Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam is still mocking him as Dean peels out of the school parking lot. “I can’t believe this has you so wound up!”

Dean scowls, tapping his finger on the wheel. “I can’t believe you don’t have a problem with it. It’s weird!”

And not their kind of weird, which only makes it worse. He’s had decades to cope with the strangeness of monsters and spirits of all kinds but this is a whole ‘nother ball game. This feels like someone went through his underwear drawer—even if they didn’t take anything it gives him the heebie-jeebies something fierce.

People thinking about him and Cas. As in together. Eugh.

“Dude, nothing we haven’t seen before,” Sam points out, which does nothing to soothe Dean’s ire.

“But it’s Cas. You can’t tell me that doesn’t weird you out,” Dean counters—but Sam only shrugs. “What, seriously? You’re okay with people thinking about you making out with Cas?” That’s ridiculous. Sam should definitely be offended by that, as any sensible person would be. But especially Sam. For some reason.

“They’re not really thinking about me, they’re thinking about a fictional character,” Sam says reasonably. Dean grinds his teeth. “Besides, it’s been years since we found out about Chuck’s books and their... fans.” Sam’s face contorts and Becky Rosen’s face flashes in Dean’s mind. “I’m kind of over it.”

“You’re just saying that because it’s me and not you!” Dean snaps. “It’s Cas! Who’s a guy! Plus, he’s not even friggin’ human!”

“Didn’t you sleep with Anna? You know, the angel?”

Oh, right. “Shut up.”

“And there was that Amazon chick—”

“Dude. Shut up. If we’re going to bring up every freak we got freaky with, you’re ahead. By like, a lot.”

Sam holds his hands up in surrender (damn straight) but annoyingly, his mouth doesn’t stop moving. “Look, they’re just kids messing around. It’s like... playing with dolls. It’s not an attack on you or your manliness or your romantic tastes or whatever.”

“I ain’t no Ken,” Dean mutters and Sam chuckles.

“Besides, it’s not that surprising, is it? Since you two have your ‘profound bond,’” Sam taunts, complete with finger quotes.

“Cas said that, not me!”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m just saying, it’s not like Marie was like those other—what do you call ‘em?—slash fans, right? At least that’s not in the show.”

“As in Sam-slash-Dean. Together.”

“Subtext.”

Dean’s ears go hot. He may have accidentally-on-purpose skipped over that part in his rant. And why wouldn’t he? The bigger issue is clearly that there are people out there Bradgelina-ing him with a squinting Columbo wanna-be. And, as Sam ever-so helpfully pointed out, people thinking he wants to bang his brother is old news. No need to beat a horse of a different color into glue, right?

Crap, there are a bunch of high school girls who think he wants to bang his brother. And they’re putting it in a musical for their parents. Sweet baby Jesus, Game of Thrones has done more damage to the moral core of suburban America than he thought.

They don’t stand that close together... Do they?

“What would you even call that anyway?” Sam continues to muse, oblivious to Dean’s mental landscape crumbling to dust. “Sean? Dam?” He laughs. Dean’s soul withers up and dies. “SamDean? DeanSam? Hey, do you think the name order matters at all? Dean? ...Dean?”

It takes his phone vibrating in Dean’s pocket to snap him out of his daze. He yanks the cell out, gives it a glance (1, 2, 3 new text messages...), and shoves it back into his pants. “Wha? What? No.” He has no idea what has come out of his brother’s mouth in the past minute and a half. Pretty sure he doesn’t want to know. “Remember shutting up forever? We’re going back to that.”

Sam rolls his eyes but thankfully lets the whole thing drop. Hopefully, they’ll be out of town before sunset and this whole thing will be swept under the rug and forgotten about faster than you can say “Andrew Lloyd Webber is a hack.”

*~*

Turns out it’s called Wincest. It’s not a bad pun, when you think about it. Problem is, Dean is very much trying not to think about it.

