Season Four

Episode One: Refraction

By irismay42

Part Four

Yellow light pried open Sam’s eyelids, and he found himself blinking into a cloudless blue sky and bright, blinding sunshine.

Ow.

He closed his eyes again quickly, his head throbbing as he tried to figure out why he appeared to be lying flat on his back under a burning midday sun.

He’d been at the roadhouse talking to Ellen and that Ash guy about alternate realities and parallel universes and—

Dean.

“Dean!”

He shot up into a sitting position, suddenly aware of his hand numbing as it clamped down hard around skin and bone. Someone’s wrist. He was hanging on to someone’s wrist so tightly his fingers had cramped.

“You done holding my hand there, Sammy?”

Sam blinked and dragged in a ragged breath, impossibly relieved to see his older brother sitting right there next to him, as real and as solid as the sandy ground beneath them.

Sand? Why were they sitting on sand? Where the hell were they this time?

Sam glanced about himself, attempting to get his bearings, his fingers refusing to release their vice-like hold on Dean’s wrist, not for one second.

Dean, apparently, appeared not to notice, allowing Sam the physical contact as if he was also afraid if his little brother let go one of them might disappear.

“Desert,” Sam observed rather obviously, his gaze stretching out over the miles and miles of sand, rock, cactus and burningly hot sun in every direction. He wiped his free hand across his already glistening forehead, the sun beating down on his back as he searched to the horizon for any sign of civilization.

There was nothing. No road, no buildings. And no shade anywhere. In any direction.

He swallowed, his mouth already bone dry.

“I think we might be in Arizona or Nevada, judging by the vegetation,” he said. “Somewhere in the Mojave maybe?”

Dean squinted at him. “Vegetation?” he echoed. “Well thank you Mr. National Geographic. I’ll be sure to give you a call next time I’m lost in a desert with no idea how I got there.”

Rising stiffly to his feet, Dean started to peel off his jacket before glancing down at Sam’s hand still clamped around his wrist.

Sam smiled sheepishly before reluctantly letting go, breathing a sigh of relief when Dean didn’t fizzle out into nothing.

“So why’d you grab me?” Dean asked casually, stripping off both his jacket and his outer shirt, his t-shirt already damp with sweat.

Sam stood on wobbly legs and followed suit, tying his outer garments around his waist and shrugging. “Figured if the universe wanted to keep us together, I’d help,” he said. “The three of us were separated at the church, right? And we ended up in different places. I thought maybe if I was holding on to you—”

“We’d wind up in the same place,” Dean finished for him, nodding. “Okay. Speaking of,” he added, putting his hands on his hips and surveying the surrounding area, “you figure we’re anywhere near Vegas?”

Sam snorted, despite their apparently dire predicament. “Unlikely,” he said. “You’re not that lucky.”

Dean blew out a breath. “So why did the universe—or whatever—decide to dump us here in the middle of nowhere? Up till now we’ve always turned up in some whacky alternate version of our lives, right? But here?” Dean shook his head. “There’s nothing here, man. No one we know. Nowhere we’ve been. No event we’ve ever experienced—”

“Well, there was that time I was stranded in the Sonaran Desert looking for Gertrude Tompkins Silver and her downed airplane,” Sam put in.

Dean crinkled his brow. “But that was a hallucination, right? You never really lived it.”

“Maybe in this reality I did really live it,” Sam offered.

Dean shook his head, turning and walking a few steps away. “Whatever man. But our biggest problem here?”

“Aside from no water, no food and no clue where we are?” Sam interrupted.

“Bigger than that, man!” Dean insisted. “We got no Impala!”

Sam smiled indulgently. “Yeah, Dean, that’s definitely our biggest problem.”

Dean huffed as he turned on his heel and resumed walking. “Well if we had the Impala, smartass, we could get to somewhere with food and water,” he grumbled.

Sam sighed, following sluggishly in Dean’s wake. “So where exactly are we going and what are we doing when we get there?” he asked.

Dean glanced back at him. “Well right now we’re walking,” he observed, before motioning to a high rocky outcropping rising up out of the desert about a half mile in the distance. “And I figured maybe if we climb up there, we might be able to get a lay of the land. See which way’s civilization. Or a McDonalds at least. There’s bound to be a McDonalds, even out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Sam shrugged and, for lack of any better ideas, followed Dean’s lead without further comment.

The two of them walked in relative silence, Dean occasionally swearing at cacti, rocks and the sun while Sam looked around for anything they could use for sustenance, should they find themselves stuck in this reality for any length of time. But he could see nothing, not even the saguaro cacti that had sustained him during his previous desert hallucination.

The absence of those plants cast doubt on Sam’s previous theory that maybe he’d really gone after Gertrude Silver in this reality, however, and he began to wonder what his life was like here, who he was. Was Jessica alive here? Was Dean?

“There’s someone up there.” Dean’s voice broke in on Sam’s thoughts, his brother standing at the foot of the rocky ridge with his head tilted slightly to the side as he looked upwards.

Sam followed his brother’s gaze up to the top of the ridge where, sure enough, a dark figure appeared to be laid out on the rock, and Sam was unaccountably reminded of lizards basking in the sun.

There was a little bit too much sun for someone to be basking here though. Baking, maybe.

“Maybe that’s who we’re here to meet,” Sam suggested, bulldozing past his brother and heading for the winding slope that led up to the top of the ridge.

“Hey!” Dean protested, scrambling to keep up. “Hold up there, Bambi!”

While Sam was a little more sure-footed than your average baby deer, his longer legs did mean he made it to the top of the ridge some way in front of Dean, the figure laid out on the rocks coming into clearer view as he finally mounted the summit.

Sam swallowed bile and fought the urge to retch.

It was a man, sure enough. A man bound with thick ropes around his wrists and ankles to a wooden X-shaped cross staked out on the rock. The ropes were heavily bloodstained, as if he’d been trying fruitlessly to free himself for some time, and, glancing up at the sweltering sun, Sam had no doubt that someone had left this man out here to die.

Sam quickened his pace, dashing over to the man despite Dean’s protestations from behind him.

“Sam? Sam, where are you going? Just wait, dammit!”

Sam ignored his brother as he hastened toward the stricken man, and it was only when he drew within a few feet of him that he realized, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, that he recognized him.

“Dad?”

Rushing to his father’s side, Sam collapsed to his knees, his hand ghosting first over the bruises purpling John’s throat and then over his cheek, raw and blistered from prolonged exposure to the sun. His wrists were chafed raw and bloody, and there was blood glistening in his hairline.

“Dad? Dad can you hear me?”

John flinched at Sam’s gentle touch, turning his head away from his son. “Get away from me, you evil son of a bitch,” he ground out through clenched teeth and cracked, parched lips. “You touch me again and I’ll kill you, I swear to God!”

It was Sam’s turn to flinch, rocking back on his heels as if his father had slapped him.

“Dad?” he whispered uncertainly. “Dad, it’s me, it’s Sam!”

Gotta be delirious, he told himself. Out here all this time…sunstroke…blood loss….

John’s eyes cracked open to tiny slits of brown, his face turning back in Sam’s direction even as his body appeared to cower away.

“Dad?”

John was looking right at him. “I’ll kill you. I swear I’ll kill you,” he growled.

“Dad…” Sam reached out a trembling hand, and John again whipped his face away. “Dad, it’s Sammy…”

John screwed his eyes and his mouth tightly shut and refused to look back at his youngest son, who rose shakily to his feet, taking a step away from his father’s battered form.

“Dean!” he called urgently over his shoulder. “Dean, get up here!”

But Dean was already there, heading toward Sam’s position at double time. “Dude, who were you talking to…?”

