Chapter Text
They ain't anywhere.
Middle of fuck-nowhere Nebraska, half a pale yellow moon hanging in the sky. There are times, and Dean would never admit this to anyone, when an open road under the crisp clarity of the night sky feels more like home than their house in Kansas ever did.
Sam would probably understand. They spent half their childhood in this car, the slow passage of miles measured in countless constellations. Sam probably even knows their names. Dean's tempted to ask, except Sam's still staring fixedly ahead, anger rolling off him in waves. It's how he gets after a heated argument. It's how he was that time he left and didn't come back.
"We need to lay low a bit," Dean says, mostly to fill the silence. He's been around long enough to know this is bad, about as bad as it gets. Say the wrong word and their whole world might crumble.
Three days out of Chicago and Dean hasn't stopped driving.
They should probably stop, find somewhere their fake credit card names and torn up faces won't attract the wrong sort of attention. A hot shower. A warm bed. Something to survive on that isn't burnt coffee and re-heated gas station food.
Dean keeps on driving.
Sam doesn't say anything. They've had this fight already, Dad's leaving a raw, gaping chasm between them. You let him go, too, Dean wants to yell, but the fight's no longer in him. It's been too much for too long, the subject a festering sore neither of them seem ready to address.
Maybe Sam's right. Maybe they are cursed.
Cursed or not, they're short on options. With Dad gone they're back to square one, except now instead of wondering where he is, they've got demons to worry about. When the hell did this become his life?
This part of Nebraska is pretty desolate, the highway they're on cutting a line straight west. It's dark enough, late enough, that the only thing visible are the road's twin white lines. In hindsight, they probably should have headed north, crashed at Bobby's because if there's anyone equipped to handle demons it's him. But Dean isn't thinking clearly --hasn't been thinking clearly since Meg took that swan dive; since Dad turned up and those Daevas tore them all to shreds.
"We need to get off grid," Dean says, thinking out loud, wondering if they should make for Montana. Plenty of places to disappear up there. They need time to regroup; time to plan their next move.
Sam doesn't answer, probably still pissed, but since there's a chance Sam's beat up more than he's been letting on, Dean still takes his eyes off the road long enough to give him a once over. He doesn't find anything to warrant his immediate concern, but the brief half second of distraction means he doesn't spot the guy crouched in the middle of the road until the Impala's right on top of him.
"Son of a..." Dean gets out, hitting the brakes even as he swerves into the other lane. The road's slick enough from the day's earlier sleet that the car skids, fishtailing slightly until Dean gets it under control. Baby eventually comes to a stop a good ten feet ahead of where a dark figure occupies the centre of the road.
"Did we hit him?" Dean asks, heart racing.
"Where did he even come from?" Sam asks, the first he's spoken in hours.
It's a good question --a reasonable question given their line of work and the events of the past 72-hours-- so Dean throws the car in park and reaches for the glovebox; pulls out his 1911. They're a million miles away from anything, not a single building; not a single tree. Whoever this guy is --whatever this guy is-- he literally came out of nowhere.
Sam is obviously on the same page, Taurus out. He catches Dean's eye, their fight forgotten as they exit the car, Sam flanking right, Dean left.
The guy is still on his knees, swaying a little, looking on the verge of standing but also on the verge of collapse, like wherever he came from --however he got here-- the journey wasn't exactly pleasant. Dean keeps him in his sights as he circles around, Sam lingering behind so that they trap the guy between them, outside of striking distance, but close enough to hit their target, even with the lack of light. When the guy doesn't acknowledge him, Dean clears his throat.
It's both a warning and a question, so he's not at all surprised when the guy glances up. What does surprise him, perhaps even more than the startlingly familiar features, is the way the guy's eyes light up, like Dean's exactly the guy he was hoping to see; like Dean's arrival made his fucking day.
That's one question answered, Dean thinks, thumbing off the safety on his gun.
"I'm not too fond of people wearing my face, so start talking or I'm gonna start shooting" he says.
He can feel Sam's gaze shift, curiosity projected in his direction, but Dean keeps his gaze locked on his doppelganger, their run in with the shape-shifter still fresh in his mind. Sam can't see the guy's face, but he must pick up something from Dean's tension, because a second later his gaze vanishes, his attention refocused on the thing between them.
"You need me to repeat that," Dean says. The thing shoots him a familiar grin.
"Yeah, I'll talk, but first, what's the date?"
Of all the things Dean expected the guy to say, that wasn't it. He frowns, feeling a little out of his depth. He lets his gaze flick up briefly in Sam's direction, enough to take in Sam's confusion, Dean gritting his teeth.
"You gonna try to play this off as a time-travel thing? Sorry, not buying it."
