amberdreams | The Treadmill

The Treadmill

In an infinite number of universes, there must be one where this happens.

Before Gadreel abandons the Men of Letters bunker to stew in its mixed stench of burnt flesh, guilt and sorrow, he has one last task to do. He walks into Sam’s empty room, so Spartan and impersonal, and with a few quick strokes of his grace he sets his snare. Because it’s inevitable that Dean will enter here eventually, even though Gadreel is taking the younger brother’s body away.

Gadreel isn’t evil or malicious. He has come to grudgingly respect Dean Winchester, even to like the man a little. Gadreel doesn’t want to kill Dean, but he feels it is just a matter of time before either Dean will come after him, or Metatron will force his hand and demand Dean’s death as he demanded the prophet’s. This way is kinder. This way, Dean won’t ever know what has been done to him. He will never even be aware enough to be grateful for the second chance he is being offered. But that’s fine. Gadreel is not looking for instant gratification, just the satisfaction of a job well done.

Gadreel completes the last symbol and steps back to admire his handiwork.

“One day you will thank me for this mercy, Dean Winchester.”

Jensen wakes up in his own bed, in his own apartment, in LA, alone. Which is as it should be. Everything is normal, nothing is out of place, apart from the crappy country song that woke him up.

He sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, wondering where that annoying music is coming from. It takes him a couple more seconds to realise it’s his cell phone, not his alarm, and after some undignified scrabbling around in the heap of clothes on the floor he finally manages to dig the offending article out.

By which time, the call has, of course, gone to voicemail.

“Fuck,” Jensen says. His voice sounds unfamiliar, his throat is as dry as Monument Valley. He wavers over which to do first - grab a much-needed coffee or listen to the message - but when he sees the recent caller display says Danneel, he chooses discretion over valour and hits playback.

“Hey, you lazy waste-of-space, wake the hell up and call me back right now. Don’t you even think about getting coffee first, this is important.”

Danneel -- Harris. His agent. Right. Shit, what had he been drinking last night to have forgotten that?

Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Jensen fumbles with the fancy phone and presses call back.

“Jenny! Did I wake you up? Shame on you, still in bed this time in the morning,” Danneel sounds much too bright and breezy for, what time was it anyway? Fucking seven AM! No sane person’s awake at this time without a serious injection of caffeine, preferably administered intravenously.

Which must be why his brain seems to be set on a five second delay. Jensen gropes for something witty but the best he can come up with is a mumbled fuck you, which merely causes Danneel to laugh, heartless witch.

“This better be good, Harris. Unless you can feed me coffee via wireless signals?”

“Oh, it’s better than good, darling. Remember how much you moaned and grumbled about that audition for the new show filming in Vancouver?”

“Of course I remember. The lead role in a horror series? They could be filming in Outer Mongolia and I’d have been interested. Wait…what…”

“Yep. They want you. You’ve got the part of Dean Winchester. Congratulations!”

Jensen can’t restrain himself and lets out a loud whoop of joy.

“Danni, I love you!”

“Oh yeah, now he loves me,” she retorts, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

He’s barely listening as Danneel runs through a long list of details, contracts to be signed, yada yada yada. He only tunes back in at the welcome news that the pilot is to be filmed in LA, due to the studios working round Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s availability.

After Danni hangs up Jensen whoops again, fist pumping the air, lit up by his triumph as much as the Californian sunshine streaming through his window.

Lead actor, top billing for the very first time. He’d known when he auditioned that this is only a pilot, and his initial contract is to deliver a mere six episodes out of a potential twenty. Danni confirmed anything over and above that would be dependent on the success of the pilot and following episodes – but it doesn’t matter. It’s just a little bit of luck and some good ratings away from success, and that’s good enough for him.

He can’t wait to tell Chris and Steve, and grabs his phone again, thumbing through the display to get to his contacts. He hesitates momentarily over his music playlist. Who the hell’s been messing with my cell? He wonders, looking at the unfamiliar mix of pop and country tunes. That explains the awful ringtone, he thinks, as he scrolls back to his contacts and picks out Steve’s number. Bet it was Chris, the fucker. He makes a mental note to load some classic rock later.

