Archive of Our Own ^beta

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,” 

Chapter Text

Sam stood up, popping his back and shoulders. He glanced at his watch. It was five o’clock in the morning. His stomach growled. It was probably time for a break. 

He gingerly made his way out of the room, stepping around the piles of artifacts he’d been creating. He’d tried to keep the more volatile spells and ingredients off the floor, but there were still things that he wasn’t entirely sure what their purpose was and he did not want to take any chances by accidentally knocking them over.

He wound his way to the kitchen, relieved to find there were still edible leftovers in the fridge. They really needed to go shopping. Not even bothering to heat up the spaghetti, he began shoveling it in his mouth, planning through his next steps for the storage room in his mind when he was struck by a large yawn. He should probably sleep.

But his room was empty, devoid of the Dean’s heavy breathing in another bed. Sam didn’t want to admit it, but he’d gotten used to sharing a room with Dean again for the past few weeks. And after the last case, he didn’t particularly want to be alone. Still, he wasn't a child that needed his older brother to chase away his nightmares. If he just made himself tired enough, he’d be able to just pass out before his brain had a chance to turn on him.

He shoveled another bite in his mouth and chewed without tasting, feeling it sink heavy in his stomach as he swallowed. Maybe he could just take a nap in the library- 

CRASH

Sam froze, food forgotten as he strained his ears, listening. Silence. He leaned forward, peering out into the hallway.

“Dean? That you?” He called out. Still, nothing. He gently placed the still half full tupperware on the counter and waited, heart beating faster by the second. 

“Dean?” He tried again. No one responded.

Sam cursed silently. If it wasn’t Dean, he’d just revealed himself to whoever was in the bunker. If it was Dean, then they had even bigger problems, because Dean was never that clumsy. He tried to not let panic rise in his chest.

“You better not be tramping around in the storage room and knocking everything over!” He said, trying to keep his tone light; he had no idea if it was convincing or not. He tugged at one of the guns they kept in the kitchen under the counter, pulling it out of its holster before quietly checking its magazine and clicking the safety off. How had someone gotten into the bunker? Because that seemed to be the only explanation. 

The tightness in Sam’s chest grew as he stepped out into the hallway, gun at the ready. No one. Not even a shadow. Taking silent steps, he made his way down the hall, stopping briefly at the open door of the storage room, the door he had definitely closed after he left. He peered in, expecting to see someone, but the room was empty except for the piles of stuff he’d been working on. They showed no signs of having been disturbed. He clicked the door shut quietly, and leaned against the wall. 

Gripping the gun with one hand, Sam slid his phone out with the other and pulled up Dean’s contact. It didn’t even ring before giving him an error message.

“We are unable to connect your call-” Sam hung up and slipped his phone back in his pocket, gripping the gun with both hands. Dean’s phone was disconnected, completely. Something had definitely happened to him. 

“Dean!” He shouted, forgoing stealth. No answer. The door to Dean’s room was ajar, and Sam barged in. Gun aiming at whoever had-

The room was empty, blankets still ruffled from where Dean had been sleeping. Sam didn’t know if that was good news or not, that there wasn’t a sign of a struggle. 

Someone had gotten into the bunker without them knowing. What could even do that? The bunker was warded against pretty much everything, and they’d added extra security after the British Men of Letters had found their way inside.

He ducked back into the hallway, breaths coming in short bursts as he strained his ears. A strange clanging sound was coming from the main atrium of the bunker. The handle of the gun was warm in his hand as he slinked down the hallway, peering around the corner of the frame and scanning the room. The main level was empty, as was the library, as far as Sam could see. He turned his attention up the stairs and was surprised to see a teenager attempting to bust the door down.

Sam stepped out of the shadows and aimed his gun at the intruder’s head.

“Hands up where I can see him!” He shouted. The teenager froze, and slowly his hands came up revealing one of Dean’s knives coming to rest in the air beside his head. 

“What did you do with my brother?” Sam barked, walking a few steps further into the room. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” The kid’s voice was familiar. “You’re the one who-” 

“Turn around,” Sam clenched his jaw.  The teen obeyed, turning to face Sam slowly. A jolt of recognition burst through his brain and Sam felt his hands falter. He forced himself to bring it back up, and clenched his hands around the handle, trying to stop them from wavering.

“ What the hell are you?” He gritted out. “How did you get in here?”

“ What am I?” The thing that was wearing Dean’s teenaged face said. “You’re the one that kidnapped me! And brought me to your torture dungeon or whatever this place is,” He gestured with his hands, and Sam felt something in his gut twist. The gesture was so Dean . Sam paused. 

The bunker was warded against pretty much all non-human entities. There was no possible way for a shifter or a demon to have gotten in, especially without being severely injured in the process.

Dean had been deaged before, reverted back to his teenage body, though he’d retained all of his memories of being an adult. It wouldn’t be that far of a leap to remove his memories as well. Though that didn’t quite explain why his phone had been disconnected. 

“Dean?” Sam asked, lifting his finger off the trigger.

“How do you know my name?” Dean said, face twisting into a confused frown. And yep, that was a teenaged Dean, Sam could tell. Of all the things Dean could have gotten mixed up in, it just had to be more time shit. Sam lowered the gun to his side. 

“It’s…” Sam searched for a word. “complicated,” He finished lamely, shrugging his shoulders. Dean’s eyes narrowed and he took a step back. How the hell was Sam going to explain that Dean had either been deaged or somehow been transported to the future. He didn’t even believe in vampires or angels, let alone frickin’ time travel. 

“I think I can explain, I just need to check some things first. Will you come down?” Sam settled on. Dean’s eyes narrowed further, darting to the gun still held in Sam’s hand. With slow, overexaggerated movements, Sam clicked the safety back on his gun and unclicked the magazine, sliding it out and placing both pieces on the war table before taking a step back, out of reach.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to help you,” Sam said, raising hands to the sides of his head, hoping he’d succeeded in changing his expression to look honest. Dean didn’t move for a long moment, eyes searching Sam’s for any hint of deception. Sam didn’t so much as twitch. Finally, finally , Dean began making his way down the stairs, eyes never leaving Sam’s hands, knife at the ready. Sam really hoped he wasn’t going to try anything stupid. He knew who was going to win that fight, and it was not going to be Dean. Sam had a few inches and decades of experience on him. 

Dean stopped just out of Sam’s reach, his hands held tightly by his sides, stance solid. He was gearing up for a fight. Sam felt his heart twinge at Dean’s face, the fear clearly visible to Sam’s trained eyes. He was so young . And yet, even though this was before everything , he still stood there, spine soldier straight, a darkness in his gaze. 

Sam shook himself. He had to focus.

“I’m assuming you want to know if I’m a monster,” He said, trying to keep his expression open. Dean nodded, the hand with the knife twitching by his side. Moving slowly, Sam retrieved his silver knife from his belt, and rolled his sleeve up, pressing the metal into the crook of his arm across the skin already marred with scars. He grimaced only a little as blood swelled and he pulled the blade away. 

He flipped the blade in his hand, so that the handle was facing outwards and offered it to Dean, who snatched it from his hand and rolled up his own sleeve. Sam pressed his free hand over the cut and watched as Dean pressed the blade against his own skin. No burning. Sam hadn’t really thought he was anything other than a young Dean, based on his presence in the Bunker, but it was nice to know for sure.

Dean didn’t return the knife, he tucked it in his belt, arm bleeding freely.

“Who are you?” Dean growled, gesturing with the knife. Sam slowly and deliberately pulled one of the chairs out from the table before dropping into it, pressing his shirt sleeve onto his arm to staunch the bleeding. He gestured to one of the other chairs, but Dean remained standing, resolute. Sam sighed.

“I don’t know how to explain this, it’s really complicated-”

“Just tell me already!” Dean said, teeth bared. Sam had hoped to try and ease him into it but-

“You’re basically twenty years in the future. It’s me Dean. It’s Sam,” Sam said, looking in his brother’s face, trying to get him to see the truth. Dean’s eyes widened a tiny amount, but his glare remained. 

“Yeah, right. You gonna tell me what’s really going on here or are you going to keep spinning fairy tales?” Dean scoffed. 

“It’s the truth, Dean. It’s 2017,” Sam stood up and Dean took a step back, immediately on the defensive. Sam ran a hand through his hair. How was he going to get him to believe him? Before he could think of anything, the door of the bunker opened, startling the both of them. 

Cas entered, laden with plastic bags, closing the door behind him.

“Who’re you?” Dean yelled. Cas startled, staring at the teenage version of his friend in disbelief. He looked at Sam, who shrugged helplessly. Cas took another step down the stairs.

“Don’t come any closer, I’m warning you,” Dean yelled, gaze pivoting between the two of them, any semblance of trust dissipated. Sam froze, but Cas kept walking down, and Dean’s gaze snapped to him like a magnet, knife held in front of him. Sam tried to gesture to Cas to stop, but he ignored him, walking to the end of the table to place his bags down before coming to a stop before Dean, peering at him intensely. Dean wasted no time, plunging the knife into Cas’s chest before pushing him away. 

Cas stumbled back, face scrunching in pain and Sam stepped forward without realizing he’d moved.  But Cas simply pulled the knife out of his chest and held his other hand up to staunch the bleeding. Dean looked horrified. 

“What the fuck are you?” He shouted, stumbling back, fumbling for the knife he’d taken from Sam. Cas frown deepened and he turned to Sam, who couldn’t help the sigh he released from his lips. 

“What happened?” Cas asked, casually placing the bloodied knife on the table next to Sam’s disassembled gun. Dean made a weird sound in his throat and took another step back, Sam’s knife raised in defense.

“I have no idea. He just appeared,” Sam said, gesturing to Dean. Cas hummed thoughtfully.

“I’ve had enough. Who the fuck are you people? What do you want from me?” Dean said, a tremor in his voice. He took another step back.

“I told you Dean. It’s me . You’re in the future,” Sam took a step forward. Dean pressed up against the wall as he moved to get away from them, sneering, eyes darting. No one moved. Sam risked another step forward when no one said anything.

“Look, I know that it’s hard to believe but I swear we’re telling the truth, Dean. I am Sam. This is the future,” Sam said, hands reaching out to comfort. Dean was shaking his head. 

“I don’t believe you,” 

“We were born in Lawrence, Kansas. Our Dad taught us how to hunt in order to find the demon that killed our mom,”

Dean went rigid.

“I was six months old when you carried me from the fire because Dad was trying to save Mom,” A flinch and a grimace. “My first word was Dean. You taught me how to tie my shoes and read and write because Dad wasn’t there often enough to do it. You always made sure I had enough to eat, even when it meant you didn’t have any,” Sam was closer now, close enough he could see the rough leather cord on Dean’s neck, disappearing into the folds of his jacket. Sam felt his throat close up. “I gave you that amulet for Christmas after Dad didn’t show up. You never take it off,” Dean’s hand flew to his chest. Sam kept going. “We’d take the Impala sometimes and we’d park it out in the middle of nowhere and sit and look at the stars,”

Recognition and belief finally dawned on Dean’s face, and Sam felt relief sweep through him.

“Sammy?”

“It’s me Dean,” Sam said softly, close enough that he could reach up and place a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Dean’s eyes were whirlpools of confusion and fear, but he believed him. And that’s what mattered. 

“You’re so tall,” He said. Sam laughed.

“I hit a growth spurt when I was fifteen,” 

Dean scowled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which made Sam smile even more. The moment stretched on, broken only when Cas cleared his throat and Dean remembered his presence. He took a step forward, eyes narrowing once more at the angel behind Sam. 

“If you’re really Sam, then what the hell are you doing with a monster?” He said, gesturing to Cas with the knife. Sam’s stomach clenched.

“He’s not a monster Dean,” Sam said, placatingly, hand still firmly on his shoulder. Dean shrugged it off and took a step back, eyes dark. 

“Well I just stabbed the son of a bitch and he seems fine. Seems pretty monstrous to me,” Dean took another small step back, and Cas moved to stand. Sam held his hand out. Let me handle this . Cas sat back in the chair, hands up. Sam turned back to Dean to see him a few steps further away. He took a deep breath.

“This is Castiel. He’s an angel,” 

Dean laughed dryly. 

“May I?” Cas asked. Sam looked to Dean, whose hands were shaking around his white knuckle grip on the knife. He looked back to Cas and nodded. Standing up slowly, Cas took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

The lights began to flicker and the shadows of horribly damaged wings appeared behind Cas, who’d opened his eyes to reveal them glowing an unnatural blue. Sam felt a twinge in his gut at the sight. He hadn’t seen Cas’s wings in a long time, not since before he’d fallen, before he’d lost his grace. 

He looked to Dean, who had frozen, looking at the scene with blatant fear, which he seemed to only barely manage to hide when after a few moments, the wings were gone and the lights were back to normal, as if nothing had happened in the first place.  Dean kept opening his mouth, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find his words. He’d gone pale.

“We’re telling the truth Dean,” Sam said. He could see Dean’s jaw clenching.

“If this is really the future, why does it look like we’re in a nuclear fallout shelter from the 50s?” Dean’s eyes didn’t leave Cas, even as the angel sat back at the table.

“‘Cause that’s kind of where we are,” Sam scratched the back of his neck. “Long story short, it’s a hunting bunker that we’ve taken over as headquarters,”

“You mean we live here?” Dean looked at Sam with surprise.

“When we’re not hunting,” Sam said. “It’s been a great resource,” 

“ Oh ,” Dean said. His jaw clenched and he looked around, darting to the map on the war table to the library where there was still research spread across the table. Dean looked back at Sam, and his shoulders tightened, like he was steeling himself for something.

“Dad’s ok with us working with angels?” 

Sam felt his face shutter. Shit . He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Dean’s face was going through complicated expressions that Sam didn’t know how to read. 

“Dad-” Sam took a deep breath and forced himself to look at Dean’s eyes, which had grown darker. “Dad’s dead, Dean,” He winced. That came out much more bluntly than he had intended. “Has been for a while now, he-” He stopped. There was no way he was going to tell Dean he died making a deal with the demon that killed their mom to save his life.

“Oh,” Dean said softly, eyes moving back to the table.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered, examining his hands. Sam could feel Cas observing them, but he didn’t say anything. Dean cleared his throat, cutting through the silence.

“So how’re we going to fix this?”

Chapter Text

Dean felt a headache coming on and he selfishly wished that it had been Sam who had been zapped back. He probably would have been able to determine what had happened and get himself home before dinner. Unfortunately, it was Dean who’d gotten zapped back and so here he was, sitting on the edge of a shitty motel bed, trying to think of something that he’d actually be able to do to get home. 