Dean stopped short as his eyes lit on the figure laid out like carrion on the scorching rocks, all color draining from his face as his lips appeared to fight to catch up with his brain. “Dad?” he whispered, feet not moving for a second. His eyes darted to Sam’s before he too was skidding onto his knees at his father’s side, his hand gently brushing the eldest Winchester’s forehead. “Dad? Dad, talk to me!”

Sam stood back and let his brother take over, hands clasped uselessly in front of him as if he didn’t know quite what to do with them. “I think he’s delirious…” he managed to croak out. “He didn’t—I don’t think he knew me…”

“Dad?” Dean was whispering in his father’s ear as if Sam hadn’t spoken. “Dad it’s Dean. Dad, look at me. Please? Dad?”

John’s head moved slightly, his eyes opening once again. “Dean?” he whispered, struggling to focus on his eldest son, a shadow of pain and anguish passing over his weathered features. “Dean, I’m sorry,” he croaked, his words broken and pained. “I’m so sorry…”

Dean continued to gently stroke his father’s brow, digging into his jeans pocket for the knife he kept there. “It’s okay, Dad. We’re gonna get you out of here,” he assured the older man. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Sam took a step toward his brother’s back, wringing his hands uncertainly. “He didn’t seem to know me, Dean,” he repeated, trying to look at his father over his brother’s shoulder. “It was as if—it was as if he was afraid of me…”

“Afraid of you?” Dean echoed, going to work on his father’s bindings with his pocket knife. “Why would he be afraid of you?”

“Oh, he has every reason to be afraid of Sam.”

Sam turned sharply at the sound of a voice behind him.

A familiar voice.

“Sam?” Dean stood, and was immediately at Sam’s shoulder, and Sam didn’t need to turn around to picture the expression on his brother’s face. Because he was pretty sure it was mirrored on his own.

“How—who—??”

The Sam Winchester standing in front of them seemed taller, bigger, his shoulders broader than Sam’s and his chest and arms more muscular. His hair was short and neat and he was dressed pretty much as Sam himself was, in jeans and a t-shirt, although he looked like he’d just wandered out from an air-conditioned penthouse where a martini was still waiting for him at the bar.

“Holy crap,” Dean muttered in Sam’s ear. “So much for paradox.”

“Nice to see you here, Sam,” the other Sam said, taking a step toward the Winchesters. “I thought you might show up eventually.”

Sam retreated a step, Dean’s hand suddenly on his bicep trying to pull his not-so-little brother behind him.

But Sam stood his ground, moving slightly in front of Dean, who virtually growled at him.

“Sam…”

“Did—did I—” Sam began to stammer, raising his chin a little. “Did you do this?”

Other Sam grinned horribly, spine straightening so that he seemed to grow at least another couple of inches taller. “He got in my way, Sammy,” he said, his eyes suddenly flashing yellow. “Just like Dean.”

Sam drew in a sharp breath as Dean’s fingers tightened on his arm.

The other Sam—yellow-eyed Sam—glanced lazily at the older brother, his grin widening into a sickening smirk. “Not you, big brother,” he said softly. “The other one. The Dean who belongs here. The Dean who belongs to me.”

“The one you tortured and killed,” John managed to rasp from behind them, and Sam’s knees nearly went right out from under him.

No, no, no… He wouldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. He’d never hurt Dean…never….

Yellow-eyed Sam laughed horribly, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that was sickeningly familiar. “Oh Sammy,” he taunted. “Look at you. So weak. So pathetic. What kind of pansy-ass reality are you feeble excuses for Winchesters from anyway?”

Dean lurched toward the other Sam, but his brother held him back.

“Dean, don’t—”

“Come on, Dean. Show me some of that Winchester spirit!”

“Oh, I’ll show you somethin’,” Dean spat. “How about my fist in your face for starters?”

Yellow-eyed Sam chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh Dean. I guess you’re the same in any reality. All mouth and nothing of substance underneath.” He took a step toward the brothers, and Sam instinctively shoved Dean back a step. “I’m going to squash you like a bug,” he continued, fiery eyes never leaving Dean’s. “Taste the iron in your blood. Just like my Dean. Oh we had such fun, he and I. Such good times. When I made him scream it was really kind of pitiful.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean growled, pushing against Sam’s restraining hand. “You’re not Sam! No matter what you think you are! Sam would never do this. Sam would never—”

“Oh but he would,” the yellow-eyed freak continued. “We’re the same person underneath everything, aren’t we, Sammy?”

Sam swallowed, trying to drag his voice up from somewhere near his feet. “I’m nothing like you,” he insisted. “I’d never do anything like this to my father, my—my family.”

The other Sam continued to smirk at them placidly. “Self-delusion is such a beautiful thing.”

“How the hell did you get like this?” Dean demanded, and Sam wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the answer to his brother’s question.

“Azazel,” yellow-eyed Sam replied helpfully. “He made me what I am today. What I was always meant to be.” He chuckled. “Demon blood. Better than mother’s milk.”

Sam couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Demon blood?

“You’re weak, Sammy,” the other Sam continued. “Look at you. Like a little puppy dog, following your big brother around on a leash. You always do what he tells you? Huh? Good little soldier? Just like him?”

“You don’t know anything about me—”

“I know you never built on the gift Azazel gave to you, to us. Demon blood. The drink of champions. One sip is all it takes. Just give in to it, let those switches flip in your brain. It’s amazing what you can accomplish. The power. The rush.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam burst out. “Demon blood? And who the hell is Azazel?”

“Haris,” John managed to choke out. “It’s another name for Haris.”

“That pipsqueak did this to you?” Dean burst out. “Aw man! And you call him weak?” He inclined his head in Sam’s direction.

“He gave me the greatest gift any father could bestow upon his son,” yellow-eyed Sam said, sounding almost defensive. “His blood runs through my veins. I might not be his actual progeny, but this is the closest a human can ever come to one so divine—”

“Haris—Azazel was a demon,” Dean pointed out. “Nothin’ divine about that freak o’ nature.”

“Azazel was one of the Fallen,” other Sam corrected him. “One of the Heavenly Host. And he saw fit to bleed into my mouth when I was six months old. He gave me this gift, this power…”

“He did what?” Sam burst out in horror. “He bled into your mouth?”

“That’s kinda disgusting, dude,” Dean added from behind him.

“Not to mention jacked,” Sam agreed. “That never happened! I don’t have demon blood in me! What the hell are you talking about?”

Yellow-eyed Sam tapped his lip with his index finger. “Interesting. How different our realities must be.”

“You’re a monster,” Sam spat. “That’s how different our realities must be! How could you have done this to your own father…?”

“He’s not my father,” the other Sam reminded him. “He’s your father. Mine died—well, he died some time ago. Burned to death. Just like Mom. If it hadn’t been for big brother here, I would have gone up in flames too.”

“And you repaid him by torturing him to death!” John spat, raising his head slightly from the rock, but just as quickly slamming it back down again.

“I got tired of his bleating,” other Sam informed them. “You can’t do that, Sammy, it’s wrong! Boy was I tired of hearing that by the time I was old enough to chain him to a wall in my basement! You know, sometimes I wish he’d actually let Child Services split us up.”

Sam tried to take a breath but his chest hurt. “How—how can you say that? If he saved your life…?”

“First time he saved me from the fire, he was just a scared kid. Took me out of the house like Dad told him to. End of story. Second time? Second time he wished he let me die. I didn’t owe him anything.”

Sam shook his head. “He was your brother!”

“Hey, he tried to kill me first,” yellow-eyed Sam informed them. “I just returned the favor.”

Sam shook his head. “You’re a sick freak,” he spat. “I’m nothing like you. I’ll never be anything like you!”

“Don’t be like that, Sammy! You might be from a different reality but we’re the same person deep down.”