The pilot goes well. Jensen takes to playing Dean like he was born for the part, and watching Jeffrey Dean Morgan and Sam Smith slot into their roles of John and Mary Winchester is strangely soothing. It’s funny, but those names resonate with him, they seem much more fitting than the version he saw in the earlier script read-through, when his screen-parents had been called Jack and Moira. Jensen isn’t supposed to be on set those days, but no one says anything when he turns up and hangs around behind the camera, just absorbing the more experienced actors’ seemingly effortless techniques. In between takes, the three ‘Winchesters’ chat about the business as if they’ve known each other for years, and Jensen can’t help contrasting the relaxed atmosphere on the Supernatural set with the edgy competitiveness of Smallville. Maybe it’s the difference between playing the lead as opposed to playing an inconsistently written love interest-slash-villain.

Whatever the reason, Jensen’s loving every minute of this new show. Being a good ole Texan boy, he’s used to handling firearms, but even he is surprised at the ease with which he locks n’ loads the sawn off shotgun and handles the pretty Colt 1911 as if they were extensions of his body. He doesn’t have to think about it, and the mother-of-pearl grip of the Colt fits his hand like his own fingers had rubbed the well-worn grooves into it.

He even makes suggestions for improvements to the props and storylines, like adding salt to the shotgun capsules for shooting ghosts.

“Makes sense, right? Take those fuckers out before they get too close!”

“Great idea, Jensen.” Eric Kripke slaps him on the back. “We’ll build that in.”

Jensen beams.

So by the time Jensen first steps onto the Supernatural set in Vancouver, he’s keyed up and full of positive excitement. This feels different from the Pilot, more real somehow. His home for the next eight weeks or so, maybe longer if everything goes well.

“So, the monster this week is pretty ugly, I think you’ll like how badass Dean gets to be in taking the fucker out, ” Eric says as he and David Nutter walk Jensen round the site, introducing him to various members of the (hopefully permanent) crew.

“Yeah, a Wendigo, right? Such a cool concept; I loved the script.” Jensen says, and Eric’s eyes light up.

“I know, right? We get to explore all these urban myths as well as some real Americana folklore, and later in the season I’m hoping to explore some even more scary stuff, if we get the go-ahead from the Studio.”

Jensen laughs. “Like ghosts and flesh eating creatures that live in the woods eating campers aren’t scary enough?”

Eric just grins, his large bald forehead gleaming in the pale Vancouver sun.

Dean needs a drink. Fuck that. He really needs a fifth or two.

Getting rid of Gadreel had solved one problem only to create several more. Dean had intended to walk away, let Sam have the space he so clearly needed, but somehow they’d ended up trying to work together again.

It’s late when Dean parks up inside the bunker’s garage and switches of the Impala’s engine. The void left by the rumble of her engine hangs heavy in the still air, and neither brother has the inclination to fill it with words. They have the old easy patterns to fall back on while hunting, but once the job’s done, the tension returns, hitting Dean like a semi. Dean doesn’t know how to be with this Sam who isn’t his brother any more. Sam’s bulk fills his place in the Impala the same as it ever did, but any warmth Dean feels from the proximity is merely physical, while the chill in the air between them is ever-present and overwhelming.

Dean can’t seem to unclench his hands from the steering wheel.

Sam hesitates for a millisecond before he gets out of the car and Dean’s jaw is so tight he thinks his teeth might break. Then Sam’s gone, disappeared into one of the bunker’s many corridors. So Dean just sits for a while, utterly at a loss to know what to do next.

Eventually he has to move or he’ll be stuck to his Baby’s smooth leather seats forever. Besides. He still needs that fucking drink.

Once inside, he finds an inch of gut rot left in a bottle he’d forgotten about at the back of one of the mahogany cabinets in the War Room, and downs it straight from the bottle, then looks around for more. In the kitchen there’s an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue he’d been saving for a special occasion, in memory of Rufus. As if any occasion gets special in his life, Dean thinks bitterly. Dean grabs the bottle and wanders aimlessly towards his room, planning to drink until he can’t feel anything any more, but he pauses when he reaches Sam’s door.

He trails a hand across the smooth tiled wall towards the blank wood, as if taking a circuitous route will help him get the courage to face his brother. His grip tightens on the bottle while his other hand reaches around the metal door handle, almost against his will.

Dean opens the door without knocking and walks inside.

