Heaven Can Wait Update

[mf_luder_xf]

CHAPTER 6

Spring 2026

“...Back in black!” Drew shouted out over the music.

“Drew, please, my ears!” laughed Josh next to him.

That only made Drew sing all the louder.

There were driving in Drew's Impala, on their way to Sam Winchester's house. A select few of the younger archeology majors had been chosen to help Sam with some of his research and they were all meeting up in Lawrence, before heading out to a site he knew of.

“So. What do you think Sam's going to have us do?” Josh asked as the song ended and Drew turned the music back down. He was stretched out as far as his body and the car would let him, hands behind his head.

Drew glanced over at him, following his form. He was tempted to reach out a hand and stroke that tantalizing thigh, but he refrained. They'd decided way back that they wouldn't cross that line. While they both found each other attractive, they decided they'd rather have each other's company and live together as friends than have complicated relationship issues.

“I don't know. Long as we get there on time and don't miss them. You're not the best one with directions,” he teased.

“Oh, give me a break. Like you'd even stop for directions if it were you? You can be so full of yourself.” Josh was grinning though.

“Damn straight.”

However, ten minutes later, they were pulling onto a quaint street with a white, two-story house that had two other cars in front of it.

“Guess you got us here after all.”

Josh stuck his tongue out.

“Don't be promising things you don't mean,” Drew winked and got out of the car before Josh could punch him.

Laughing they walked up the cobbled path, staring at the garden.

“Seems kind of fruity, don't it?” Josh joked.

“Hey,” Drew said, feeling the need to defend Sam. “There's nothing wrong with a garden. Man's gotta get down in the dirt from time to time.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Hey, I never gave you crap for that baby blanket, did I?”

“Low blow,” muttered his roommate, that band of light pink covering his nose like it did whenever he was caught doing something or got embarrassed.

As they got closer, the scent of lilacs filled Drew's nose.

A soft lullaby being sung as he kissed a little baby in a crib.

“Mama? Can I spin the thingy?”

“Sure, honey,” came a lilting voice and he was lifted in to the air, where he promptly spun the mobile, batting at one of the baseballs and the baby below him cooed.

“'Night, Sammy-baby,” he whispered and then he yawned as he was carried into his own room.

“'Night, Mama,” he said, closing his eyes.

A warm hand swept his hair back. “Good night, Dean.”

“Hey, hey, you ok, Drew?”

Drew wrenched himself back to the present. That was weird. “Yeah, I'm just fine.”

“Are you sure? You kind of spaced out.”

“Yeah...”

A big and friendly-looking man was laying in the front lawn. A blonde woman was holding a small, chubby baby in her arms—the same baby as before—cooing at him, playing with the small curls that were growing.

He was playing in one of those for-kids cars. “Mama, when can Sam come driving with me?”

The man laughed. “Sammy's going to be too small for some time, son. You gotta remember, you're a lot bigger than him.”

He puffed out his chest. “Yeah, I am. I can't wait to show him all my toys. And when he gets bigger, I'm gonna make sure I share. I'll be the bestest big brother ever!”

The woman smiled, leaning down to talk to the baby though she looked at him. “Hear that, Sammy? You're going to love your big brother when you're older. He knows how to share.” She tickled the baby's stomach and his face scrunched up into a laugh as he rolled around in her arms.

Drew shook his head. Something funny was going on. It was like he was remembering something—someone else's life.

“Yeah, let's go in, ok?” he said to Josh who gave him a funny look but rang the door bell.

“Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back. Now, Dean, go!

The roar and heat of a fire, his baby brother being pushed into his hands, and Daddy yelling at him. Gotta protect Sammy, gotta keep my brother safe, became a litany in his head as he rushed out the front door, unable to cry though he knew Mama was still in there. All that mattered was the crying baby in his own arms.

“It's ok, Sam.”

A giant blast of heat and fire.

“Oh, God,” Drew muttered, just as Sam opened the door.

“Hey, guys!” Sam was clearly excited. “Come on in!”

They both walked in and Drew gazed around the entry, but nothing seemed to strike him as odd.

“Sue Anne and Lee are here already. I have them stocking up on sandwiches 'cause it's going to be a long day.”