The bunker was out of the question, with its key literally being stuck in time until Henry popped back out years in the future, which meant all of its information and spells were also out of reach. Rowena was a no go, and there weren’t really any angels on Earth, even if Dean wanted to go to them for help. He’d rather not open that can of worms if he didn’t absolutely have to. Hopefully Sam was working on a way to get him back, because Dean had no idea if he could do anything on his end.

Speaking of Sam, the younger version of him was pacing back and forth, looking like he desperately wanted to ask some questions but was unsure if he’d be allowed to. Dean sighed. There really wasn’t much he could do at the moment. He was definitely going to need some help on this one and he was not about to just dip out and leave Sam to explain that his younger self had disappeared to their dad.

“Spit it out,” Dean grunted, rubbing his hands over his face before turning his gaze to Sam, who had frozen.

“W-what?”

“I know you probably have a million questions, and I don’t know if I should even really answer them what with continuity and all that shit, but go ahead and ask ‘em,”

Sam looked about ready to explode.

“Did Dad catch it?” 

Dean knew what he was talking about. Azazel. The Yellow Eyed Demon. He’d been the least of their worries for years now which was almost weird to think about. The thing that had consumed him and his Dad for 20 years was so much less than the rest of the constant shit shows that’d followed.

“Yeah, we got him,”

“But you didn’t stop hunting?” 

Dean winced.

“It’s more complicated than that Sammy,” Dean watched as Sam’s face fell and he turned away. Dean wished that he could explain exactly why they hadn’t quit hunting, the sheer enormity of everything that came after Azazel, that they hadn’t had a choice and they had, and they had chosen to save the world. Had continued to choose to save the world, to hunt, to help others. That normal had never really worked for them. They couldn’t just drop out of the life entirely. But he had no idea where to even start and a lump forming in his throat prevented him from even trying.

Sam opened his mouth as if he wanted to ask something more but he shut it just as quickly when the door to the motel room jiggled as someone used a key. Out of sheer habit, Dean stood up, spine straight, ready to do whatever his dad needed him to. He hadn’t really thought about this part yet. He hadn’t seen his dad for a decade. 

Not for the first time, Dean wondered how much John knew already. Did he know about Sam and the demon blood? Had he already come up with his fucking stupid contigency plan of forcing Dean to kill his own brother in case he went rogue? 

The door was creaking open and Dean was on fire inside, twin flames of desire and dread roilling in the bottom of his gut.

And there he was. His dad, exhaustion shown on his face for only a split second until he realized that there was a stranger in the room, and then his guards went back up. Dean flinched.

“Who the hell are you?” John growled, hand already holding his gun, aimed and ready to fire, straight at Dean’s head.  John’s eyes flickered around the rest of the room, arm never wavering.

“What did you do with my son?” John’s voice got frighteningly cold and Dean had to force himself to not take a step back. 

“Dad, it’s ok-” Sam took a step forward, hands out.

“Get away from him Sammy,”

Dean raised his hands as a sign of peace. It wasn’t like he was armed anyways. 

“Look, this is going to be hard to believe but I am Dean. From the future,” 

John barked out a humorless laugh.

“And I’m the Easter Bunny. I won’t ask you again, what have you done with my son?”

“Dad, I think he’s telling the truth!” Sam said, taking a step into John’s line of fire. His aim didn’t waver. 

“I told you to stay away from him Sam, what the hell are you thinking?”

Dean’s paralysis was wearing off, and the fire was burning hot. 

“Dad! It’s me! Not a monster. Not an illusion. Not some sort of witchy mojo,” John’s eyes only narrowed. Dean said the first thing that came to his mind.

“You helped me make my first sawed off when I was 12 and taught me how to shoot so I could protect Sammy. You kept it,” Dean was only able to see the flash of surprise in his dad’s eyes because he’d grown up learning his moods. To anyone else, it would have been imperceptible. Still, John only lowered his gun to his side.

“Prove you’re not a monster,” 

“Dad, he already-”

“Sam, it’s fine,” Dean said, taking a slow step forward, and taking the knife proffered by his father, he pressed the blade into his forearm, drawing blood.

“See? Not a monster,” He said, handing the knife back, handle first. John only grunted, pulling out a flask of holy water from his pocket.

Dean took a nice long swig and offered it back. 

“Not a demon either,” John finally let his shoulders fall, though he didn’t put his gun away, just clicked the safety on. 

“Say I believe you, what happened to our Dean?” 

Dean let his own shoulders fall. That was as good as it was going to get. 

“Hopefully in the future with my Sam,” He said, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He really hoped that this was some sort of direct switch and not a reverse deaging spell or something. But he tried not to get his hopes up. God knew that it could always get worse.

John didn’t say anything, just gave him a look. Dean spared a glance to Sam, who was looking caught between relief and panic. 

Sometimes, Dean liked to imagine what it would be like to see his dad again, after so long. In the dead of night, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d wonder what his dad would think of him, of Sam. Of the things they’d done, and were doing. Their mistakes and their wins. And sometimes, he let himself hope that his dad would be proud of him. That he’d apologize for the way they were raised. And somewhere in Dean, he had hoped that they’d been true. A small part of him had really believed that if his dad would just see him, he’d apologize. And yet standing here, in front of him, with a decade more experience, the knowledge of angels and God and so many more things that had been previously thought to not exist, his dad was still the same. 

And the rational part of his brain tried to explain it, but it was overwhelmed by the wave of anger that boiled in his blood. The dark undertow of sadness that threatened to keep him under. Because how many times had he stood in a motel just like this one and swallowed what he wanted to say to his dad? How many times had he cried himself to sleep silently after the fire because his dad couldn’t deal with any more emotion than his own, and Dean had been the one to shoulder everything else? Had to become the adult? How many times had he stood there, wanting to just take the Impala and Sam and leave? And how many times had he swallowed his feelings, and buried them, and tried to take care of everyone the best that he could?

John grunted and turned to one of the cabinets, pulling out a cheap bottle of whisky and pouring himself a good amount. He did not offer any to Dean. Sam was fidgeting with the handle of his knife, looking between the two of them, as if he was ready to step in at a moment’s notice. 

The one part of Dean’s brain that wasn’t broiling with emotions almost laughed at the sad irony, that Sam was the one going to step between Dean and their dad. And that irony soon turned to something else, because Dean wasn’t the same boy soldier that they knew. He hadn’t been for a long time.

John gestured to the table and Dean sat down heavily before he even realized what he was doing. Suddenly the whiskey seemed a lot more appealing. He’d love nothing more than to just down a glass of it, let the burn and the buzz distract him from this fucking shit show. He couldn’t, not if he wanted a clear head to try and get him back to the future. 

John raised an eyebrow at him when he didn’t say anything for a moment, and Dean felt himself fumbling. Distantly he heard Sam sit down on the edge of one of the beds, the springs of the crappy mattress creaking under his weight. 

“Well boy, are you going to tell me what happened? Or are you just going to sit there and wait for me to figure it all out for you?”

Dean cleared his throat and forced himself to look up at his dad, who was giving him a look he didn’t know how to describe.

“I don’t know what happened. I just woke up in the past,” Dean said, voice rough. John gave him an unimpressed look and took another swig of whiskey.

“When are you from?”

“2017,” 

John whistled in mock appreciation. “20 years, that’s a long trip. Yet you don’t look all that surprised,”

 “Let’s just say this isn’t my first time tussling in the time travel rodeo,” Dean said. Sam visibly straightened and Dean felt his lips twist into a little smirk. Oh how he loved his little nerd of a brother. John cleared his throat and Sam deflated.

“Why don’t you just fix it then, seeing as how you’re an expert at it now?” John tipped back the rest of his whiskey and poured another glass.

“It’s not that simple-” Dean said, voice rising. John glared at him and Dean took a deep breath. He couldn’t be losing his temper right now. Especially not here.

“It’s really hard to time travel. All the times we’ve done it, we did it on purpose and we had a very strict deadline. I don’t even know what else would have the juice to send me back, or why,” 

“You mean you’ve been using magic on purpose?”

That was not what Dean had expected him to ask.

“Not exactly. We have a friend-”

“You’re friends with monsters?” John slammed his glass on the table down, liquor splashing over the sides. Dean flinched. How could he have been so stupid?

“Look there’s a lot that’s changed in the future-”

“That’s no excuse for working with the fucking monsters we hunt Dean! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Dad, it’s not what you-” He was trying to keep his tone even, but the anger was starting to seep through, finding its way through the cracks in the walls he hadn’t needed to shore up in a long while. 

“After everything, you go and turn your back on your family, on her, because you made friends with a monster?”

“He’s not a monster!” Dean shouted, anger burning white hot, standing up so fast the chair toppled backwards. He saw Sam flinch out of the corner of his eye and all of a sudden guilt doused the flames.

 “Well anything with enough juice to transport you through fucking time is a monster in my book, don’t matter what you call it,” John said, standing, hands slamming the table.

“You don’t know shit, Dad” Dean said softly.

“What did you just say to me?” His dad took a step forward. The room shrunk in on them, suddenly overbearingly hot.

“What did you say boy?”

And Dean had had enough.

“I said you don’t know shit Dad! You’re so blinded by your need for revenge and whiskey you can’t even see three feet in front of you!” 

His dad’s hands were shaking, and for a split second, it was Sam his dad was screaming at. You walk out that door, you don’t come back, you hear me?  

“I don’t know what the hell you are, but you aren’t my son. I want you the hell out of here,” His dad said, turning his back on him and striding towards the door, opening it with a slam. “By the time I’m back, I want you gone,”

And he was gone, door slamming behind him. Dean felt his eyes burning, and he squeezed them shut for a split second, pressing his nails into his palms, willing the shakiness to go away. 

“Dean?” Sam asked. Dean didn’t respond, ears searching for the familiar sound of Baby’s engine starting, but it never came. He let out a shaky breath before turning around, smile plastered in place.

“What state are we in?” He asked, avoiding Sam’s eyes, grabbing his younger self’s duffle bag and digging through it.

“Iowa,” They were a state away. Close enough for him. Dean grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt, heading towards the bathroom.

“Dean, he just needs to calm down-” Dean closed the door and stripped out of his pajamas, pulling on his clothes. Which were snugger than he remembered. A glance in the mirror showed someone he didn’t recognize. He flinched.

He grabbed the toiletries he recognized as his and opened the door, ignoring Sam, who was trying to get him to stop. He threw in his pajamas and toiletries in the duffle and grabbed the gun and magazine abandoned on the bed, sliding the pieces together with a soft click. He tucked it into his waistband.

“Dean, what are you doing?” 

“I’m leaving,” He said, slinging the bag over his shoulder, finally looking at Sam, who looked so impossibly small.

“Are you coming or not?” 

Sam jumped from the bed and grabbed his own bag, not even bothering to change, grim determination on his face.

“Good,”

He pushed the door open and felt the cold air hit him like a sack of bricks. It felt good. Sam closed the door behind them.

“Hand me your lock pick,” Dean said, striding towards the still parked Impala, glinting in the streetlights. She was covered in dust and Dean clenched his jaw.

Sam handed the tool over without question, and Dean dropped his duffle next to the door, before gently inserting the picks into the lock.

“Sorry Baby,” He whispered, hearing the quiet click of the door unlocking. He wrenched the door open and tossed the picks back to Sam, who fumbled with them. He threw their bags into the back seat and gestured to the passenger seat.

Sliding into the familiar leather seat, Dean took a moment to revel in its familiarity. They’d had to reupholster in the future. Too much blood. Too much damage. But this was the same leather that he’d grown up sleeping on.

He turned his attention to the steering wheel and popped off the panel underneath, giving him access to the mess of wires underneath. Another soft apology on his lips, Dean couldn’t help but smile as Baby roared to life. 

“Where are we going?” Sam asked.

“Bobby’s,” Dean said, gliding a hand over the steering wheel, fingers searching for the scar in the leather, the one that was no longer there in the future. 

Dean put the Impala into gear and pulled out of the parking lot, his nerves settling from the moment the tires hit the long stretch of asphalt that was the road and he hit the accelerator.

Chapter Text

Dean couldn’t help himself from looking up at the behemoth that was his younger brother every thirty seconds. He’d gone to bed an hour ago, and Sam had still been a head shorter than him. And now here he was, towering over everyone in the room. Dean had never wanted a beer more in his life. 

“Can you sense how this happened Cas?” Sam was saying. The angel turned to Dean and he fought the chills that seemed to crawl up his spine as the blue eyes met his.

“It does not seem to be angelic in nature, nor demonic. But I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. You haven’t come into contact with any witches recently, have you?” Castiel turned back to Sam.

“We’ve been out on cases but the last witch we encountered was more than two weeks ago. Why would a spell take so long to go into effect?” Sam said, running a hand through his ridiculously long hair.

“Have you encountered anything recently that would explain this?” Castiel said, attention turning back to Dean.

“Only cases I’ve been on in weeks are some regular old salt ‘n burns, no witches” Dean shrugged. 

“So we have no idea how this happened, great. That’s just great,” Sam muttered under his breath. “Since we don’t know how it happened we have no idea how to fix it either,” He blew a piece of hair from his face, and Dean was sorely tempted to tease him about it, but stopped at the look on his little brother’s face. He’d never seen him look so tired in his life.

“I mean we don’t even know if this is Dean, deaged, or actually put into the future. And if that’s the case, then there’s a possibility that our Dean is in the past, which-” Sam said, running a hand over his face again.

“Why don’t we ask Bobby? He’s bound to have something or another on time travel, right?” Dean asked, and then immediately regretted it upon seeing Sam’s eyes. They were shattered.

“Bobby’s gone?” Dean asked and Sam nodded. Their dad being gone didn’t seem all that farfetched. Somewhere, in the back of Dean’s mind, he’d always known John wouldn’t reach old age. But Bobby- It hit him like a sucker punch and he felt his tears welling in his eyes, which only made him angrier. Sam was looking at him with pity in his eyes and Dean turned away, focusing on one of the paneled walls across the room. The room was silent. Castiel cleared his throat.

“Sam, how about you start looking through the bunker’s archives, see if the Men of Letters have anything about time travel and deaging spells. Dean can help me put some coffee on. We’ll join you in a minute,”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean saw Sam nod and throw him one last pitying look his way. Dean ignored it.

Dean and Castiel sat for a moment before Castiel stood, and began to gather the bags he’d brought with him. Dean grabbed the handles of a couple, peering inside.

“What’s an angel need with beer and jerky?”

“Nothing,” Castiel said, gesturing towards another door. “I don’t need to drink or eat,”

“Then why the hell did you go shopping for them?”

“You asked me to,” Castiel said simply. A pause. “Well, your older self did. You and Sam have been away from the bunker for weeks. You asked me if I could pick up the essentials on my way here,” 

They entered the kitchen and Cas put the bags on the island in the center, sorting through their contents. Dean dumped his bags next to them and looked around. 