Unfortunately, they don’t ditch Flint right away. Sam gets cranky when they hit the road without eating first (no matter how often he likes to pretend that he can photosynthesize), so they stop for dinner at some kind of Applebee’s knock-off on the way back to their motel room. After they’ve ordered, Dean remembers to check his phone, and, well... let’s just say he’s getting an education.

How was he supposed to know Marie was serious when she said she’d send him links later? What kind of teenager sends porn to a federal agent? Does the badge mean nothing to the youth of America?

(So he’s not a real fed and it’s not a real badge. So beyond the point here.)

Admittedly, it’s not all porn. Most of the links lead to something called an AO3 that organizes all kinds of fan fictions and uses a rating system like movies. Dean would never define anything in his life being for “General Audiences” but apparently some people’s minds go to strange places when reading about him and his brother ganking monsters... somehow.

The rest, however, have a distinctive erotic bend. Thanks to unfortunate prior knowledge, he knows not to touch anything with Castiel/Dean Winchester in the page description with a ten-foot pole. He doesn’t intend to look at any of them, actually, but he’s looking at the labels on one of the pages (he can’t really tell if they indicate genres, warnings, or something in between; many of them look downright random) sees the words Fix-It on one of the non-pervy entries and frowns, because fix what exactly?

Everything, as it turns out.

It’s research, Dean tells himself. He sneaks a look across the table and Sam’s equally engrossed with his own phone (could he also be... nah), so there’s nothing stopping him from delving a little deeper. For research.

It takes a minute or two for him to figure out how to navigate the site to narrow down his focus. Most of the fan fiction using the Fix-It label focuses on preventing him from going to Hell, which makes him feel all sorts of weird. He supposes it makes sense—as far as most of the uninterested literary world knew, the last Supernatural book published ended with him getting ripped apart by hellhounds, which isn’t exactly most people’s definition of a happy ending—but it still stirs indignity in him. If it was so damn easy, don’t they think they would have tried it? Try living staring down the barrel of a gun, assholes. Not so fun. Worse still, they often involve Sam giving into unholy dark powers, bringing back reminders of a whole damn chapter in their lives he’d rather remained closed. It’s just insulting.

But others prevent Sam’s death in Cold Oak (a perfectly reasonable thing to fantasize about if you asked him), some stop Lucifer’s rise (he wishes), and one poor soul is absolutely dedicated to him settling down and marrying Cassie (never would have worked out in the long run). Fix-It has a wide range of uses which, Dean realizes, probably applies to Marie’s play as well. A lot of places where they could have turned left instead of right and ended up in a whole ‘nother town of weird. It’s not a mental exercise he tries to indulge in too much because the only place it actually leads is the bottom of a bottle, but he guesses it’s different when you haven’t lived it.

Many also appear to be Wincest fan fictions. Most of them, in fact. The solution to all of his problems was apparently for him to make out with his brother. Who knew? One hell of a right turn, that’s for sure. It’s absurd.

But, well... some of them sound kind of interesting. Academically, of course. And Sam’s right. No need to take it personal. Just people playing with Barbies.

Dean’s finger itches. It’s just research.

A steaming plate, loaded with steak-and-bake pick-two special, hits the table and he just about jumps out of his skin.

Sam stares at him from the other side of the booth as the chuckling waitress sets down his salad. “You okay?”

“Eat your rabbit food,” Dean huffs, quickly jamming his phone back in his pocket. Sam raises an eyebrow but is happy to occupy himself with a chicken salad with friggin’ craisins in it to say anything further.

The next chance he gets, he’s deleting those messages. Sam’s always going after him to clean up the data on his phone and computer anyway. That, at least, is one thing he can fix.

*~*

Turns out, they don’t leave Flint after all. The minute they walked back into their motel room, they were walking out again, the fuzz calling in about the snatched student. They should have known such a weird coincidence would come with strings.

Luckily, it all worked out in the end, even if Sam got his stupid ass kidnapped again (need to get that guy a tracker, swear to God). Dean even walks away with a souvenir.