Vancouver is a beautiful city but Jensen can’t seem to settle. Supernatural’s filming schedule is punishing, and shouldn’t be leaving him any energy for fretting, but even after shooting fourteen- to seventeen-hour days and nights, not getting back to his apartment until the small hours of the morning, Jensen still feels wired all the time. Antsy and agitated. Though he has a stunt double, Jensen insists on attempting all the stunts himself, in a bid to get rid of some of the excess drive he’s feeling. Nothing seems to work. At the end of the first few days of filming, Jensen is climbing the walls, and even his new crew have noticed.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Danni,” he says. Phoning Danneel was a desperate play, but Jensen was at the end of his tether, and Chris would just laugh at him. “I can’t sleep, I’m restless and don’t seem to be able to unwind.”

“You could try yoga, Jennybean,” Danneel suggests, and Jensen grimaces. He hates it when she calls him that. And really? Yoga?

Finally, in desperation, he decides Danni might be onto something. Obviously he’s much too macho for yoga, so the only other option is to join a gym. Maybe a couple of hours a day pounding the treadmill and lifting weights will cure this stupid feeling that there is a big hole in this life, when he’s busier than he’s ever been. He’s never felt like this before that he can remember, so maybe it’s just that he’s homesick for LA. Though why he’d miss a polluted, overcrowded, sprawling city, he isn’t quite sure. Still, it would be even more stupid to be missing Texas when he hasn’t lived there for years, so…homesickness is a theory and it’s all he’s got.

Of course, finding the time for the gym is an issue, but given that he’s not sleeping, that most of the shooting on the Wendigo episode is night time, and the Gym ’n’ Trim is open twenty four seven - he manages.

On his second visit, Jensen discovers the virtual training program on the aerobic machines, and is pleased to find one of those takes him round various locations in Los Angeles. Maybe seeing the familiar streets will help his possible homesickness as much as the exercise, he thinks as he climbs onto the treadmill, and presses the buttons to set the pace and the route. The belt whirs into life and he starts running at an easy pace, the screen flipping from a map of the various locations to a street view. Someone must have run all these routes with a steadicam, because the filming doesn’t bounce like a hand-held, and the quality is so good it’s almost easy to believe you are really on that sidewalk instead on a spinning belt. The route begins on Hollywood Boulevard, and he’s mentally ticking off the landmarks as his virtual jog progresses along, following the trail of the filled and unfilled stars embedded in the paving slabs.

One day, Ackles, one day.

Absently he notes that the video must have been recorded a year or so ago, as he passes a couple of buildings with hoardings up that were open and trading when he’d left LA. Sure enough, as the scene moves from Hollywood Boulevard to the Sunset Strip, he sees billboards for shows and films that had already aired. It must have been recorded early morning too, as the sun is up but the streets are relatively quiet, just a few tourists and LA locals out shopping. The first time he runs the route he plugs his earphones into the machine, so he gets the traffic noise and passers by shouting random stuff. A scene change takes him out of town to the sandy paths that climb up to the Hollywood sign, something he’d never bothered doing in all the time he’d lived there. It’s strange to stand at the top behind the sign and see all of Los Angeles laid out before him. He guesses that his own apartment must be somewhere down there…

He’s been using the gym machines for nearly a week and Wendigo is all but wrapped up when Jensen starts noticing something odd happening with the exercise videos. He thinks at first that the software must have been updated, because on Sunset Boulevard near Chateau Marmont, he sees a huge hoarding advertising Batman Begins, then a bit farther down, the billboard poster for Nip/Tuck has been replaced with one for a new season of Numb3rs. On Hollywood Boulevard one of the restaurants that had been boarded up for renovation is now open, and some of the street-people he had come to recognise have been replaced by new faces. The young black guy who shouts whatcha doin’ has gone from the street corner by the Scientology headquarters, and instead he passes an ancient white woman wheeling what looks like her worldly goods in a battered shopping trolley. The tourists near the Gazebo are watching a fire juggler, instead of the guy dressed as Darth Maul.

The scene runs through its usual rotation, morphing from Hollywood Boulevard to the Sunset Strip. Jensen’s puzzlement turns to shock and he nearly jumps out of his skin when some tall dude suddenly steps right into his path. Even though he knows he’s not really on the sidewalk in LA and therefore in no danger of actually bumping into anyone, he can’t help side-swerving and nearly falls off the back of the treadmill, only saving himself from an embarrassing injury by a quick hand-grab of the side rail. Heart beating uncomfortably fast, Jensen straddles the still turning belt and tries to calm down.