“No,” Sam said, vehemently shaking his head. “No way. Azazel—Haris. He didn’t do the same thing to me that he did to you! I don’t have any demon blood in me! It’s the curse—the Winchester curse. That’s what makes me the way I am. It’s the universe balancing itself out! Cursed families given power to make up for the crimes of their ancestors. No demon blood involved!”

“That’s a nice story,” other Sam scoffed. “Who told you that one? Daddy? Well I guess whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“It’s the truth!” Sam spat, before repeating, “You don’t know anything about me. Or my reality!”

“But I know about your family. I know about your weakness. I know you’re not who you think you are, Sam.”

“That’s crap,” Dean put in. “Just because ole Yellow-Eyes screwed you over don’t mean he did the same thing to Sam.”

“Be quiet, Dean. I always said you talked too much.”

Yellow-eyed Sam raised his hand casually, and, acting on pure instinct Sam figured, Dean reached for his Colt, his fingers tightening around the handle just as the gun was wrestled from his grip and flung off the edge of the ridge.

“Sonofa—” Dean took a step forward, bringing the pocket knife he’d been using to saw through his father’s bonds up in front of him.

Yellow-eyed Sam raised an amused eyebrow as he made a tiny motion with his fingers, Dean suddenly flying through the air following the same trajectory as his gun.

He landed with a bone-jarring thud flat on his back right on the precipice of the ridge, one leg and one arm dangling precariously over the edge and the thirty foot drop straight down below.

“Dean!”

Sam took an anguished step toward where his brother lay motionless, cussing as he struggled to get back to his feet, or at least pull himself from the cliff edge.

“Can’t move, Sammy,” he managed to grit out to his brother. “Sick freak’s pinning me down!”

Yellow-eyed Sam smiled in self-satisfaction, his hand still slightly raised. “Just you and me now, Sammy.”

Sam balled his fists at his sides and took a threatening step toward his mirror image. “You let him go,” he growled menacingly. “Right now.”

“Or you’ll what?” the other Sam asked. “Emo me to death?” He twitched one finger as the sadistic smile slid further across his too-familiar features, and Dean suddenly started to scream, his whole body stiffening in obvious agony and his teeth clamped together against the pain. “Music to me ears,” yellow-eyed Sam continued. “It’s been such a long time since I made big brother scream like that. Makes me all nostalgic.”

Sam cast a helpless glance over at Dean’s writhing form before turning back to his double. “Stop,” he said quietly. “Please. Just stop.”

Yellow-eyed Sam raised his fist in front of him, casually squeezing it tighter as his eyes slid closed and Dean’s screams doubled in intensity.

“Dean!” Sam took a step toward his brother, away from the monster doing this to him, but suddenly faltered.

His brother was struggling to breathe, his screams cutting off into agonized gasps as he fought to take in air, while blood started to trickle from his nose and his mouth.

It was the cabin all over again, and Sam felt as helpless as he had then, as Haris had used his father’s meatsuit to rip Dean apart from the inside out.

“You son of a bitch, you let him go!” John suddenly yelled, some measure of strength and coherence returning to his voice.

Other Sam’s eyes snapped open at the interruption, the yellow irises flaming to gold, and he smiled sadistically as his fingers moved slightly in John’s direction, Sam’s father’s screams abruptly rending the air in concert with his brother’s.

“Who’d have thought I’d get to kill them both twice, huh?” yellow-eyed Sam gloated. “Must be my lucky day.”

Sam swallowed, trying not to listen to the screams of his family being torn to shreds. “I-I thought you said your father died in a fire?” he stammered.

“Oh he did,” other Sam confirmed. “But he might have survived if I hadn’t tied him up and poured gasoline on him first.”

Sam’s mouth opened and snapped shut again. “You—you killed your own father?”

Yellow-eyed Sam’s expression became wistful. “Oh, Dean tried to stop me. Ever the good little soldier. He was twelve when Daddy dearest told him he might have to kill me someday. If he couldn’t save me. Like I needed saving. He was too weak to do either himself, so he thought he’d offload it on his kid, his good son. His normal son. Mistake. He should have offed me as soon as he found out the truth, but he didn’t have the stones. Seemed surprised when I torched him as an eleventh birthday present to myself. Dean pulled me out of the house, of course, after I left Dad melting in the basement. Made all kinds of excuses for me—I was possessed, I wasn’t myself, it was an accident. Yeah. Dad accidentally got hit over the head with a shovel and tied up in the basement and I accidentally poured a can of gasoline all over him. And the matches? Well I don’t know how they got in my hands. Or how they got struck. Or how they got thrown at my dad. All an accident. That’s what he told Child Services. Not my fault. Please let us stay together, sir, he’s my brother. Yeah. He came to regret that one. Didn’t try to off me till I was twenty-two though. It was kinda funny he should wind up in the basement, just like Dad. Thought I’d take my time with him. Savor the moment. Or the years. My own private little chew toy, just waiting to be played with like a favorite puppy.”

“You—you kept him locked up for—for—”

Other Sam glanced theatrically at his watch. “Oh, about four years, give or take. Thought he’d leave me alone after I went off to Stanford, but no. He was always there. Hovering. Waiting to see if I went evil.”

“I guess he was right about that one.”

“Takes one to know one, Sammy.”

“I’m not evil,” Sam insisted. “And just because you killed your family doesn’t mean I’m just gonna let you kill mine.”

Sam wasn’t helpless.

He wasn’t helpless.

He knew things now he didn’t know back then, back at the cabin.

He could save Dean. He could save Dad. He just had to control it.

“Give it your best shot, Sammy,” other Sam taunted him, arms held wide. “Let’s see whatcha got.”

Sam gritted his teeth. He was pissed and he was scared and he was pretty damn well freaked out of his brain, but his brother and his dad were in danger, and he was not going to let this freak of nature—this freak of nature with his face and his name—hurt them any more than he already had. Sam’s Dad and Dean weren’t going to be victims like this sicko, psycho, whacked out version of Sam’s Dad and Dean had been.

He took a step forward, slowing his breathing, relaxing his tense muscles.

“This is your last warning,” he said slowly, carefully, looking himself calmly in the eye. Yellow eyes. “Let my brother and my father go. Right now.”

Other Sam chuckled. “Please, Sammy. You think you can hurt me? You’re toothless. Helpless. Hopeless. If it’s true, if Azazel didn’t give you the gift of his blood when you were a baby, then you’re nothing, you’re powerless, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to save Dean, your dad, or yourself. You and your pitiful family were brought to my world for a reason, Sam. You were brought here so I could show you who Sam Winchester really is, who he was really meant to be.”

“I know who I was really meant to be,” Sam snarled, closing his eyes and concentrating. “You ever think maybe I was brought here to show you who Sam Winchester really is?”

He could do this. He could control it. It didn’t have to control him, not the way it always had before. It didn’t have to be instinctive, it didn’t have to be a freak adrenaline thing.

Sam’s “gift” wasn’t going to own him the way this other Sam’s “gift” had taken control and twisted him beyond recognition.

He gritted his teeth, tried to feel it, tried to feel the power he knew he had within him. But all he could feel was a mind-numbing pain in his chest and as he heard Dean gasping for breath behind him, he knew he was feeling what his brother was feeling, his brother’s agony.

No, no, no… It was too much, he couldn’t concentrate, all he could feel was how much Dean was hurting, the fire in his chest and his head and—and—then he could feel something deeper, something darker, the power behind the pain, the power that was causing it. That other Sam’s fist held in front of him, hammering his brother down into the ground and crushing his chest. It was like fire thrumming through his veins, the taint of it, the corruption of it. The power of it. Demon blood, coursing through him, black and malevolent and so, so intoxicating he almost… almost….

It’s not going to own me. This is not who I’m supposed to be.

