Hang All Your Hopes Upon The Stars - SN fic - PG13

[tigriswolf]

Title: Hang All Your Hopes Upon The Stars
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun.
Warnings: AU; wincest; character death; unapologetic run-on sentences
Pairings: John/Mary, Dean/Sam
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 2023
Point of view: third
Notes: My version of what if the boys grew up apart? 
More notes: has been remixed wonderfully here

 

 

 

I August

On August 31, 1983, Mary Winchester took her sons to the park. She sat on a bench and bounced Sammy in her arms, watching Dean make friends in the sandbox.

By noon, Mary realized Dean was gone.

II December

On December 19, 1988, Mary Winchester was driving her son home from school. He was bouncing all over the backseat because of a sugar-rush(it’d been the day of the Christmas party) and Mary was looking in the rearview, smiling.

She never saw the pick-up run the stop sign; they were only five minutes from home.

III April

On April 5, 1992, John Winchester went out to a bar to drown his pain in alcohol. He’d done it countless times before and knew he’d probably do it again.

His son Sam spent the night in their home, alone and lonely, but when he woke up in the morning, the house was still empty.

At school, on April 6, 1992, Sam learned his father died in the hospital after wrapping his car around a tree.

IV October

On October 17, 1996, Sam Winchester ran away from his foster home. He had almost no memories of his mother, hated what he could remember of his father, and had no idea he’d ever had a brother.

For four years he’d been shipped from one place to the next, had nowhere to call home. He didn’t try making friends, didn’t try fitting in. He was considered a problem-child by everyone and none took the time to reach him.

By the time he ran away in ’96, Sam had lost all faith in authority and God. He believed in only himself, what he himself could do.

He snuck out of the foster home one frosty day in October and stole into the night.

V June

On June 15, 1999, Sam Winchester bumped into a man in a crowded thrift-store in Topeka.

“Sorry,” Sam muttered without looking.

“No harm,” the guy replied and kept on his way.

A thrill of recognition shot through Sam and he raised his head, watched the man walk away. Dark blond hair, maybe light brown, shorn close; fairly tall, though not compared to Sam, who was shopping for clothes because he wouldn’t stop growing; Sam traced the lines of the guy’s shoulders with his eyes, then the rest of his body. Finally he was out of sight and Sam shook himself, kept shopping.

VI February

On February 28, 2001, Sam Winchester found himself on the losing end of a bar fight. He was nearly too drunk to stand and the bastards just kept coming. It was him versus too many to count, outside in the snow, and Sam’s head throbbed so much he could barely think, much less defend himself. His body wasn’t listening to his commands because his brain was in no shape to give them, and finally Sam fell, unable to keep standing. The gang laughed and proceeded to kick him, but thankfully he was too far gone to really feel much of anything at all.

The last thing he heard was a loud pop that sounded remarkably like gunfire.

VII March

On March 2, 2001, Sam Winchester woke up in a hospital bed, head fuzzy with scattered memories, three broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and a vow to never drink anything remotely alcoholic ever again.

He should have remembered Dad.

The doctor explained all of his injuries, told Sam he’d be in the hospital for a while longer—the better part of two days spent in unconsciousness convinced Sam the doc had the right of it.

“Any questions?” the doctor asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said, starting to nod but then thinking it was best not to. “How’d I get here?”

“A good Samaritan brought you in, made sure you’d be alright, then left.” The doctor smiled down at him. “Just rest, Mr. Winchester. You’ll be fine.”

VIII July

On July 15, 2002, Sam Winchester met Dean Potter.

Sam had pulled his battered truck into a parking spot next to an even more battered Chevy Impala and accidentally brushed the side. Neither of the vehicles was even remotely hurt, but a man tore out of the McDonald’s and gaped at the nonexistent damage.

“The hell?” he demanded, reaching out to touch a mark Sam couldn’t see. He glared at Sam and Sam held out his hands in supplication.

“Sorry,” Sam apologized. “I misjudged the distance.”

The guy straightened up, a good four inches shorter than Sam. “Misjudged the distance?” he repeated in disbelief. “You hit my car!”

A memory echoed in Sam’s head, another time and another place, and he studied the guy’s face, felt like something was missing, something that was his and stolen before he knew to miss it. The guy’s eyes were familiar, huge and hazel, alight with anger and indignation, and Sam thought of Momma, suddenly and inexplicably, except not, because they were her eyes, he knew it, without the ghost of a shadow of a doubt.

He fell back into his body without warning, realized the guy was building steam in his rant, and the guy’s voice was so familiar Sam shivered.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said again, interrupting, quietly and sincerely.

And the guy paused, tilted his head, and looked at Sam appraisingly for a minute. “No harm,” he shrugged after a moment and smiled a small smile. “Sorry I went off on you.” He held out a hand. “Dean Potter,” he introduced himself.

Sam reached forward to shake. “Sam Winchester.”

“Sam,” Dean repeated. “Did you get your ass kicked in Topeka once?” He let go of Sam’s hand.

“Yeah,” Sam answered, raising an eyebrow. “Why? You in on it?”

Dean chuckled and stepped forward, clapped Sam on the back. “No. But it sure didn’t look like a fair fight, you bein’ completely trashed and all.”

