Chapter Text
Dean didn’t know if he’d ever been more relieved to be back at the bunker. They’d only been gone three weeks, but it felt more like a lifetime. How had they used to do it? Living in motel rooms, moving every couple of days, surviving off of fast food. It’d been almost more exhausting than the hunting itself.
He dropped one of the bags he had in his hands and it hit the floor with a clank. For a split second, he wasn’t in the bunker anymore. An empty house. The face of a young boy, dead, haunted by his still living father-
A chill ran down his spine and Dean shook himself, refocusing back on the bunker around him. He was exhausted, even more than he’d previously thought. He just needed a nice long shower with the bunker’s amazing water pressure and to sleep in his own bed, in his own room, for the foreseeable future.
He dropped the other bag he’d been holding, and took it all in. The table, still covered in the lore books they’d been poring over before they’d left. An empty beer bottle on a side table where he’d left it, a thin layer of dust covering most surfaces. The weird musty smell that they couldn’t seem to get rid of, no matter how much they vacuumed. Home .
Sam dropped the last bag on the library table and wrinkled his nose at the mess they’d left. He shuffled some of the papers into a pile with the tips of his fingers, shoulders drooping. For God’s sake.
“Leave it Sam. We’ll deal with it after we’ve slept for a week,” Dean grumbled. He picked up his personal duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder. Sam’s fingers stalled but he didn’t look up. Dean’s stomach twisted.
“Dean-” Sam’s voice was soft.
“I’m taking a shower. I’ll see you in the morning,” Dean turned on his heel and headed straight for his room, where he dumped his bag.
He never CARED ! It was his fault. Dean’s vision went dark. His hands were shaking. He clenched them, pressing his nails into his palms, the sting pulling the room back into focus.
“Pull it together Winchester,” He whispered, forcing his jaw to relax. He grabbed a pair of clean pajama pants and left the room, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder.
In the shower, he turned the water as hot as it would go, feeling it beat on his back, drowning out his head. He washed as quickly as he could, scrubbing his skin hard enough that it turned pink, ignoring the twinges of pain coming from his side. He still didn’t feel clean, but the earth was starting to tilt around him. He wasn’t going to last much longer.
He stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around him. His face a foggy outline in the mirror. His throat closed up and he turned around, pulling on his clean clothes as fast as he could, swaying even after he had both feet back on the ground.
When was the last time he’d slept for more than an hour? He forced his body to move back to his room and ended up ramming his side into the doorway. The pain in his ribs flared. The damn ghost really couldn’t have thrown pillows instead of the furniture? Just once.
He took a breath and forced himself to straighten, and before he could lose his nerve, he turned the lights off, plunging his room into darkness. He felt his way to his bed and collapsed, not even bothering to get under the covers.
Three hours later, Dean was gasping awake, heart pumping and nerves frayed, unable to remember what his nightmare had been about, only the lingering feelings of fear and anger. He slumped back against the pillows and he closed his eyes, hand on his forehead.
The soft darkness of his room, of being in familiar surroundings, did nothing to dispel the feelings of panic that had gripped his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. The kid’s face scrunched up as the contents of the room swirled around him, Dean yelling trying to get him to calm down-
The silence and the darkness of his room were suddenly overbearing. He grabbed his phone and turned the flashlight on, illuminating the ceiling of his room like he was a little kid afraid of the dark. Even as his heart started to slow, Dean was struck with an irrational fear that his Dad would be in the doorway, berating him for being so childish.
He turned the light off.
Kicking the blankets away he’d tangled himself in while asleep, he slipped his phone into his pocket and left the room.
Ten minutes later, Dean found himself in the kitchen, digging through the fridge for edible sandwich components. The familiar motions soothed the shaking in his hands as he layered the meat and wilted lettuce and spread the mayo, closing it all together between slices of stale bread. He took a bite. Not the best he’d ever made, but he’d live.
He leaned against the counter, closing his eyes. He could feel the industrial lighting through his eyelids and it seemed to chase away the lingering shadows in his mind. He took another bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly and feeling the lump of it make its way down his throat and into his stomach.
