"No waiting. Me and Dean switch places, now. Deal?"
The demon grins at him, teeth white and eyes red as the blood running down his hand. "Not quite, but I'll switch you somewhere else. Like buying one, getting another free. You've got two hours."
There's a flash of darkness, which fades and resolves into the normal dimness of a motel room at night, streetlights and neon signs shining in the window. Sam stumbles against the edge of a bed that rises in front of him and falls to his knees leaning on it.
"Sammy?" The voice is sleep-rough, yet still somehow soft. The light clicks on, and the boy in the bed sits up, eyes wide, hand reaching under his pillow and then freezing. Sam stares at him through the blur of liquor and desperation that's clouded his mind this past month.
It's obvious in every freckle, every ruffled hair, every green speck in his eyes. But it's wrong, so wrong, because this Dean is a kid, maybe fifteen or so, looking so small and young and nervous, and it's wrestling with Sam's actual memories. They don't have many pictures, Sam doesn't get to look back at the past, but he looks over now at the other bed in the room, empty and rumpled, and knows that the little boy who ought to be there thinks this Dean is huge and strong and heroic.
Sam falls forward more, bends over the bed and stretches his hand out, wanting to touch, to see if this is real.
"Dude," Dean complains, "you stink. How long have you been drunk?"
"Dean." It's all Sam can say as he reaches forward and grabs the boy's chin. Dean's hand flashes out from under the pillow now and the knife point is pressed to the side of Sam's neck, on his jugular.
"Where's my Sammy?"
His mind can barely work, his throat can barely work. Sam swallows and coughs. "Two hours. He'll be back in two hours and I'll be gone. You'll be..." He can't say that. Not to that innocent face.
"What the hell is going on, anyway?" The knife shakes. Sam wraps his fingers around Dean's skinny wrist, pulls it away and twists it until the knife drops to the floor beside the bed and Dean winces. "Sammy?" Dean says again, his breath stuttering, and he's not asking about anyone who isn't there now.
This might be a dream, this might be the past, or this might be hell after all. Sam can't tell for sure. Dean's pulse flutters under his fingers.
"You're, like, a grown-up. I bet you don't even get carded." Dean's mouth twists up, and Sam sees how soft his cheeks are, no stubble. There's a little red pimple by the corner of his nose, another on his forehead. His white t-shirt has stains on it, but he smells clean, like fresh sweat and laundry detergent. "I wish Dad was here, he'd know what to do. I don't-"
He can't help it, Sam starts laughing hysterically. This is not Dean, this can't be Dean.
This is Dean.
Sam falls forward and he's wrapping himself around this crazy young Dean who's hot and alive, burying his face in the baby-smooth skin of Dean's neck and choking, soaking the kid with salt tears. Hands come up and stroke over his back, run through his hair like he's the baby. God, was Dean petting him like that when he was in middle school?
"What happened to you?" Dean asks, voice so soft and worried.
"Nothing. Nothing. But it should have." Finally Sam feels wrung out and dry. "It should have been me," he whispers. He doesn't mean to let it make sound.
Dean's hands stop. "I can make you some coffee." He wriggles free and stands up. Sam watches him walk across the room to a desk, start the little coffee pot there. His legs look long and narrow sticking out of his green plaid boxers. His whole body is skinny, hard muscles just starting to bud under his skin, nothing like what he will be. He still looks jumpy, wound tight. The air starts to itch with the scent as the coffee brews.
When Dean's pouring it out into a mug Sam can't take any more. He's up and across the room and crowding into the boy's space as he turns. Sam wraps his hands over Dean's around the mug, pulls them up and takes a sip of it harsh and black, hot through Dean's skin and bones. It clears some of the cobwebs in his brain, but not enough of them.
There's no way this can be real. Not because Dean hasn't mentioned it, since he wouldn't anyway, but because if Sam had been transported somewhere when he was eleven he'd remember it. And he doesn't. So it can't be real. QED.
The coffee jostles as Sam presses closer, sloshing over their hands and burning into them, and Dean gasps. The pain is less than the pain in Sam's chest, though, the burning in his heart and lungs that's been with him this whole time. He peels the mug out of Dean's fingers and tosses it away, hears it crack and splash.
