Notes: set the morning after The End. This will be three chapters, the first from Sam's POV, the second from Dean's, the third from Dean's first and ending on Sam's. I know I've already done the time travel thing but - actually, I don't have any excuses. I just really love time travel. Enjoy, and let me know what you think.

(Yes, I know I promised another DW fic. This one was mostly written already, I promise.)

Warnings: strong language, graphic suicide (attempted, technically), not much in the way of happy endings.

.

.

.

Sam bit back a groan as he slowly returned to consciousness. He had gone to bed feeling more or less like shit and just trying to get out of sight before Dean started fussing angrily as only Dean could – or worse, ignored him. Sam had hoped that a good night's sleep would be enough to repair the damage the angry hunters had done, or at least take the edge off – of course, it turned out that he had no such luck. Where before he had just been achy and tired, now it felt like he had taken a knife to the gut and a bludgeon to the head. Worse (because pain was easy, pain was familiar) he felt strange and disoriented, not at home in his own skin.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, hoping that the feeling would pass.

Sam shot up in bed, ignoring the fresh pain which flared through his abdomen and head. This wasn't the room he had slouched into last night after Dean tossed the key at him. That wasn't the horrendous flamingo-patterned wallpaper he had considered making a joke about until his tongue proved too heavy and his throat too tight. That wasn't the dingy green carpet he had stared at in order to avoid Dean's eyes.

Had it all been a dream? The phone call, meeting Dean, flinching as the knife appeared only to realize it was being held out to him in reconciliation? It couldn't be. He couldn't bear it. God, he couldn't – he couldn't –

"Sammy! Whoa, whoa, take it easy, man. You'll rip your stitches."

Sam stared, mind going blank with shock, as a very young man rushed from the bathroom and began trying to push him back down. A very young man who looked and sounded a lot like Dean. Exactly like Dean, actually, if Sam's decade-old memories served correctly.

"There a reason you're trying to destroy my handiwork?" young-Dean asked, frowning at him. His eyes weren't as piercing as they should have been. Was it really just the wrinkles at their corners and the circles underneath which gave them their intensity?

"I –" Sam began, and then stopped. His voice – he glanced down at himself and was greeted with the sight of thin, gangly limbs, his shirt riding up to reveal a neat line of stitches in a bruised, undeveloped torso. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered, flopping back and throwing his arm over his eyes. As if they didn't have enough to deal with right now, they had to add freaking de-aging to the list.

"Language, Sammy," Dean chided lightly from above him.

Sam just groaned in reply. At least Dean had gotten zapped back to an age where he could be credibly called an adult. Sam was fucking sixteen. Just his luck. "What the hell happened?"

"Black Dog," said Dean, his voice losing its levity. "And if you think we're not having a talk about that stunt you pulled, you've got another thing coming."

"Not that," said Sam, pulling his arm down to wave at the wound. A cursory inspection told him that it hadn't hit anything vital, though it had obviously been deep if he had lost enough blood to black out. Or maybe that had been the head wound. "Forget it, what about this?" He gestured sweepingly at the two of them. "Was it angels?"

"Angels?" Dean's frown turned from anger to confusion. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I've lost some time, man, you're going to have to fill me in," Sam informed him, his mind churning through possibilities. If it wasn't angels – maybe a witch? But why would anyone – unless – shit. "Dean, tell me you didn't make any wishes." That would be just their luck, Dean wishing things could be the way they used to be within hearing of some pseudo-benevolent faerie.

"Wishes? I'm twenty, man, not twelve. You sure you're feeling okay?"

". . . twenty," Sam repeated, cold dread trickling behind the dull ache in his stomach.

"Yeah," said Dean, still frowning at him, concern edging its way into his expression and tone. "My birthday was like, a month ago. Just how much time did you lose?"

A lot, apparently, Sam thought, and bit back the hysterical laughter which bubbled up in his throat.

"What year is it?" he asked, once he could keep his voice steady. Dean's frown deepened, but he answered.

"Nineteen-ninety-nine."

Sam couldn't quite suppress a slightly high-pitched giggle at that, and Dean eyed him warily.

"I'm calling Dad."

"No!" Sam exclaimed, shooting to his feet as Dean reached for the phone. He stumbled on his unfamiliar limbs, but managed to stay upright. "No, Dean, I'm fine. I was just disoriented, that's all. Weird dreams."

Dean eyed him suspiciously. It wasn't the missing wrinkles that leeched the intensity, Sam was coming to realize. It was the missing years.

