
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1735190.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Ezekiel_|_Gadreel/Dean_Winchester/Sam
      Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Ezekiel_|_Gadreel, Death_(Supernatural),
      Castiel, Kevin_Tran
  Additional Tags:
      ageswap, older!sam, younger!dean, 9x01_rewrite, Angelic_Possession,
      Incest, mentioned_underage, Voyeurism, kind_of
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-06-03 Words: 3769
****** The Laws of Narrative ******
by CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball
Summary
     Ageswap AU, beginning of Season 9. Dean did the trials, and now his
     older brother has to deal with the consequences.
Notes
     Two things: Anything before Season 9 (safe the ageswap involving
     things obviously) happened the same. And Sam is not a dumb fuck,
     hence figured out what happened in the Season 7 finale and spent a
     year trying to break Dean and Cas out of Purgatory instead of wasting
     it as well as an unforgivable amount of screentime with that
     abominably lazy plot device who must not be named. That is all.
See the end of the work for more notes
“What the fuck. This doesn’t make sense. Thousands of angels falling and news
calls it a meteor shower.” Dean rolls his eyes, steering Baby along the dark
road. She purrs under him, like she’s always done, ever since Dean got her for
his eighteenth birthday. Sam had been away in Stanford back then. It hasn’t
mattered in years though, she is still their home, always has been, always will
be.
“Yeah.” Sam says, his face stern.
“You alright, man?” Dean asks with a frown.
“Sure. I’m alright.”
“Then why aren’t you freakin out, man? We got a major crapfest on our hands.
There’s basically an invasion of dicks with wings and I can’t think of any way
to stop them all.”
Sam sighs, and the unease is practically pouring off him.
“What?” Dean asks annoyed.
“Angels aren’t our main problem right now, Dean.” Sam says, voice troubled.
“What, you mean Metatron and Cas?”
“No, Dean.” Sam meets his eyes and something in Dean’s gut clenches. “I mean
you.”
“What the hell?”
“Dean, something happened in the church back there.” Sam’s tone is way too
gentle. “I don’t know exactly what, but it has something to do with the trials
you ended. They did a number on your body.” The amount of unrestrained pain in
Sam’s voice is like a punch in the stomach. “You’re dying, Dean.”
“Shut up.”
===============================================================================
 
Watch out for Dean.
Sam tries to calm down, tries to breathe evenly. He has to, has to calm his
thoughts, think logically, be reasonable about this.
And most of all, watch out for your brother.
Sam’s head is a broken record, his father’s voice on repeat, in time with the
agonizing beeping noise from the machine that keeps his little brother alive.
For now.
Here’s some money for food, if I’m not back in two weeks you know who to call,
Sam. And make sure that Dean eats enough.
This is different from the time Dean was dying after the Impala was crushed,
years ago, when Dad was alive and their only problem was Azazel.
You want to quit, leave your little brother alone to go off and play school?
You better know there’s no coming back!
Sam never was the obedient son, leaving for Stanford as soon as Dean was old
enough to take care of himself, not like Dean who only ever wanted to make
peace, keeping their family together, and all of them happy.
Dad’s gone on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.
Sam was the one who did his homework even when it meant he didn’t get any sleep
between studying and the odd jobs he had to pick up to keep them fed. Dean only
ever did his homework because Sam made him, and stubborn in his own way,
learned how to hustle pool at a much too young age.
You and me, come whatever.
Sam never was the obedient son, but he is the older brother. There is one rule
he’s never been able to ignore.
Watch out for Dean.
Dean was always the one who kept their family together, doted on by both John
and Sam. Cheeky, reckless, eager to please, eager to hunt, eager to do his
share and more of their family’s work, allowed at it two years earlier than Sam
had been. For every time Sam fought with John, Dean was determined to prove his
obedience. For every time John left them alone, Dean had made sure to show Sam
that they still had, always would have each other.
Dean stop! Just let it go…
His little brother is pale as the sheets of his hospital bed, his life hanging
by a thread, probably more literally than Sam could like, if any of what he's
read about the trial magic is true.
“I’m not gonna let you die.” He mumbles against the cool skin of Dean’s hand
which he is clutching tightly in his.