“Great!” Josh said and dashed into the kitchen.

Drew stood, spinning about slowly. That staircase...it seemed familiar.

“You ok, Drew?” Sam asked, seeming genuinely worried.

“Yeah, I think. I just feel like I've been in this house before.”

“Hmmm. Well, I can assure you haven't. I've lived here almost as long as you've been alive.”

“I feel like I've been here in a dream, maybe. Or some past life.” He laughed at himself. “That seems silly though, doesn't it?”

He thought he heard a muttered, “Not as silly as you think,” but he couldn't be sure because the next moment Sam was ushering him into the kitchen, warm, large palm resting on his shoulder.

The three other kids were seriously stuffing their faces. But Drew didn't blame them considering all the amazing food on the counter. He turned to look at Sam, one eyebrow raised.

Sam held up his hands. “I don't have many visitors. I like to go all out.”

“Do you cook too? 'Cause if you do...” Drew trailed off, but flashed a glance in Sam's direction knowing he'd get it but the other three wouldn't. He watched as Sam shuffled his feet and looked down like an overgrown college student himself. Drew smiled.

“Thanks, Sam.”

Sam just nodded and excused himself.

Drew stacked his sandwich high; loading turkey, ham, tomato, onion, lettuce, and more until he wasn't sure he could fit it in his mouth. Just practice, he thought wickedly, and bit in.

He was halfway through his meal when Sam came back in, backpack thrown over his shoulder, shovel in hand.

“Hey, bro! Are we going to burn this bitch's bones or what?”

Sam was leaning on a shovel, glaring at him. “Geez, Dean. Just because the lady went a little crazy after death doesn't mean you have to call her names.”

“Touchy, touchy, aren't we? Come on, dude. I wanna get back and take a shower. Get a drink maybe.”

When they'd unearthed the bones, Dean flicked a lighter and watched as it burned a moment, something about the smell of salt and gas and fire. It made him feel oddly at peace. He looked up and caught Sam's eyes. They reflected the little flame.

This was not good. That was a younger Sam. How could he be having memories of Sam as a kid? He'd only just met him over a year ago. Hell, ever since his nineteenth birthday, they'd hardly seen more of each other besides a quick 'hi' as they passed in the halls or if Drew was particularly chatty and went to Sam's office. Which had been like, twice.

Ok, so he'd seen the photo with a younger Sam and a very handsome man with his arm around him, whom he'd assumed was Sam's brother. But that didn't explain the kid visions and grown men torching bones. What was up with that?

He spent the entire rest of the day trying to figure out his brain and what these seeming memories were. He barely noticed what he was doing or the fact that both Josh and Sam were looking at him throughout the day, worry reflected in both their eyes. He missed their hushed conversation even.

The whole way back, he let Josh drive and stayed quiet. Josh glanced over at him once.

“Hey, you feeling ok?”

“Yeah,” Drew sighed. “I just think..I'm feeling a little sick.”

“Well, maybe Sam will let you stay there for the night.”

“Why would he do that?”

“If you're not feeling well, I mean, maybe you don't want the hour car trip back?”

Drew rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Josh. I'm not dying here or something. I think I can make the drive back to the dorm.”

“Ok...”

And that was the end of that conversation. However, when everyone was packing up, Sam pulled him aside.

“Hey, Drew. I was wondering...you look kind of out of it. You want to stay and have dinner? I think I remember you once saying I could talk to you about anything. It works the other way, you know.”

“Dinner, huh?” Drew liked the idea. He was feeling better, not so confused, and almost ready to pass those thoughts as too much caffeine. Or something. But dinner with Sam? Maybe he could make a move. “Sure. Let me tell Josh, 'k?”

Sam nodded.

Drew walked back to the entry way where Josh was waiting. He ran his hand over the banister. He could swear he'd been in the house before. It was like he knew where everything was.

“Hey. I'm going to stay, ok?”

Josh smiled knowingly at him. “What'd I tell you?”

He punched his friend in the arm. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Look, you think you can a ride back from Sue Anne? I'd prefer to have my car, you know, in case something gets...awkward.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow. Don't do something I wouldn't do.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go on.”