He felt dizzy and nauseous, and could sense the world spinning around him even as he held perfectly still. It wasn’t going to own him. It wasn’t going to control him. He was the one in control. He was the one who was going to save his family. He could feel it all at his fingertips, power and knowledge beyond anything he’d experienced, and as that yellow-eyed freak had said before, it was an incredible rush, such a rush and he could own it, it could be his. Everything could be his.

There was a rushing in his ears, like water, like fire, and screaming. He could hear screaming. His dad. Dean.

This wasn’t him. This wasn’t who he was. This wasn’t who he was meant to be.

He was good. He was kind. He was powerful.

He was a mirror.

There was another scream, different. Not Dad, not Dean.

Sam could hear himself screaming.

Except he wasn’t making a sound.

Cracking open one eye, he saw the other Sam fall to his knees, his hands clutching at his head in obvious agony. He was looking at Sam with a question in his eyes, his yellow eyes, his mouth slightly open in surprise.

“How did you…?”

“This is what I was always meant to be,” Sam told him, reflecting his double’s demonic power back against him, just as he had with Lucifer, with Mia, with Alyssa and with those demons in Elko. “This is who Sam Winchester really is.”

It felt almost like it had back at Mount Diablo, when he’d felt Gudrun’s energy mixing with his own, thrumming through his body, using him as a conduit. Almost. But not quite. Because it felt different this time. Back then, he could feel Gudrun’s power as a separate entity, something that was his to use but not his. This time? This time it felt different, as if this other Sam, this monstrous, twisted, tainted Sam, this Sam’s power wasn’t something alien to him, something that belonged to someone else that he was just reflecting or borrowing or augmenting within himself. This power, the power coursing through his veins, this power felt like his power, like something that belonged to him and him only.

And he had never felt so strong or so in control of it before.

“Stop!” the other Sam begged, still clutching at his head. “What are you doing? How are you doing this?”

“So I’m powerless, huh?” Sam almost smiled as the screaming in his ears abated, and he could feel Dean breathing, could feel the air being drawn into his lungs, the steady rise and fall of his chest and the beating of his heart.

“You can’t be doing this! You can’t!”

The other Sam screamed and screwed his eyes closed as Sam balled his fist in front of him and squeezed.

“No!”

And when his eyes reopened, wide and terrified, they were no longer yellow.

And he was laughing.

“That’s it, Sammy,” he crowed. “Yellow suits you! Look how pretty your eyes are now!”

“Sam, no!”

Sam distantly heard his father scream at him, even as he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the face of the watch on his raised arm.

Yellow eyes.

He had yellow eyes.

The other Sam was laughing so hard he was choking on his own blood.

Or maybe that was just what Sam had done to him.

“I’m nothing like you!” Sam yelled, again balling his fist, just as the other Sam had when he had been torturing Dean and his father, and again his mirror image cried out in anguish, blood running from his mouth and his nose and his all-too-hazel eyes.

“We’re the same, Sammy. You just won’t admit it!”

“No!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sensed movement.

Dean was on his feet. He was unsteady and his body swayed precariously, but he was moving, heading over toward their father as Sam distracted the other Sam, the one who had been pinning his brother to the cliff edge.

Dean still had his pocket knife clutched in his hand and began to hack at the ropes restraining John, and, as Sam watched him, his concentration was momentarily distracted from the battle at hand as his brother triumphantly freed their father and tried to get him to his feet.

But John was beat all to hell and could barely move, and all Sam wanted to do was go to him, help his brother, get them to safety.

And that was when he felt it, a constriction about his throat, and as he turned his attention back to his double, he again caught a glimpse of his reflection, the yellow flickering out of his eyes even as that other Sam clambered back to his feet and drew himself up to his full, admittedly impressive height, eyes once again as yellow as sulfur.

“Nearly had me there, Sammy,” yellow-eyed Sam growled. “Nice try though. Maybe in the next life.”

Sam grunted as he suddenly felt as if his windpipe was being crushed, the other Sam once again smiling sadistically as he squeezed his fist tight.

This time, it was Sam who collapsed to his knees, his hands about his throat as he struggled to draw in air. He felt as if every inch of him was on fire, as if he was burning up from the outside in.

“This is how it was for Mommy,” yellow-eyed Sam taunted, taking a step toward him. “For Jess.”

Sam tried to fight back, tried to concentrate, to once again feel the other Sam’s power flowing through him. But he’d lost it, he’d lost the control he’d established, if only briefly, if only for long enough to free his brother and his father. The mirroring wasn’t working, he couldn’t do it anymore, and Sam knew he was going to die here.

And if he died, Dean and Dad died with him.

He managed to open his pain-filled eyes long enough to turn his gaze up to his alter ego, standing there smiling as he choked the life out of him with a flick of his wrist. There was pure evil reflected in his flame-colored irises. And it was terrifying.

“Take it like a man, Sammy,” other Sam crowed. “It’s not your fault you’re inferior. It’s not your fault you can only borrow other people’s power. It’s not your fault you’re going to die here, and that when I’m done with you I’m going to dissect your father and your brother and burn their entrails while they watch.”

“Nice image. Anyone ever tell you you’re one sick puppy?”

Sam looked up at the sound of his brother’s voice, the other Sam barely having time to turn before Dean had produced the feather from his jeans pocket and rammed it into the back of his brother’s double’s neck.

Other Sam virtually howled in agony, once again falling to his knees as the weeping tip of the remnant bled into his body. Almost immediately, his skin became ashen and his body rigid, while his eyes were obsidian pools of nothing and the veins stood out black on his face, his neck, his hands and his arms.

Sam vividly remembered the fate of the demons under Mount Diablo, the ones Dean had killed with the feather, the way they had exploded into ash.

“Sam, why’s he not dyin’?” Dean demanded, pulling the feather from the copy of his brother and taking a step back.

It was the demon blood in the other Sam’s veins. The demon blood was turning to ash.

Sam dragged in a ragged breath. “Because he’s not a demon,” he explained. “Only the blood inside of him is demonic. That’s the only part the feather can destroy.”

And even as the other Sam screamed, he began to laugh maniacally. “He shoots, he misses!” he yelled, the color gradually returning to his face and his eyes. Yellow eyes. Always yellow. “You can’t kill me, Sammy,” he growled, breathing hard as he rose shakily to his feet. “And I might not be able to kill you.” He glanced dismissively over his shoulder at Dean and smiled mirthlessly. “But I can kill him.”

“No—!”

Even as Sam lunged toward his brother, Dean was flung backwards and up, held frozen in midair by the power of yellow-eyed Sam’s will, exactly as he had been when Lucifer had dangled him over the Hellgate in Leicester. Except this time, Dean was kicking wildly and clawing at his throat as his airway constricted.

Other Sam was grinning maniacally, although it was pretty clear to Sam that his power was beginning to wane along with the demon blood now neutralized in his veins. It was only a little tremble of his hand that gave him away, the flicker of hazel in his eyes, the choppiness of his breathing.

“This is how it works, Sammy,” he nevertheless crowed, as if nothing was wrong and he was as strong as he had always been. “This is how our family dies.”

Sam snorted derisively as he began to feel the more familiar thrum of his own power tingling inside of him at the sight of Dean held there, helpless. “Not today,” he said. “And not because of you. You really don’t know anything about me, do you? What makes me tick? What pushes my buttons? What really pisses me off? Like someone trying to hurt my family, my brother. That makes me angry. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

The grin on the other Sam’s face faltered, even as the yellow began to drain from his eyes and his knees started to buckle.

The instinct to protect his loved ones, to protect Dean, had always been the trigger, had always been what kicked Sam’s mirroring power into high gear, even before he knew what it was that was happening to him and had no idea how to control it.