Pots and pans hung on the walls. There were dirty dishes in the sink. A full sized fridge. A fucking wine rack. When had they started drinking wine? Dean almost didn’t care. They lived here. Long enough to have actual dishes that needed to be cleaned. Long enough that they could leave dishes in the sink to do later. Long enough that they had a wine rack, apparently.

Castiel opened the fridge and began placing the groceries inside. It’d been a long time since Dean had seen so much fresh food and he felt his stomach growl at the sight. Instead, he looked around, eyes searching until they landed on a coffee maker. A nice one.

Filling up a filter with coffee, Dean switched it on and soon the sound of the dribbling coffee could be heard. It smelled amazing. Had they come into an inheritance or something in the future? How’d they afford all this?

Castiel closed the door to the fridge and sat down at the island, staring thoughtfully at his hands, braced against his knees. For something supposedly so powerful and ancient, he looked strangely… human . And tired.

“No offense, but you look like shit,” Dean said, leaning against the counter. “I thought angels were supposed to be perfect, or whatever,” 

Castiel looked up at him, a small, sad, smile on his lips.

“There was a time I would have agreed with you. But life is not easy, even for angels,” He looked back at his hands, as if examining them. Dean didn’t want to know what could affect an angel in that way. Didn’t want to know how it had affected him in the future. Or Sam.

“Still, I find it beautiful in a way,” Castiel said, staring at Dean in the eyes. “To know that time has passed, has affected and changed me, helped me grow. It’s very human,”

Dean crossed his arms, mind whirring. Castiel’s eyes crinkled. Something warm pooled in Dean’s chest.

“What are you thinking about?”
“I was just wondering why you’re wearing a trench coat, and not, you know, robes or some shit. Where’s your harp and halo?” Castiel smiled and looked down at his clothes, gently rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

“At first, it was just what my vessel had been wearing, but it’s grown on me,” Dean felt something freeze in his veins.

“Your vessel? You mean you’re possessing someone?”

“Not anymore,” Castiel said, eyes saddening. The last few drops of the coffee gurgled out. Dean turned around at the sound but didn’t move to pour any. 

What had the man’s life been like before he’d been possessed? Had he had a family? How could he and Sam have been ok with this? They exorcised demons, what made an angel any different?

“Dean-”

Dean left the room, mind whirring. Was this really their future? Was this really who they’d become?

Seconds or minutes later, Dean didn’t know, he found himself standing in the library, staring at Sam as he flipped through an old book, papers and some sort of box scattered around him. The sight was somewhat calming, in a strange way. If Dean had had any doubts that this wasn’t Sam, they disappeared, because even though he was 20 years older and 5 feet taller, he was making the same face he always did when he was engrossed in research. Lips pursed, forehead scrunched, face two inches from the book he was reading.

It was really Sam. Which meant they’d really let some poor guy get possessed. He cleared his throat and Sam looked up, face sobering on seeing his face.

“What’s wrong Dean?” He looked so calm. And it pissed Dean off.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He yelled. Sam’s face only looked more concerned.

“What are you talking about?” Sam said, book dropping on the table, eyebrows pinched. 

“I’m talking about the fact you’ve just let some poor schmuck be possessed by an angel!” Strangely, Sam looked relieved and Dean was so, so confused.

“Look, Dean-” Sam said, hands up.

“Don’t fucking ‘look, Dean’ me-”

“Just let me explain,” Dean closed his mouth. “Angels can’t possess someone without their permission. Jimmy, Cas’s vessel, gave Cas permission. And he’s not even really there anymore. He’s in heaven,”

“You mean he’s dead?”

“Well, yes-”

“So the angel’s possessing a corpse? How is that any better?”

“Dean, it’s not that simple,” Sam said, sighing.

“How is it not simple?”

“Dean-” Sam’s voice was getting exasperated, rising in tension.

“How can we excuse-”

“DEAN!” Sam said, finally breaking. Dean felt a grim sense of satisfaction. So he wasn’t completely calm and collected all the time.  “Look, a lot of shit has happened. The world is a lot more complicated than a few monsters and hunters. We wouldn’t have been able to get this far without Cas. Wouldn’t have been able to prevent the fucking apocalypse, or stop the world getting turned into an all you can eat buffet for monsters or stop the literal embodiment of darkness taking over,” Sam took a shaky breath, eyes looking past Dean. “At the end of the day, Jimmy gave Cas permission and it is because of him that we were able to prevent the world from being destroyed. And now Cas is just… Cas . He’s family,” Sam turned his eyes back to Dean, who felt frozen in place. “So just give it a rest,” He finished lamely.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. He nodded, feeling vaguely like a chargined toddler. He could still feel Sam looking at him but he didn’t dare meet his eyes, mind whirring. Without even knowing what he said, he made a vague excuse and left the room, and wandered his way back to the room he’d woken up in. His room. Because he had his own room in the future.

The apocalypse. As in the end of days? Suddenly, Sam’s haunted eyes made a lot more sense. What had they seen? What had they had to do in order to stop it? Dean was pacing, hands squeezing at his sides. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Because Sam had kept going. There’d been more past the apocalypse. And Castiel had been there because a man had given his life.

He stopped moving, standing frozen in the middle of the room, the enormity of what was coming finally hitting him. And then another realization a moment later. At some point he had to go back to the past, didn’t he? What if he could prevent it all from happening?

He looked around the room, really taking it in for the first time. He hadn’t paid much attention to it when he’d been zapped here initially, only enough to determine that it was not the motel room he fell asleep in and that Sam was missing. As soon as he realized the door was unlocked he’d grabbed the nearest weapon and left.

The bed was rumpled from where he’d been laying, and behind it, a cement shelf piled with guns and knives. To one side was a desk, with papers and pencils scattered on it. Propped on the lamp was a picture of Dean with his mom, one of the only pictures they had that had survived the fire and subsequent moving around. His feet unfroze and he made his way to the desk so he could shuffle through the papers. They didn’t quite make sense, just half notes on whatever case his older self had been working on.

The other side of the room had a dresser, and when Dean opened it, he was surprised to see full drawers of clothes. The sight did something funny to his chest and he pushed them shut. On a table next to the dresser was another small lamp, more papers, and a wallet.

Dean picked it up and opened it, unsurprised to see a fake ID front and center of his older self. He pulled it out and examined his own face. He was definitely older, a lot older if the wrinkles around his eyes were anything to go by. His hair was about the same as always, though he thought he could detect hints of gray, which was weird. He’d never really thought he’d live long enough to get gray hairs or wrinkles.

 There was about $200 in random bills along with at least six credit cards, all under fake names. All expected. However, there were also photos tucked into one of the sleeves and Dean teased them out. There was one of older him, Sam, and Castiel around the Impala, laughing at some joke. Another of just him and Sam, Dean’s arm around his shoulder. One of them and Bobby. And most surprisingly, one of just Castiel, a small smile on his face. He slipped them carefully back in their slots and replaced the wallet, suddenly feeling intrusive.

He gave the room another once over. There was no guarantee he would ever have this if he changed the past. A home. His heart seemed to crack even as he shook his head and stepped out of the room. It’d be worth it if he could stop all of the pain. If he could prevent whatever had happened to them. Still, he couldn’t stop his stomach from twisting as he closed the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Sam fell asleep about an hour into the drive, curled up in the corner of the seat like he always did, soft breaths barely audible above the roar of the engine. Dean, on the other hand, was trying his best not to spiral. He had nothing but time until they got to Bobby’s, and his mind kept stupidly coming back to his Dad.

What the fuck is wrong with you? How could you turn your back on your family? On her ?  

Dean felt his heart start beating faster and he shook himself, fidgeting with the air conditioning. Cold air began to blast from the vents and he relished the chills up his arms. He wasn’t going there. Not now, not ever.

They passed another car and Dean was momentarily blinded by its headlights. He gripped the steering wheel harder, feeling the worn leather push into his palms, warm from his hands. They were only a few hours out from Bobby’s. He could make it.

If he had all this time, he might as well use it to think about what had caused this mess. Dean searched his memories of their last three weeks of hunting, trying to think of something, anything , that would have caused a trip through time. 

They’d had no contact with any angels, none of which really had the power to manipulate time anyways. There were a couple of witches, but that’d been weeks ago. No gods. Most of their cases had been regular ol’ run of the mill ghosts, vampires, and werewolves. Nothing that would have had the power to yank him back. He very much doubted that his younger self got roped into something in this time. He didn’t even know vampires were real, let alone anything powerful enough to manipulate reality. 

Which left what? Chuck? Who was notorious for not doing shit? Why send Dean back in time when he wouldn’t even help them find and fight Lucifer? Sam snorted in his sleep and drew Dean out of his thoughts. Bobby would know. Or he’d be able to figure it out. Dean just had to get there.

He hit the gas a little more, pushing Baby forward. Bobby was going to help. They’d figure it out, like they always did. Dean didn’t want to think about what would happen if they didn’t. 

----

It was five in the morning by the time Dean turned onto the dirt road that led to Bobby’s  house. The Impala’s wheels hit the gravel and Dean stopped breathing for a split second at the sound, one he’d heard countless times, but not for years.

A few seconds later, the junkyard came into view, and Dean had the strange urge to cry. There was Bobby’s house, still intact. There were the trashed cars that he and Sam had spent many a day in their childhood climbing through. And there was the spot where they always parked the car, where Dean had rebuilt her so many times. 

He pulled to a stop and took it all in, empty, but alive. And there . The familiar house, dirty and worn, the lights all off. Somewhere inside, Bobby was there, alive and breathing. Dean killed the engine, but stayed seated, frozen, as the sky began to lighten and slowly began to illuminate the scene. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting, staring, when Sam stirred and opened his eyes, rubbing his face with one of his hands. 

“Are we here?” 

“Sure are Sammy,” Dean said, throat tight. He pulled his eyes from the sight and back into the car, and cleared his throat, trying to make his tone light hearted. “Think you can walk or am I going to have to carry you?” Sam glared, and pushed the jacket off of him, yawning. Dean grinned and opened his door, sliding out of the front seat. He heard Sam follow suit, door squeaking as it swung open. 

He hadn’t seen Bobby in years . Not since they’d burned the flask. For a moment, he let himself pretend that they were just visiting Bobby. That it wasn’t a prepubescent Sam with him, but his fully grown little brother of the future. He’d be so happy to see Cas–.

Except Cas hadn’t come to Earth yet. Wouldn’t until Dean got himself thrown into hell, and the apocalypse was on the horizon, and he wouldn’t really even be their Cas until after all the shit hit the fan.

Dean fought the instinct to pray to the angel. His Cas wouldn’t be able to hear him anyways, and there was no way he was getting angels involved unless they had no other options. Hell, he’d probably take the help of Hell over Heaven, which wasn’t that just ironic?
A beam of light from the upper window of the house appeared as he fully exited the Impala, and Dean relaxed just a little. At least they wouldn’t have to wake Bobby up. 

Shutting the door behind him, Dean instinctively reached into his pocket to lock the door but his hand clenched around emptiness. No key. Right. Because it was currently in John’s pocket, all the way back at the motel.

Dean made his way to the other side of the car, and pulled his arm around Sam’s shoulders. Man, he’d missed being taller than him. He fought the urge to ruffle his hair. Sam struggled against him but Dean didn’t let go.

Another light turned on in the house, and the front door opened, revealing the silhouette of Bobby, holding a shotgun, no doubt cocked and ready to fire at the nearest hint of danger. Dean pretended that the warmth welling in his eyes was from a breeze. 

“John?” Bobby called out, squinting. It was still dark enough that he couldn’t see clearly. Dean cleared his throat.

“Not exactly,” He said, pulling both him and Sam into the small circle of light created by the open door. Bobby raised the gun at them the moment they stepped into the light, which, Dean didn’t think he looked that different from when he was 18.

“Who’re you? What are you doing with Sam?” He said. Dean raised his hands by his head, Sam took a step to the side once he’d been released. Traitor . 

“This is going to be kind of hard to believe, but you’re just going to have to trust me Bobby,” Dean started. Bobby scoffed.

“I’m Dean, from about 20 years in the future,”

Predictably, Bobby didn’t even lower his gun, just aimed more carefully.

“Yeah, right. And I’m Santa Claus,” Bobby said, and Dean had to fight back his smile. God he’d missed Bobby.

“He’s telling the truth,” Sam said, stepping slightly in front of Dean. “We don’t know how, or why, but it’s really Dean, and we really need your help, Bobby,”

“Look, you can test me all you want, but can you at least let us in? It’s freezing out here,” Bobby narrowed his eyes at Dean, and he tried not to shiver. Eventually, the older man grunted and backed into his house as Sam and Dean made their way up the steps and into the room.

A wave of nostalgia hit Dean as soon as he entered. Everything was the exact same as it’d always been, including the weird musty and mildew scent that permeated everything.

And the couch . Dean had gotten some of the best sleep of his life on that dirty old thing after hunts. It looked especially appealing at this moment, considering he’d only had a couple hours of sleep in the last day and a half. But he had a job to do. He could sleep when he was back in his proper time. He turned towards the kitchen, just in time to get a face full of holy water.

Wiping his face with one of his hands, he smiled. Bobby didn’t return the sentiment, just forcefully took his arm and pressed a silver blade into his skin with a little more pressure than was probably necessary. Dean’s blood welled up for the third time in a day, red as ever. Bobby  dropped his arm and Dean pressed his shirt sleeve into the wound to keep it from bleeding everywhere.

Bobby examined his face, searching for something and Dean let him. Nothing he could say would convince Bobby more than his own instincts. Finally, after a few moments of weighted silence, recognition flashed in Bobby’s eyes and Dean felt a surge of relief.

“Dean?”

“Heya Bobby,” Dean said, and before he could stop himself, he’d pulled the older man into a hug. Bobby gave him a pat on the back and Dean pulled himself away, clearing his throat.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any books on time travel, would you?”

Bobby sighed, but gestured to the kitchen table.

“Take a seat, I’ll see what I can dredge up,”

Dean grinned. 

By the time Bobby returned with a stack of old books, Dean had made a pot of coffee and already chugged a full cup, barely registering the bitter taste. He had the feeling he was going to be drinking a lot more before this was all sorted out.

Bobby dropped the books on the table, creating a cloud of dust before making his way to the counter to pour himself a cup. Sam coughed but pulled the top book off the stack and began flicking through its pages with interest. 

“Thanks Bobby,” Dean said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Don’t thank me yet ya idjit, I don’t know if we’re going to find the answer we need in any of these,”

Dean smiled and sat down, pulling one of the books from the stack to him while taking another dreg of coffee. Bobby sat down heavily beside him, eyes tired and a scowl on his face. Dean felt something warm blossom in his chest at the sight.  Bobby grunted and motioned towards the books.

“We haven’t got forever boy, I suggest you start reading,” 

Dean grinned wider but acquiesced, squinting to look at the tiny print of the pages.

