After maybe half an hour, he tore his eyes from the page and closed the book, returning it to the nightstand, though his heart longed to read more—to soak in every word, every memory. He couldn't justify it anymore—it wasn't getting him any closer to answers—and reading it, while enthralling… hurt, somehow.
Trying not to think on exactly what he couldn't remember, he pulled out each drawer and filtered through its contents. Both a gun and a knife, presumably silver, waited at the ready, beside a canteen of what was probably holy water. After a moment's consideration, he tucked the gun into his waistband.
If this is heaven, why do I own a gun? He pondered absently but resumed his search. He found a couple more journals, filled to the last page, tucked inside the bottom drawer. Otherwise, clothes—his and Jessica's—filled the dresser. He couldn't help but blush and feel like he'd invaded her privacy at glimpsing her drawer full of undergarments, but amusedly reminded himself they were married. It had just… been a while since he'd seen her. Still, he closed the drawer quickly and stuck to what was apparently his side of the dresser, not exactly sure what he was looking for.
Maybe nothing. Maybe just… everything. Everything he wanted so badly to remember.
When he'd finished filtering through the walk-in closet—lined with his suits, neatly ironed and arranged by color, and Jessica's dresses and blazers—a horrible, shrieking ringing echoed through the house.
He flinched and, instinctively, his hand slid under his shirt to grasp the gun as he moved to the bedroom door, peeking out into the hallway.
He heard footsteps downstairs, recognizing them instantly to be Jessica's, headed toward the front door. Before he could even decide to call out, he heard it swing open.
"Hey! It's so good to see you."
It was the doorbell, he realized. His gaze slid to his grip on his gun, and he forced his hand to relax. It was just the doorbell.
"Please, please, come in." Jessica invited warmly, her voice carrying through the house.
Adrenaline-spiked unease still weaving through his veins, Sam fit the gun back into his pants and covered it with his shirt. He forced himself to release a measured breath before he stepped out of the room and started down the stairs.
He had no idea who to expect when he reached the foyer, unable to ease the tension in his muscles despite Jessica's obvious familiarity. He couldn't know—not for sure—that Jessica was really Jessica. Though almost every fiber in his being screamed that this was the very love he'd lost. The way she moved, the way she smiled, the way she laughed. Just the feeling of sharing a room with her. It was all the same.
"Hey, Babe," Jessica greeted at the sound of his descending footsteps, "Look who's here early for once!"
He held his breath subconsciously as he turned the corner, then nearly choked.
Dean.
Dean, bloodied and face swollen pink, busted beyond repair. Blood on Sam's knuckles. Pain—awful pain—contorting Dean's ruined face, but also unshakable, idiotic loyalty and love, as he stared up at his soon-to-be murderer.
Then—just Dean. Dean, smiling, face whole. Not a speck of blood to be seen. A quick, stolen glance—nothing on Sam's knuckles, either. Only a golden ring on his finger.
"Heyya, Sammy." His brow sank downward, "You look like you've seen a ghost… do I need to grab the salt?" It was a joke, but concern ran beneath the words.
"Dean?" He whispered breathlessly. No… if this was heaven, it couldn't be Dean. Dean couldn't be here. Had he… died? Had Sam's hands killed him? No, this had to be some sort of illusion.
"Yeah, buddy, who else would it be?" Dean tried to keep his tone light, but the worry seeped through undeniably, now. He cast a glance toward Jessica.
"He wasn't feeling well, earlier." She offered, her own expression similar to Dean's as she monitored Sam.
"Ah," Dean clapped him on the shoulder, as if it clicked, "It'll be fine, Sammy. It'll be great. C'mon, you can help me with the steaks. Assuming Jess doesn't need you on something else?"
"Nope, just keep him out of my way, would you?" Jessica replied with a wink toward Sam, then led the way to the kitchen and pulled a glass tray lined with marinating steaks from the fridge. She rested it in Dean's waiting arms, then snagged something else from the fridge—two beer bottles—and extended them to Sam. "You boys catch up."
"You're the best," Dean grinned, and Sam hesitantly accepted the beers, finding it hard to look away from his very much alive and fine—or very much dead?—brother.
"Just please don't set the house on fire again, Dean!" Jessica called as Dean stepped out the back door.
"That was one time!" He shouted back, disappearing outside.
"Hey," Jessica murmured before Sam could follow him out. He paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Have fun, okay? Your brother's right: it'll be fine, Sam."
He managed a nod, tried a smile, then stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
The sun was nearing the horizon, casting the world in shades of glorious orange and hazel. It shone across the vibrant green leaves of the vast oak tree in the wide yard and the short stalks flowering in the garden alongside the house.