And he could feel it now, feel it like a living thing, something inside of him that he could take hold of and wield as he saw fit, bolstered and amplified by the reflected power of the other Sam’s demon blood still thrumming in his veins.

His hand spasmed, and the other Sam’s eyes widened in shocked surprise as he was driven to his knees once more while Dean was dropped unceremoniously to the floor, choking and hacking, but breathing and most definitely still alive.

“My family are going to survive, you sadistic little freak,” Sam spat, his fingers once again tightening into a fist. “I can’t say the same for you.”

He could feel himself choking the life out of the other Sam, almost as if he was outside of his body, an observer watching a battle in which he had no part. He could feel it, could feel his double’s chest constricting as he fought for air that was forever to be denied him.

And he enjoyed it.

Sam enjoyed it, and he reveled in his enemy’s pain.

Other Sam doubled over, his hands scrabbling at his throat, before he finally keeled over onto his side, his eyes wide and never leaving Sam’s.

“I’m nothing like you,” Sam repeated, striding over to his duplicate. “I’m never going to be like you. I’m not a monster.”

“Don’t be so sure, Sammy,” the other Sam gasped, his body twitching helplessly on the rocky ground. “Don’t be so sure.”

He dragged in one final breath, hazel eyes locked with Sam’s before the light was finally extinguished from them completely.

And Sam was left gazing down at his own face staring up at him in death.

There was a terrible silence when all Sam could hear was the sound of his own heart hammering against his ribcage.

Dean had somehow managed to struggle to his feet, and was just staring at him.

“S-Sammy?” he managed, his voice distinctly shaky.

Sam couldn’t even bring himself to look at his brother, all he could do was continue to stare into his own dead eyes.

And then the ground began to shake.

Sam looked up sharply, at first believing it to be an earthquake, Mount Diablo all over again.

But then there was a sudden, ear-shattering crack of thunder, and lightning spiking down from a cloudless blue sky, and Sam knew this wasn’t an earthquake, wasn’t a thunderstorm, wasn’t anything that could ever be explained in nature.

Because the sky had inexplicably turned blood red, and as lightning lit up the desert for miles around and thunder shook the parched ground, the sky itself seemed to split open just as the ground beneath them did the same, the ridge on which they were standing beginning to fracture into smaller pieces as the sky was torn apart above their heads.

“Sam!” Dean was yelling as the ground began to crumble between them. “Sam, what the hell’s happening?”

Sam was thrown to his knees as the rock beneath him lurched and bucked, Dean falling backwards as the chasm widened between them.

Physical contact. Sam remembered how he’d held on to Dean’s wrist during their last shift into this reality, how keeping hold of him had kept them together.

But he was getting further and further away.

“Dean!”

Sam struggled to his feet, the world rocking and swaying as a black tear opened up like a hungry mouth in the sky above them and the ground continued to shake itself apart.

Dean was on his feet again, looking across at Sam, looking over his shoulder at his father, who was still collapsed on the ground near the makeshift crucifix, and he clearly didn’t know which way to go, which direction to take. Who to save.

“Dean, don’t move!” Sam yelled, as if reading his brother’s mind, stepping back before taking a running jump at the chasm separating them, the chasm into which the body of his double was slipping, falling into an abyss even deeper than the blackness inside his own soul.

Sam swallowed and tried not to dwell on the symbolism, instead leaping over the gulf between himself and his brother and abruptly grabbing Dean’s arm so hard the older man actually yelped in surprised pain.

“Sammy, what the hell…?”

“Not this time,” Sam interrupted. “It’s not Hell this time, Dean! Paradox! It’s paradox!”

Dean paused for a second before nodding slowly. “You just killed yourself.”

Sam twitched his head in agreement. “It’s like Ash said,” he confirmed. “About how the universe is trying to avoid paradox at all costs, bouncing us around from reality to reality until it puts us back where we belong. You meeting yourself created a paradox and you were yanked off to another reality. How the hell does the universe deal with this, how does it fix this?”

“By destroying this reality,” Dean murmured. “That’s the only way it can deal with the paradox.”

Sam nodded urgently. “And if this reality’s destroyed while we’re still in it…”

“We have to go,” Dean said shortly. “Now!”

Just then an even louder crack of thunder resounded around them, a bright flash of lightning shorting out Sam’s vision almost as it had when he’d been pulled into a different reality. Except this time, Sam knew he wasn’t going anywhere, that he was still stuck in a world tearing itself apart, and he had no idea how to get his family back where they belonged.

“Sam!” Dean was suddenly yelling in his ear. “Sam, look!”

Sam opened his eyes hesitantly, his gaze following the direction of Dean’s pointing finger to the far end of the ridge, where the light seemed to dance and swirl into a pattern that didn’t seem so random, seemed somehow familiar, solid, real…

“Stull church,” Sam breathed, barely able to believe it even as he said the words, even as the old stone building flickered in and out of existence in the lightning like a projection in a magic lantern, resolving into something solid and present and there, impossibly, in the middle of the desert, in the middle of this reality, where it had absolutely no right to be.

“It’s—it’s the barrier,” Dean stammered. “The—the veil between realities. That’s what Ash called it, right? Maybe it’s breaking down. As this reality destroys itself. Maybe—”

“It’s showing us the way home,” Sam agreed, nodding. “We’ve got to go. Before the universe changes its mind!”

He tugged insistently at Dean’s arm, but his brother resisted.

“Dad! We gotta get Dad!”

The brothers turned back in the direction they’d last seen their father, John Winchester curled into a ball on his side, unable to move, unable to stand, unable to do anything but cling to the rattling earth and try not to be dragged down into one of the massive chasms fracturing the ground on all sides of him.

“Dad, no…” Dean tried to pull away from Sam, even as the rift between the boys and their father grew wider and wider.

“Dean, we can’t—”

“Yes we can,” Dean insisted through gritted teeth. “I can make it—”

“Dean, you can’t, you’ll kill yourself!”

Dean scowled at his brother. “I’m not leaving him!”

“Dean, it’s too far—”

And it was. Sam knew as surely as he knew the flickering church was their only way out of here that the gap between them and their father was simply too wide for them to jump.

But that didn’t stop Dean trying.

Yanking his arm free of Sam’s iron grip, Dean turned and ran full tilt at the massive fracture yawning wider and wider between himself and his dad, and Sam knew that even if by some miracle he managed to jump the chasm between them, he wouldn’t be able to get back. He’d die here. Dean would die here with their dad, their dad who could barely even move, much less leap a steadily widening canyon.

And Sam knew he couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t lose his brother. He couldn’t lose them both.

He couldn’t do this alone.

“Dad!”

Dean had reached the edge of the gulf, his leg muscles contracting as they prepared to launch him into the abyss and then… Then he stopped. He just stopped, his body frozen mid-run, arms splayed to the sides, legs slightly bent.

He had his back to Sam, was facing their father, so he couldn’t see the hand his little brother had raised in front of him, didn’t know that the reflected power of the other Sam still thrumming in the younger Winchester’s veins was what had stopped him in his tracks, was holding him immobile, like a bug pinned to a board.

Dean couldn’t see that he was unable to move because Sam wouldn’t let him.

But John could.

Their eyes met for the briefest of instants, and Sam saw reflected in those deep brown depths the truth of it: that John could see the writing on the wall as clearly as Sam could, even if Dean remained deliberately blind to reality.

“Dad!” Dean was screaming across the gulf, clearly perturbed by his sudden inability to move and the fact that the world was still tearing itself apart around him while he couldn’t lift a finger to stop it, to escape, to save his father, to do anything, and Sam almost released his hold on him. Almost.

“It’s alright, son,” John managed to shout back, raising his head from the trembling ground. “It’s going to be alright. I’ll be okay. But you have to go. You have to leave me here!”