The guy shifts, looking for a moment like he's gonna stand before thinking better of it--or maybe isn't capable at the moment, Dean's not entirely sure-- only to sink back onto his knees. His features contort, a brief flicker of discomfort coming and going so fast Dean's half convinced he imagined it.
"Less Arnold, more Marty McFly," the thing with his face says. Dean rolls his eyes.
"Yeah? Where's your Delorean," Dean asks.
He's not sure why he's talking to the thing: why he hasn't just shot it. Except maybe there's something about the guy that genuinely piques Dean's interest. Not that he believes this guy is him, but this isn't anything like the shape-shifter. Yeah, the thing looks like him, but an older version, more lines and, oddly, fewer scars--he's even missing the four sharp lines in his forehead that Dean suspects have permanently destroyed his good looks. Try as he might, Dean can't bring himself to pull the trigger.
Sam's spent the duration of their conversation slowly inching his way to Dean's side, so that he too can see the things face. He lets out a low whistle when he does, but doesn't waver in the slightest, gun still pointed at its head.
"I'm gonna say this one last time, who the fuck are you and what do you want?" Dean tries. The thing shakes its head; pushes itself up so that it's resting on its haunches, expression patient, maybe even a little fond.
"Not that you'll believe me, but I'm you, 2022, and I don't want anything."
Dean frowns at that. The thing chuckles; shakes his head.
"Look, I'm just here to find someone, but the spellwork's a bit wonky. I needed an anchor." He gives Dean a pointed look.
"Right. There's a spell for time travel."
It's not a question, but the guy answers all the same. "There is, and under most circumstances I wouldn't recommend it, but like I said…"
"You're trying to find someone."
The thing nods, like that's a perfectly good reason to travel through time--not that Dean believes him.
The whole conversation is starting to give him a headache. It doesn't help that he's exhausted; that he hasn't had anything to eat since they stopped for gas this morning; that he's about four aways out from keeling over, everything since Chicago fast becoming a blur.
"Okay, let's say I believe you. Let's say you're me from the future..." Out loud, it sounds even more preposterous. "Why not just tell us what you need done and then leave?"
That's how it's supposed to work. Travel back, warn your younger self, then disappear, future catastrophe averted.
"It's not that simple," the thing says, because of course it isn't.
"Then explain it, because you ain't going anywhere until you do."
Whatever the thing is, it obviously knows him, well enough to know Dean's not gonna back down. He spares a glance between them, Dean following its gaze to Sam, who no longer seems quite so sure, like he might actually believe the thing --like he isn't exactly comfortable pointing a gun at Dean's head.
Dean would be touched if he wasn't so annoyed.
If the thing catches either of their expressions, he doesn't show it, instead shaking his head, fond smile returning.
"Of course I gotta make this difficult," it says under its breath, loud enough for Dean to hear. It catches Dean's eye before continuing, something in its gaze giving Dean pause.
"Short version? A friend of mine, someone I care about, got his ass tossed back to 2005. It is 2005, isn't it?"
He seems genuinely concerned about that, enough that Dean answers without hesitation.
"March 3, 2006," he says. The thing winces.
"Okay, close enough. Point is, we used a spell to get me here, and when I find the guy I'm looking for, we'll use a spell to get me back."
The worst part, Dean thinks, is that it sounds reasonable enough, like something Dean might actually do if time travel were a thing and it was conceivable Dean might actually make a friend.
"You're a jumping point, okay? So I don't need anything from you. You go your way and I'll go mine, and in a few weeks I'll be gone and it'll be like I was never here, so unless you want me to share details on Ronda Hurley's panties, I think we can safely say this conversation is over."
The name catches Dean off guard, enough that his weapon wavers, Dean no longer quite so sure. The thing offers him another grin. Dean clenches his jaw.
"You think I'm just gonna let you go? Even if you are who you say you are, I'm pretty sure having a future version of me running around ain't exactly wise."
It's not exactly laying low.
Throughout all of this Sam has remained silent, seemingly content to let Dean lead the conversation. He clears his throat now, drawing attention to himself. Dean's startled to find he's holstered his weapon.
"He's right," he says, gesturing to Dean. "Whoever you are, we can't have your running around. You want to find this friend of yours, fine, but you'll do it with us."
The thing opens its mouth, probably to protest, but Sam keeps right on talking.
"But first we're going to have to run some tests." At this he pulls a silver knife from his pocket, the thin one Dean gave him for his eighteenth birthday.
The thing narrows its gaze, staring Sam down until finally it relents, a brief chuckle passing over its lips.
"Fair enough," it says, and offers an arm.