A paved patio encircled the back of the house, complete with cushioned wicker chairs and a glass-top table. Dean went directly for the grill waiting at the patio's edge, twisting on the gas and igniting the flames. He set the glass tray of steaks beside the grill and glanced back to Sam, extending an open hand.
Sam obliged, passing him a beer; he followed his brother's lead in popping open his own and clinked it against Dean's before taking a sip. It tasted real—malty and sweetly bitter—if that mattered.
He lowered his bottle, searching Dean for any hint of his own confusion reflected back. Finally, he asked, "…Dean?"
"Yeah?" His brother cocked an eyebrow, drawing another sip.
Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was risky, but he couldn't withhold the question any longer. If anyone would tell him the truth, if anyone would know what had happened, it'd be Dean. Assuming this truly was Dean. And if it wasn't, well, the question didn't really matter. "Is this… heaven?"
Dean chuckled, "You sure did get lucky, Sammy. Good thing Jessica never realized she could do better than you." He playfully prodded Sam's shoulder, then sobered somewhat as he seemed to realize Sam didn't mirror his levity. "I'm kidding. I'm glad you guys found each other. You deserve to be happy. I mean it, man."
Sam shook his head. An intense feeling of isolation clutched at his chest. Dean couldn't just be a part of it. Dean had to know more. If he couldn't rely on his brother…
"What's the matter?" Dean asked, clearly registering Sam's unease.
"I mean it, Dean—what is this?" Sam pressed, urgency infecting his voice, "What's going on here?"
Dean set his beer on the side of the grill, taking a careful step toward Sam, "Are you feeling okay, Sammy?"
"Stop calling me that, just—" Sam retreated a matching step without thinking, his heartrate accelerating and voice rising in anger to conceal the fear lurking beneath. "Just tell me what's going on."
Dean's face fell, and he muttered to no one, "Not tonight, of all nights." He inhaled a breath to gather himself, then held out his hands reassuringly, "Look, Sam, this is real." He waved a hand to the world, "This is all real. You've been to heaven—you know what it's like. It's memory loops and, and… preprogrammed responses. This? This isn't memories."
Sam found himself again shaking his head, raking a hand through his hair. This had to be heaven. That's what made the most sense, right?
Reading Sam's unrelenting uncertainty, Dean tried, "What's the last thing you remember?"
Sam squinted, wondering if he should even bother talking to… this, whatever it was, that wore his brother's face. But he found himself responding anyway, "Falling. I… was falling. Into Lucifer's Cage."
"Lucifer?" Dean repeated, face twisting, "No, I mean what's the last real—" he cut himself off, breathing through his teeth. He pressed a fist to his mouth as he tried to wrestle through his dilemma.
Dean was acting like Sam was crazy. Was that possible? Sure, their lives were undeniably insane—who could blame him for cracking up a little? He wouldn't be the first hunter to lose a few marbles. But then, this was more than a few loose screws—he was remembering a different life. Could that possibly be explained away as an occupational hazard, as the mere consequences of hunting since he was in grade school? If that was even true…
He clenched his jaw, feeling like he was cast out into the depths of the sea, unable to ascertain which way led to air, with nothing to hold onto.
Sam waited—part of him hoped this 'Dean' would think of something to resolve the issue, and that he could trust in it.
Dean's eyes shot back up, and he tried again, "Remember that siren we hunted—the bartender? How bad it was at karaoke? I mean, you'd think a siren…" he trailed off again when he found only further confusion and despair on Sam's face. "Or, uh… how about the pair of black dogs that were hanging around that graveyard—which, of course, we didn't know about until after we were neck-deep in digging up some guy's grave."
He'd read about that, briefly, in his journal. But he didn't remember it.
"Or…" Dean watched Sam in growing concern, "That ghost that didn't know she was a ghost? On what, Highway…?"
"Forty-one," Sam answered in a whisper, both increasingly disturbed and somewhat reassured simultaneously. "Molly."
Relief immediately swept over Dean's face, a smile replacing his scowl, "Yeah, that's right." He grasped Sam's shoulder, as though to steady him, "See, Sammy? You've got it. Try again, tell me another one."
Sam stared at him, but obliged, "Nebraska. The seven deadly sins." Isaac, who died because I let Jake live—because I turned my back on him and let him open the Devil's Gate. He shoved away the thought; he needed to focus.
Dean shook his head, silent—because of the emotion constricting his throat?
Something about his expression urged Sam to offer another memory, "Gabriel, at that college campus—well, I guess we thought he was a trickster at the time. Then again at the Mystery Spot."
Dean winced, face sinking into sorrow. Instantly, he seemed distant… distracted.
Sam worked his jaw, unsure why he felt compelled to continue, "The shapeshifter at Oktoberfest?"
Another faint smile returned to curl Dean's lips, "Yeah. The one who watched too many monster movies."