It feels right, hanging the amulet prop off the rearview mirror. That Marie kid may have weird ideas about robots and subtext but she’s right about one thing: he never should have thrown the original away. He’d been so angry back then, at Cas, at God, at himself... and at Sam, of course. And unluckily for Sam, he’s always been the most convenient target for his anger no matter where it’s actually directed. Sure, it hadn’t been Sam’s fault that the supposed God-tracker didn’t work as advertised (or, if it did, only helped confirm that God had most definitely left the building) the disappointment hitting so soon after Sam’s laundry list of betrayals and screw-ups, Dean couldn’t help linking that fresh new failure back to Sam as well. So, pissed at the whole damn universe along everyone and everything in it, he did the pettiest thing he could think of at the time and threw the only gift he’d had longer than his car into a motel garbage can, effectively giving both God and his brother the middle finger. It had been symbolic. Righteous.

It was damn foolishness is what it had been, so much so that even Little Miss Fame figured it out. Dean had too, eventually, but the embarrassment and shame kept him mum on the matter. Sam, for his part, never brought it up either—for better or for worse.

Now, however, Sam looks at the replica dangling above the dash now and smiles, soft and warm, without a hint of resentment or bitterness. He catches Dean’s eye and that smile still doesn’t waver, though it takes on a caught-out air, though exactly why, Dean can’t say.

Sam rubs the back of his head and looks away. “Marie give that to you, or did you swipe it?” he asks, leaning back in his seat.

“It was a gift, thank-you-very-much!” Dean exclaims. “We had a moment.”

“I bet,” Sam snorts. “But, uh, they’re good kids, huh?”

Dean taps the faux amulet, watching it swing to and fro in an awkward jitter. The proportions may be a little off, but the prop department nailed that detail. Its strange shape was half the reason the thing was always smacking him in the mouth... “Yeah, they are. Got some of the details wrong—”

“Yeah, what was up with the robot invasion in Act II?”

“—but got the heart of it right,” Dean concludes.

“True,” Sam agrees with a grin. “Maybe it won’t be a ‘one night only’ show after all.”

“God, I hope not,” Dean shudders at the thought.

“Dude, no kidding. If they try, we’ll sue.”

They laugh. The necklace stutters to a halt but Sam remains fixated on it as if entranced by a hypnotist’s pendulum. His lower lip works into his mouth as he stares, studying the amulet with an intensity usually saved for lore. Maybe now Sam will finally want to talk about it. Dean hopes not. What can he say now that doesn’t leave him looking like a fool? Besides, it’s not like Sam doesn’t get that Dean regrets chucking the original gift. Doesn’t the prop hanging off the mirror now say as much?

Then again, maybe not. Sam’s mind is funny like that—brilliant, but not always able to pick up on the obvious. Or worse, thinking himself into woulda-coulda-shoulda-maybe circles. Or maybe Dean isn’t as straightforward as he thinks he is.

Nah. That can’t be it.

The point is, there is only one way to be sure. One way to be sure he’s fixed it.

“Where do you—”

Dean clears his throat loudly. “So, uh... I never said I was sorry about that.”

Sam blinks at him. “Sorry about what?”

Augh, for the love of... Sam could never make things easy, could he? “You know, the, uh,” Dean gestures at the prop. “The Samulet. How that all went down.”

Internally, Dean winces. How all that went down. Hell of a euphemism there. Enough to make ol’ Chuck proud. Or a fan fiction writer.

Sam’s confusion melts into sympathy—far worse than if he’d just told him to screw himself. “I already told you, you never have to apologize,” he says quietly. “Not to me.”

Sometimes Dean wonders if his brother is actively applying for martyrdom or if it comes to him naturally. Either way, it leaves Dean scrambling, wondering if he’ll even make it on St. Peter’s list when he finally permanently kicks the bucket. “Yeah, well, I’m saying it anyhow, whether I have to or not.”