“No!” Dean screamed back, and Sam could see him desperately trying to break free of the grip he had on him, struggling and fighting with every ounce of strength he had left. “Dad! I’m not leaving without you!”

“You’ll die, Dean! You’ll both die!”

“Dad, no, I can’t…!”

John pulled himself up into a slumped position, his eyes fixing on his eldest son as he drew in a difficult breath. “Take your brother and run!” he screamed. “Now, Dean! Go!”

“Dad…”

“That’s an order, son!”

Sam lowered his hand, and although he knew Dean was able to move again, for a split second his older brother didn’t.

“Dad, no…”

And then Sam could feel it, that familiar pull on his shoulders, something dragging him into another reality just as the door to his own world was right there in front of him, right there within his grasp.

He didn’t know whether Dean and Dad felt the pull too, didn’t know whether they were about to be dragged off to God knows where to face God knows what, but he did know that if he didn’t get to Dean, if he didn’t grab hold of his brother right now, he was going to lose him too, and neither of them would ever get home.

Decision made, he sprinted toward his brother, grabbing both his arms and yanking him forcibly away from the chasm, away from their father.

“No, Sam, we can’t…!” Dean protested angrily. “We can’t leave him here!”

“Dean, we’ve got to!” Sam yelled back over the roaring wind and the rumbling thunder. “We’ve got to! We can’t help him if we’re dead!”

“Sam, no,” Dean insisted, trying to shake himself loose from his brother. “We’ve got to try! We’ve got to try, Sammy!”

“Dean, go!” John shouted again, raising himself up a little further.

“Dad—”

John switched his attention from his eldest to his youngest, desperation in his eyes. “Sam—”

A slight nod was the only acknowledgement Sam gave to his father’s unspoken order, roughly reaffirming his grip on Dean’s arms and literally dragging him away from the chasm and toward the image of the church, which was still flickering in and out of existence, but seemed to be solidifying the more this reality tore itself apart.

Dean tried to put up a fight, and from the expression on his face, Sam was pretty sure he was in for the ass-kicking of his life when they got wherever they were going, but he still had yellow-eyed Sam’s power inside of him, and on this occasion he had the physical advantage over his brother. He was stronger, he was bigger, he hadn’t recently been almost ripped apart by demon blood-induced psychic power; and he was every bit as determined as Dean.

Dean virtually growled at him as he finally gave in, allowing Sam to half-push, half-drag him toward the church, which had now solidified to the point of actually looking like it might lead somewhere rather than merely tempting them to throw themselves off the edge of a cliff.

Reaching out, Sam grabbed the iron handle, twisting hard and roughly yanking open the rickety-looking wooden door before bundling his brother inside.

“Sam—” he heard Dean murmur, all the fight drained from him, his shoulders slumping and his body going limp in Sam’s grip as his eyes drifted back toward the closed door, back toward the direction of their father.

“I know, Dean,” Sam returned. “I know.”

And he pulled his brother to him, kept his desperate hold on him, even as the church in which they once again found themselves standing began to rattle from its very foundations and the world faded out to white.

* * * *

When Sam could see again, when the roaring of the thunder and the shaking of the ground and the flashing of the lightning were gone and all that was left was blue sky and distant birdsong, he sat up.

He was breathing hard, his head pounding and his eyes stinging, and not from the bright light or the dust or the debris.

He drew the back of his hand across his face before blinking into the sunshine.

Stull cemetery stretched out around him, gravestones silently watching as he dragged himself up into a sitting position.

The church had gone.

It was the middle of the day.

And Dean was by his side.

* * * *

The Impala’s hood was warm from the sunshine as Dean stretched out with his back against the windshield.

Ordinarily he would have regarded any such show of disrespect toward his baby as sacrilege, but right now warmth and comfort and anything that reminded him he was finally home were only too welcome as he stared at the place where Stull church had been only a half hour earlier.

He’d not moved from this spot since he’d found the old girl, sitting here waiting for him exactly as he’d left her, that tiny speck of a dent in the driver’s side door—still waiting to be straightened out when he got the time—the most beautiful thing Dean thought he’d ever seen.

Home.

And yet not.

Because Dad wasn’t here with him.

Dad was gone.

Lost.

And Sam was shying away from him, guilt, anger, frustration, loss and real fear practically written in neon all over his face.

Right now he was pacing up and down the gravel pathway, shoulders hunched as he spoke quietly into his phone. He was talking to Bobby, Dean could tell from his body language and the soft tone of his voice, even though he couldn’t hear any of the conversation. If it had been Dad on the other end of the phone, Sam’s back would have been curtain rod straight and his tone would have been defensive, argumentative, looking for a fight.

But it wasn’t Dad on the phone.

Dean knew it wasn’t Dad on the phone.

“There’s no army,” Sam said quietly, pocketing his phone and approaching the Impala with his eyes still lowered to the ground, almost as if he couldn’t bring himself to meet Dean’s gaze. “Bobby says everything’s quiet. If Lucifer’s troops really did escape through the gateway, then they’re lying low.”

Dean nodded, turning his face up to the sun and closing his eyes. “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better,” he said quietly.

“And get this,” Sam added, and Dean could hear his footsteps crunching on the gravel, sense him coming closer, hear him stop in front of the Impala, stop and wait, as if he daren’t approach any further. “There really is an Ellen Harvelle. And she really does run a hunters’ roadhouse in Nebraska. Although in this reality her husband Bill’s dead and her daughter Jo is away at college. There was a fire a couple years back. The roadhouse burned down to the ground but they rebuilt. Ash survived. He was in the basement, buried under the rubble. He’d traded out his wristwatch for some hunter’s old ham radio, and when they found that guy dead in the ruins of the roadhouse, they stopped looking for Ash, thinking it was him. He was buried there three days before they found him.”

Sam was talking for the sake of talking. Avoidance. Sam had accused Dean of the same thing many a time.

Dean sighed softly. “How could you make me leave him there, Sammy?” he asked quietly, eyes still closed, face still turned up to the sun even though he knew he’d burn if he stayed like that too long.

He heard Sam draw in a sharp breath. “Dean. His legs were messed up. He couldn’t have jumped that chasm, even if you’d—”

“Sam.”

He could hear Sam’s breathing. Hear him run his fingers through his hair.

“It was you who stopped me, right? You stopped me getting to Dad.”

He sat up, opening his eyes and looking at his little brother who shifted from foot to foot, eyes still averted to the ground.

“Dean—”

“You stopped me from moving. Stopped me from trying to help him. Just like that other Sam.”

Sam looked up sharply. “No!” he burst out quickly, finally meeting Dean’s even gaze. “No, Dean, no! No. Not like him. Never—I didn’t—I didn’t want—” Sam scrubbed both his hands over his face, shaking his head before uncovering his eyes. “Dean, I’m sorry,” he managed to mumble softly. “I’d never hurt you. You know that, right? And I didn’t mean to—to do that to you. It’s just—it’s just I’d—” He took a breath, shoulders slumping. “I’d have lost you both. And I—I couldn’t live with that.”

Dean made no reply, his own gaze flittering off toward the distant shrubbery, the broken down family crypt half-collapsed under a listing oak tree, the makeshift fence screening the cemetery from the road. Anywhere but at his brother.

“We’ll get him back, Dean,” Sam was saying, but all Dean heard was six-year-old Sammy’s voice echoing in his head, I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry. I should have let you have the last bowl of Lucky Charms… “Dean? Are you listening? When the gateway opens again—we’ll get him back. Its five months, man. We’ll get him back. I promise. Dean?”

“You know what day it is, Sammy?” Dean asked quietly, eyes finally returning to his brother’s stricken face. “It’s November 2nd.” He shook his head sadly, once again averting his gaze as he picked at a loose thread in the thigh of his jeans that would soon become a hole. “Mom. Jessica. Now Dad—”

“Dad’s not dead, Dean,” Sam insisted sharply. “He’s not dead.”