As soon as Josh was gone, even honking Sue Anne's horn as they left, Drew turned around, only to find Sam almost right behind him.

“Sam.”

“So, Drew. What would you like for dinner? Like I said, I don't get a lot of visitors, so I do like to cook when I have someone over.”

“Anything, really. I'm not all that picky. As long as there's no caviar and no green beans. Hate the first, allergic to the second.”

Sam chuckled. “I assure you I have none of the first, and I'm not too fond of the second myself. Italian ok?”

“Sounds good. Where's your bathroom?”

“Upstairs, second right.”

“Thanks.” Drew started up the stairs, one hand still trailing the banister. “And Sam?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks. I mean, you didn't have to.”

“I know,” Sam said, looking him right in the eye before he left to the kitchen.

Drew climbed up to the second floor. He found the bathroom easy enough. Exiting again, he couldn't help his curiosity. For all that Sam was open, he was still a bit of a mystery. Mourning for his brother twenty years later, no lover, and he seemed totally absorbed in his work. Which was fine, but what fun could it be without someone to share it with? His father would call it sentimental, but Drew knew he wouldn't make it through the day without Drew's mother to come home to. Sam seemed to have no one. He hadn't seen a photo frame yet. It was almost like Sam was keeping everything semi-permanent. No love, no close friends, no other family, a straight-laced home kept up nice but without personal touches. Almost like he was waiting for the day when he moved on, and when he did, he wasn't expecting to bring much with him.

There seemed to be three rooms on the floor. The first, farthest from the stairs, was a small room, obviously meant for a child. However, it was decorated like an office. Laptop, desk, light, book shelves. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings about various archaeological digs, mythological creatures, religious symbols. He walked in further, towards the books. Christian Era Magic, Demonology, Aztecs and Their Gods. The variety was endless, some old and cracked, others brand new. He noticed one small section that seemed to be dedicated to classics. He spotted F. Scott Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Homer, Aristotle, to name a few.

He walked out of that room. So Sam liked to read—that much was obvious. And while in another house, especially one like Sam's, those books might seem out of place, they fit well with his job. One of the things Drew was really beginning to like about Sam was he was a total geek—but didn't really come off like one. No matter his job, even his seeming self-inflicted hermitage didn't hide the feeling that Sam was more than what could be seen. He was almost the Clark Kent type. Shy and somewhat dorky from day to day, but you got the idea that on any given night, he could turn into Superman.

The second room he walked into was the master bedroom. He assumed this would be where Sam slept, but instead, it seemed to be a guest room, even more bare than the rest of the house, though still polite and comfortable. Where did Sam sleep then?

He walked into the third room and it was then that he was hit by a barrage of memories. They flooded his brain, spinning faster than before, and he wasn't able to catch a single one. He caught nothing except that he had been in the house before. This was his house. Or rather...he'd lived here once before.

He clutched at the bed decorated with a black and gray comforter. He slowly sat and remembered.

His bed had been in the corner. His play desk along that wall there, right where Sam's dresser was. His toy chest had been under the window. Mary had always believed her son needed sun as he played.

He leaned his head down on the pillows and before he could touch them, he already knew what they smelled like; a faint bit of cinnamon from Sam's aftershave, the herbal tinge of his shampoo and all the other scents that made Sam, Sam.

He jolted up and ran to the bathroom again, splashing his face with cold water. Things were really coming to him now. He looked in the mirror and saw as though it were actually happening, the face that he'd seen in the picture with Sam, line up with his own and become one. Only, he didn't know the face from the picture. He knew it because it was his. He was Dean.

“Sammy,” he whispered, staring into hazel eyes that were so close to his own—were his own.

A knock sounded on the door. “You ok, Drew?” came Sam's muffled voice and Drew/Dean let himself slide down the sink and sit on the floor.

“I'll be out in a sec,” he called. He listened as footsteps retreated.

That wasn't his voice. The hands with their blunt fingertips...they weren't his. Though they were similar. In fact...

As he took inventory of his body, he realized Drew was a lot of things Dean. The hands, the eyes, the frame of his body. The hair was too long—that was so getting cut tomorrow—and it was much more blond. The clothes...he looked down and noticed a light olive-colored sweater and khaki's, which he'd changed into after the dig. Yeah, they definitely had to go. You couldn't hunt in khaki's.