He had meant to be the one doing the trials. Sam was, and still is convinced
that the year in Purgatory successfully erased the last traces of Dean’s will
to live a normal life. He knows his little brother better than himself, had
seen it in Dean’s eyes back then. Sam had been too slow, and Dean had been too
eager, gotten to the Hellhound first.
After a year of trying to find a way into Purgatory, Sam had to spend months
watching his little brother cough blood, only to grin nonchalantly a second
later. When the trials had required Dean to go back into the monster heaven,
Sam had honestly feared for his return.
And now, with the remains of heaven crashing and burning, with Cas out of
grace, lost somewhere across the states, with the King of Hell still gagged and
bound in the Impala’s trunk, Sam Winchester is sitting at his brother’s
deathbed, finding himself out of options.
He is unwilling to even leave Dean’s room, but he retreats to the window and
after a minute of contemplation, sends out a prayer, carefully naming a parking
lot within view of their hospital room as the meeting point. His eyes are drawn
to Dean every time his concentration fades. Sam wards the room with permanent
marker in places where the nurses hopefully won’t find the sigils immediately.
Then he kisses Dean’s forehead, promises to be back soon, and closes the door
behind him softly.
Ezekiel is the second angel to arrive, the calmest one of them, and the least
wrathful. There is a constant expression of careful reserve on his face, more
like a hurt, easily startled animal and less like the confused, maladapted and
probably angry celestial being that Sam had expected. Like the one who
threatens to rip Sam’s throat out in lieu of an introduction, making Ezekiel
also the only one who hasn’t tried to gut Sam on sight.
He actually saves Sam’s hide, which is a definite point in his favour. Well, he
collapses after, not overly reassuring, but beggars can’t be choosers. He
passes the obligate interrogation in the ring of holy fire. If he is after Cas,
he’s a pretty good liar, and most angels aren't, especially those new to their
vessels. He’s also roughened up by the fall, but seeing as Cas answers neither
prayers nor payphone, Sam isn’t left with very many choices.
Ezekiel is gentle when he touches Dean’s chest.
“So, are you able to cure him?” Sam asks.
“Yes, I should be… But he’s so weak.” Ezekiel frowns, eyes fixed on Sam’s
comatose brother’s face.
Sam’s phone rings.
Cas knows Ezekiel, Sam can hear the gentle smile through the phone.
“Yes. He’s a good soldier.”
There is such a thing as a narrative law of the universe. Sam read about it
somewhere. Sleeping Princesses are always kissed awake by a Prince, old houses
at the end of the road always are haunted, and if the Winchesters catch a
break, it always turns out that they really don’t.
===============================================================================
 
“It’s over, Sam. There’s nothing to fight for.”
“No, Dean. I know that you don’t believe that.”
“Really? Then what’s your plan, Sam?”
“My plan? My plan is to fight! My plan is to try! I'll figure something out,
you know me, I always do! Just don't pretend there's nothing to hope for!"
“No, Sam. I’m telling you there is. I know you don’t like it, and you won’t
accept it, but it’s there. Sam, I’m tired.”
“Dean, you know what this is!”
“It’s okay Sam.”
 
“It’s what I want.”
===============================================================================
 
The whole building is vibrating with the arrival of more angels, and Sam curses
himself for not being more careful about giving away their location.
They have to move Dean.
If Dean is moved, he dies.
There are innocent people in the hospital.
Fire alarm first, and Sam is already cutting his arm while he runs.
===============================================================================
“Hello Dean. I’ve been waiting for you.”
===============================================================================
“What is happening?”
“His body is failing, as is my own strength, due to the warding, I fear.”
“Wait.” Sam tries to breathe face to face with an EKG that is rapidly
approaching cardiac arrest. “Are you telling me you’re too weak?”
“I fear so.”
“There has to be another thing we can do. Some way, any way.”
“No good ones.” Ezekiel says resignated, and Sam understands.
“No.” Sam says. “He’d rather die than survive that way.” It’s the ultimate
hypocrisy, because while he is speaking the truth, Sam is also very aware that
he is more than ready to overrule his little brother’s inhibitions if it means
saving his life. Dean would- Dean will doubtlessly call him a selfish bastard
for it, but Sam is far from ready to let Dean die, even over the probably worst
case of PTSD in human history.