The pity on Sam’s face retreats, but is replaced by his nose scrunching a bit like he’s about to cry. Great. Dean coughs and looks away, giving Sam a chance to recover. “Anyway, this one’s gonna be sticking around.”

Sam clears his throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s a little 2005 for day-to-day,” Dean begins (Sam snorts), “but I’m serious. It’s going on lockdown when we swing back around to the bunker. Fort Knox levels of security.”

“Not sure anyone wants to steal a high school theater’s papier-mache project,” Sam says with a chuckle.

“You thought I did,” Dean huffs.

“Touché. But seriously, Dean. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“It—”

“Sammy,” Dean snaps. “I’m the one who’s serious, okay? This is a do-over, okay? A, uh...” He swallows. “A fix-it. I’ll get it right this time.”

“You don’t need to—”

Dean glares and Sam goes silent. Strangely, Sam’s cheeks have gone red, along with the tips of his ears. Sam fidgets, hands rubbing up and down his pants, and for a long, airless moment, won’t meet Dean’s eye. The hell?

But Sam finally regains control of his restless body, though his face remains a shade of pink. “Okay,” he says weakly.

“Good,” Dean says, though something decidedly weird and not-good has just occurred. “That’s good. So, why don’t you say we hit the hay? We’ll figure out where we’re going tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Sam agrees, sounding less strung-out. Dean keeps an eye on him the rest of the drive but doesn’t spot any clues revealing the origin of Sam’s strange reaction, Sam remaining cool as a cucumber until they reach the motel. If it wasn’t for how he lightly brushes the fake amulet with his fingers just before getting out of the car, Dean might have imagined the whole thing.

*~*

Unfortunately, he doesn’t imagine next morning’s disaster.

They had passed out the moment their heads hit their pillows, Dean only managing to toss his pants into some corner of the room and Sam not bothering to undress at all. So it’s Sam who ends up fishing Dean’s phone out of his discarded pants’ pocket when it goes off in the AM, since they landed on his side of the room after being blindly flung the night before. Which means when Sam opens his phone what he sees is...

“Dean, what the hell am I looking at?”

Dean, annoyed by the sun stabbing at him through the curtains, doesn’t even lift his head. “Hmm? Wha?”

“Is this... is this fan fiction?”

And suddenly, Dean is wide awake.

He shoots upright, mouth moving while his brain desperately tries to boot. “It’s not mine!” he blurts. He could slap himself. It’s not mine? What, is he just holding it for a friend? Stupid!

“Obviously. This person knows to use punctuation," Sam says.

To Dean’s horror, Sam appears to be scrolling. He tries leaping to his feet but, entangled in the sheets, ends up on the floor instead. Sam, the heartless jerk, doesn’t bother looking away from the cell to check if Dean has bashed his head in or not, blithely continuing his perusal as Dean frantically fights against the clinging bed sheets.

“Uh, these are all—”

“Marie!” Dean exclaims loudly, finally kicking his way to freedom. “Marie sent those, you know, the kids these days, I wasn’t actually looking at anything—”

“You have like eight tabs open,” Sam notes. When Dean tries reclaiming his phone, Sam simply holds it above his head, out of reach. Dean should have bullied him when he was shorter more often. Guy has zero empathy for the vertically challenged.

“I, you know, the screen’s so small, you hit one thing you open, uh, open fifty things—would you stop being a child!”

A jab to the ribs gets Sam to lower his arms, but he doesn’t give up the phone. Instead he plops on to bed, stupid pointy elbows stuck out to keep Dean away as he hunches over the stolen device. “These aren’t just about us. They’re all tagged ‘fix-it.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Who knows!” Dean growls. “Just give me—”

“Why are you reading—”

“You little—”

“Whatever, shorty—”

They tussle. It’s something they’ve done a million times, but not since... hell, Dean can’t remember the last time, especially not as Sam’s hair gets into his mouth while he tries to (carefully) knee him in the gut. The fact depresses him, but not for long as adrenaline floods his brain, lighting up every part of his gray matter with excitement as they playfully thrash and kick at each other. Sam’s actually laughing, too, full-on belly laughs, and since it feels like it’s been another thousand years since Dean last saw that grin without an asterisk, he doesn’t mind too much that it’s at his expense.