By the time he finished, the twisting in his stomach had settled and he let himself pretend that’s all this was, hunger. He dumped the food back in the fridge and made his way back down the hall, stopping when he noticed the cracked door of one of the storage rooms that made up the majority of the bunker’s square footage.
The Men of Letters seemed to keep everything they’d ever glanced at, meaning there were rooms and rooms of supernatural junk, just laying around. Sam had taken it upon himself to try and prevent more Wicked Witch situations, and any time he could spare, he could be found in the storage rooms, cross referencing notes and objects, before reorganizing them back on the shelves.
Dean pushed the door open and stepped through the doorway. Sure enough, in the middle of half a dozen piles was Sam, looking at a document in one hand, jotting down notes with the other, and occasionally peering at one of the objects in front of him. He was wearing the same clothes from earlier.
Dean ran a hand over his face, hit with a twinge of nostalgia. He hadn’t had to tell Sam it was time for bed in years. He cleared his throat, leaning against the doorway. Sam jumped a little, nearly dropping whatever he was holding. He turned around with a glare. Dean smirked.
“Dude, did you even try to sleep?” Dean asked, gesturing to his clothes. Sam pinched his lips, having the decency to look a little chagrined.
“Wasn’t tired, figured I’d get some work done,” Sam said, shrugging and turning back to his work, only to snap his head back to Dean after a second. He blinked slowly. Not tired Dean’s ass.
“What’re you doing?”
Dean shrugged, glancing around at the shelves.
“‘S hungry,” Dean said, picking up the artifact closest to him, which seemed to just be a rock, like the kind you would find along the side of any road. Of course the Men of Letters would keep a regular rock. Cause why not?
He could feel Sam’s eyes on him, doing that weird squinty thing they always did before he asked Dean something Dean didn’t want to talk about.
“Dean, that last case-”
“I’m going right back to bed. You should too,” Dean said, cutting his brother off. He tossed the rock in the air and caught it, the smack of it in his palm grounding. He replaced it on the shelf. Sam squinted harder and Dean wondered if he could even see straight right now. He was not helping him reorganize if Sam messed it all up because he was working on it in the middle of the night. Sam sighed, muttering something under his breath and turned back to his papers.
“Suit yourself I guess,” Dean said, pushing off from the doorway and turning around, making his way back to his room, exhaustion drilling into his bones and hitting him like a sackful of the Men of Letters’ special rocks.
Still, even after he’d pulled himself under the covers and closed his eyes, it took him far longer than he would have liked before the thoughts in his brain stopped whirring enough to let him sleep, his dreams filled with flashes of boy ghosts and absent fathers.
Click . Kachink.
Dean’s hand slid under his pillow in one slow movement, searching for the gun he kept under his pillow, eyes still closed, breathing even. If he could just– There was nothing. Just a very lumpy mattress. One that was definitely not his memory foam.
His eyes flew open, to see the person pointing his own gun at him was one he recognized. Someone whose face was as familiar as Dean’s own.
“Who are you? What have you done with Dean?” The person who looked eerily like a teenage Sam said. His grip on the gun only wavered slightly as Dean sat up slowly, hands up in a gesture of peace. He chanced a look around. A dingy motel room, the same as all the others he’d seen in his lifetime. He looked back to the gun pointed at his face.
“I said , who are you? What have you done with my brother?” Sam squeezed his finger on the trigger, face white but determined. Dean pulled himself out of his head. He could figure out what happened in a second, after there wasn’t a gun pointed at his head.
Moving fast, Dean yanked the gun out of his hands and removed the magazine, before tossing it aside, away from both of them. There was a split second where they were both frozen, Dean’s hands up by his face again before Sam moved , sliding the knife he kept in his boot and darted forward, slashing Dean on the arm before he could block it. The cut stung and Dean fought back a swear. He grabbed for the knife, but Sam jumped back out of reach, knife at the ready.
