#deancestdecember

[hunenka]

Forks in the Road

For @deancestdecember​‘s bingo, “another life”.

Stanford era!Dean/s11!Dean.

Read on AO3.

[nottherealdean]

deancestdecember: souls

“I’ll give you thirteen months. I guess that makes me top bidder, right? Lucky you.”

[contranymss]

Predestination AU: rule 63!Dean as Jane; s3!Dean as The Unmarried Mother; s8!Dean as The Bartender; demon!Dean as The Fizzle Bomber (for the another life square)

Here you are at the beginning of your new life. It can be overwhelming knowing the future you're about to create. Knowing the purpose of that life. You know who she is. And you understand who you are. And now maybe you're ready to understand who I am. You see, I love her too.

[nottherealdean]

Deancest December: marks, scars, & tattoos

A dozen tiny differences that they could pin down through scars—meaning hundreds more they wouldn’t think to compare—and everything that mattered was still the same. It figured, Dean thought, that even in another universe the same shit happened. His mom died, bleeding and burning; his dad sold his soul while Dean was bleeding inside and dying, then died instead and Dean had to burn him. If a butterfly was supposed to be able to cause a storm with the right flap of its wings, then how come he had to look at all these flutterings laid out across his other self’s skin, and yet see the same grief and anger in his face?

Dean pressed his thumb against the pale triangle scored into one of the other Dean’s knuckles. It was the first difference he’d noticed, after something had gone wrong on a cosmic scale and they’d stumbled into each other in the same haunted building. Their reactions had matched up, too, both pairs of brothers reluctant to holster their guns even after mutual shallow slices with identical silver knives. The car parked outside had also looked unchanged, or close enough he couldn’t tell the difference without holding them up to check. Even the room number at the hotel they drove to was the same as the one Dean had paid for that afternoon. His key, when he’d lingered in the doorway to test it and to give himself a chance to check out the room before entering it, fit the lock perfectly. It was that little, unfamiliar scar he saw later, that was the first evidence that they weren’t true duplicates.

Sam—his Sam—had left with the other Sam to finish checking the building for remains, while Dean had gone with his own double to dig through burial records. Attention wandering from page after page of newspaper, Dean had stared at the hands scrolling through the microfilm. He’d reached out, putting his own hand side by side with the other Dean’s for comparison, and after a startled moment the other Dean had spotted it too.

“Got it about two years ago,” he’d said. “Breaking into this creepy family crypt—”

“The one with crying angels all over it?” Dean had interrupted.

“Yeah. My crowbar slipped,” he’d answered, frowning at the memory, while Dean dimly recollected the bar skidding off the smooth marble of the tomb, his fist narrowly missing the sharp corner of the doorjamb. He had been about to say so, when his phone buzzed with a text from Sam. They had found the bones, and salted and burned them.

The drive back toward the hotel had turned into a catalogue of scars and current bruises, lining up mismatches as best they could remember into slight variations in angle, timing, and luck. When they ran out of places they could compare while Dean was driving, they had pulled into a dark, weed-filled lot behind a junkyard and gotten to the marks on their chests and backs. From there they’d kept going, and then, almost seamlessly easily, gone even further.

Now they were sprawled on the backseat, wedged against each other to fit, under a blanket haphazardly dragged over them. Dean rubbed his other self’s scarred knuckle again, as the rush of euphoria faded. Anger was creeping back in, muted enough by the relaxed tiredness of his body and the buzz of throwing himself so thoroughly into his own pleasure that—alone with himself—he opened his mouth and let some of it out.

“He didn’t stay on the phone for you either, did he?” Stubble prickled his shoulder as the cheek leaned against him shifted. “When he called the nurses’ station to see if the demon was holding up his end of the deal.” His other self tensed, a stiffening of muscles that Dean felt all along his body, pressed together as they were. He took that as a no. “He knew he was dying. He knew he was going to Hell, and he still hung up when they told him the good news. Didn’t say a damn word to me before he left.” It was a small thing, compared to hocking his soul to buy Dean however many more exhausting years, but that should only have made it easier. One last moment—John’s voice over the quiet hiss of static—but even in a parallel universe it didn’t happen.

His other self slid his hand out of Dean’s grip, turning it so he could interlace their fingers. “His goodbyes were always hit or miss.” His voice was hesitant, emotion held back but leaking through anyway.

“For the last one, he could have made an effort.” There were only trivial, pointless changes, mapped out in the misalignment of scars, in a history of moments that hurt a little more, or a little less, or the same but in another place.

“I’m just saying.” He squeezed his arm tighter around Dean. “Maybe it’s better he didn’t.”

“And what, end with nothing? Him just—just disappearing?”