Sam's scowl deepened. Dean seemed more sad than scared. He didn't even seem necessarily surprised. So he asked carefully, "You're not… why aren't you more freaked out about this?"
His smile didn't vanish, but now it was solemn, "This… isn't the first time this has happened, Sammy."
Sam pulled away, breaths quickening as he eyed his brother—not-brother?—warily. "What are you talking about?"
"I know you don't remember right now, but it'll come back. It always does… just sometimes it takes a while."
"Dean, what happened?" Sam's tone dripped with exasperation, nearing a shout.
"I, uh…" Dean rubbed his hands over his face—Sam realized his eyes were wet with tears. "Can we, uh… can we do this after dinner? I know—I know you've got a million questions. But… can you just trust me tonight? You—we deserve this," he jabbed a finger toward the house, "I don't want to let that demon take one more thing away from this family. From you."
Confusion crowded Sam's skull—even more so than before—like flies to rotting meat.
Dean cursed, then cursed again, "I wish I could kill that sonofa… I'd kill him twice. Three times, even." Dean sighed, muttering, "He's lucky he's already rotting."
After a moment, Dean wiped a hand over his mouth and chin, "Alright, okay, um… why don't you go on inside, wash up a bit? I'll get these going," he pointed generally toward the grill, "And uh… I'll tell Jess. She needs to know. But… it can stay between the three of us, for now." Sam nodded faintly. It wasn't like he had many options but to agree. "We'll get through this, Sammy. We always do. Just trust me, okay?"
But how do I know you're you?
Unless Dean was a shifter or demon—which, Sam supposed, he still had to test—there was no way to know. Especially if his own memories weren't trustworthy. But… Dean looked so real, sounded so real. Felt so real. When a shifter had worn Dean's skin, it felt inexplicably off. But right now? It felt entirely like Dean. Every impulse wanted to trust him—because trusting Dean came as naturally as breathing.
He found himself turning toward the door before he even consciously decided what to do. Dean promised he would explain soon. It made sense to wait until then before acting more… recklessly. Just in case this was real.
"Sammy… how much do you—" Dean called before Sam could reach for the handle, yet again cut himself short. Remember seemed to be the word he abandoned. When he realized Sam couldn't answer that, because he wouldn't know. "Sorry. Never mind."
Sam didn't turn, merely nodding again and pushing inside. Jessica was in the kitchen, but luckily, her back was turned; she hummed softly as she tossed a salad bowl. Sam closed the door as silently as he could manage—it seemed quiet enough—and carefully slid through the kitchen and down the hall. He quietly checked a few doors until he found a bathroom, where he locked himself inside.
For the second time that day, he locked gazes with himself in the mirror. He leaned against the sink in the hopes of steadying himself—rooting himself to the physical. Trying to further the effort, he splashed his face with water. It was like ice on his skin. Cold. Cold.
He tightened his hands into fists, trying to snare his thoughts before he ended up in a jumbled mess pressed into a corner. Get it together.
His gaze flicked back up to the mirror, but the reflection offered neither help nor sympathy. It only stared back, a silent witness to his devolution.
What if Dean was right? If this wasn't heaven, where did that leave him? The last thing he remembered was falling. What if… what if this was—
The ring of the doorbell—a light, chirping alarm—interrupted his thoughts. He glanced toward the bathroom door as footsteps echoed in the hall. Then, a soft knock sounded just on the other side, followed by a hushed voice. "Hey, Sam?" Jessica. "Could you open the door, please?"
Sam paused, staring at the handle, but he knew he wasn't about to stay locked in the bathroom the whole evening. He twisted the lock, then drew open the door to be met with an immediate embrace. He flinched reflexively, but Jessica at least pretended not to notice.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured into his chest, then withdrew from the hug enough to meet his gaze, "Don't worry about what Dean said. We can postpone; they'll understand."
Sam was about to either ask for a reminder about who was coming, or to just outright agree that postponing would probably be best, when the sound of a familiar voice resounded down the hall—a voice that, much like Jessica's, he never expected to hear again.
A quick glance to Jessica confirmed she didn't share his shock. Before she could reemphasize her visible concern, he was already halfway down the hall.
The man had his back toward Sam, speaking with Dean in an easy tone. His clean, ironed, button-up shirt made him almost unrecognizable. Dean's gaze shifted back toward Sam, and the elder Winchester immediately offered a small, reassuring smile. The man turned, following Dean's gaze, then his familiar face lit up in an unfamiliar expression.
"There he is," the man stretched out a hand. After a moment's hesitation, Sam took it—then the man seemed to reconsider and pulled him into a hug. He clapped Sam on the back, "It's good to see you, Sammy."
"Hey… Dad."