Well, he wouldn’t. Except at one point Sam’s got him in an awkward pin, arm over his chest and for a horrible, blinding moment, Dean’s enraged—the Mark doesn’t find the situation funny at all. Worse, there’s a different sort of heat building in his belly, one that gets along too well with notions of subtext. Alarmed on two fronts, Dean shoves Sam harder than he means to, slamming his palm against his mostly-recovered but still weak bad shoulder. Sam loses his balance and collapses on him with a pained grunt that leaves them both exhaling with a whoosh. Sam is heavy.

“Ow,” Sam huffs as he rolls off of Dean. He’s still holding the phone.

“Your fault. Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They lie there for a while, gasping for breath as their rib cages return to their proper shape.

“Our lives could have gone better, huh?” Sam says. Trust Sam to put the pieces together in two minutes. Nerd.

“Coulda gone a lot worse too,” Dean argues. “We’re still here.”

“So that’s why you took it? The amulet?” Sam asks quietly, the gears in his head grinding away.

Dean doesn’t bother pointing out once again that Marie had gifted it to him. “No. Well, maybe. Kind of,” he admits, glancing at Sam who looks back with a furrowed brow. “Don’t overthink it, man. I know there’s no going back. But you know, it’s a little thing that I can—”

“That you can fix,” Sam finishes. “Yeah, I get it. But do you ever think about how changing the outcome of a single event could have fixed our lives? Made them better?”

“Different,” Dean says quickly. “Different. World’s full of all sorts of crap that wants us dead or worse. Nothing we could do would change that.”

“Guess you’re right,” Sam agrees softly. Irony curls at the corner of his mouth. “A lot of people think otherwise.”

“A lot of people don’t know squat about our lives,” Dean replies flatly. “They only think they know. Half their ideas would get us killed faster.”

“So you did read some,” Sam teases.

“Maybe I skimmed,” Dean grumbles. “So what?”

Sam’s mouth purses in thought. “Some of it. But the rest...” He holds the phone up with an exaggerated flourish, tilting it this way and that. Dean’s heartbeat thumps too loudly in his ears. “Why do they think us committing incest would be helpful?”

Dean winces all the way down to his soul. The i-word sounds so crude when said out loud. “Because they’re pervs, that’s why. Does it matter?”

Sam hums noncommittally under his breath and Dean’s pulse cranks up the BPM. Then, before Dean can even think of reacting, a mouth—Sam’s mouth—brushes against his cheek. His lips are dry and the contact brief. If it weren’t for the fact that Dean’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest Looney Tunes style the second he feels the delicate touch, he might have imagined it.

But it was real, as is Sam’s odd, self-deprecating smirk as he studies Dean’s reaction. “Well, not dead,” he notes.

Dean begs to differ. “Uh.”

“Can’t see it altering the course of destiny though.”

“Probably would take more than that.”

“Probably.”

They stare at each other for a moment more. Then, unbelievably, Sam turns his attention back to Dean’s cell. “Which ones did Marie send?”

“Texts,” is all Dean manages to get out.

“Ah. Send them to me?”

“No. Weirdo.”

Sam laughs again, which Dean pretty sure is still at his expense. Definitely a weirdo.

His brother keeps scrolling through gay, incestuous fan fiction, and Dean thinks he was wrong. Something has changed, something major. And it didn’t take much at all. He can feel the world shift. Not fixed, though. Just different.

Dean puts his hand on Sam’s thigh, squeezing gently. Sam doesn’t remove it or even glance at it, still scrolling.

“Hey, what’s this about a voicemail?”