Hunt. Oh, shit. That's what he did. How could he have forgotten? Forgotten everything about hunting? He scoured his brain for Latin, but came up with nothing. Not that that had ever been his thing—Sam was the Latin expert—but none of it?

And, God. Sam. Sammy. He moaned, putting his head in his hands. How would Sam ever believe this? He wasn't sure he did even, and yeah, they'd seen a lot of shit, but reincarnation? That wasn't supposed to happen outside of Hinduism. Or at all.

He shifted and stood up. He had to figure out how to tell Sam. He just...he couldn't believe he was with Sam. Like, he'd been led here. Back to Sam. 'Cause if he'd remembered without being by Sam? He just might have gone crazy. Not knowing where Sam was, he couldn't handle that. But instead...

He opened the door and headed down, now more confident through the house, even finding the small gouge right by the entry way he'd made when he was three with a small kids' shovel. Dad had once told him he'd been trying to make a dog door, just so Mommy and Daddy would buy him one.

Smiling, he headed into the kitchen. This time, he actually looked around, looking through Dean's eyes. The counters were clean, everything was really clean, actually. Just like Sam. The setting sun cast shadows on the backyard and its trimmed green grass. The 'fridge was new. His attention was drawn to the stove and suddenly the smells hit him like a Mack truck.

The air was tinged with spices and the smell of Alfredo sauce. He could practically taste the starch as pasta cooked in a medium-sized pan. He saw chicken laid out on a cutting board and frozen peas thawing in a bowl.

“Sam, where'd you learn to cook, man?” He said, then realizing how Deanish that sound, he tried to cover—none too well. “I mean, uh...when...yeah.”

Sam looked at him weird for a moment, then turned back to his pasta, putting in a bit of salt and stirring it.

“My brother and I...we. Well, we always used to travel, our job took us everywhere. So we always ate in diners and such, ever since we were kids, even. I never had to know how to cook before he died. That was always Dean's thing.” He looked up with a wide grin, though a sad look in his eyes. “Not that he was that good. He...he kind of raised me and really, his best meal was Lucky Charms.”

Hey, he couldn't help thinking, but passed it aside.

“So when he died, I decided I had to learn to cook. Especially when I went back to school. School's expensive, as you know, and I couldn't afford to always eat out. So I took some community cooking classes and now here I am. I mean, I can't cook you up some elaborate Japanese dish or something, but pasta and burgers...I do those pretty well.” He smiled once more. “I just know, when I see Dean again, he's going to kick my ass and call me a woman.”

Damn straight. Community cooking classes...

“Well, it smells great.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, smiling, revealing his dimple. How had he gone so long without seeing that dimple? Without remembering how young it made Sam look? “Anyway, you want to set the table? I mean, nothing fancy.”

“Sure,” he said, and he headed for the drawer to the left of the sink, grabbing two of everything.

“Say,” Sam peered at him, “how'd you know where they were?”

“Oh, umm...lucky guess. It's where my mom kept them.” He still remembered that from when he was four. Then again...his mom had kept them in the second drawer from the right of the oven. God, this was confusing. Remembering two lives was rather taxing—and he'd never been one for over thinking...as either Drew or Dean. He had to decide which one he was. Thinking of himself as DrewandDean just wasn't going to cut it.

Deciding he'd stick with being Drew until he found the right time to tell Sam, they chatted amicably about school stuff—about what his next few classes should be, the best professors, and so on. Not that he had any doubt in his mind Sam was the best in everything he did. He combed through Drew's memories, trying to figure out what Sam had done the whole time he'd been gone.

When everything was ready, they sat down. Drew/Dean dug deeper into Sam's background and found himself impressed both as Drew and as Dean. As Drew he was amazed at all Sam knew. As Dean he was proud of his baby brother, everything he'd done, made of himself.

At one point, he began to phase out Sam's words and just listen to him. His voice had grown with him and while he was speaking soft, the sound projected everywhere. It was sort of like stereo surround sound. The words floated all around, never monotone.