Dean retrains his gun at its head, half hoping the thing will give him an excuse to shoot it, but it only sits perfectly still, allowing Sam to cut its forearm, the silver having no effect on its skin, the cut as bright and as red as it would be on any other human. Next Sam pulls a flask of holy water from his inside coat pocket. Like the silver, the water has no effect.
"You guys work out Borax yet?" the thing asks when Sam is done. Sam cocks his head.
"Borax?" Dean asks, because that's a new one. The thing shakes its head.
"Never mind, maybe just remember that for next time."
He's watching Sam now, Dean forgotten, a silent conversation passing between them. It ends with Sam nodding and the thing rising to its feet. Dean still hasn't lowered his weapon, and he's reluctant to do so now, except Sam appears to have made a decision, the look he shoots Dean suggesting he expects Dean to do the same.
Finger still itching around the trigger, he asks: "This friend of yours, who is he, and how do we find him?"
~*~
"Tell me you don't actually believe this guy," Dean says, his fingers curling around the steering wheel, his gaze narrowing against the newly risen sun. There's a thin dusting of snow on the ground, freshly fallen as the drove.
They're into Iowa now, on their way back to Illinois, the last place Dean wants to go, except his doppelganger insisted and Dean couldn't come up with a reason to disagree. He ain't touching Chicago with a ten foot pole, Pontiac still too close for comfort, but the sooner they find whoever the fuck it is they're looking for, the sooner the guy wearing his face can go. Pontiac it is.
Sam's staring thoughtfully out the window. A sign ahead announces their imminent arrival in Des Moines. Dean glances briefly into the rearview mirror, where a man wearing Dean's face sleeps crumpled against the back passenger door, his head lolling against the window.
"I don't know, Dean," Sam says, following Dean's gaze. "He doesn't just look like you. And not just you now, but you in like 20 years." He shakes his head. "But it's more than that. He… I don't know, he feels like you."
The look Sam shoots him is apologetic, like he knows the explanation is weak. Dean arches an eyebrow.
"He feels like me?" What the fuck does that even mean?
Sam sighs, his shoulders dropping. "Look, when it was the shapeshifter, I knew it wasn't you. I mean, he looked exactly like you, and he sounded like you, and he had your memories, but I just knew it wasn't you. It didn't feel right. And I don't know. Maybe it's this whole…"
He gestures then, shooting a wary glance into the backseat. Dean doesn't need him to spill it out, ESP thing clear as a bell.
"It's definitely you," Sam says with growing certainty.
Well, fuck, Dean thinks, because it's one thing to have a doppelganger wandering around with his face: another entirely having a future version of himself sitting in the car.
"Okay, let's say you're right. Let's say at some point I'm going to travel into the past, meet myself, and then force myself to take a cross-country road trip with myself so that I can find some dude I refuse to talk about. The hell, Sam? Does any of that make sense?"
Sam acknowledges the point with a grimace that does nothing to answer Dean's question. Neither of them have asked the obvious: where's Sam? It's not exactly something Dean wants to think about at the moment. 2022 is a long damn time from now.
"Okay, you know what, fuck this," Dean says, making a quick lane change to pull off at the next exit, the sign announcing a truck stop with ample parking and all day breakfast. If they're going to do this, Dean sure as fuck ain't doing it on an empty stomach. The rocking of the Impala startles his counterpart awake.
"We stopping?" he asks, sounding alarmed and more than a little gruff.
"Breakfast," Dean answers.
In place of an argument, the other him nods, a point in his favour.
In hindsight, it probably should have tipped him off to what was about to happen, but he's tired, damn it, been running on empty for close to three days now. Hell, he can't even remember the last time they ate sit-down food. He's worrying only about how they're going to explain their uncanny resemblances, not about his doppelganger going back on his word. The son of a bitch bolts the second they're out of the car.
"Son of a…" Dean gets out before a hand on his arm stops him.
"Leave it," Sam says, like he knows something about how this is going to unfold. Dean's not so sure, but he relaxes a little when the other him merely ducks into the convenience store attached to the gas station across the lot.
"Fuck it," Dean says again, this time with indifference he doesn't feel. He lets Sam lead him into the diner where it's early enough only a handful of tables are occupied. Sam seats them away from the doors and kitchen, the booth he chooses affording a strategic view.
The second they're seated a waitress arrives with menus tucked under her arm and two cups of still steaming coffee. She's leaving just as Dean's double arrives, his arms laden with newspapers. The thing... Dean... whatever, pushes Sam unceremoniously into the corner of the booth so that he can squeeze onto the bench at Sam's side.
"Okay," Dean says, still trying to process the guy coming back.
"You looking for something in particular?" Sam asks, perking up at the newsprint.