Fuck. What the hell was that? After taking a surreptitious look around to make sure nobody had noticed his near prattfall, Jensen stares at the video screen. There’s no sign of the guy, and of course there wouldn’t be. While Jensen was steadying himself the program has been running on by itself, and it’s already reached the House of Blues where this section ends. The next part is the dirt track in the Hollywood Hills and the Hollywood sign, and sure enough, the road scene fades as it always does, and the yellow sandy-coloured track opens up in front of him. Any minute the overweight guy with the slim girlfriend will pass him on their way down the hill. Jensen slows the treadmill down in order to step back on, and jogs the rest of his session without any incident.

That night, his dreams are haunted by the stranger’s face. That startled look he’d glimpsed for a second before it morphed into something akin to recognition. In his dream the guy shoves his hair back off his face and reaches out towards Jensen, calling a name he can’t hear because he’s plugged into his own music and it’s playing too loud. When he wakes he doesn’t remember what the dream was about, but he’s left feeling lonely.

Sam lets the latest useless book drop back onto the mahogany table in frustration. The impact echoes in the empty chamber, and Sam winces. The Bunker is a hollow, lonely place without Dean. It’s too quiet and Sam hates how the empty spaces are still achingly full of his brother’s presence, and worse, the faint smell of burning. Sam knows the scent of Kevin’s death is going to linger in his nostrils forever. He’s sure Dean would tell him he’s imagining it, but the obstinate fucker isn’t here to tell Sam anything, is he.

Instead all he has is unwanted advice from the empty space that Gadreel (and Lucifer) left behind. Empty space inside him that filled up with the dead - his own little family of companions - there to reinforce his guilt whenever he failed to concentrate hard enough to keep them out.

Goddamit. Sam’s head is all over the place. He’s still angry with his brother for orchestrating the mind rape with Gadreel, and for Dean’s refusal to see that there was anything wrong with his decision to save Sam by any means yet again. Now on top of that, Sam has to contend with his reckless idiot of a brother falling into the booby trap the renegade angel left behind.

But this is not the burning anger Sam’s familiar with, and knows how to turn into a weapon. This is a quiet, understated frustration which is deep rooted in cold despair. He can’t wrap it round him in a warm self-righteous blanket, he can’t use it to fuel the kind of honest wrath that helped him survive Dean’s trip to Hell.

Sam stands up, too restless to stay sat at the table any longer. His research is getting him nowhere, anyhow. After pacing around for a few wasted moments, Sam finds himself drawn back to his room where Dean had vanished. He stares at the Enochian symbols, clearly visible now they’ve been triggered. He is willing them to give up their secrets, but they are as silent as the rest of the Bunker. He looks up at the blank ceiling as if he could pierce the layers of brick and concrete to see the stars.

“Castiel!”

Sam tries calling the angel again, though he’s tried so many times now, he has even less expectation of getting a response from Cas than he does from the painted runes. He’s tried many times, inside the Bunker and outside, where there are no wards, but Castiel has disappeared again, and Sam can’t blame him. Metatron’s megalomania has both Heaven and earth in disarray, the bands of fallen angels are lost and afraid, and all the more dangerous for it; and all Sam has to offer is yet another Winchester rescue mission and a head full of ghosts that aren’t even real.

“Guess you’re just going to have to do without your angel friends and solve this one on your own.”

Sam doesn’t startle at Kevin’s voice, or its bitterness. This is too common an occurrence to be surprising any more - but his shoulders tense and hunch just a little more when those familiar tones are joined by a more occasional visitor.

“Come away, Kevin. I don’t know why you insist on talking to someone who was responsible for getting you killed!” Mrs Tran sounds shriller than she had in life, and Sam winces at the sharp edges of his sub conscious. He doesn’t give himself a break, ever.

Except when he does.

“But, Mom, I can help. See, Sam was right in thinking he’s seen those Enochian symbols before somewhere. Last time they were slightly different though, because that was a non specific gate. This one opened a one-way gate that was tuned to a single person, but that doesn’t mean it’s totally useless. I bet we could communicate through it. We just need to open a window into the dimension where Gadreel’s trapped Dean, give Dean the relevant information, then all Dean needs to is replicate this gate designed for him on his side, step through and voila!”

Well, shit. Why hadn’t Sam been able to come up with that insight without Kevin’s and Mrs Tran’s voices in his head? He practically runs back to the library, filled with a new purpose.

