren't we?" In all honesty, Dean didn't care whether or not some label fit them. Words, whether good or bad, couldn't change their connection. But it was obviously a big deal to Sam.
"Ibeji can't live without each other, Dean. Their souls can't be apart in any real way. Like, even a temporary separation is painful. We've been – our souls have been – apart plenty." Sam was holding himself so taut that he looked about to snap.
Dean was almost within reaching distance now, but Sam suddenly seemed to notice that. He shied like a horse, then slipped past Dean heading for the bathroom. Dean knew what it was like to feel like any compassion would shatter you, like you couldn't face kindness, so he forced himself to not reach out and stop Sam. Our souls have been apart was the key, he thought. Did Sam think he was disqualified from being an ibeji because he'd been soulless for a while? Or maybe because they'd each gone to Hell and left the other behind for a while?
Wasn't that a whole Gordian knot of issues? And did Dean really want to go there?
No.
But Sam maybe needed him to. Dammit. Stupid little brothers.
"Sammy, stop hiding from me," he grumbled.
"Just packing," Sam lied blithely from the bathroom.
"Fine." Dean stood in the bathroom doorway. He folded his arms and waited with a hunter's patience until Sam caught his eyes in the mirror. "You know, people have tried to put labels on us, on this brother thing before. Mrs. Lassiter in that Podunk craphole in Louisiana told Dad we're codependent. Bobby still says we live in each other's pockets. Heaven and Hell and freaking archangels wanted us to be Cain and Abel. None of them were totally right, and none of that shit has ever changed who we are. Ibises, not ibises, Aruba deity or not, we're brothers, and that's all there is to it." He shrugged. "There's nothing you can do to change it, either. So let's get going."
Sam's eyes were red, but he didn't drop his gaze the whole time Dean was talking. At the end, he nodded. He wasn't completely convinced, that was clear, but he'd listened. And Dean knew his words would rattle around in Sam's head and he'd think about them, and that was the best Dean could hope for. He couldn't force Sam to forgive himself, but he could make it clear, as many times as he needed to, that Sam was and always would be his little brother.
"Ibeji, Dean. And Yoruba," mumbled Sam, and Dean knew that at least a little of what he'd said had gotten through.
"Are you ready yet? I wanna find some Aruban twins. Man, I love twins."
And Sam even smiled, a little.
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AN: The Yoruba religion is real, as is the concept of ibeji and the names of the deities. But I changed some things and fleshed others out.
The stuff about Plato's writing is real, too, though he just has a fictional character put forth the idea of split souls, so nobody knows if Plato actually believed it.
I know I pontificate about labels sometimes. Full disclosure: I'm an advocate for the non neuro typical, and it drives me crazy when people give labels too much power. A label in and of itself can't change a person's reality. And, yes, this fanfic advances that idea. Okay, I'll step off my soapbox now!