In medieval times, the moon was said to have transformative properties associated with…

----

Someone was shaking Dean’s shoulder, which was rude. Dean pushed them off.

“Go away Sammy,” He murmured, burrowing his head further into his arms. He was so fucking tired. All he wanted was just a little sleep, was that too much to ask?

“Your brother’s asleep boy,” A gravelly voice responded. Dean must be dreaming, because that sounded suspiciously like Bobby. They pushed him on the shoulder again.

“Dean,” The voice was exasperated. And Dean came to, bolting up, paper sticking to his face. This wasn’t a dream. He looked around, Sam was nowhere to be found. He looked at the clock. It was 2 in the afternoon. 

He turned back to Bobby, who despite his tone, was looking amused.

“Go get some sleep you idjit, the research will keep until then,” 

Dean pushed away from the table and barely found his way over to the couch before he’d collapsed, out the moment his head hit the cushions. Dreams for once, not plagued by nightmares.

Chapter Text

It’d been three days since the younger Dean had been zapped back and Sam was nearing the end of his rope. They’d found nothing concrete in any of their research, only vague references to time travel spells that didn’t even come close to matching their circumstances. He’d barely gotten any sleep, surviving off of coffee and spite alone. 

The situation was made increasingly worse by Dean’s questions about the future. About what had caused the apocalypse, and the Leviathans, and Amara and all the other things that they’d messed up and then had to stop in order to prevent the world from imploding. Sam knew the look in his brother’s eyes, the one that said he was going to try and do something incredibly stupid. Sam had a gut feeling as to what that would be.

There was no telling what would happen if they changed the past, if they even could. In all their brushes with time travel, nothing had changed. The flow of events always remained the same. Dean’s questions only served to bring up all their mistakes from the past, the choices that Sam desperately wished he could undo but knew he couldn’t.

“Dean, please just give it a rest,” He said, rubbing his forehead. Dean had been not so sneakily attempting to ask about how they’d met Cas, and that was a conversation Sam really didn’t want to have. Dean frowned and turned back to the page he’d been reading, the same one Sam was sure he’d been reading for over an hour. Sam sighed and closed his eyes. There was another layer of difficulty in this whole situation.

Sam couldn’t get over how young Dean looked. He remembered when Dean had been 18 and he’d been 14, remembered thinking that they were both so mature. But looking at him now, Sam couldn’t help the feeling of sadness that kept popping up. Dean was still just a kid. The same age as Claire. And yet he shouldered responsibilities beyond his years. Attempting to save the world, all by himself, fix all of Sam’s mistakes before they even happened. Sam was 18 when he’d left for Stanford. 

He put his book back down on the table and dropped his pen, running a hand over his face. They couldn’t go back and change the past. But maybe he could give his brother something right now. Take that weight off Dean’s shoulders for once.

He pushed away from the table and Dean looked up quickly, a flash of something in his eyes. 

“Come on,” Sam said, grabbing his empty coffee cup. “We’re taking a break,” Dean pushed his chair back so fast it toppled over, and he had to stoop to pick it up. They stopped at the kitchen to grab a couple beers and then they were in Dean’s room, sitting on his bed, turning a movie on. Sam finished his beer, eyelids suddenly heavy. He’d just close his eyes for 10 minutes…

Sam startled awake, disoriented. The room was dark, and silent. He sat up, and one of Dean’s blankets fell off of his shoulders. 

“Dean?” He called out, voice croaky. Nothing. Swinging himself off the bed, his joints popped, and he slowly made his way to the kitchen, yawning. There was a half filled pot of coffee, still lukewarm. He poured himself a cup and turned towards the library, where he found Dean slumped over one of the tables, fast asleep on the pages of a book. A half empty cup of coffee next to him. Cas sat in one of the armchairs, book in hand, flipping through the pages, looking up as Sam entered.

“How long have you guys been in here?” Sam asked quietly, pulling up his own chair.

Cas carefully marked his place and placed the book down, looking at Dean with a sad face.

“He was here when I returned with Bobby’s books. He fell asleep about an hour after that. I thought it better to let him rest,”

Sam looked over at his brother and couldn’t help but agree, even as drool left his mouth and puddled on the page he’d been reading before he’d passed out.

“Have you found anything in Bobby’s stuff?” 

Cas shook his head.

“There’s not much on the subject,” He said, gesturing to the spread of research already on the table. “And nothing that matches these particular circumstances,” Sam sighed and drank some of his coffee. They were running out of options.

“Cas, I’m starting to think we might need some help,” Sam said. “We’re no closer to figuring out what happened, or fixing this than we were three days ago,” He paused, and watched as Cas’s eyes squinted, turning stormy.

“You’re not suggesting we call Rowena, are you?” 

Sam nodded. Cas’s frown deepened. Then he turned to look at Dean, who was still fast asleep on the table. His eyes softened, just slightly, and he looked back to Sam, determination in his eyes. 

“Fine,“

Sam was already standing and dialing Rowena, not missing the way Cas’s eyes found Dean’s sleeping form as he left the room to make the call. 

10 minutes later, Sam returned, and dropped into his chair, tossing his phone on the table, rubbing his eyes. 

“Rowena’ll be here tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Who’s Rowena?” Dean asked. Sam lifted his head to see his brother awake.

“Someone’s who’s hopefully going to help us fix this,” Dean peered at him but seemed to decide something, and turned back to the book he was reading, shaking his head and Sam turned back to his own research.

Hopefully Rowena would be able to narrow down what exactly had happened to Dean, and reverse it. If not… Sam didn’t even want to think about what would happen if Rowena didn’t know what to do. 

Dean cleared his throat. Sam glanced up.

“So who’s this chick that’s coming to help us? She your girlfriend?” 

“No Dean, just someone we work with sometimes,” Sam turned his attention back to his screen, skimming through an article about the supposed time traveller seen in a picture of the Titanic. 

“Sure~,” Dean said. And Sam could hear the shit eating grin. Suddenly there were fingers tapping on the table, and Sam groaned internally. 

“Why don’t you go and take a walk or something?” Sam suggested. Dean grinned and pushed away from the table.

“Maybe I will,”

Sam deflated when Dean was gone. Suddenly he was very much looking forward to Rowena’s arrival. 

Chapter Text

Dean was pretty sure they’d read every single book in Bobby’s possession that even so much as mentioned the concept of time, and still, there was nothing that matched the circumstances. It’d been days and they were no closer to figuring out what had happened or how to reverse it.

Dean wracked his brain for the hundredth time, trying to remember anything from his recent cases that would explain how it would have happened, but there was nothing. According to Sam, his younger counterpart hadn’t been in contact with anything that could explain the switch either. 

He really hoped that Sam from his time was working on something with the Men of Letters’ resources, because it was starting to seem more and more like they weren’t going to be able to do shit on their end. 

Dean tossed the book he’d been flipping through to his side, rubbing his forehead, trying to dissipate the headache that’d been steadily growing for the past few hours. Sam looked up from his own pile of books and notes. It still shocked Dean a little bit every time he looked up, expecting to see an older Sam, but instead faced a Sam so young. Dean had often wished that he could go back, change the things that led them to where they were. And he was sorely tempted to do something now. Tell Sam everything.

But even at the thought of even trying to explain the demon blood, trying to explain what Dean had done to save Sam, what Sam had done, what they’d both done, to cause the apocalypse, Dean’s tongue twisted and he couldn’t get the words out. And Dean was left wondering if that was somehow a side effect of whatever the hell had brought him here, or some personal failing. That he’d been brought here just to be tortured with the inability to change anything wasn’t so far out of the realm of possibility for Dean’s life.

A new thought crossed Dean’s mind and he barely restrained the groan that escaped his mouth. Of course there was also always the possibility that this wasn’t time travel at all, and it was just some djinn dream or yet another angel messing with reality. That being said, he wasn’t exactly all that happy at the moment, which tended to rule out djinns. And there weren’t really any angels left with enough power to do something like this, in his time at least.

Sam looked up from his writing again, brow furrowed in concern. Dean forced out a breath and he pushed away from the table.

“I’m fine Sammy, just need a minute,” He said, stretching his arms. He really did just need a break. But even as he made his way through the front door, he could feel Sam’s heavy gaze following him.

Dean let the door shut behind him and he made his way over to the Impala, suddenly overcome by the need to be doing something . He reached in through the window and pressed the lever to pop the hood, hearing it unlatch with a click. He rifled through the contents of the trunk, until he located the tool box, which was missing more than a few tools. That was fine. Bobby was sure to have extras lying around everywhere that he wouldn’t miss. Probably.

Dean rolled his sleeves up and set to inspecting the engine, the familiar motions grounding him in a way that he could never replicate with anything else. The silence was soothing, as well as the smell of the engine, and soon he was fully immersed, checking and then tweaking components.

He didn’t even notice that Bobby had walked up beside him until a cold beer was pushed under his nose. Dean stood up too quickly, smacking his head on the underside of the hood, eliciting a chuckle from Bobby. Dean hid his own small smile at the sound as he rubbed his head. That was going to leave a bump.

He popped open his beer and took a long drag, the slight burn of alcohol making its way through his throat before settling in his stomach. Unsurprisingly, it did nothing for the knots of worry working their way through his chest. Bobby didn’t say anything, just stood and drank.

It wasn’t awkward. It never was with Bobby. And God he’d missed him. Dean didn’t know how it was possible to keep realizing it after three days, but he kept doing it. Bobby’s gruff affection. His ability to cut down to the problem. His willingness to call Dean on his bullshit. 

The ache of grief washed through Dean like a familiar tidal wave. The man was standing right here and yet he was gone. There would be no bringing him back. This was nothing more than a weird memory, and there wasn’t anything Dean could do to stop Bobby from dying, again. Because every time he tried opening his stupid mouth to warn them, nothing came out. 

“I don’t pretend to know what you’ve been through boy, and I ain’t asking,” Bobby started, leaning against the Impala, looking around at the junkyard. He took a long swig from his own bottle. “But I also have enough common sense to know that messing with any of this time nonsense is big, a lot bigger than anything I’ve ever faced, and I would hope you wouldn’t get involved in something like that without having a solid reason to do so,” Dean could feel Bobby’s searching gaze, but he ignored it, focusing on his bottle. “Or at the very least, one hell of an excuse,” He was silent for a moment, before he spoke again, voice softer.

“Something big is coming, ain’t it?” Dean nodded, guilt steeping in his veins. He turned to Bobby, a fire burning in his chest, and opened his mouth, but nothing would come out.

Bobby looked at him, an indecipherable expression on his face, his eyes sad.

“And you can’t tell us anything about it, can you?” 

“I wish to hell I could Bobby. It’s bad. It’s so bad-” Dean turned to the older man. He had to understand. If Dean could, he’d fix everything. He’d go back and change it all. Anything to stop the pain that they’d brought into so many people’s lives. The fire had moved to his eyes and he could feel them watering. And he wasn’t going to cry, not in front of Bobby, but-

Before he knew it, Bobby was wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. And the tears started to leak out of Dean’s eyes as he inhaled the smell of whiskey and leather and gunpowder and oil and that strange hint of lemon.

Bobby didn’t say anything, and Dean couldn’t stop the tears running down his face, but they stayed frozen like that for a moment before Dean pulled away, wiping his eyes supertiously. Before Dean could do anything else, Bobby grabbed him by the shoulders, and looked him in the eye.

“I know you boy. I know you’ve been putting this all on yourself but that’s bullshit, plain and simple. Knowing you, I have no doubt that you have done everything you could possibly do to stop whatever it is. So stop blaming yourself. There’s nothing you can do about it,” 

“It’s not that simple Bobby-”
“Dean Winchester, you are–” Bobby was cut off by the roar of an unfamiliar engine pulling into the yard. Faster than he thought possible, Bobby had a gun at the ready. Dean didn’t bother. He had a feeling he knew exactly who it was that was roaring in. He put his bottle down and wiped his hands off with a spare rag, mostly as a way to distract himself. His hands were shaking.

The car skidded to a stop, and before the engine was even fully turned off the door slammed open and a furious John Winchester was advancing on the two of them. Dean felt glued to the ground.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Stealing my car, taking my son-” He paused, face red from anger. He was probably still half drunk. He turned to Bobby, a finger right in his face. 

“And you! Harboring him! What gives you the fucking right to hide my own children-” And that was the last straw. Because this wasn’t about Bobby. Dean had always been the problem for his Dad, no matter how hard he worked, he was never enough.

“Shut the fuck up!” Dean yelled, the fear bubbling into an anger that seemed to come from some deep well inside himself. To Dean’s surprise, John did shut up, though it seemed to be more shock than anything. But it didn’t last long, the older man opened his mouth to say something else, but Dean was shaking and he beat him to it. And like a well, it was like the words were being pulled from him.

“Something’s wrong with me?!” He screamed, half hysterical. “No shit!” Dean knew he was broken. There was no way he would have been able to leave Hell, or the Mark of Cain, or any of the other completely shitty things he’d been through without coming out wrong. But that wasn’t the point.

“But I’m also not the one that knew the truth about Sam and the demon and didn’t tell anyone. I’m not the one that told his son to -” The words strangled in his mouth and he wanted to scream. “Told his son to-” Dean clenched his teeth. 

The blood had drained from John’s face, and all Dean could feel was a sick sense of satisfaction at the sight.

“I’m not the one that abandoned his children when they needed him the most. I was just a kid!” Dean felt the tears falling from his eyes, but for once the fear of his Dad at seeing him didn’t come. “I was just a kid and it shouldn’t have been my job to take care of everyone!”

John looked lost, and Dean could feel his heart racing. And looking far gentler than Dean could ever remember, he opened his mouth. Dean stopped breathing for a second. Bobby shifted next to Dean.

“Dean, I-,” His Dad’s eyes had a faraway look in them. “When I lost your mother, I was so lost-” Dean wanted to punch something.

“I lost her too, Dad! I was fucking four years old and I had to deal with it because you weren’t there! It wasn’t my job but I fucking did it anyways!”

As soon as the fight had infused him, it fled his body, and suddenly he was exhausted.

“It wasn’t my job,” He said softly, finally looking away. 

“Dean-”

But Dean wasn’t listening anymore, he’d turned around and was walking away and he could feel more tears dripping onto his face but he didn’t wipe them away. He felt strangely light, and each step seemed to cause his body to glitch, like he left it for a split second before reappearing. 

He heard a door slam, and footsteps chasing him.

“Dean!” He heard Sam yell. But sound was becoming fuzzy, and the world was blurring around him and Dean couldn’t breathe and everything went white.