Sam couldn’t help but chuckle, too. “Haven’t touched alcohol since.”

“Good,” Dean said quietly, suddenly serious. “Good.” He closed his eyes for a second and shook himself, then met Sam’s gaze. “To make up for my earlier behavior, let me buy you lunch.”

It took half a heartbeat for Sam to agree.

IX September

On September 20, 2002, Sam Winchester kissed Dean Potter for the first time. It was in the middle of an argument on whether baseball was better than basketball—they both agreed football sucked—and were working on Sam’s truck together. Dean was in the middle of a point passionately praising basketball, and Sam leaned forward to press their lips together. It was quick, light, and Sam pulled away, more mortified than he’d ever been before. He couldn’t look at Dean, could only wait in horrified silence for whatever Dean would do.

So when Dean stepped forward slowly and raised a hand to Sam’s face, then shifted his grip to the back of Sam’s neck and pulled Sam’s head down, Sam was appropriately amazed. Dean’s gaze flicked from Sam’s eyes to his mouth and a slow smile curved his lips, then he moved in, and Sam couldn’t believe Dean wasn’t kicking his ass, was instead making the start of every single one of his fantasies come true, and it was better than Sam’d ever imagined.

X January

On January 24, 2003, Dean Potter turned twenty-four. Sam celebrated by taking him to Disneyworld. They hadn’t really talked about their childhoods yet, keeping their conversations on the future, hopes and plans. But they both knew that both had been less than ideal. And neither of them ever touched a drop of alcohol.

Sam watched Dean walk around with wide eyes, watched his childlike joy, and felt absolutely heartbroken that Dean held no happy memories. At least Sam could recall Momma, even if the memories were fleeting images and never lingered long. But he’d watched Dean sleep, seen how few of his dreams were good.

Sam had escaped the foster system and the street relatively unscathed. He’d been beaten every now and again but never forced to do anything. Mostly, it had been neglect. And then on the street, he’d found a gang that watched each other’s backs because of what most of them had fled.

Sam knew he’d been lucky and he had well-founded suspicions that Dean couldn’t say the same.

So he took Dean to Disneyworld for his twenty-fourth birthday and he smiled at Dean’s excitement, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would never let Dean go—unless Dean was no longer happy with him.

When they got back to the hotel, Dean asked where he could possibly have gotten the money to afford the trip.

Sam ducked his head and sank back on the king-sized bed, looked up at Dean through his lashes. “Some rich uncle I’ve never met died. He knew about me but never tried to keep me, never tried to find me. So now I have all this money I don’t know what to do with.” He smiled shyly and Dean bit his lip, slipped in between Sam’s knees, and pushed lightly, making Sam fall back.

“I don’t need you to spend your money on me, Sam,” he said softly, resting his knees on either side of Sam’s waist. “You don’t have to buy me.”

Sam met Dean’s eyes and raised his hands to cradle Dean’s face. “I know that, Dean,” he replied with the same tone. “But it makes me happy to see you happy.”

Dean stared down at him and Sam couldn’t make out the expression on his face. “Did we know each other in another life?” Dean asked seriously and Sam smiled.

“I think we did,” he responded and Dean leaned down to kiss his lips.

Sam flipped them over and Dean stared up at him, eyes serene and joyful, and Sam lowered his head to kiss his way up Dean’s neck. When he reached Dean’s ear, he whispered, “Happy birthday,” and Dean whispered back, “Best birthday I’ve ever had.”

XI May

On May 2, 2003, Missouri Moseley tracked down the two young men she’d been dreaming about for years. She saw two different worlds in her sleep, one where they grew together and one where neither remembered the other.

In January of ’03 she kenw the time had come, that now they needed to know the truth.

Her words might destroy them, but maybe, possibly—it could save them.

She followed a feeling to Miami, to a small garage, to two men more entwined in each other than they’d ever imagined.

Missouri watched them for hours, watched how in-tuned they were, how happy—after lifetimes of pain, together they’d found peace.

And with a few well-placed words, Missouri knew she would shatter them.

She walked up to the garage in time to hear, “Happy birthday, Sammy,” and witness a gentle kiss.

Missouri felt her heart clench, felt her soul cry out not to do this, that these boys didn’t really need to know.

But the day before Mary Winchester gave birth to her first child, she extracted a promise from Missouri, and Missouri had never lied.

Make sure my sons know themselves, Mary had asked, and Missouri swore.

So on May 2, 2003, Missouri stepped into the garage and two men turned to face her, and, taking a deep breath, she searched for the proper words, beginning with, “I knew your parents,” and she watched their eyes widen.

And Missouri hated herself, but she had never lied before. No twenty-four year old oath would make a liar of her now.

XII November

On November 2, 1983, John woke to fire and Mary screaming. He ran up the stairs and met her in the hallway, where she held a wailing Sammy. John grabbed Mary and shoved her towards the stairs. She shrieked for Dean, Sammy tight in her grip, and John yelled back that Dean was gone.

Sitting on his Impala while their house burned to the ground, along with every belonging of Dean's, every picture of Dean, John pulled Mary close and kissed her hair, listened to Sammy softly crying, and promised that they’d start over somewhere new, the three of them, that everything would be fine in the morning.