I think my Winchester ownership papers got lost in the mail. (Ergo: I don't own them.) :P Thank you for the reviews! I really appreciate them!

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Chapter Seven

They had to be at least eighteen and twenty-two, seated in a bar together having a drink and sharing a laugh. These moments were uncommon, Dean noted to himself, uncommon as a good-natured laugh from his father or a snowstorm in Texas, but they were things he made sure to remember.

"Dude, you're shitting me. You actually did that?"

"Dean, it was April Fools' Day and he was asking for it."

Dean's younger self took a sip of beer, both amusement and something of pride dancing in his eyes. "I know, but the idea of you pulling a prank on someone besides me… it ain't clickin', man."

"You might not believe it, but there are people out there who deserve it more than you do," Sam replied in a good-natured tone, taking a drink as well. "He never knew it was me, anyway. Took out some poor, unsuspecting other guy."

He merely smirked and shook his head, dismissing the subject. "Hey, Mr. Honour Roll," his brother started, tapping the bottom of his beer bottle on the table, "What do you think that guy wishes he could change about his past?"

Was he pointing at him? He was pointing at him. He couldn't be… Dean looked around the room frantically when it seemed as though his past self was indicating him, the incorporeal older incarnation of Dean Winchester standing just a few feet away, watching. "What the…" confused, he moved out of the way and realized he was pointing at the man seated behind him. He breathed out a sigh of relief.

"What?"

"It's a game. Gets better the more alcohol you have. Just make shit up."

Sam didn't seem sold on the idea but played along. "Uh, okay… he wishes he hadn't given his Marvel comics away when he hit twenty-five."

"Hey," Dean warned, noticing Sam's allusion to him. But then he remembered what age his younger counterpart was – twenty-two – and chalked it up to a freaky coincidence. … From a psychic kid who didn't know he had the power yet.

"Okay, your turn. That woman there, what's her favourite animal?"

"Lemmings," his brother responded. "She used to be suicidal and enjoys watching the suckers take the plunge."

"Lemmings don't jump off cliffs on purpose, Dean—"

"Save it, smarty pants. That guy in the corner, what's his favourite section in the newspaper?"

Sam took a long look in that direction before answering. "The obits. Likes picking out mysterious deaths."

His brother lifted his beer to his mouth, furrowing his eyebrows. "Sprained your creative muscle after that first one?"

Sam smirked. "No. 'That guy in the corner' is a mirror."

His brother looked across the room into Sam's reflection and tried not to laugh. "So it is."

"Smooth operator," Sam laughed, holding his beer out to tap the neck against his older brother's beer bottle in a 'cheers' motion.

"Yeah, well," the other began to admit, "After further inspection, Mr. Marvel over there is actually a chick."

Sam almost snorted. "Seriously? Oh, man. Oops."

"All right, we're officially bad at this. Let's order another round."

Dean's usually uptight little brother actually laughed. "You are buying, right?"

"Of course. You are the graduate being celebrated, after all, even if it's kinda belated," his brother replied, raising his bottle for another toast. Sam complied. "So, any plans for this wonderful, magical world after high school? Going to go find yourself a lady right away or are you gonna stick it out in the boonies with dad and I for a while longer?"

Sam's smile stayed his face even though he was about to bring up a tough topic. "Uh, actually…" he paused as if considering his words, and then reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a white envelope and passed it to Dean.

His brother's hazel eyes scanned the front of the envelope for a long moment. "Stanford University. Huh." He passed the envelope back to Sam. "That's some pretty serious stuff there, Sammy." Of course, he was avoiding the taboo topic of what their father would think.

"Dad doesn't know yet," Sam said as if their thoughts were one and the same. "But I can't turn this down, Dean… it's the chance of a lifetime."

His brother nodded. "Congrats, college-boy. Or would that be university-boy?"

Sam shook his head. "Cut it out. I just thought I'd let you know before I give dad the news. … Or maybe it'd be better described as 'drop the bomb'."

"Yeah, well. Thanks," his brother said, raising his glass. "When are you leaving?"

"Next September."

The twenty-two year old nodded. "Cool beans." He wasn't going to let Sam know that he'd miss him. He wasn't. His little brother had just gotten what he'd always wanted – and what Dean had always wanted for him – and he wasn't going to screw it up by putting that burden on him. That, and it just wouldn't be cool.

Dean tuned out the rest of their conversation to think about that topic for a moment. Life had been… different after Sam left for Stanford. The first few months were stiff and silent and orders; no conversation, just doing. Driving in the Impala with the barrier of classic rock between them. Eventually things eased back to normal – 'normal' defined in the Winchester dictionary, anyway, which would make Noah Webster roll over in his grave; 'normal' meant 'Dad's not trying to kill me with a look every time I see him', just as 'everything's fine' meant 'we're all still in one piece physically, but that's about it' – and things were all right between father and son again for the time being. Dean had experienced it all before, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for his younger counterpart and his brother who still had yet to go through one of their hardest times together – and that Sam would lose who was, quite possibly, the love of his life. And here he was, all future plans and University and smiles, unaware of the tragedy that would occur in just a couple short years.

The twenty-seven-year-old Dean just stood by, knowing how well Sam's breaking the news would eventually turn out. It was the blow that nearly destroyed what was left of their family – caused an argument that lasted almost two days on and off vocally, constantly if you counted dirty looks and slammed cupboards and the angry silence that hung in the air that no one dared to break –, and upon remembering that this would be the brothers' last fun, social time together for a long time his expression grew cold.

The next thing he knew he was in the middle of a shouting match between Sam and their father.

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R&R. Last update tomorrow.

... Actually, I've been thinking of adding more re-experiences as alternatives, of sorts, when I'm finished writing this. (Really, the possibilities are endless. I could have a field day with this.) So, what say you, readers? Good idea? Bad? Cheese?