He finally looked at Sam. Looked at him as Dean. His brown hair had stayed the same, though he'd cut it a little shorter and it was laced with a few gray streaks. But that did nothing to diminish from his appearance. He looked no older than his early thirties though he was now almost forty-three. He'd kept in shape too. Dean wondered if he still hunted. Everything in his life seemed to be set up for it. Sure, he hadn't seen any guns, but there was the basement.

“What?”

Sam's question startled him. He realized he'd been staring.

“Nothing. It's just...You're really good looking, you know that? You've grown up.”

Shit.

“Grown up?” Sam was looking at him weird again. Well, no better time than the present. Besides, he was done eating. He was always more confident on a full stomach.

“Sam...What would you do if I told you I was Dean?”

Sam laughed. “I'd say you'd had too much to drink, but we haven't had anything.”

“What if I was serious?”

Sam frowned. His nostrils flared, like they always had when he was upset. “I'd ask you to stop. Let's...let's forget about my brother. We were having fun.”

“Yeah, we were, Sammy, I just--”

“What did you call me?”

Oh, those eyes were blazing now. Dean knew he wouldn't like this. For all Sam's visions, believing Dean was actually here in another body was something that would take a lot of convincing.

“Sammy. Something I've called you from day one. Sam—it's me. I'm Dean. Look, it's crazy. But how can you not believe with everything we've seen? I am your brother. Like, reincarnated.”

“Drew, please.”

“I'm not kidding!” Dean stood up and went to his brother. Sam was still taller than him. Dammit. Why couldn't they have given him some sort of edge over Sam? “It's insane and I've only just remembered. But I do remember. I saw this house and...I saw you as a baby. I kissed you good night.”

“Look, I don't know what you're trying to pull--”

“Sam!” His voice wasn't quite the same, but it still made Sam sit up straighter like they always had when Dad used that tone. The 'listen up and obey me' voice. “I carried you out of that fire when you were six months old. Our dad was John Winchester. You went to Stanford and I came to get you when Dad went missing. We stopped a Woman in White and when we got back, Jess was on your ceiling. We stayed together then until I died. Fighting that demon. That son of a bitch went down, even if he got me too.”

“I don't know how you could know those things, but--”

“Exactly! This isn't something Drew would know. You have to believe me. I may be in another body, I may not sound like him, but I am your Dean, just Drew, too. Sorta.” He paused to think. “Though, really, I feel more like Dean, now.”

He looked at Sam who was staring agape at him. His jaw hung open, his eyes were wide, burning with a mix of emotions that flickered through too fast for him to read. His expression was too tempting.

“Do you remember this?”

He leaned down and captured his brother's lips with his own. He was able to peruse his mouth right away, tongue flickering over every spot, rememorizing the taste and feel of Sam. God. Twenty years without this.

The air seemed to crackle around them, built up tension, sex, and maybe, just maybe, it was the feeling of two souls being reunited again.

Sam refused to do anything at first, but when Dean wrapped his tongue around Sam's and brought it into his mouth sucking at it, and one hand fisted in his hair, Sam began kissing back.

It lasted forever; it lasted no where near long enough. Sam's big-ass hands came up to his chest and for a moment, Dean thought he was actually going to give in this easily, trust his body rather than his mind. But then the bigger man pushed him away with just enough force that he went stumbling back.

“Get out.” That voice was lethal. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard Sam speak like that, all those years of being brothers.

So it wouldn't be that easy.

“Sammy, I--”

“Do not. Ever. Call me that again. You have no idea what you've done. I mean it. Get. Out.” The air was now tense with anger and defeat. Dean looked and beneath all that anger, he could see the hurt in those eyes turned deep brown.

That hurt him more than anything. That he'd hurt Sammy.

He nodded. “Alright. I'll get out. But I'll be back. I am Dean and I will convince you.” He took one more look at Sam—his brother really was gorgeous, age did nothing to dampen that—and then he turned and walked out, making sure his feet kept going even as he heard the choked gasp behind him.

There was one person, he knew could help him if anyone could. She'd always been able to smack sense into both of them.

He got into his car, which, he noted, was an Impala. He grinned. Seemed he couldn't stay away. Even if she wasn't as pretty as his baby. He wondered what had happened to her.

Now if only Missouri was still alive.

Chapter 7