“We don’t know that.”

“No we don’t,” Sam agreed, taking a step closer, his knees only a few inches from the Impala’s hood and Dean’s booted feet. “But I’m going to believe he’s alive because I can’t think about him any other way. He’s alive and he’s going to stay that way for the five months until we can get him out.” A subdued chuckle caused Dean to look up sharply. “Or until he busts out of there himself.”

Dean’s mouth quirked slightly to one side. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like the sort of thing he’d do.”

Sam nodded. “Damn straight.”

There was hope in Sam’s eyes. Hope and fear. And guilt. And Dean couldn’t look at him for a second.

“What if he bounces around realities until he falls into Hell, Sammy?” His voice sounded tiny and broken and he hated that. “Huh? What then?”

Sam paused for longer than he probably should have. “If anyone can survive Hell, it’s Dad.” He scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the gravel, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders raised stiffly as his eyes trailed the movement of his foot.

“Sammy.”

Dean was an idiot.

Here he was, so worried about his dad, so wrapped up in his own sense of failure and guilt that he’d not even considered how his little brother was feeling.

His little brother who’d just run into a demonic evil twin of himself.

His little brother who had just used that evil twin’s power not only to kill a copy of himself, but also to paralyze his older brother so he wouldn’t run off on a fool’s errand to try and save their dad, thus leaving their dad to die or fall into Hell or possibly a combination of the two.

Yeah, Sam’s day was going so much better than Dean’s.

And Dean was beginning to realize there was a hell of a lot more freaking Sam out than simple guilt and worry.

“Sammy, you’re not evil.”

Sam didn’t look up, just continued to follow the motion of his foot with downcast eyes.

Dean patted the hood next to him, motioning with his head toward the warm metal, and Sam finally lifted his gaze back up from the gravel, still ducking his head slightly and only looking at Dean through lowered lashes. “C’mon, Sammy,” Dean cajoled. “My baby’s warm and inviting and you might never get this offer again.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change much, but his shoulders sagged a little with released tension as he withdrew his hands from his pockets and ran one finger over the Impala’s hood.

Dean scooted forward, resting his heels on the fender before once again patting the warm black metal by his side.

Blowing out a slow breath, Sam gingerly pushed himself up onto the hood, mirroring Dean’s posture so that his left knee was brushing against Dean’s right.

Neither of them said much for a while, both staring off into the distance at the wide swathe of overgrown grass where Stull church had once stood, each lost in his own thoughts.

And that was the problem, Dean reflected, annoyed at himself. Some big brother he was. Sam was kind of falling apart here and Dean hadn’t even noticed.

“That freak isn’t you, Sammy,” he reiterated finally, rubbing at a warm, smooth spot on the Impala’s hood with his thumb. “You’re never gonna be anything like him. Sure, you’re annoying as hell, but you’re not a power crazed dick.”

Sam choked back a wet chuckle, rubbing his fingers across shiny eyes. “Thanks,” he said shakily, a weak smile tugging at his lips before fleeing his face almost immediately. He drew in a jerky breath before continuing. “What if what he said is true, Dean? That yellow-eyed freak? What if what he said is true for all of us—every Sam Winchester in every reality?”

Dean frowned. “Sam—”

“What if that’s what Haris was doing in my nursery all those years ago?” Sam blurted. “What if I really do have demon blood in me and it’s not the family curse making me the way I am? What if—what if the curse accounts for the death visions, but the whole mirroring thing comes from somewhere else? Something else. Something evil—”

“Sam, if that assclown Haris had anything to do with the weirdo psychic mojo thing you got goin’ on in that humungous brain o’ yours, don’t you think he’d have been crowing about it at every opportunity before we smoked his egotistical ass? C’mon, man, you ever met anyone liked the sound of his own voice like that pinhead?”

Sam shook his head slowly as he chewed nervously on a thumbnail, puppy dog eyes almost brimming over with tears he was obviously trying really hard not to shed.

And Dean immediately felt some of the anger he’d been feeling toward his little brother—for holding him immobile on that cliff edge, for stopping him from getting to his dad, for saving your worthless life, numbnuts—evaporate, the Big Brother Protection Mode switch flipping into the well and truly “On” position as he laid a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“You’re not going to go evil, Sam,” he repeated, steel tempering every word so even he was starting to believe it. “I won’t let you.”

Sam looked up at him, blinking hard, but ultimately failing in his attempt not to tear up in front of his big brother. “You can’t be sure, Dean. You heard what he said. You saw what I saw—all those other realities, all those other Sam and Dean Winchesters. It ended badly. In every version of our lives we visited. You can’t tell me it’s gonna be okay, Dean. You can’t tell me you won’t let me go evil—”

“I won’t, Sam—”

“No, Dean. I need more than that. I need you to promise me. Promise me, Dean. Don’t let me turn into something I’m not. Promise me you’ll end me before you’ll let that happen.”

Dean blinked at him, his chest constricting in much the same way as it had when that other Sam had been crushing the life out of him while dangling him in mid-air like some worthless rag doll. “I can’t, Sam,” he managed to croak out. “I can’t promise you that. Don’t you ask me to do that.”

“Dean, I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to end up like him. I don’t want to go evil like that!”

“Exactly, Sam,” Dean seized on Sam’s words, squeezing his brother’s shoulder a little harder for emphasis. “You don’t want to go evil. You, Sammy. You don’t need me to promise you anything. Sure, I won’t see you go evil, I won’t, Sam, but you have a much bigger say in this than I do. If you don’t want to go evil, then what makes you think you’ll go evil? You’re stronger than that, Sam! You’re stronger than that yellow-eyed a-hole with delusions of grandeur and lousy taste in evil one-liners. Sammy. This is your life, man, your choice. No one goes evil overnight and no one goes evil just because of bad things that happened to them in the past—‘I had bad parents,’ ‘I had a terrible upbringing,’ ‘I was bullied at school,’ ‘my mom made me eat broccoli,’ ‘I have demon blood in my veins.’ Sure, everyone’s capable of evil. Everyone. But it’s the choices we make that matter—whether to act on the impulse to commit evil or whether to fight it. And you’re a fighter, Sammy! You’re not evil. Just like you told that stupid, tall, gangly, sulfur-eyed, girlie-haired freakshow back there. Sure, you’re a whiny little bitch sometimes, but you’re not evil.”

Sam laughed again, snuffling and wiping at his reddened eyes.

“Believe me, kiddo,” Dean continued. “You’re never gonna go Darkside. Not because of me. Not because of Dad. Not because of Haris or Lucifer. But because of you. You don’t have it in you, Sam, and you would never let it happen. Me?” He shrugged dismissively. “I’m just the catcher, man, the guy who’s standing behind you if you miss a swing at the ball. That’s the difference between us and all those other Sams and Deans we’ve seen the last couple days. Sure, they ended badly—you dead, me dead, everybody else dead, yada yada yada. But here’s the difference, Sammy, and you can call me a girl for sayin’ this, I’ll probably even agree with you when I’ve had time to think about it. Sammy, they didn’t have each other! That’s the difference, man! In every reality we visited, that Sam and Dean had drifted apart, or fallen out, or plain just weren’t there for each other, weren’t there to back each other up. And we’ve seen it in our reality too, right? When we split up, when we fight, when we’re not there watching each other’s backs? Bad things happen.” He straightened, ducking his head slightly so he was looking Sam right in the eyes. “Well that’s not going to happen again. Right? We’re not gonna end up like all those other losers in all those other realities, Sam. ’Cause we’ve got each other. Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you while I’m around. And nothing bad’s gonna happen to me while you’re around. You got me?”