“I’m not saying it’s good, but… it’s a better way to finish than some of the things he could’ve said.” The words were heavier than they should have been, filling the dark interior of the car with emptiness and the growing certainty that there was a real difference, one that mattered, but he didn’t want to tell him, and Dean didn’t want to know.

[kazchester]

For @deancestdecember Bingo: Resurrection:

Dean runs through the woods, runs as fast as he can, tripping and almost falling a couple of times. All he can hear is the sound of his heavy breathing and his feet breaking twigs and smashing dead leaves. Doesn’t notice the sweat until drops of it almost fall in his eyes, he dries it with his forearm and keeps running, he is so close, so close. Then he sees the clearing and his heart starts to beat even faster, he doesn’t want to be late, after everything he did to get here…. wants to make the most of the little time he has. When he sees the first fallen trunk he slows down and stop, clutching his right side, taking big gulps of air until the pain lessens. He tries to calm down to hear, takes out his knife, peers through treetops fallen at his feet. All the birds flew away, all the animals went into hiding, the silence is ominous but it’s okay, just like he remembers. And then he sees it, the wooden cross, alone at the center of the clearing. The air around it makes heat waves and the earth is breathing or beating, coming to life at the same time, he is sure, the corpse buried under comes to life too. Body immaculate, soul scorched. He can’t fix the later, nobody can, but at least he want to be there for his past self, it was terrifying to crawl out of his own grave and find himself alone, believing it was just an illusion, waiting for the punishment to surprise him at any moment, being dragged down once again back to the pain, the hopelessness, the horror of eternal damnation. He realizes he has goosebumps all over his arms, laughs a little too loud and starts walking at the first sight of a hand breaking free, feeling air for the first time in a long, long time.

He kneels and start to dig the ground as fast as he can, he takes that hand and pushes until half past!Dean body is out, he lets him take puffs of air and watches him, glad he can’t see yet for the dirt over his eyes or he would be freaking out. Past!Dean’s other arm comes off and he slides both arms under his and pushes hard until all his body is out. They both fall, past!Dean over future!Dean, breathing hard and dirty, clutching to each other so hard, like they were one. Their heart is beating in unison, their breathing synchronized. He can feel his neck is wet and realize past!Dean is crying, he hates it that he’s using those eyes for the first time to cry but he is crying too. He doesn’t know how much time he has until past!Dean sees him and start asking questions. So he does what he came to do, be there for him, for himself. He holds him tight and starts to whisper: You are safe, you are not going back, we are never going back there, everything is going to be okay, we will find Sammy, we will find Bobby and everything is going to be okay Dean, you are safe, you are safe man, it’s over. You are free…

[rhapsodean]

ok so I missed deancest december but have some season 8 dean comforting season 1 dean after a difficult hunt - using the prompts vulnerability and desperation

'you are so much more than this, kiddo.'

[your-belle]

At twenty-four Dean Winchester has seen some pretty strange things, he thought he’d seen it all. But staring at his face, his older face, aged eleven years to be exact, he stands corrected. Dean never imagined meeting his future self in some tiny roadside bar in the middle of nowhere. He has so many questions; does Sammy become some big hotshot lawyer? Does Dad let him hunt on his own? When does he? And questions about himself he doesn’t even dare to ask even in his own mind. But looking at his counterpart he can’t bring himself to voice any of his questions. Conservation is neutral and easy going as they sip their whiskeys in perfect sync and Dean tries not to think how weird that is.

Going home with himself oddly enough is the least strangest thing; it feels right. His hands but not his own stripping him of his clothes makes his head spin. They’re a tangled heap when they finally make it to the bed. Dean stares down at his older self, fingers dancing across the much more prominent wrinkles around his eyes, down to the scars he’s familiar with and ones he’s curious to know their stories. His exploring fingers come to a halt when they reach the angry red raised mark on his forearm. When his questioning eyes meet the older man’s, a dark shadow casts over them and Dean knows the significance behind the strange mark cannot be good.

“You’re a good man.” He can’t help but say, needing to hear the words aloud for himself just as much as for his future self.

“Don’t–” his counterpart starts to protest, eyes squeezed shut.

“You’re a good man,” Dean repeats, pressing a series of kisses to the angry red skin.

Dean’s kisses move to the other man’s face, hands gently cradling him as he kisses the wetness at the corner of his eyes, Dean’s own eyes sting. “You’re– We’re going to be alright.” The words feel like heavy lead on his tongue, Dean has no idea what his future holds, but he wills himself to believe.

“We’re going to be alright.” And for a short few hours, they are, and that’s all that matters for the time being.

[posingasme]

In case you are into Dean W & Dean S. I didn't realize I was till I started writing it. Now I'm completely in love with Dean Smith. So didn't see that coming.