“I cannot do it without his consent. I can take you with me, and you can
convince him…” the trickery Ezekiel suggests is tempting, very much so, but it
ties Sam’s stomach into knots. Meg and Lucifer taught him better. “No
deceiving.” He decides.
Ezekiel frowns, worrying his lip. “Will he agree otherwise, though? You cannot
be sure of it.”
“Yes I can. I know I can convince him.” Maybe if Sam says the words firm
enough, he will be able to believe them. “He won’t forgive me if I lie to him
about this. We’re doing this, but we’re playing with open cards.”
Ezekiel places his hand on Sam’s forehead.
===============================================================================
Dean wonders how Death pulls of this bemused-exasperated-resignated amusement
thing so flawlessly permanent. If he’d ever had a chance to grow old, it’s
exactly the attitude he’d have tried to display as well.
“Hey Death. Sir.” He smiles lazily and leans back in the fluffy armchair.
Considering the last thing he remembers is not-redeeming Crowley, and the fact
that he’s sitting in Bobby’s living room, which sadly does not exist anymore in
the real world, he figures he is on the brink of, well, death. Capital D,
though. Death. Huh.
“Quite right, my boy.” Death comments and Dean grins. “My boy? Seriously?”
If he weren’t about to die, he’d make it one of his life goals to learn how to
raise an eyebrow the way Death does now. “Indeed. I must admit, when I heard it
was you, well I had to come myself.”
“That’s quite an honour. Thanks.” Dean smiles faintly. Sam is gonna be mad…
“Can I ask you a favour?”
Seriously, this eyebrow game is a whole other level. “That depends. What would
that favour be?”
“If I go with you, can you promise that this time, it’s final? That I stay
dead, no matter what… anybody tries to bring me back. No deals, no spells,
nothing, no one can get involved or hurt anymore?”
Death, surprised. A sight to behold at any other opportunity, but this is
urgent.
“I can promise that.”
Dean leans back and smiles, relieved and free for the first time in, well,
years. Not that time seems to count for much here.
“It’s time, Dean.” Death says and gets up. “Shall we?”
Dean rises, his (imaginary) limbs light, a perk in his step that he hasn't
known he’s missed.
“Hold on.”
“Sam!”
There’s his big brother, and a bit behind him, someone else. Tall, earnest,
with a skeleton whisper of shadowy wings behind him.
“It’s okay, Dean.” Sam looks at Death, apologetic but hasty. “I’m sorry, may I
talk to my brother, please?”
“What are you doing, Sam?” Dean frowns.
“I’ve got a plan.” Sam takes a step towards him, and this is some mindfuck
dreamworld, he shouldn’t be able to fix Dean with his eyes so intensely, right?
“Why are you even here? We’ve been around this block so many times, I’m tired
of it.”
“You have to fight this, Dean!” Sam rarely ever shouts. Even rarer when he’s
more than just a projection of Dean’s mind. Sam only ever shouts when Dean’s in
danger. Which is ridiculous, because Dean made up his mind.
“We can fix this, Dean. Together. Please.” Sam never begged when they were
kids. Sam was steady and reasonable and intelligent beyond his age, and he
always protected Dean. He was there for nightmares, he taught Dean how to read
and to shoot and to stitch up a wound. He went against bullies and difficult
teachers and social workers for Dean, always calm, always outsmarting everyone
else and never, ever having to plea for anything.
“It’s not his time.” Sam is one word short of falling to his knees in front of
Death.
“That’s for Dean to decide.”
“Dean, listen to me. I made you a promise in that church. You and me, come
whatever. If this isn’t whatever, I don’t know what is. You have to let me help
you, Dean, please. You have to let us help.”
Dean is breathing heavily- he probably doesn’t need to, but it helps him think
and he doesn’t know how not to- “Us?”
Sam’s eyes flicker to the man- the angel who steps next to him. “Your body is
breaking down. I can help you, but it has to be from the inside.”
“You’re joking.”
The pure desperation in Sam’s eyes makes Dean’s throat tighten, his heart
constrict. “Sam, no. Of all the things to ask.”