Sam sniffed, nodding slightly as he met Dean’s determined gazed with red-rimmed eyes. “That’s why I couldn’t let you stay there, Dean,” he said thickly, he voice trembling and breathy. “That’s why I couldn’t let you stay with Dad.”

Dean nodded. “I know, Sammy. I know you were only watching my back.” He cupped the back of his little brother’s neck with one firm hand. “You did the right thing, Sam. Stopping me. Bringing me back here. I’d probably be dead or lost or—or wherever Dad is right now if you hadn’t done what you did. I’m not blaming you for what happened to him, okay? I want you to know that.”

Sam shrugged. “Still. I shouldn’t have done what I did, Dean. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have used my—his—powers on you like that. You’re saying I won’t go evil because I have a choice not to? Well I took away your choice, Dean. Your choice to try and save Dad. I took that away from you because I—because I was scared of losing you. And that was wrong of me. And selfish. And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Dean.”

Sam hung his head slightly, and Dean tightened his grip on the back of his neck.

“Sam, you weren’t selfish, okay? And you weren’t wrong. You saved my life, man. I’m grateful. I am.” Sam took another shuddering breath, and Dean tilted back the younger man’s head, forcing him to look up. “Sam? C’mon, man. Spill it. Somethin’ else is buggin’ you.”

Sam blinked wet eyes at his brother, before once again looking away.

“Sam.”

“Dean, are you—” Sam stuttered to a halt, his breath hitching on a tired sigh as he dragged a hand across his face. “Are you afraid of me now?”

It was Dean’s turn to blink, the sheer randomness of his brother’s question coming right out of left field and smacking him squarely between the eyes. “Am I—what?”

Sam was looking up at him again, eyes liquid and desperate. “What I did to you… I violated your trust, Dean. I used my stupid, freaky, psychic whatever on you. Against you. How—how can you trust me now? How can you ever trust me again?”

“Sam.” Dean blew out a breath. “I just got through reminding you, you just saved my life, doofus! I need to remind you again? Of course I trust you! More than anyone on the planet, in this reality or any other! I trust you with my life man! And of course I’m not afraid of you! Sometimes…well sometimes I’m afraid for you—this thing you can do. But that’s not the same thing. Y’know, it’s just sometimes it feels like you have a big neon ‘evil things please kick me’ sign on your back, Sammy. But that’s not your fault—”

“Dean, I just used my power—that yellow-eyed freak’s power—to stop you saving Dad from—well maybe from Hell, and now he’s missing and it’s all my fault, and I’m going to go evil like that sonofabitch who just tried to eviscerate you, who tortured and killed his own version of you, who tried to kill Dad, our dad, and I’m going to go evil like that and I’m going to end up hurting you and I don’t want to hurt you, Dean, and I don’t want to go evil and I don’t know what to do to stop it, I don’t know what to do about any of it, and—”

Sam finally paused for breath when Dean thrust the feather into his hand.

And then Sam stopped breathing altogether.

“It’s okay, Sammy.”

“Dean…” Sam’s eyes widened in alarm. “Dean, I never touched this thing before. What if—”

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean repeated, curling his brother’s fingers over the ancient remnant. “It’s okay. You’re not evil. It’s not going to hurt you.”

Dean wasn’t sure whether either of them breathed for a second, as both of them waited to see whether the feather reacted to Sam’s proximity.

“You’re a good person, Sam,” Dean continued, his hands clasping his brother’s. “I know that. You know that. And the feather knows that too.”

Uncurling his and Sam’s fingers, the brothers peered down at the remnant.

There was no blood. Sam’s hand was the same healthy pink it had been before Dean had thrust a demon-killing angel feather into it. There was no ash. No screaming.

Just a faint glow.

“See?” Dean said, smiling broadly. “I told you. You’re not evil, Sam. You’re not demonic. You’re just my pain in the ass little brother.”

Sam choked out a strangled half-sob, releasing a breath he’d been holding for too long. “It glowed like this before, right?” he asked softly.

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Back at Mount Diablo when it got near Gudrun.”

Sam frowned minutely, sniffing and trying to choke back tears that insisted on dribbling down his pale cheeks. “What does that mean? Dean? What does it mean?”

Dean shrugged. “It means that yellow-eyed psycho was wrong, Sam,” he said shortly. “It means you’re not a monster. It means there’s no demon blood in you, and not every Sam Winchester is the same as every other Sam Winchester in every reality.”

Sam nodded slowly. “You know,” he managed to croak, “I really ought to kick your ass, man.”

Dean drew away slightly, a look of mock offense crinkling his brow. “What’d I do?”

“Uh, you could have killed me with this thing, Dean!” Sam burst out.

“Nah,” Dean dismissed the idea. “I don’t have a lot of faith in much, Sammy, but one thing I do have faith in is you. I knew the feather’d fall for those big puppy dog eyes of yours.”

Sam swallowed, and Dean sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to start crying again.

“Yeah, I guess I’m just irresistible that way,” Sam agreed, smiling lopsidedly. “And, uh, Dean?”

“Huh?”

“You done holding my hand there?”

Dean glanced down at their still-entwined fingers, removing the feather from Sam’s palm and abruptly stuffing it back into his pocket before finally letting go of his kid brother’s hand. “Bitch.”

“Yeah, you know you love me.”

Dean abruptly swallowed the reply that almost made it to his lips, instead merely making a show of shoving his brother away before turning his attention back to the empty space where Stull church had once been.

“We’ll get him back, Dean,” Sam assured him quietly. “We will.”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean agreed with a sigh. “I know we will.”

* * * *

A lone figure stood, one foot casually resting on the plinth supporting a crumbling marble angel whose weathered, disfigured face peered out from the most secluded corner of Stull cemetery.

The name of the person whose grave this was had long since faded into distant memory, the engraving worn away by time and weather, the broken-down angel all that was left to remind the world that someone had once loved this human being enough to erect a monument in their name. A name now lost to the endless march of the centuries.

To one who had existed for millennia, one such as Lucifer, a century was merely the blink of an eye, an exhalation of breath; time had very little meaning to one who lived eternally.

Still, he would have preferred the Winchesters to stay lost in Stull’s revolving door to unreality just a little while longer.

He couldn’t deny his disappointment when the two young men currently perched on their environmentally questionable vehicle had emerged, dazed and confused, from the gateway’s elusive exit.

He had been watching them for several minutes now, just pondering how they had managed to escape when so few had ever done so before them.

Oh well. No matter.

One down, two to go.

It was better than nothing, he supposed.

And at least he had his army now….

* * * *

John Winchester sat on the hood of the Impala, pulling his feet up onto the fender and wincing slightly at the echo of ropes around his ankles as he gazed thoughtfully at his boys.

They looked like Dean and Sam, Dean in his favorite green shirt, Sam in his favorite hoodie; that little scar on Dean’s chin and the flecks of gold in Sam’s eyes.

They sounded like Dean and Sam too, squabbling like they used to when they were kids and had been cramped up in the Impala’s back seat too long. Sam had forgotten to bring pie. Dean was berating him soundly, but Sam was holding his own, teasing his brother unmercifully for his apparent pastry addiction and “middle-aged spread.” This latter insult hadn’t seemed to impress the older boy much, and the two had resorted to schoolyard name-calling—Sam was apparently a bitch and Dean a jerk—before an impromptu mock wrestling match had proved there was nothing “middle-aged” or “spread” about Dean, and Sam had reminded his brother he was now a hell of a lot bigger than he had been aged ten.

John silently observed their roughhousing, smiling fondly at their raucous laughter, and if he closed his eyes he could almost convince himself this might be it, this might be home.

These might be his boys.

“Oh John, they were never yours to protect or save. They were never yours at all…”

Lucifer’s words echoed in his head and he shuddered.

The End

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The Winchester Chronicles