Chapter Text

Sam had spent most of the night reading through bullshit articles about supposed time travelers at possibly every major event in history, ever. From the moon landing to the pyramids, there was a crackpot somewhere out there that believed someone from the future had been there. Which wasn’t surprising, at all. It was his job to sort through the internet for lore. He’d seen plenty of crazy theories. He’d just been hoping that they’d get lucky for fucking once in their lives and the answer would just be there .

Sam blinked as Dean entered the room, hair wet, and dropped into one of the leather chairs.

“The water pressure here is magnificent,” He said, idly picking up one of Sam’s notebooks he’d left on the side table, flipping through it. “I see why you guys chose to live here,”

Sam sighed and turned back to the computer, words blurring on the screen. He heard Dean clear his throat and flick another page. Sam had to force his jaw to relax after he realized he was grinding his teeth together.

Dean had somehow been worse by the time he’d returned from his walk, asking so many questions about the future that Sam had been minutes away from throwing his computer. Luckily, Cas had suggested Dean rest and get cleaned up before Sam could act on the feeling, and his computer was saved, for the time being. Cas had stopped trying to get him to get some sleep too.

“I see your handwriting’s as horrible as ever Sammy,” Another page. “You know, maybe if you just told me how to-” Sam had never been more grateful for the front door sensor to go off.

“That’s Rowena,” Sam pushed up from his chair, blinking away the slight dizziness at the sudden change in position. He’d barely slept the last three days, and it was catching up to him. Dean snorted, and before he could stop himself, Sam snatched the notebook from Dean’s hands, tossing it onto the table with the rest of his notes. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and get this fixed,” 

Dean huffed, but stood back up, and before Sam could stop him, had smacked him in the back of the head and pushed in front of him, speedwalking away. Sam was probably a little too forceful as he overtook him and pushed him back, but he was having a hard time caring, especially since he made it to the front entrance before Dean could. Rowena was their sort of ally, sort of friend, sort of enemy. There was no way that he was going to leave a young Dean unattended with her for any amount of time, especially while Dean was so vulnerable.

He opened the door to see Rowena, glamorous as always, a small smile on her face.

“Samuel,” She said, before her eyes shifted to Dean, who had just arrived by Sam’s side. Her smile grew wider and Sam sighed. It was going to be a long day.

“And Dean, you’re looking, youthful, ”

“Hello Rowena,” Sam said, stepping aside to let her in before bolting the door behind her. “Thanks for coming,”

“Why of course! What else are friends for?” She said, giving him a pat on the cheek. Dean seemed to be caught halfway between looking amused and baffled. Sam gestured down the stairs and Rowena sniffed before making her way down them, dress trailing behind her. 

Sam could feel Dean looking at him and most assuredly making a very suggestive and stupid face. He ignored it, pushing down the stairs. He almost regretted calling Rowena in. But they were running out of options, and Sam really didn’t want to test the fabric of the universe for longer than they absolutely needed to.

By the time Sam and Dean had made it back to the library, she’d already set up her bag and was pulling out a variety of spell ingredients, piling them in a small dish.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked, posture suddenly ramrod straight. “Are those spell ingredients?”

“No they’re art supplies,” Rowena said, deadpan, pausing in her preparation. “Of course they’re spell ingredients laddie,” She continued to pull ingredients out. “After all, that’s what I’m here for,” She said, shaking the bottle in her hand. She turned to Sam.

“Did you not tell him who I was? I’m hurt Samuel,” 

“ Sam , why are you working with a witch ?” Dean said, his eyes still resting on Rowena as she closed her bag.

Sometimes Sam asked himself the same question.

“Things are a lot more…complicated than they used to be,” Sam said lamely. “And Rowena’s helped us in some tough situations,” And caused some new ones, but that wasn’t the point. Dean didn’t take his gaze off of her, and Sam could see his hand twitching.

“I don’t care how many goddamn ‘tough situations’ she’s helped with. She’s a witch ! You can’t trust her,” Rowena put her hand on her heart and made a mocking sad face.

“Truly, Dean, I’m hurt! After everything we’ve been through together! All I’ve ever wanted is to help you and your brother, and this is how you repay me? Well, since you clearly don’t need my help, I think I’ll just-” She opened her bag and reached for one of the ingredients.

“Rowena, he doesn’t mean-” Sam said. Rowena smirked and removed another ingredient from her bag before arranging the ingredients for her spell.

Sam turned to Dean, who narrowed his eyes at him in return.

“Since when do we work with the things we hunt? And witches, really Sam? What’s next, demons?” Rowena snorted and Dean glowered at her before turning back to Sam. “You should know better, Dad taught you better,” A pause. “ I taught you better,”

Sam cringed.

“Look, a lot’s happened in the 20 years since you can remember. A lot’s changed-”

“It shouldn’t have changed at all! We hunt monsters! That’s it, end of story! And we definitely don’t work with witches!” Dean gestured wildly to where Rowena was crushing an herb. 

“You’ve worked with a lot worse laddie,” Rowena laughed, smirking even wider. Sam’s headache was piercing.

“What is she talking about?” Dean said, rounding back on Sam, who sighed.

“I don’t think you want to know,” 

Dean’s face paled as he looked at Sam’s face.

“No! You wouldn’t- We wouldn’t- Not with everything that happened with mom-” Dean was shaking now and Sam really wished that he wasn’t the one having to have this conversation.

“You don’t know the full context of the situation Dean-” 

But Dean was shaking his head, and before Sam could finish, he’d turned and fled the room.

“Dean!” Sam groaned. 

“What happened?” Cas said, appearing in the doorway, forehead wrinkled in concern. He was carrying a bag of takeout food and a tray of coffees. 

“He found out that Rowena was a witch-” Sam was halfway out the door when he was stopped by Cas’s hand, holding out the food and coffee. Sam took it reflexively. 

“I’ll go,” He said softly. Sam opened his mouth to protest but Cas gave him a look . “Eat,” Sam’s head gave a throb and he took another step forward, shoving the food back at Cas, who didn’t take it, just stared at him impassively. A moment of silence, and Sam’s head dropped.

“Fine,” 

Cas nodded, and left the room. Sam wanted to rip his hair out. Instead he turned to face Rowena and dropped the food on the table, gripping one of the coffees tight enough the lid popped off. Rowena was calmly mixing ingredients with an air of indifference.

“Rowena,” Sam said, glaring. 

“Samuel,” She replied, sounding infuriatingly put off as if she wasn’t the one to instigate the entire incident.

Sam groaned and turned away, taking a swig of the coffee only to burn his tongue and spill it all over his hand.

“Goddamn motherfucking -” He cursed, grabbing a napkin. He heard Rowena’s soft snort from behind him.  A long day indeed.

Chapter Text

There wasn’t enough air coming into Dean’s lungs and the room was spinning and his ears were ringing. They wouldn’t— He’d never— How could— Why– Mom–

A gentle hand on his shoulder shocked him enough that he became semi-aware of his surroundings but they weren’t right because he didn’t know where he was and he turned around and he didn’t recognize who was touching him and his mouth was moving but he couldn’t understand what he was saying and-

“Dean! Breathe!” The pressure on his shoulders increased, but strangely, it felt nice. He found himself obeying the command, air beginning to fill his lungs. Another whispered command, and Dean exhaled. He didn’t know when he’d closed his eyes, but he became aware of the fact as he dropped back into his body and his limbs tingled.

The memory of everything dropped back into his brain and he opened his eyes with a gasp, startled to see Castiel, eyes faintly glowing, looking extremely concerned. Dean pulled away, and he cringed at the soft hurt look on the angel’s face, but he pushed it down. He had to know the truth, even though the feeling in his gut told him all he needed.

“Is it true?” He said, forcing himself to look into Castiel’s eyes. The same soft hurt look reappeared as he sat down, next to Dean. 

“Yes,” He said softly, his hand twitching.

“Why?” Dean asked, choking on the word as it left his lips. “How could we have-” He stopped, the lump in his throat stopping him from finishing his sentence. How could they have worked with the things that had killed their mom?

Castiel sighed, and he looked in front of him, some faraway look in his eyes.

“It was the lesser of two evils. And it was not a decision you and Sam took lightly, especially after-” Castiel paused. “After everything with your mother,” He finished. His tone seemed to indicate that there’d been more to the story, but Dean had the feeling he wasn’t going to get any more from Castiel.

“Why should I trust you?” Dean asked. Because he could be lying. The future him and Sam could be magically compromised. Angels were unprecedented. What powers did they even have?

Castiel gave him a look that Dean couldn’t even begin to understand and just sighed, before looking away.

“I don’t know how to answer that Dean, and I’m sorry,” 

Dean could feel the desire to be moving bubbling up inside of him and suddenly all he wanted to do was run or fight or rebuild the engine of a car from scratch. Still he sat frozen, and tried not to let his fear show on his face. After a few awkward moments, Castiel cleared his throat before standing.

“I’ll leave you be,” He lifted his arm as if he wished to touch Dean’s shoulder but it froze halfway through and he retracted it stiffly, leaving the room quietly.

Dean let go of the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when the door clicked shut and then he was up like a shot and pacing back and forth, running a hand through his hair. What were his options? Trust a witch, an angel, and a brother who’d worked with demons, witches, and monsters before? 

He froze in the middle of the room and tried to bury the mounting pressure in his chest. How the hell was he supposed to get them out of this mess? Because it was becoming increasingly clear that he was the only responsible one in this scenario, what with Sam playing hooky with witches and demons. He had to figure out how to prevent all of this-

There was a small knock on the door and Dean’s head darted up to see Sam enter carrying a coffee cup and a muffin,  looking even more tired than he had before Dean had run, if that was even possible. Sam didn’t look at him, just placed the food on the side table and sat on the end of the bed, hands clasped in his lap, silent. For some reason, the sight made him angry, and he had the sudden urge to take one of the axes hanging behind the bed and throw it at the wall. Sam had no right to look so– so normal about all this.

Dean lasted about a minute before the silence became too much.

“Are you here to make excuses? Because I don’t think that anything you could say would excuse working with a fucking demon,” Dean expected Sam to get angry back, but was floored when all Sam did was sigh and look at him with sadness and something haunted. Empty. Dean’s blood curdled.

“We never wanted to, you know that, right Dean?” Sam looked back down at his hands, where he was pressing his thumb into his palm. Dean could make out the jagged edge of a scar.

“But some things happened. Really bad things. And-” Sam pushed harder. “I made some really bad choices. And we didn’t have a lot of options to fix them,”

Dean remained silent, ears perked. Sam continued, seemingly oblivious that he’d dropped the first real hint about what happened. “I’m sorry that we didn’t tell you first, that you heard it from Rowena and-” He stopped talking. The temperature in the room had dropped, and Sam stood up so quickly Dean thought that he’d been electrocuted. The hairs on his arm stood up.

“What-” Dean took a step toward Sam. There was a blinding light and then a crash.

Dean blinked the spots out of his eyes only to see a person had crashed back into the room. Someone that was both familiar and a stranger at the same time. Dean. Looking far too old and far too real, lying on the bed, wearing, of all things, hot dog pajama pants, and blinking his eyes.

“Dean?” Sam asked, inching closer to the bed, hands outstretched. The older him groaned and let loose a series of mumbled swears before dragging himself to sitting.

“I fucking hate time travel,” He said, rubbing his forehead, eyes still closed. His cheeks were wet, and Dean felt his stomach twist at the sight.

“Dean, how’d you get back?” Sam asked.

“You mean it wasn’t you?” The older Dean said, eyes flying open. It seemed to take a second for his vision to focus, and when it did, his eyes widened at the sight of Dean, who was staring at him, mouth hanging open. Sam kept talking, oblivious.

“Not as far as I know, but maybe Rowena did the spell already-” The older Dean groaned and let his head fall back towards the headboard, hitting the wood with an audible thunk.

“I seriously doubt that considering Junior’s still standing at the end of my bed,” He said, closing his eyes again.

Sam turned to see and let out a soft groan. “Damn it,”

The door burst open and Castiel burst in, only to freeze.

“I felt a-” Castiel said, but trailed off at the sight of the older Dean.

“Long time no see Cas,” The older Dean said, giving a half hearted wave from the bed, looking absolutely exhausted. 

“Hello Dean,”

Chapter Text

Dean had a splitting headache and would have liked to sleep for the next 24 hours straight, but unfortunately, nothing ever worked out for them the way they wanted it to. Sure, Dean was now back in his own time, through no effort of his own, but that didn’t erase the fact that the younger version of himself was still there as well.

Which, wasn’t that a trip, being in the same room with the 18 year old version of himself. It hit Dean that this wasn’t even the first time he’d met a version of himself because of time travel. How incredibly fucked up were their lives?

“How are you feeling Dean?” Cas asked, and Dean turned his attention back to his friend. 

“Like I got run over by a truck and then hurled through time,” Cas reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, and Dean felt a spark of warmth explode its way through his body, indicating that Cas was using his grace. When the hand was removed, Dean felt marginally better.

“Thanks Cas,” He said, rolling out his shoulders and standing up. He felt his younger self’s gaze on him and he pointedly ignored it. Everything felt so raw . And Dean knew that the moment he looked at himself, it would bring everything from the past up. 

“Any chance you guys know what caused this whole mess? Because Bobby had nothing,” 

He saw the sadness in Sam’s eyes flare a little at the reminder, and Dean was hit with the realization he hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to him before he’d been thrown back through time. 

“Cas can’t sense much, just that it’s not demonic or angelic. Rowena’s working on it right now-”

“And you left her unattended?” Dean said, pushing past the throng of people and into the hallway, heading towards the library. He heard the rest of the group follow, but he ignored them until he had a bemused looking Rowena in his sights, carefully measuring out some sort of powder.

“Ah, Dean, how nice to see you again. Back in our proper time, are we?” She glanced back to the ingredients in her hand and dumped them into the wooden bowl before turning to face Dean again. “And isn’t this precious? Your mini me’s still here!”

Dean felt his younger self come to a stop beside him, but he ignored his presence.

“Please tell me you have something to fix all this,” He said.

“Not even a hello, didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?” Rowena mumbled, turning back to her spell. “I come all this way to help get you out of another mess, and this is the thanks I get? No ‘Thank you Rowena for saving our sorry arses yet again after we managed to fuck up another cosmic force,’ I should really start charging you per the hour,”

With a flourish, she sprinkled the last bit of something into the bowl and began to chant. Something sparked, and Dean felt something crawl up his spine. The way that his younger self shivered next to him seemed to indicate that he felt the same thing. Rowena’s eyes blared a soft green for a split second before fading. She took a step back as whatever force she’d summoned left her.

  Sam looked at her expectantly. She pushed the hair back from her eyes, a bewildered look on her face, and she turned to Cas.

“Any chance you recognized whatever the hell that was?” Cas grimaced, his eyes far away. He shook his head.

“Whatever it was, it was ancient. I could not discern much else,”

“Great. So all we know is that something really old likes messing with our lives. What else is new?” Dean said, collapsing into one of the armchairs, and rubbing his forehead. His headache was starting to come back.

