Mirror
bloodwritesDean clutches the armrests with a death grip. He's saved the world a dozen times. He killed God. He still hates flying.
The plane lifts off, and Dean's anxiety reaches its zenith. He feels weightless, just for a moment, his stomach drops and his knuckles are probably white, but he can't see with his eyes squeezed shut.
Then the rumbling fades. The plane levels.
"Breathe," Sam says.
Dean opens his eyes. "I'm good," he says. "I'm good." He waves at the stewardess. "Can I get a drink?"
They touch down in Rio before Dean uses the barf bag. Sam herds him off the plane and through customs, then shoves him into a public bathroom. "Brush your goddamn teeth," he says, and "you weren't even this bad when we went to Scotland, what gives, Dean?"
"Scotland was a job," Dean mumbles, rinsing the vomit taste out of his mouth with his hand under the faucet. "That was a fucking ordeal."
"That was a ten hour bender," Sam corrects. "Hurry up. They're waiting for us."
They must look like family, maybe twins. To anyone on the outside looking in, there could be no other explanation. It's almost like looking in a mirror.
But there are lines Dean sees in the mirror that aren't on the beaming face of the privileged douchebag wearing brand-new flannel and holding a sign that reads: 'WINCHESTER (OTHER)'.
On that Dean, the laugh lines are deeper, but the years of stress that creased his forehead just aren't there at all.
Dean barely glances at the other Sam. He's just weird.
"Apologies for the lack of sufficient guest accommodations," Douchebag Dean says. "A limited budget is quite the adjustment."
"I've slept in worse places," Dean says. The apartment is ridiculous. Massive, opulent. Practically gilded. The couch he's sitting on is far more comfortable than his own bed, he'll sleep like a baby. "You making ends meet, then?"
"Barely." Douchebag finishes his beer and reaches for another. "We made some investments, hopefully wise. Time will tell. We consider ourselves lucky that the cash we brought along was good."
Dean smiles around the mouth of his bottle. No need to show them how to scam a credit card, then. "Hunting?"
"The place is crawling with Women in White. Oh, and the odd werewolf. Still working out how to monetize it."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Good luck with that."
On the other side of the coffee table, the two Sam's are drinking wine and talking about raw food or hair care or something. Dean tuned out hours ago. Maybe they're not so different. A little more money, a little less raised-on-the-road, and perhaps they'd be douchebags, too.
Both Sam's disappeared, Dean doesn't know when. The coffee table is littered with empty beer bottles, but now there's a half-drunk bottle of top shelf whiskey, a couple glasses. Douchebag got teary, granted, he's just lost his Dad, his entire world...
Dean's a little sad, too. It wasn't his dad, but he'd like to have known that John Winchester, discovered the different choices he made.
Dean pulls his doppelganger into an embrace. "There there," he says, patting the man on the back. "What does that even mean? 'There there'? Where?"
His double pulls back, smiles. There are still tear tracks on his face. "You're drunk."
"If I'm drunk, you're drunk."
"Right. Because we're both Dean."
"That's not how it works."
"Pity." Douchebag Dean reaches out and drags his thumb over Dean's lower lip. "Be cool if I could feel that."
Dean's tongue darts out, licks his lips. "What?"
"Or this." Douchebag wraps his hand around the back of Dean's neck, pulls him in, presses his lips to Dean's.
Dean pulls away. "Whoa. What the hell?"
Douchebag shrugs. "We're hot."
"You're drunk."
"We're drunk."
"Okay. Bedtime for you, buddy." Dean staggers to his feet, pulls his double up.
"Great idea," Douchebag says. "Let's go."
"Dude." They make their way, slowly, across the vast living space. "What you're suggesting... It's gotta be illegal, somewhere."
Douchebag puts his hand on the doorknob. "You're me. We're we." He opens the door, reveals a massive bed that they could both get lost in. "You can't tell me that jerking off in front of a mirror doesn't get your engine running."
Some of the motels they've stayed in over the years have been less tasteful than others. Mirrors on the ceiling, that kind of thing. "Oh," he says.
Douchebag chuckles and pulls him into the room, closing the door behind them.
fin