"Sit the fuck down," Dean ordered, but he let his hand fall back to his side. Sam sat, and Dean pressed a hand to his forehead. "No fever," he declared, moving his hand to grip Sam's shoulder as he examined his face. "You feel nauseous?"

"No."

"Dizzy?"

"No."

"How many fingers?" Dean flipped him off. Sam scowled. Dean smirked. "Alright, your head's on as straight as it ever is. How about the rest of it? How's the pain? Scale of one to ten."

"I dunno," Sam sighed. "Like, four?"

Dean's face hardened again, his fingers tightening on Sam's shoulder.

"I'm not kidding, Sammy."

"Neither am I," said Sam, taken aback. "It's not that bad, dude. Just a flesh wound."

"Yeah, haha," Dean snapped. "Save the jokes. I've gotta know what's going on before I can help you. Really, how's the pain?"

Sam opened his mouth to protest that it was just a four, really; and what was Dean freaking out over, anyway; they had both dealt with stuff way worse than this, together and on their own, and been up and fighting within the next hour, let alone the next day – but then it hit him. They hadn't. Not this Dean, not the Sammy he was seeing. At this age Sam should have been shaking and sweating from this kind of pain, begging Dean for more painkillers as soon as he was sure Dad was out of earshot.

". . . maybe it's more like a six."

Dean frowned at him, but after a moment he pulled back.

"Fine. I'll get you some more pills."

"Just aspirin."

"Yeah, right. You were nearly gutted, dude. We broke out the oxy."

"Dean, no," Sam protested. Pain, he could deal with, but he needed to keep his head clear if he was going to figure this mess out.

"Sam –" Dean began, turning back from the med kit to face him. He stared at him, his face not nearly as blank as he probably thought it was. He was freaked. His little brother was acting weird as hell, and he was completely at loss.

Sam dropped his gaze, a dreadfully familiar feeling of guilt twisting his stomach. After a moment, the bed across from him creaked, and an instant later Dean's hand was on his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"I'll make you a deal, Sammy," he said, with a tenderness in his eyes which was absent in his voice and his touch. "No Dad, no pills. One condition: you tell me exactly what's going on with you, right now."

Sam bit his lip. It was a nervous habit he thought he had given up ages ago, but apparently it was ingrained in the muscle memory of his sixteen-year-old body. Uncertainty gnawed at him, the same old dilemma: to tell or not to tell? This Dean was even more reckless and cocky than his older counterpart, inexperienced and arrogant. But . . . the longer Sam could avoid Dad, the better.

And he was so tired of lying.

"I'm not sixteen."

Dean dropped his hand into his lap, frowning.

"Uh . . . yeah, I know. You're birthday's not for like, four months."

Sam started, glancing down at himself again. Right. Nineteen-ninety-nine. Early Nineteen-ninety-nine. That explained why he was so short, anyway.

"No, I mean . . . I'm not fifteen. It's time travel or something, man. I've got twenty-six years in here."

Dean stared at him.

" . . . I'm calling Dad."

"Dean, no!" It wasn't that he hated his dad, not anymore. He understood his dad a lot better than he really wanted to. He had grieved for him when he died. He even missed him sometimes, still. But it was supposed to be buried (or rather, burned) and done with, and John Winchester was always much easier to appreciate at a distance. And there was something else, something he didn't want to name . . .

"You're sick, Sam!" Dean snapped over his shoulder, snatching up the phone again. His hands were shaking. "Or – or cursed, or something. Time travel doesn't happen, alright?"

"It does; I swear it does. We haven't seen it yet, but it does. Angels can do it." Sam was on his feet, ignoring the pain, nearly vibrating with a desperation he didn't quite understand. All he knew was that he needed Dean to put down that phone, now.

"Sammy . . ." Dean's eyes were shining, his tone too gentle. "Angels aren't real, man. You know that. Look, we'll figure this out. Dad'll know what to do."

Sam's brain spun into overdrive as Dean began to dial. He was no match for him, injured and half his size, but he could not let him complete that call.

He seized the knife from under his pillow, and threw.

"What the fuck?!" Dean exclaimed, leaping away from the knife embedded in the wall, receiver and one half of its neatly severed cord still in his hand. "Sam—!"

"He'd kill me!"

The words echoed in the sudden silence. Dean stared, wide-eyed, and Sam sank back onto the bed, shaking.