“How’d you get back Dean?” Sam said, crossing the room and sitting in one of the chairs at the tables, facing Dean.  His younger self hovered in between, unsure as to where he should go. Dean didn’t blame him. He also didn’t move to help him.

“I have no idea, I’d been talking with-” He felt his throat close up but he forced himself to choke out his words. “I’d been talking with Dad and then I was walking away. You, younger you, called my name, and then I don’t remember. I just woke back up on my bed,” 

A funny look crossed over Sam’s face, and Dean looked away. 

“What were you and your father talking about?” Cas asked.

Obviously something is wrong with you. Stealing my car, taking my son-

It wasn’t my job! It wasn’t my fucking job!  

“Nothing important. Just ideas on how to fix this,” Dean tried to give them a small smile. Cas squinted his eyes and tilted his head like he always did when he could tell Dean was lying. Thankfully, he didn’t press.

For the first time since Dean’s arrival, his younger self spoke up.

“Is my Sam ok?”

“He’s fine Junior,” Dean said.

“Stop calling me that,” He said, arms crossed at an attempt at posturing that Dean remembered practicing in the mirror when he was alone.

“Well I sure as hell ain’t callin’ you Dean, shortstack,” Dean forced himself to look at his face this time, some twisted part of himself pleased to see himself so angry. He turned back to the adults in the room. 

“I’m guessing this means more research, don’t it?” He pushed up from his chair and walked over to the table. “Rowena, do you happen to know anything about deities that can manipulate time?”

He heard an angry grunt come from behind him, and before he knew it was being punched in the back of the head. He turned to see his younger self turning a shade of red that Dean hadn’t known he was capable of.

“What the hell was that for?” He yelled, blocking his younger self from throwing another punch.

“What the fuck is wrong with you ?” His 18 year old self screamed, punching him in his gut. Dean grunted, but grabbed onto his arms and held tight, even as the teenager struggled. Dean had years of experience on him. He didn’t stand a chance.

“What’s wrong with me ?” What the hell is wrong with you? “What’s wrong with you ? You’re the one that just decked yourself in the face,” 

“You’re working with a witch. And an angel. And you’ve worked with demons . How could you have done that to Mom?” A pause. “To Dad?” 

Dean felt his patience snap.

“Fuck Dad!” He let go of his younger self’s arms, fist raised to punch when he felt strong hands grab him from behind, as unyielding as steel, stopping him in his tracks. At the same time, Sam grabbed Dean’s younger self from behind, only barely restraining him as he clawed to attack Dean.

His heart thundered in his ears and for a split second Dean swore he could feel the Mark of Cain edging him on. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dumped on his head. 

“Both of you, just stop!” Sam said, teeth clenched. Dean forced himself to take a deep breath, even though his ears were ringing.

Something is wrong with you.

Dean, I'm sorry. I put too much on your shoulders. 

You’re not my son.

I want you to watch out for Sammy, ok? If you can’t save him-

He forced his shoulders to drop. Cas released him, and Dean took a step away, everything suddenly too close. His younger self was still struggling against Sam’s hold, angry tears slipping through his eyes. Dean felt like the bunker was closing in on him. 

“I need some air,” He mumbled, turning on his heel and fleeing, like a coward, towards the garage. He needed to be out on the road, away from it all. All the memories. All the feelings.

He didn’t fully come back to himself until he’d pulled off on the side of the road and was emptying his stomach of its bile, tears running down his cheeks, sobs wracking his body.

He was back in that horrible hospital room, miraculously alive, watching his father cry and tell him how proud he was, his gut twisting in some sort of premonition that he hadn’t been able to act on. Watching as his father leaned down to whisper into his ear, hearing those dreadful words. 

John had been dead for years. He’d moved on. Why hadn’t he moved on? Why was this still hurting so damn much ?

The growling of another engine spiked Dean’s ears, but for once he couldn’t summon the energy to be vigilant. The sound of gravel under tires seemed to only barely reach his ears, like he was underwater.

A door slammed open, someone shouting his name, and then hands on his shoulders, grounding him. 

“Dean! Breathe!” Cas shouted, and Dean compulsively complied, his lungs filling with air. He felt Cas gently guiding him to sitting, away from his pile of sick, so he was leaning against the Impala, whose engine was still running. Cas disappeared for a split second, the Impala’s engine cutting off, leaving them in silence except for the rustling wind through the tall grass.

“In,” Cas ordered. Dean inhaled. “Out,” Dean let the breath out of his chest, focusing on Cas’s hand on his shoulder, its reassuring pressure.

Slowly, the world came back to Dean. And so did the embarrassment. Even as a breeze brushed his cheek, he felt them heat, and he pushed up from the ground, turning his face towards the wind. He heard Cas stand next to him, but he didn’t dare look. Cas didn’t say anything, just stood there. And the pressure in Dean’s chest kept expanding until he found his mouth opening against his will. 

“My dad sacrificed himself to save my life. He sold his soul to bring me back. I wouldn’t be alive if he-” Dean braced for the tightness in his chest to increase, for it to cut his breathing off again, but it didn’t come. Cas shifted next to him. Dean pushed forward. “He hadn’t done that,” He finished lamely. Cas made a sound of acknowledgement. Dean felt something dislodge a little more in his chest.

“And then he told me about Sam, and how if I couldn’t save him, I’d have to-” He choked, and the tears began to fall anew. 

“I know Dean,” Cas whispered. Dean swallowed, letting the silence envelop him. The tears drying on his cheeks, leaving salty trails, stinging his cracked lips.

“Why was it always my job?” he whispered, voice cracking. “Why did my dad sacrifice himself for me only when he was leaving? Why was I not worth it before?” 

The tears kept falling, and Cas’s hand came up to his shoulder, warm and steady as ever.

“I don’t know Dean. And I am so sorry,” A tear rolled off Dean’s chin, and he felt it soak into his shirt collar. “It should never have been your job to begin with,”

Chapter Text

Sam wished that he was anywhere else. The tension had never been thicker in the bunker before, and that was counting the time that Dean had attempted to kill him as a demon. At least then he’d been able to point to the problem and find a solution. There wasn’t a clear solution to either of their problems at the moment.

He flipped the page of the book he was searching and glanced up. Rowena, composed as ever, was idling flicking through an ancient book, a small smile ever present on her face. This whole situation seemed to be nothing but amusing to her, and Sam half-wondered if she was stalling them from setting it right, if only to watch them flounder a little while longer. The younger Dean was sitting as far away as he possibly could while still remaining in the library, head stuck in some manuscript written by a Man of Letters about the magical properties of hourglasses.

Sam could tell that his eyes weren’t actually moving, and he hadn’t flipped a page in over twenty minutes. His leg was vibrating, and he knew it was killing him. Sam returned his gaze back to the page he was on, but his eyes wouldn’t focus. He didn’t know what was going on with Dean, nor what had happened while he’d been in the past. But he’d seen the look on his face at the mention of their dad. He doubted that whatever it was had been good.

But he wouldn’t tell him, and the Dean he was currently sitting across from obviously did not trust Sam, or anyone there, even the older version of himself, which wasn’t that just indicative of their lives.

Sam flicked through the last pages of his book and sighed, closing the cover. It had been a long shot anyways, some tangent on lunar cycles and their effects on the supernatural. They’d long run out of useful books to consult. This was just grasping at straws. 

He reached forward and pulled another book out of his pile anyways, coughing as it unleashed a cloud of dust. Rowena looked up, one eyebrow arched as Sam waved the dust away. He ignored her and squinted at the words, which were of course severely faded. At some point Sam had the feeling that he was going to have to get glasses.

He started skimming pages, looking for anything even remotely related to time travel when Rowena cleared her throat. He looked back up to see Rowena giving him a queer look.

“Are you quite sure you two haven’t come into contact with any magical artifacts?”

“Yes Rowena,” Sam said, putting his head in his hands. His head was pounding. “I am quite sure that we would have noticed a magical artifact capable of time travel,”

She pursed her lips and flipped him off.

“You know I am only trying to help you boys,” She said, turning back to her book. A notification sounded, and she glanced at her phone, a smile growing wide across her face. She slammed her book shut, enough that it startled the younger Dean, who jumped in his seat. 

“And if you refuse to be grateful, then you’ll have to excuse me, I have somewhere else I need to be,” She said, standing up and collecting her bag.

“Rowena-” Sam said, standing up. “Don’t-,”

“Hush Samuel. I doubt there’s anything more I could do at the moment, especially since you don’t even know what you’re up against, and none of my spells have even gotten close to identifying what has caused this whole mess,” She slid her bag over her arm, eyes twinkling. “Now, I have a very wealthy and very old gentleman I must meet,”

She walked towards the staircase, heels clicking on the concrete, and Sam only took one step forward before stopping himself. Rowena was right. There was no reason for her to be here. And if anything, it would probably help with the younger Dean, seeing as how he hadn’t been able to fully erase the glare off his face from the moment he found out about who she was.

Sam waited until he heard the tell tale slam of the door closing before he collapsed back into his chair, rubbing his forehead.

“Upset that your girlfriend ditched you?” The younger Dean said. Sam felt his headache increase in intensity.

“Just shut up Dean,” He said, turning back to his book, only to find the words swimming. He heard Dean give a dry laugh, but ignored it. He checked his watch. They’d been at this for hours. Dean and Cas were who knows where, and Sam realized he hadn’t had anything to eat since the muffin Cas had brought him.  He stood up, closing his notes and stretching.

“You going to run after your witchy girlfriend?” Sam ignored Dean’s quip, instead gesturing towards the kitchen.

“I’m getting something to eat, do you want something?” Dean grunted, but stood up, carefully marking his place in the book he’d been supposedly studying. Sam took that as a yes, and made his way into the kitchen, beelining for the fridge and grabbing their leftover containers and dumping them on the island.

“Help yourself,” he said, grabbing one at random, opening it, and shoveling in a forkful without looking at it. Dean picked up a few of the containers, and after peering through the sides to see what was inside, carefully chose one filled with a pasta salad and peeled the lid off.

Sam couldn’t help the small smile that appeared on his face at the sight of Dean enjoying the homemade cooking. He had very little memories of food that wasn’t takeaway or just put together with whatever ingredients they had.

The smile faded as he considered their problem. Yes, they had their Dean back, who couldn’t even seem to be in the same room with his younger self without blowing up. They’d been unable to turn up anything, even with the help of Rowena, and they were no closer to putting this Dean back where he belonged.

All Sam wanted to do was pass out on his bed, preferably for at least a full 24 hours where no one so much as looked at him. But when did they ever get what they wanted? He shoveled another forkful of food in his mouth, not tasting it.

Something had obviously happened while Dean had been stuck in the past, something with their Dad. Whether it had anything to do with Dean getting brought back, Sam couldn’t know until Dean told him, which obviously wasn’t happening anytime soon since he’d stormed off who the hell knew where.

He finished off the rest of the food in the tupperware and tossed it and his fork into the sink, running a hand over his face. They should really get back to research, see if they could find anything , even a single word on time travel. Sam glanced at the younger Dean, who was frowning, gaze faraway even as he stabbed some noodles and shoved it in his mouth.

He was only 18, yet he looked far older. Dean had always looked older than his age. He’d been through too much from a young age to retain any sense of childhood innocence. Still, it was weird to see him this way. Because Sam remembered when he’d been 14, remembered the anger beginning to boil under his skin, upset at being so constantly left behind on hunts, upset that he couldn’t just have a normal life, upset that Dean was trusted and he was not.

But he’d only been 18. He’d been taking care of Sam for far longer than that, when they were both children. He’d been hunting for years already.  Sam could already see a haunted look in his expression.

The old anger crashed through him like a wave on a beach, rising quickly but leaving just as soon, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

Sam took a breath, trying to focus on the problem at present. He could probably force himself to read some more, but he recognized the signs in Dean’s body language. He was getting antsy. He needed to do something with his hands. Well, Rowena had asked about artifacts. Maybe there was something in the bunker that could help them. 

Dean finished his food, and as soon as he’d put the dishes in the sink, Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the kitchen, towards the storage rooms he’d been working so hard to organize.

“Come on, we’re going to try a different angle,” Sam said, letting go once Dean yanked his arm away. Dean grumbled something under his breath but followed.

Chapter Text

Dean felt hollowed out inside, like he’d been a well that’d been overdrawn, and there was nothing left but a deep, dark hole, all dried up. At some point, he’d slid back to the ground, and Cas had gone with him, hand on his shoulder, a flicker of warmth and stability that was the only thing keeping Dean from completely drowning. 

Cas was silent, and Dean listened to the night around them. Distant cars rushing down the road. Crickets and birds. Wind blowing through the grasses and trees. If not for the circumstances, Dean would have found it peaceful.

Cas cleared his throat, and Dean fought not to tense. He knew that this had been coming. Knew that they would need to know the truth of what he’d said to John, knew that it was tied into the reason he’d been pulled back to the correct time. Knew that it would provide them clues on how to get his younger self back. He just wished that the universe could have chosen someone else to fuck with for once. Surprisingly, Cas didn’t mention anything about his father.

“You stabbed me again,”

“What?” Dean turned his face to Cas, who was looking a strange mix between solemn and amused.

“When I met your younger self, his first instinct was to stab me,”

Dean groaned. Cas remained silent, looking into the grass with a thoughtful look on his face. Neither said anything for a moment.

“Are you waiting for an apology or something?”

“No, I just find it comforting,” Cas said, eyes still faraway.

“You find me stabbing you– comforting ?”  Dean couldn’t help but let out a laugh, it was sharp and harsh, but it lifted a little of the weight in his chest. Only Cas.

“No, I find it comforting that you’ve always been you,” At this Cas turned to him, a soft look in his eyes. Dean felt something catch in his throat and his eyes darted away. Suddenly Cas’s stare was too much, too intense.

“Always brave, always Dean Winchester,” Cas finished, voice soft and close to a whisper. Dean could still feel him staring, but he didn’t dare look back, instead staring past the angel’s shoulder at a tree, swaying in the wind.

“I’m not though,” Dean whispered, surprising himself. “You of all people should know that Cas,” 

Cas grunted in a sound of disbelief, and then hands were on Dean’s face, gently forcing him to look Cas in the eyes. Eyes the color of the sky after a thunderstorm, earnestly met his own.

“I’m not saying you haven’t changed, haven’t grown, haven’t learned. But your soul, your essence, your core is the same. It is good. It is thoughtful. It is brave and kind and brash and smart and loyal. It’s beautiful. It’s still Dean Winchester,”

Dean felt his eyes well up, and Cas’s face began to blur, but he didn’t dare breathe, didn’t even break, feeling like the fragile moment was going to fracture with any slight chance.