Sam can't look at anything other than Dean staring up at him. The top of his head barely reaches Sam's shoulder, and his neck is tilted back, his eyes dark and wide, his mouth open, lips soft and pink, breathing heavy. Sam presses his right hand over Dean's heart, feels the rapid beat of it. His left fingers grab at Dean's hair and pull his head further back. Sam leans down and in to mouth at his neck, tastes the bitter oceanic tang of tears and sweat. He bites down and feels Dean's pulse against his lips, under his teeth. Dean's hands flutter in the air by his side.
Warm skin and a beating heart and Dean feels, sounds, tastes alive, real. Sam almost wants to spill his blood, drink it down and know for sure. This is his brother, but it's not the brother he lost, it's some brother he's never known like this before. Dean's harsh breathing gusts over Sam's ear.
Sam lets his hands roam all over Dean's body, tracing the line of each rib, each vertebra, each muscle and tendon. He gnaws and sucks at Dean's throat and Dean whimpers, maybe in pain, maybe in pleasure, Sam can't tell. Either way, he can't stop. He'd wanted this, gotten twisted up with wanting every second and every scrap of Dean's life when he knew it was going to end, but he couldn't, he couldn't actually do it. The regret and need had almost eaten him up this last month.
Sam's hard now, hard in his too-tight jeans, and he works his way along Dean's jaw and up to Dean's mouth. Dean doesn't exactly respond, but he doesn't resist either. Those soft little lips open up when Sam bites at them and pushes his way inside. He sucks on Dean's tongue fiercely.
The incomprehensible, desperate noises coming from Dean drive Sam on. He pushes Dean back against the wall, grabs at his wrists, slams them above his head and presses close, dragging Dean up the wall to tiptoe, bending his own knees and getting a leg between Dean's thighs, lining them up from crotch through chest, kissing deep.
He knows it's wrong, he's basically forcing himself on this teenager. His brother.
"Dean," he groans.
Suddenly Dean is moving, rocking his hips, kissing back. "Yeah," he whispers into Sam's mouth. Sam shoves forward, Dean's pulse under his palms, Dean's exhale hot on his lips, Dean's dick hard against him. "Oh fuck yeah," Dean says in a broken little voice.
It's painful, denim rubbing rough against Sam's erection, his knees weighting on the wall. But all he can feel is Dean's skin, all he can hear is Dean's breath, all he can taste is Dean's spit, all he can smell is Dean's sweat, all he can see is Dean's face, young and flushed, eyelashes fluttering. He can't stop repeating Dean's name.
Sam ruts against Dean's thigh, ruts his way into the pain and smashes into orgasm, collapsing against Dean. He feels hazy and slow as those green eyes examine him, fallen to pieces and trying to put himself back together. Dean shifts and rocks his hips forward again, emphasizing how sticky Sam's pants are.
Sam growls, letting go of Dean's wrists and grabbing at his waist to hoist him up, fragile and light. Dean's damp mouth drops in an oh of surprise and he wraps his arms and legs around Sam as Sam carries him across the room and drops him on the bed.
He crawls up on the bed after Dean fully dressed, boots muddy, and he ignores all that, just tugs Dean's shirt up and off, tugs his boxers down and rips them, throws them aside so Dean's pale skinny boy body is laid bare. Sam presses his thumbs to Dean's lips, kisses Dean's smooth cheek, then bends down over him and tongues his dick, sucks it down.
This isn't anything he's done before, but it feels perfect in all its mess and awkwardness, the way he almost chokes on the weight and heat and sleekness of Dean's dick in his mouth.
Dean's fingers run softly through Sam's hair before sliding under his jacket collar and digging into his shoulders. "Please," he whispers, "oh God, sweet holy fuck, yes." Sam would have sworn Dean's first time must have happened before this, but there's a vibration of desperation and wonder running through him that casts doubt on that.
Sam sucks harder, listening to Dean's delicious whimpers. In only a few moments his mouth is flooded with more salty proof of Dean's vitality. He swallows and licks until Dean's hands bat him away.
Curling up around his brother, Sam nuzzles into Dean's neck as Dean's fingers wend their way through his hair again.
"Sam." Dean breaks the silence. It's the first time he's said the name. "How did I die?" He sounds far too calm and adult.
Sam looks at Dean's face for a second and shakes his head. He lies down on Dean's narrow chest, ear to his heart. Sam listens to Dean's rhythmic heartbeat for a timeless stretch.
When the flash of darkness comes, Sam almost grins. Those fucking demons will have to let him into hell now.