"He'd kill me," he repeated softly. "Dad'd kill me." He hadn't realized how strongly he believed it until he said it aloud. If Dad came back and found his youngest son acting oddly – harder, colder, more competent, more deadly . . . . Dad had known that something was wrong with Sam. Maybe he'd known from the start. And he'd been watching. Waiting. Prepared to do whatever he had to. Dad said I might have to kill you. Dad said . . .

"He'd kill me," Sam said again, or maybe he'd never stopped saying it.

The phone hit the floor with a clunk.

"Sam. Sammy. Look at me." Dean was in front of him again, this time grasping his arms, imploring but not demanding, not yet. Sam met his eyes. Young eyes, too old for his face but too young for Sam's big brother, who had been torn apart by demons and put back together by an angel, who had fought against Heaven and Hell and Destiny, who had been betrayed again and again by the one person he should have been able to trust absolutely.

This wasn't that Dean, but he was still Dean, confused and scared and trying not to show it – trying to be strong for Sam, like always.

"No one is going to kill you. You say you've got a head full of future memories? Okay."

". . . okay?" Sam repeated, surprised.

"Okay," Dean confirmed. "I believe you." His lips curled into a smile – a half-truth, but a needed one, for himself as much as for Sam. "No way fifteen-year-old you could throw a knife like that."

Sam tried to respond with his own smile, but it felt twisted and unnatural on his face, and he let it fall away.

"Hey." Dean squeezed his arm, serious again. "We're going to sort this out, okay? But I need you to explain some stuff. Why do you think Dad would kill you?"

Sam dropped his gaze. He did not want to have this conversation, but after that pretty dramatic revelation, he didn't really see a way of avoiding it.

"I'm not . . . clean."

"Clean?" Dean repeated, letting go of his arms to sit down on the bed across from him.

"Clean, pure . . . safe, whatever you want to call it." Sam spoke quickly, avoiding his eyes, trying to disconnect from what he was saying. He didn't want Dean to know this. Not this Dean, who still thought he was trustworthy. Not any Dean, but he had already fucked that up in the future. "I have this . . . potential. To be something really – really dangerous. Something evil. And Dad knows about it. He knows that there's a part of me which is . . . not good. And if he notices that I'm acting weird, and he thinks that part of me is taking over . . ."

". . . you think he'd kill you," Dean concluded. His tone was unreadable, and when Sam risked a glance at his face, it was, as well. "Sam . . . you're not – Dad wouldn't –"

"Don't!" Sam snapped. "Just . . . don't."

"Alright," said Dean, running a hand over his face. "Alright."

He didn't believe him, Sam could tell. He believed that Sam believed it, and that was enough for the moment, but he didn't really believe that Dad would do something like that. A little part of Sam wanted to seize him by the shoulders and shake him until he saw the truth – Dad would do it he knows what I am what I could become what I will become you wanted to kill me yourself maybe you still do – but mostly, he was too tired.

"But, dude, you can't avoid Dad forever," Dean pointed out. "Who knows how long you'll be stuck like this, and even if we get another hunt soon, he's gonna be here tonight."

"God," Sam groaned, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey, man, I'm not going to let anything happen to you, okay?" Dean said, cuffing him gently on the head. "Thirty years of memories or not, you're still my little brother."

"It's twenty-six years," Sam retorted, a genuine smile finding its way onto his face for the first time that morning. "And next year, I'm going to be taller than you."

"Yeah right, Shorty," Dean snorted. "Anyway, this Dad thing . . . try and act normal. Like, teenage-you normal. Just . . . bitch and moan and roll your eyes a lot. He'll never notice the difference."

Sam glared, and Dean grinned.

"Hey, you think fifteen-year-old you is still in there? Maybe you could just kind of . . . step back and let him take over for a while."

Sam thought. He had enough experience with sharing his headspace, willingly or otherwise. He should be able to tell . . .

"No, it's just me." He shrugged. "I dunno, maybe we switched places."

"But he'll be okay?"

Sam hesitated. If Dad would react badly to fifteen-year-old him acting strange, how would Dean react, already knowing how far Sam could fall? At fifteen he had been snappish and surly, angry at Dad for the life they led, angry at Dean for embracing it, angry at himself for going along with it. At thirty Dean was frustrated and bitter, angry at the world for what it had tossed at them, angry at Sam for . . . everything. How long would it take for them to infuriate each other enough that Dean forgot he was dealing with a kid in a man's body?

Young-Dean was frowning, green eyes expectant and fearful. He cared so damn much. Sam found his heart was still in pieces big enough to break.

"Yeah," he lied, hating himself. "He'll be okay."