“There is no me if there is no you!” Sam throws the word at him, he’s shaking,
he shouldn’t be shaking. Sam is strong, his Sam, his brother, and all Dean
wants to do is touch him, hold him, tell him it’s gonna be alright.
He looks at Death. Death looks back, forehead in wise, dignified wrinkles, and
Dean reads the eternal acceptance in those eyes. What’s time for the one who’ll
reap God, anyways?
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is almost, almost breaking.
Dean turns and glares at the angel. “I can throw you out anytime.”
“Is that a yes?”
“If you mess with my head I’m gonna find a way to kill you.”
“Dean, are you saying yes?”
===============================================================================
There is a narrative law of the universe. When it’s dark and the torchlight
begins to flicker, you’re in trouble. When a Prince fights a dragon, he cannot
fail. When Sam needs Dean, or Dean needs Sam, no matter when, where, how, why,
they always come for each other.
===============================================================================
“You know this is probably the worst idea you ever had, right?” Kevin says.
“We didn’t have a choice.” Sam replies through clenched teeth. Kevin looks at
him and nods, and Sam is so very grateful for their prophet.
“Go take care of him. I’m gonna continue translating the rocks.” Kevin shoots
the two tablets laid out on the table a weary glance.
"Cas is on his way. Maybe he can help.” Sam suggests, suppressing the twinge of
worry at the idea of their angel alone, graceless, with bloodthirsty siblings
on the lookout for him.
But he can’t let Dean outside, not while he can’t even breathe without Ezekiel
inside him.
“I doubt that.” Kevin shrugs. “Go. You’re getting twitchy again.”
Sam looks at their prophet indignantly, but Kevin only returns a blank stare.
Two years ago, he’d have been intimidated. Now the kid’s just done with all the
bullshit.
“Dinner at six.” Sam mutters and then leaves for Dean’s room.
Dean is blinking awake when Sam enters. He’s sleeping sixteen hours a day so
Ezekiel can concentrate all his energy on healing him.
“Sammy?” Dean mumbles, still a little groggy. He only uses that nickname when
he’s out of it, because those are the only times Sam will tolerate it. He’s the
big brother after all, and he never had the patience for nicknames.
“Hey Dean.” Sam knows his voice is softer than it should be, but he can’t help
it. Dean is still very obviously not okay, paler, weaker, eyes slightly glassed
over. He smiles, though, when Sam kneels next to him. “How about a shower and
some food at the table? It’s been almost two days since you left your bed.”
“Alright.” Dean gets up way too quickly for Sam’s taste and bats his brother’s
hands away when Sam tries to support him. “Dude, I can do it on my own!”
Sam has a painful flashback to bath nights when they were young. As far back as
he can remember, Dean had always insisted on doing everything by himself,
desperate not to burden Dad or Sam. It had started when he was a toddler and
never let up.
“Just be careful.” Sam says and does his best not to hover too obviously.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Zeke’s got this, don’t worry. I can move.” He rolls his
shoulders and gets up. “By the way, we should probably get some books so he can
read. The both of us are getting pretty bored.”
“You’re talking?” Sam asks surprised.
“Well duh, Sam. He’s in my head, what are we supposed to do?” Dean shoots him a
look. He walks into the bathroom barefooted, and Sam bites his tongue in order
to not worry out loud about the cold floor.
“Sam, I’m not gonna collapse in the shower.” Dean says when Sam doesn’t make a
move to leave the bathroom.
“You almost died.” Sam gives back tensely.
Dean just rolls his eyes and takes off the shirt and boxers he’d been sleeping
in- nothing Sam hasn’t seen before. Dean Winchester does not do body shame.
Sam swallows and takes a deep breath, controlling his libido with a healthy
dose of guilt. Dean may look fine safe for how he’s a bit paler, a bit thinner
than before, but Sam knows he isn’t. His little brother has outlived the
Doctor’s prognosis from three days ago only because of the angel inside him.
The angel inside him who is talking to Dean, in Dean’s head, watching
everything.