It's a better approach than Dean might have tried. So far they've got exactly nothing out of the guy, little more than a friend, someone I care about, someone I ain't leaving behind.
Dean, the other Dean, waits out the waitress's return, a third cup of coffee in her hand. Her eyes flick between them, lingering a little on Sam's cheek, but when no one offers up an explanation, she merely takes their order and leaves.
"Since I can tell you're dying to ask, Sam's fine. The spell needs an anchor on both ends. I know I said I used you as an anchor, but more specifically I'm using Sam, and when I'm done here I'll use the other Sam, my Sam, to get home."
Dean still doesn't trust the guy, but the relief he feels hearing those words makes him sag into his seat.
"And this friend of yours?" Sam presses.
"That's a little more complicated. We're not entirely sure how he even ended up here, just that this is where he ended up."
"The fuck do you know that?" Dean asks. He's getting a little sick of all the talking around this guy seems to be doing.
The comment earns Dean an exasperated eye roll, like the other him is already tired of Dean's shit. Still, he slips a hand inside his coat's breast pocket and pulls out a somewhat battered and faded photograph. Dean's gaze narrows when he realizes it's a postcard. To his surprise, the other Dean hands it over.
The postcard's picture is an enlarged highway sign, the almost iconic ROUTE 66 the central point of focus. A red banner cuts through the second six, Pontiac Illinois emblazoned across it in stark white letters. Dean flips the thing over.
I'm arranging to have this delivered, hopefully before you "freak out". I'm alive, though I suspect my body is still functioning and I likely appear unconscious. An accurate assumption, since my "consciousness" appears to be displaced. I've been reliably informed the date is December 18, 2005 and you can imagine where I've "landed". It's not optimal, but I have faith we'll figure this out. We always do. Please be kind to yourself. I'll find a way home soon.
The card is unsigned, but whoever wrote it took particular care to add quotation marks, like the emphasis was needed. Dean reads the thing twice before handing it over to Sam.
"What does he mean, consciousness displaced?" Sam asks.
"We're not entirely sure, but we think maybe his... consciousness got projected back into a younger version of his ve... of himself."
A million questions play across Sam's face, and Dean could guess at a few of them, but before he can ask the waitress reappears balancing two plates of bacon and eggs and a bowl laden with cottage cheese and fruit. Sam waits politely for the woman to leave.
"So, Pontiac Illinois, you're figuring this is where your friend... landed?"
The other Dean nods. "Seems likely."
"And we're going to what? Find the guy and then try to get his consciousness back to your time?"
"Something like that," the other Dean agrees.
And this, Dean thinks, is why time travel is so much bullshit.
He's not the only one frustrated by this guy's answers, Sam clearly on the verge of getting pissed. He hasn't even touched his fruit, unlike Dean --and the other Dean-- who are both halfway through their eggs.
"Look," the other Dean says, forestalling another of Sam's questions. "I get you've got questions, and believe me, I would love to explain them, but I honestly have no idea what that would do to the timeline and right now all I'm worried about is finding Cas."
It's the first time he's mentioned a name, Dean, against his better judgement, growing curious. Who the hell is this person? That he'd travel through time to save? Dean's got exactly two people in his life: Dad and Sam. He can't imagine adding anyone else to that list.
"So what's with the papers?" he asks around a mouthful of egg.
A long minute passes before the other Dean answers.
"An event like this would have… consequences. There'd be signs, omens, things that might help me pin down where to look."
"I thought you said Pontiac?"
The other Dean shoots him a somewhat scathing look. Dean's certain the same expression has crossed his features on more than one occasion.
"Look, I don't know a hell of a lot about his life before…" He seems at a loss for words, but Dean allows it. "But I'm pretty sure it's not a life he would have stuck around for, so…"
"So Pontiac's only our starting part." Because of course it is. When isn't Dean looking for someone? Sam. Dad. The thing that killed mom. And apparently, if this guy is who he says he is, some guy named Cas.
"Alright," he grants, reaching for the first paper in the pile. "Got any idea what these signs might look like?"
The other him pauses, curious expression passing over his features, amusement coloured by uncertainty. It piques Dean's interest all the more, though he keeps his game face, staring his possible older-self down until eventually the other Dean concedes, raising his hands as he out to pluck a paper off the pile.
"This is gonna sound weird, but we're looking for anything that might be construed as a… well, a miracle."
Of all the things Dean's expecting to hear, miracles didn't fit anywhere on the list. If Sam's wide-eyed stare is anything to go on, it wasn't on his list either. They exchange a glance, several long seconds of silence descending upon the table before Dean finally brings himself to say what he's sure Sam is thinking.
"Sorry, miracles?"