“I am Dean,” Dean said. “I don’t know how I got here, or even where here is, but I am Dean,”
Sam scoffed. “Yeah, and I’m Batman,” He gestured to the cut on his arm with the knife. “Obviously you’re not affected by silver, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t a monster,” Dean saw his fingers tense around the knife. “And believe me when I say you’re not going to like how I find out what,” Sam narrowed his eyes. “You’re going to regret hurting my brother,”
Despite the overall horribleness of the situation, Dean fought the urge to laugh. He’d forgotten how Sam’s face used to be when he got angry. He still hadn’t lost the last of his baby fat, which combined with his floppy hair, he looked more like a wounded puppy than the vicious hunter that he was desperately trying to be.
Sam scowled at the small smile that Dean couldn’t keep from melting onto his face. This was really not the time to be nostalgic. He tempered his face and tried to scoot off the bed, but Sam pushed him back with the knife. Dean sat back.
If this really was teenage Sam, Dean would definitely be able to beat him in a fight. He had 20 years of experience on him, easy. But if it was teenage Sam, fighting him was not going to be the way to go.
“What year is it?” He asked, eyes flitting around the room.. He recognized the duffle bags dumped on the floor, spilling clothes. He looked back up at Sam, whose eyebrows had furrowed.
“1997,” Sam said. Dean couldn’t help the curse that escaped under his breath and Sam flinched. Of course it had to be fucking time travel, because what else would it be? Not a vacation, that was for damn sure.
At least that meant he could be reasonably sure that this was Sam. Small blessings.
“Do me a favor, why don’t you?” He said, head craning to look at what was behind Sam. A crappy kitchenette. Dean tried to dredge his memories but the hotel rooms and cities all blended together in his head, and he had no idea if he’d ever been in this hotel room before.
“Why would I do anything for you?” Sam asked. Dean turned his gaze back to his little brother, who was doing a terrible job at hiding his confusion. Dean did some quick mental math. Sam couldn’t be older than 14, had only just recently started hunting and researching cases. This was going to be almost too easy.
Dean leapt off the bed and snatched the knife before carefully pressing its surface to Sam’s skin though. Nothing. It didn’t hurt to check though. He let go of Sam as quickly as he’d grabbed him, putting the knife back in Sam’s open hand, who took it instinctively, mouth open in confusion. Dean used his confusion to snag some salt and holy water from a duffel bag on the floor and sprinkle him with some. No reaction. Definitely a young Sam then, and nothing more.
Dean took a swig of holy water, letting some of it dribble onto his hand. Sam just stared.
“See, not a monster or a demon,” Dean said, tossing the supplies back into the bag and sitting back on the edge of the bed. “I swear I’m telling the truth, it’s really me Sammy,”
Sam gaped at him, knife still in hand. Dean could practically see the thoughts whirring behind his eyes. He waited a moment but Sam didn’t so much as move.
“I think that I’ve been sent back in time,” Sam began shaking his head.
“I don’t believe you. Time travel’s not possible,”
Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face. He was getting too old for this.
“Your name is Sam Winchester. You were born May 2, 1983 to Mary and John Winchester in Lawrence, Kansas. You’re a big nerd who likes to read and go to school. You hate hunting and want to go to college,” Sam flinched.
“I was born January 24th, 1979. Our mom was killed by a yellow eyed demon when you were a baby and Dad has been hunting it, and other creepy crawlies ever since,”
“How do you know all that? Have you been stalking us?”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean fought the urge to sigh again. “It’s really me Sammy. From like twenty years in the future,” Sam was still shaking his head. “What the hell will make you believe me?” Dean mumbled under his breath, patting his pockets, almost crying in relief at the solid weight of his phone in his pocket.
He pulled it out and turned it on before tossing it to Sam, who fumbled to catch it with one hand.
“What is it?” Sam still held the knife up in front of him but his focus was on the phone in his other hand, turning it over with confusion.
“That is a phone, twenty years from the future,” Sam tapped the screen, belief growing in his eyes as he did. He looked back up to Dean.
“ Dean? ”
“In the flesh,” He held his hand out, Sam hesitantly replaced his phone, mouth gaping. “Now," Dean smacked his palms on his knees. "We need to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to get back home,”