“Sam, I’m fine. Believe me.” Dean says and steps into the shower. And doesn’t
pull the curtain closed behind him. Instead he turns on the steaming hot water
and lets it run down his body, drops and clear streams rolling over his skin
that quickly grows pink under the warmth. Dean never tanned as easily as Sam,
but instead his body is dusted with freckles, faint and delicately spread over
the muscles won by years of hard training and hunting. Sam knows he shouldn’t,
but the path of scars over his little brother’s body is too familiar, his eyes
following the rugged lines, holes and healed gashes on their own. Some of
Dean’s scars are old, almost faded white, some are dull pink, and the newest
ones are still reddish, becoming more obvious under the warm water.
Sam knows each and every one of the scars, knows the story behind them, how
deep they go and what they feel and taste like.
Dean huffs a breath of laughter, and when Sam meets his eyes, he knows he's
doing this on purpose.
Sam frowns in annoyance. “Dean.”
“Like I said.” Dean groans softly, leaning his head back into the stream of
water, and runs his hands down his body. “I’m fine.”
“Dean.” Sam warns again, lowly, and his brother, being the little shit that he
is, actually smirks. “Sam?”
Sam takes all willpower he has left and tears his eyes away, but then Dean’s
voice drops an octave. “Sammy?”
“You have an angel in your head.” Sam growls, working his jaw to try and soothe
the ball of dark feelings settling in the pit of his stomach. Masturbating has
been low on Sam’s list of priorities lately, and now he gets the bill.
“So what? Zeke knew what he was singing up for.” Dean tilts his head and then
actually chuckles. “Don’t think it bothers him overmuch, actually.”
“What?” Sam stares at Dean. His little brother grabs his already half-erect
cock and grins, watching Sam under lowered lids. “C’mon Sam, can’t tell me some
voyeurism don’t turn you on.”
“Dean.” It’s the only prayer left now that has any kind of meaning to Sam.
“Please, Sam. Need you.”
“Fuck!” Two buttons go flying and Sam almost falls over the tangled mess of
jeans and boxers and socks before he manages to kick it away, and nothing
matters as soon as he’s pressing Dean against the tiles, their mouths crashing
together. Dean shivers against the coolness of the smooth ceramics in his back
and Sam rubs up against him, trying to touch as much of him as possible,
reclaiming every inch of skin.
“Sam!” Dean jerks his hips and Sam takes the request for what it is, picking
Dean up and pinning him against the wall, the hot water pouring down over both
of them with Dean's legs slung around his hips. Dean really seems to weigh less
than before, lifting him last was that easy when he was a teenager. Somewhat
ironic, considering he’s housing an angel, but Sam is done wasting thoughts on
that. They’re both impatient, rutting against each other, the perfect mix of
wetness and friction between them.
Dean’s kissing is becoming more frantic, adding small bites along Sam’s lips.
Sam’s fingers are digging into Dean’s ass, thumbs on his hipbones, and in
return Dean is clawing along Sam’s shoulders, both of them intent on leaving
marks on each other. Sam’s cock twitches and he speeds up the rhythm, and Dean
arches his back, presses nearer, there is no such thing as too close for them.
Sam comes first, with an animalistic sound that is half yell and half groan,
and Dean follows him a moment later, whimpering softly. After years, after
everything that happened to and between them, that sound still turns Sam’s
whole world, throws him back to that first, forbidden time when neither of them
had understood how this could be wrong. It wasn’t, it wasn’t wrong then, it
isn’t now.
Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s, their heavy breaths mixing while the
water washes their come down the drain.
That night, someone comes into Sam’s bedroom. It looks like Dean, but Sam needs
one glance to know it isn’t his little brother.
“Ezekiel?”
“He is asleep.” The angel hesitates. “Could- may I rest beside you?”
Sam frowns for a moment. Oh well, weirder things have happened. He gestures
towards the empty space in his bed and D- Ezekiel stiffly lays down next to
him.
Sam only hesitates for a moment, but then he chuckles and draws the familiar
body near. They fit instinctively, even if that look of startled surprise
wasn’t made for Dean’s face.
“I’m gonna sleep now.” Sam mumbles. “And by the way. Thanks.”
The angel relaxes against him then, and for now, that’s good enough.
 
End Notes
     Gadreel's POV is in the works.
     Oh, and if any of you recognize the concept of the Narrative Law of
     the Universe (Multiverse;) and its origin, you get a free prompt.
     Just message me on tumblr, same url :)
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