“You were worthy of love at 18 and you are worthy of love at 38. You’ve always been worthy Dean, simply because you exist,” Cas’s voice was steady, patient. Truthful. And Dean closed his eyes, tears sliding out onto his cheeks. He didn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed at Cas wiping away the tears from his cheeks. Time seemed to expand to cushion the moment, and Dean didn’t know if seconds or hours had passed when Cas broke the silence.

“What happened in the past Dean?” His tone was gentle, but not pitying, and Dean felt the words being drawn out of him.

“I landed right where I was when I’d been when I was 18. And then my dad came in and pointed a gun at my head,” 

Cas made a sound at that, but Dean let out a dry laugh.

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing. What was he supposed to do? Greet the supposed stranger in his room with a handshake when his kid was missing?” If anything, it was a little nice that his Dad had been so distressed about Dean being supposedly missing.

“I proved I wasn’t a monster or demon or ghost, that I really was me, and then I fucking let slip that this wasn’t the first time I’ve travelled through time, that we’d done it on purpose,” He should have known better, should have known John would have picked up on the implications. Dean felt his hands clenching in his lap, and he forced them to release. “He grilled into me about working with-” His voice hitched. “With monsters,” Dean felt Cas tense beside him. “I lost it, Cas,” I don’t know what the hell you are, but you aren’t my son.

  His Dad had been faced with the adult version of his son, someone nearly the same age as him, with so much more experience, and all he could see was the eternal screw up of a soldier. Hadn’t even bothered to listen to Dean. Get the hell out of here. 

“I took Baby and Sam and left. Went to Bobby’s. We were trying to figure out what happened,” Dean’s jaw clenched. “Few days later, Dad rolls up and-” He dropped his head into his shaking hands, the words caught. Stealing my car. Taking my son. His voice came out barely a whisper. “Why is it always my fucking fault?” Dean’s eyes stung but Cas didn’t press, just sat in silence, hand on his shoulder. 

Dean didn’t know how much time passed before Cas cleared his throat.

“I think you need to talk to yourself, Dean,” Cas whispered softly, fingers momentarily gripping his shoulder before dropping. 

There was nothing Dean wanted to do less. Dean released the air from his lungs, deflated. He pushed himself off the ground, pulling Cas with him. 

Chapter Text

Dean attempted to keep track of where they were going, but each hall seemed lined with endless doors, most only marked with a number. It felt like the Labyrinth, an infinite mirror you could get lost in forever. Dean didn’t find himself all that opposed to the idea.

The voice of his older self seemed to continuously ring in his head, each iteration a punch to the gut. Fuck Dad! His knuckles tingled. Fuck Dad! Sam’s arms around him like iron bars. He stumbled and Sam turned to look back at him, a worried look in his eyes.

Dean forced a smile and Sam turned back around. Dean tried to focus on where they were going, how he could get back out, but the sight of Sam, confidently walking down the hall, head not even turning to look at the doors made him sick. He was too tall, too broad. He had a home. Somewhere to come back to. Something toxic twisted in his gut and reached up into his chest. Fuck Dad! Dean pushed it away.

They stopped in front of yet another nondescript door and Sam pushed it open carefully, sliding his hand against the wall to turn the light on.

“Watch your step, there’s a lot of stuff on the ground,”

Finally, an actual distraction. Dean looked down to see piles of artifacts, only some of which were contained in what had to be hex boxes, though he’d never seen some of the symbols present. He’d thought that his Dad had known all there was to know about hunting. Fuck Dad!  

He pinched his arm as hard as he could through his shirt sleeve and forced himself to refocus on Sam wading through the piles towards the center of the room, one of the only places where there was space to move without jostling something. 

“I’ve been working on going through the storage rooms whenever we have time, trying to get things organized and catalogued, but it’s been slow going. There might be something down here that could help get you home,” Sam took a look around at the various piles, a sheepish look. “And it’d probably be better if we got this stuff secured sooner than later,” 

Dean could hear his dad’s voice admonishing them for keeping such dangerous things out on the floor where anyone could get to them. Fuck Dad!  

Dean ground his teeth together and turned his focus to the shelf nearest him, picking up the first thing he saw, a rock, and fingering the grooves along its surface. Sam was shuffling piles around, making room to sit. 

“What exactly do you want me to do?” He asked. “It’s not like I know what these things are for,” Dean gestured with the rock in his hand. Sam looked up at him and his nose scrunched, it was a face Dean recognized but it looked out of place on his old face. Dean’s jaw tightened.

“Right,” Sam said, looking around at the piles, as if realizing the same thing. He bit his lip, and something in his eyes told Dean he was about to be put on gopher duty. 

“You can put stuff I’ve catalogued onto the shelves-” Sam said. Dean stopped listening, looking around at the things in the room and only just holding himself back from throwing the box in his hands. They were grasping at straws, and Sam knew it. Knew it and was still trying to pretend they’d figure it all out.

Even if they somehow managed to scrounge up a magical time traveling device, there obviously wasn’t a manual to go with it if it wasn’t in any records. And just in this room alone, there were hundreds of magical artifacts. Dean didn’t want to think about how many were behind the rest of the closed doors in the hallway. They might find something eventually, but how long would that take? And how much longer could he stay here without messing up the fabric of the universe? Because he really didn’t believe it would be forever.

Sam pointed to a pile on the floor and Dean heard him as if from a distance about what to do with it. If he was stuck here, he would never get to see his Sammy again. Or Dad. Fuck Dad! Dean felt his eyes sting.

The musty smell of the room filled his nostrils. He could feel the weight of Sam’s pitying eyes on him, and suddenly his blood was pumping too loud in his ears, the industrial lighting was too bright and he couldn’t think-

He mumbled something about going to the bathroom and he stepped out into the stupid hallway, chest heaving. What the hell was wrong with him? He blinked and the sterile hallway was closing in around him and Dean didn’t care that he didn’t know where he was going. He just wanted to be out of this stupid fucking building. Away from his too old brother and his own future self- Fuck Dad!

He was running. Dean didn’t know when he’d started, but the burn in his chest felt better than the churn in his gut. Each turn he took led to the same hallway. There were no markers, no distinguishing marks-

There . Dean skidded to a stop. An open door, and through it, a garage. Filled with cars. Cars he could hotwire. 

Five minutes later, he was pulling out the bunker, seeing the night sky for the first time in days.

—--

Dean didn’t know how long he’d been driving when he pulled off the side of the road and parked. He’d been gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles hurt to flex and it took him longer than he liked to admit to tear his hands away from the wheel, and even longer for them to stop shaking after he’d removed them.

He could feel that itch, the one that begged for a fight, growing the longer he sat there. How long would it take Sam to notice he hadn’t come back? That he’d left? Dean felt his chest squeeze so hard it hurt and he slammed his hands onto the wheel, anger flowing through him. At Sam. At himself. At his dad. Fuck Dad!

There was nothing to fight. No monster or ghost or angel and Dean was alone. He punched the wheel again, the slap of the leather stinging his hands. He wanted to scream. Instead, he felt tears building in his eyes and he felt like he was going to throw up.

He threw the car door open and pulled himself out of the car and into the night air, heaving, but nothing was coming up. His entire body shook. 

There was a dull thunk. Dean froze, muscles tightening. He stood slowly, the squeezing in his chest momentarily forgotten as he strained his ears, trying to pick up anymore sounds. But except for the rustling of the breeze pushing through the trees, there was nothing. It was probably just something with the car as it settled. Right?

Still, Dean slid to the ground, hugging his knees, pressing his back into the warm metal, feeling incredibly exposed. What the hell was he doing? He’d run away like a scared little kid without backup or supplies, and now he was in the middle of nowhere, in a decade that wasn’t his own. 

He should be getting back in the car, taking stock, making a plan. Instead, Dean felt tears fall down his face. How could he have failed so spectacularly? How could he have let any of this happen? Witches and angels and demons. His dad-

He choked and a sob escaped his mouth. He wanted- He wanted someone to hold him and tell him it was going to be ok. He wanted his mom. 

Dean couldn’t hold the crushing in his chest at bay any longer and his entire body shook with sobs as he curled up tighter around his knees. He wanted to be done. Done with the pain and the grief and anger. He just wanted to be done with it all. Why couldn’t it ever be done?

Dean didn’t move even after the car stopped running and the sky began to lighten as the morning approached.

Chapter Text

Dean felt his phone buzz for the fifth time in the same amount of minutes and only briefly considered chucking it out the window. Sam had been calling nonstop and Dean really didn’t want to answer. He knew what Sam was going to ask. He’d seen the look he’d been giving him when he’d left.

The phone stopped ringing and Dean only felt the satisfaction of having outlasted him for a second before it began ringing again. He let it go for a few more seconds before he answered, ready to tell Sam to drop it, but he didn’t get the chance.

“ Your younger self’s gone ,” Sam said. His voice was strained. Distantly, Dean could hear the sound of computer keys.

“Isn’t that what we wanted?” Dean asked, shoulders dropping. If the kid was gone, then he was off the hook, and he could go back to the bunker and pass out. “For him to go back to his time?”

“ He didn’t go back to his time. He hotwired one of the cars and bolted ,”

Dean swore and he felt his nerves flare into attention. So much for hope. And sleep.

“What did you do?”

“ Nothing ,” Sam hissed. “ We were in one of the storage rooms and he just left, said he had to go to the bathroom. And then he didn’t come back for twenty minutes,”  

Dean felt something a little like satisfaction at the thought, though it was promptly wiped out by the dread. His eighteen year old self was loose on the world, probably trying to do something incredibly stupid, and if Dean still wanted to exist when this was all over, that meant they had to go and find him.

“Where’d he go?” The leather on the steering wheel creaked as Dean gripped it tighter.

“ I’m working on it,”  There were more key sounds in the background. Of all the stupid pig headed things his younger self could have done- 

“ He went west, but there aren’t any security cameras past the ones in town that have caught him, ” 

Dean wanted to hit something. Instead, like the adult he was, he took a deep breath and forced his grip to loosen on the wheel. Staring out at the road in front of him, he tried to think. This was Dean they were talking about. What would he have done?

“ Dean? Do you need me to- ” Sam asked. Dean cut him off, dread flushing through him.  

“I got it Sammy. I think I know where he went,” Dean ended the call before running a hand through his hair, swearing under his breath. He had a pretty good idea of what his younger self had done.

In his rearview he saw Cas following him in his truck as he turned west. The sight filled him with more comfort than it should have.

The sky was just beginning to brighten when Dean saw the car parked off the side of the road. Pulling off, he parked behind it. Cas followed suit, but remained in his truck. 

Dean sighed and his jaw clenched before he forced himself out of Baby and made his way around the car to find his younger self curled up on the ground, knees to his chest, silently shaking. Dean forced himself to look, even as the boy startled and looked up with bloodshot eyes and tear stains coating his cheeks. Dean probably didn’t look all that much better. 

Slowly, Dean sat down next to his younger self, facing the trees in front of them, knees popping. He had never felt so old. 

“Why are you here?” Young Dean croaked after a moment. Dean focused his attention on the trees in front of them, attempting to trace its lines in the semi darkness.

“We had a pretty shit childhood, you know?” Dean started. He felt the boy next to him tense. He forced his shoulders to remain relaxed, even though a wave of dread threatened to drown him.

“It wasn’t perfect, but Dad-” 

“Dad abandoned us for weeks at a time. That’s not normal Dean,” He tried to keep his tone patient but he couldn’t help the resentment from sliding in and coloring his words. In his peripheral vision, he could see the young Dean shaking his head. Dean focused on the way the wind blew the leaves on the trees.

“He lost Mom. What the hell did you expect him to do? Forget about her?” The younger Dean scoffed.

“We lost her too,” Dean countered, finally turning to look at himself. He looked so young . And so tired . Too tired for eighteen. “We lost her too and we were just a kid,”

His younger self froze, mouth open, something warring in his eyes. Dean knew that look, knew what it meant. He saw it every day in the mirror.

“We lost her too Dean, but he wasn’t there for us when we needed him, not really,” He looked back in front of them. The sun was slowly beginning to rise, bringing its light with it, turning the grass in front of them a soft gold. Somewhere a bird was chirping. A soft breeze blew rustled the trees.

“He tried his best, he always did. He trained us, made sure we could protect ourselves and Sammy. So what if he wasn’t all touchy feely?” His younger self said softly. Dean didn’t respond for a moment, dragging his fingers through the cool dirt beside him. Something creaked in the car as it settled behind them.

“Do you remember when Bobby would take us to play catch at the park?” 

They were some of his favorite memories, just him and Bobby, doing something normal . Dean’s younger self shifted in his seat.

“We would get so frustrated, remember? Because we were supposed to be doing target practice with the ‘22s. But Bobby wouldn’t let us. We were going to play instead, and that was the end of it,” Dean remembered the ache he’d felt when Bobby had insisted. Remembered the fear of disobeying his Dad and then forgetting it after they were three rounds in and he was laughing his head off at something Bobby said.

“But there was that part of you, real deep down, that was relieved. Just happy to get to be normal, to play,” Dean continued. His younger self snorted. “You know it was there, don’t deny it,” Dean scooped up a handful of dirt and let it sift through his fingers beside him. 

“What are you trying to get at?”

“Did you know that Bobby lost his wife to a demon?” Another handful of dirt, making a soft swishing sound as it fed through his fingers.

“No,”

“It’s how he got started in the hunting world,” 

“What are you trying to say?” His younger self’s tone was seething, and the anger that Dean had been trying to tamp down came rising back. Before he could stop himself, he’d whipped his head back around to face himself.

“Bobby was always there for us, through everything , even when it was hard for him. He didn’t shag off to nowhere when we needed him most. He was there, with us, every step of the way, for everything , not just hunting,” Dean felt his hand curl into a fist.

“How can you even say that?” His younger self’s face had turned red.

“Dad was a good hunter. He kept us safe from monsters. But he wasn’t there. He was never there . We took care of Sam. We raised him, made sure he had enough to eat, clean clothes to wear, and presents for Christmas. We helped him with homework and patched up his skinned knees and helped him go back to sleep after he woke from a nightmare-”

“Dad was busy hunting, saving people. So what if we had to do extra chores? Isn’t that less important than people’s lives ?” His younger self spit out the words, poisonous. 

Dean’s thin control over his anger snapped.

“We were a child Dean! That wasn’t our job!” Dean yelled. “We did everything for Dad! Anything to help him bear the weight of losing mom, and you know what that bastard did? Sacrificed himself so we could live. Could keep fighting,” Dean looked away, the anger still steadily rising in his chest. He felt his younger self stiffen by his side. The blood in his ears was pounding. 

Dean, I’m sorry. I put too much on your shoulders. I want you to watch out for Sammy, ok? If you can’t save him-  

“And in return, he wanted us to kill Sam if he turned dark side, if the demon blood in his system overwhelmed him. Cause the coward couldn’t face killing his own son, but it was fine that we do it,” His voice came out soft but cold. He’d replayed that moment countless times in his head. Of suddenly waking, or his Dad telling him he was sorry, and then being told to kill his little brother, the one person he had spent his entire life working to protect. And all he could feel was anger at his dad, even though he knew it was only because of him that he was even alive in the first place.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” His younger self said, voice shaking. Dean turned to look at him. His face was pale. “What demon blood?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean muttered, looking away again. 

“Like hell it doesn’t-”

“It doesn’t matter Dean! Dad made sure we were alive, but he didn’t care if we were happy. You know who did? Bobby!” He threw his hands in the air. “Bobby made sure we had enough to eat, that we got to play. Bobby taught us how to work on cars, how to camp. And when we needed him, he was always there,” Dean took a deep breath, his voice softening. “That’s the difference. Bobby cared about more than the mission,” His voice wavered as he said it. They both fell silent, and Dean felt his blood pulse as he tried to tamp his anger down. He forced himself to look at his younger self in the eyes.

“Look, he’s our dad and I love him, but I’m relieved that he’s gone because he can’t push us around anymore, can’t demand we give all that he couldn’t,” He paused, but his younger self stayed silent. “He hurt us. He hurt you . He hurt Sammy. Drove him away. And no matter how many times you try to excuse it behind Mom’s death and his pain, it doesn’t change the fact that it happened and that it fucking hurts ,” 

His younger self was still shaking his head, but more tears were falling from his eyes, and Dean could see the truth sink in, even as he still tried to deny it. 

Before he fully realized what he was doing, he had put his arm around his younger self, drawing him into his side, shaking with silent sobs. Dean felt something in his stomach lighten, and something broke in his chest. Before he could figure out what it was, there was a sharp crackle and Dean felt his ears pop. For a fleeting moment he thought he could hear the rushing sound of water. The world grew bleary, there was a soft white light, and then it was over and his younger self had vanished, leaving behind nothing but a softly glowing white rock.

“What the fuck?” His arm fell to his side as it was met by empty space. Distantly, he heard the door of Cas’s truck slam open, but Dean’s focus was wholly on the white rock. 

Gingerly, he reached out and grasped it, pausing for a second, waiting for something else to happen. Nothing did.

Dean turned it over in his hand. It was warm, but fading. 

By the time Cas reached him, it had gone cold and the light had faded entirely, leaving behind nothing more than a faint etching of some symbol.

“What happened?” Cas asked. Dean shrugged, looking up from the stone to glance around. But other than the three cars and him and Cas, there was nothing, just the soft blowing grasses, swaying trees, and the rising sun.

“We were talking and then there was a white light and he disappeared. Like how I got back here,”

Cas made a humming sound and reached for the rock. Dean handed it over and watched as Cas turned it over in his hand, head cocked to the side. 

“Do you know what it is?”

Cas shook his head, peering down at the etchings.

“I think it sent him back to his time,”

“That sounds correct,” Cas said, now holding the rock up to his ear, frowning. He was silent, and all of a sudden Dean felt a wave of exhaustion hit him, and he couldn’t hold back a yawn. Cas looked at him with something in his eyes.

“When was the last time you slept?”

Dean shrugged, fighting another yawn. Sometime when he was stuck in the past, probably. 

“You need to take a nap,” Cas pocketed the rock and started walking away.

“Wait, Cas!” Dean stepped after him. “We need to make sure that he really did go back to his own time,”

Cas was shaking his head.

“Whatever happened, I think it can wait to be determined after we’ve returned to the bunker and you’ve gotten some rest. I’m mostly positive that whatever this is returned your younger self to his own time. We can determine how and why at the bunker,”

Dean scowled even as he yawned again. He knew Cas was right. Still he couldn’t stop himself from looking back to the spot where just five minutes ago, his younger self had been sitting as he slid into the Impala.

He sent a quick message to Sam before pulling away, back towards the bunker. They’d retrieve the car another time.

By the time Dean pulled into the garage, he could barely keep his eyes open, and he just made it to his room before he collapsed into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

Dean didn’t have any idea how long he’d been laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, not moving. That was the one thing about the bunker Dean struggled with, there were no windows and hence no natural light to tell them what time it actually was. He’d spent most of his life bouncing from motel room to motel room where the curtains inevitably did a shitty job at blocking out light in the morning, meaning Dean always woke with the sun. 

Dean knew he should probably be getting up, should probably be figuring out what the hell had caused the whole time travel mess, make sure that his younger self got back to where he was supposed to be, that it didn’t have any repercussions on the timeline. But he couldn’t find it himself to get his limbs to move.

So he laid on his bed and stared at the ceiling, tracking the lines that made up its tiles. He felt wrung out and hollow. Like he was a discarded lemon wedge, pulpy guts left to dry. If he was being honest with himself, there was another reason he didn’t want to get up. Because that meant talking. Talking to Cas about what had happened with his younger self, talking with Sam about what had happened in the past, going through it all again. And again, and again and-

Dean blinked and refocused on the ceiling, eyes snagging on the corner to the right of his door. It was beginning to come apart, a large crack running through its center, probably after having been left abandoned for so long. It probably would be best to replace the entire damn thing.

He was pretty sure one of the storage rooms in the bunker had a stockpile of paint and other supplies that they’d used to build the place. If he needed a replacement tile, that was probably the place to check first. All he’d have to do was tear down the old one and put the new one in place, shouldn’t take him more than twenty minutes.

He pushed himself off the bed and popped his back. He’d fix this.

Sure enough, there was a storage room filled to the brim with old building supplies, all covered in a thick layer of dust that Dean disturbed just by walking past it. He fought a sneeze as the incoming air from the door swirled it around him. It looked like everything had just been dumped when they’d finished with it, with no discernable rhyme or reason. So not that much different from the other storage rooms.

Still, it took Dean longer than he’d expected to find the correct tiles, and by the time he did, 30 minutes later, he was covered in cobwebs, dust, and his own sweat. Luckily, whatever adhesive they had used had been left in the same box, so Dean didn’t have to dig through the piles for that, at least. 

He did spend an hour looking for the ladder that he could've sworn they’d used a week ago but was nowhere to be found now. Dean wanted to throw something.

Instead, he went back to his room and pulled his chair to the corner, only to find that it was too short.

“Son of a bitch,” He kicked the chair over and dragged his desk over instead, which thankfully, was of a usable height. He pulled himself up to standing, and flat head screwdriver in hand, tried to pry off the tile. But instead of coming off in one piece, like he’d hoped, a small chunk fell into his face.

He began furiously jabbing the screwdriver into the ceiling but the whole damn thing was crumbling into pieces, leaving chunks behind too thin to chip off effectively. 

“What the hell did they use? Super glue?” Dean gritted his teeth as he jammed the screwdriver head at another patch.

“Considering this was built 60 years ago, probably something that you shouldn’t be inhaling,” 

Dean nearly fell off the desk at the sound of his brother’s voice coming from behind him. He turned around to see Sam leaning in the doorway, something half way between a smirk and concern on his face.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, pushing off the doorframe.

“‘S damaged, I’m fixing it,” Dean shrugged, turning away. From behind him, he heard Sam sit on his bed, and he just knew he had that puppy dog face on that said they were going to have a hard conversation. He kept his head resolutely turned to the ceiling and continued to hack at the ceiling.

Sam didn’t say anything for a minute and Dean could feel his eyes boring into the back of his head. He jammed the screwdriver in with too much force and it slid across the surface and jabbed his other hand that he’d braced on the ceiling. He swore under his breath and pushed the screwdriver in again.

“Cas and I think we figured out what that rock was,” Sam said, finally. Dean hummed. Sam continued. “It’s Mnemosyne’s pearl,”

“What the hell is a Mnemosyne?” Dean turned to look at Sam again, who was sitting leaning forward on his knees, hands clasped.

“She’s the Greek Goddess of memory.  Some of the Men of Letters took her down in the early 30s,” He paused and looked at his hands. “Dean, I don’t think you time traveled,”

Dean scoffed. 

“I’m pretty sure I did, seeing as how I was in the past literally two days ago, oh, and my younger self was here,” He turned back to the ceiling and chipped off a rather large piece. He tossed it to the floor. 

“Cas and I think that you travelled through your memories,”

“So what? You’re saying it was all in my head?” Dean said, turning back to Sam and rolling up his sleeve revealing the fresh marks made by the silver knife testing. “I’m pretty sure that these are real,” 

“I’m not saying it isn’t Dean,” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “The Pearl made your memories tangible, allowed you to interact with them, and them to interact with you, and us,”

“So what, it’s like Voldemort’s diary? My memory of my 18 year old self took on a life of its own?”

“I guess you could say that,” Sam said. Dean grunted and turned back to chipping. Sam was silent for a few moments.

“Cas thinks that when you touched your younger self next to the pearl, it triggered your reintegration,”

“That’s not weird at all,” Dean muttered.

Sam huffed in quiet laughter before growing silent again.

“Dean,” Dean heard the bedsprings squeak and Sam fidgeted. “What happened with Dad in your memory?” 

Dean felt himself stiffen. What the hell is wrong with you? He forced his shoulders to drop and kept his eyes on his work. Most of the tile was off. It wouldn’t be that much more. Sam didn’t say anything else, just waited.

“I kind of kidnapped you and took the Impala,” Dean started. “Went to Bobby’s to try and figure out what happened. Dad showed up a few days later, pissed as hell,” Dean couldn’t fight the shudder that tore through his body.

“I yelled at him. Basically told him how shitty of a parent he’d been. And then I got zapped back,” He could feel Sam loading up another question but Dean was done.

“Can we drop it now? Cas thinks everything’s back to normal, right?”

Sam let out an annoyingly long sigh before he stood up.

“Sure, Dean,” Dean heard his footsteps lead to the door where they paused. “You know you can always talk to me about anything, right?” 

“Yeah, I know Sammy,” Dean said softly. “Now get out of here and let me finish this,” Sam chuckled but left clicking the door shut behind him.

Dean jammed the screwdriver into the crack between the remaining tile and the ceiling, and to his great surprise, the rest came off in one piece, smashing to the floor.

“Hah!” He dropped the screwdriver onto the floor. There were still a few patches of tile remaining, but the majority of it was gone and stable enough that he would be able to just slap the new one right over them. Perfect.

He pulled the new tile up towards him, along with the adhesive. Turning the tile around, he began slathering the putty-like substance on its back before he pushed it up into the open space, holding it for three minutes while it dried. It was a little crooked, but it would do.

Dean cleaned up the mess the tile had made, putting his room back into order and changing into a clean set of clothes that did not have mystery building materials all over them. He returned the bucket of adhesive to the storage room before making his way to the kitchen, stomach gurgling and was surprised to find Cas sitting at the island, coffee mug in hand.

“Hello Dean,”

“Hey Cas,” Dean made his way to the pantry and began rooting through their supplies. They were really starting to run low on actually edible food. Of course, the supply that the Men of Letters had left would probably do in an emergency, but Dean had no desire to try that before it was an absolute necessity. And even then, he probably wouldn’t touch them anyways. 

There were a couple of soup cans that looked halfway decent. That would have to do. He grabbed one and dropped it on the counter before rustling around in the cupboard for a clean pot. He felt Cas’s gaze tracking his movements as he dumped the can into the pot and ignited the stove top.

“How are you feeling, Dean?” Cas asked. He shrugged, back still turned to him and started looking for a spoon. Seriously, who had used the kitchen last? Why was nothing where it was supposed to be? Cas didn’t say anything more, waiting.

“Heard you and Sam figured out what caused the whole mess in the first place,” Dean finally found a spoon that would do the job. He shook some extra seasoning into the soup and started to stir. Canned soup was always too bland for his taste.

“We did,”

“That’s good,” Dean dipped his pinky in and tasted it.

“That doesn’t answer my question though. I know how hard this was for you,” 

Dean didn’t need to turn around to know what face Cas was making, he could feel it on the back of his neck. The conversations they had had the last day and a half were vivid in his mind and he could feel his cheeks heating up. He leaned over the pot and swirled the liquid around a little too forcefully with the spoon, splashing it over the sides. It hit the stove with a hiss.

“Dean-”
Dean cursed and tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot before tossing it on the counter loud enough that it cut Cas off. He began rummaging through the cabinets for a rag, which he then used to wipe up the mess before it burned. The soup was just beginning to steam. Dean abandoned the rag.

“Do you want soup?” He called out over his shoulder, now looking for two clean bowls. Cas huffed.

“No thank you. Do you want to talk-”

Dean let the cabinet door slam closed after he found one. He returned to the stove to find the soup beginning to simmer. Perfect.

Behind him, he heard Cas stand up from the island. He began pouring the soup into the bowl, cursing when it splattered over his hand. Before he could even move to rinse it under cold water, Cas had grabbed it and there was a quick surge of heat throughout his body, and then it was gone, along with the painful twinging of his hand.

“Thanks,” He muttered, pouring the rest of the soup into the bowl, this time much more carefully. Cas leaned against the counter next to him, arms crossed. Dean sighed and put the bowl down with more force than was technically necessary, turning to look at the angel.

“Look, I’m fine. My memory projection or whatever got back to where he was supposed to be and the world isn’t ending. Can we just drop it?”

Cas squinted, tilting his head to the side by a fraction of an inch. Dean braced himself for more questioning but was surprised when Cas relaxed and nodded, pushing away from the counter.

“If that’s what you want,” He said, making his way to the door. “I’ll be in the library if you need me,” He called over his shoulder. Dean felt his shoulders drop as he left. He had a feeling this was going to be brought up again, at some point, some time. But that time wasn’t today. And that was good enough for him. 

He ate his soup in the silence of the bunker’s kitchen. Later that day, he went to the grocery store and picked up the essentials. He worked with Sam in the storage room, making sure to touch things as little as possible.

And yet, hours later, when he was laying on his bed, he stared at the hand that Cas had healed and it was like he could still feel the warmth of Cas’s grace. The sensation of his body next to him, holding onto his shoulder, making sure Dean didn’t drown under the weight of it all. In the privacy of his room, Dean let himself think about it. About Cas and what he had said.

I’m not saying you haven’t changed, haven’t grown, haven’t learned. But your soul, your essence, your core is the same. It is good. It is thoughtful. It is brave and kind and brash and smart and loyal. It’s beautiful. It’s still Dean Winchester,

Dean closed his eyes. 

You were worthy of love at 18 and you are worthy of love at 38. You’ve always been worthy Dean, simply because you exist.

Dean rubbed the space on his hand where it’d been burned, and allowed himself a small smile. Tomorrow, he and Sam would look for another job, get back to hunting. But tonight, Dean let himself be.