For some reason, filming Dead in the Water becomes a tough one for Jensen, and he can’t really put his finger on why. The crew are great, everybody is gelling really well as a team, and Jensen is full of admiration for the skill of Kim Manners as their director. He’d enjoyed working with David Nutter on the first two episodes, but Kim is something special.

Jensen and Amy get on like the proverbial house on fire, especially after they discover their common childhood backgrounds in Texas. Yet he is continually nagged by the feeling that there is something crucial missing. Whether it’s from the story they are filming or from his own life, he just doesn’t know – but whatever it is, it’s bugging the hell out of him.

On the Wednesday, they are filming on location at Buntzen Lake, which is doubling up for the fictional Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin.

“You ready, Jensen, Nico?” Kim asks. Jensen looks down at the diminutive figure grinning up at him like some sort of wicked pixie. Kim is barely taller than Nico, the kid who’s playing Amy’s fictional son, Lucas. Jensen already likes Nico a lot, and grins back.

“Hell yeah, been looking forward to this one. It’s going to be epic. Right, kiddo?” He turns and grabs Nico’s shoulder and pulls the kid in for a one armed hug. When Nico hugs back Jensen feels ridiculously warm inside. He’s going to have to hold onto that moment, as it’s the only time he’s likely to feel warm for the rest of the day, as they prepare for the dramatic rescue-from-drowning scene. It might be high summer but this is Canada, and the lake waters are freezing cold, cold enough to take his breath away as he lowers himself down off the jetty. He pants a bit, cursing until his lungs acclimatise, and he’s ready for them to drop Nico down into his arms. Nico’s looking a bit scared, so Jensen takes time to murmur reassurances into the kid’s ear, and does his best to share some of his body heat before they get completely submerged.

The first dunking is brief, just enough to get them wet and ready for the main event. Jensen hopes this will be a single take, as the water is so fucking cold. Treading water fully clothed, boots and all is challenging, and holding Nico’s dead weight too makes it that much harder. And yet the sense of responsibility feels strangely familiar and comforting.

“Take deep breaths now, boys! Ready in 3, 2, 1…” Kim yells from the jetty. Jensen tenses, feels Nico’s ribs expanding as they both do as instructed and breathe in.

Even though he knows what’s coming next, there is still a moment of pure shock when the two scuba divers grab his ankles and pull the two of them deep this time. The lake waters are dark and for a second, instead of Nico McEown’s rounded face, Jensen sees a younger version of the stranger in his dreams staring up at him, eyes wide and scared. He almost forgets to strike out for the surface when his ankles are released, then pure survival instinct kicks in and he surges up towards the light.

They break the surface and Jensen’s mouth is open wide, gulping in air. He grips Nico tight, making sure the kid’s face is held high, that he’s breathing okay too. He shakes water from his ears and hears someone shouting ‘cut’, then the crew are all clapping and cheering like he’d rescued the kid for real. Then Nico’s squirming out of his arms and splashing him in the face and it’s on. Kim allows them a couple of minutes letting off steam before calling them all back to order for an extra underwater shot. Nico’s off the hook for this one, and is bustled off somewhere onshore to get warm and dry, while Jensen goes under again for a shot of Dean casting about in the murk, searching for Lucas.

Kripke catches Jensen in his trailer while he’s getting changed, slaps him on the back.

“Just dropping off the scripts for the next episode,” Kripke says. “But there might be some changes after today. I really liked how you were with Lucas. I’m starting to think Dean might work better if we give him a companion in his search - you know, someone to protect. Like Dr Who.”

Jensen nods, though the Dr Who reference goes over his head. He doesn’t want to encourage Eric right now, or the writer will want to talk all night, but deep down, he thinks Kripke is right. Dean shouldn’t be alone.

Although Jensen is more than bone-deep weary when they call it a day, he ends up in the gym anyhow, with some vague thought that a workout will get his blood flowing and chase the lingering cold away. With hindsight, not one of his brightest ideas.

Kevin was right. Fuck, of course he was, because Kevin is Sam, just Sam picking out the right memory, that’s all. The real Kevin is dead, a stain on the floor, ash in the wind and a tarnish on Sam’s soul he can never burn away.

Sam finds the right book, and the right Enochian, but there are warnings emblazoned all over the margins of the ancient text. This isn’t going to be easy. Of course not.

All the voices inside (and a few of those outside) Sam’s head are clamouring and bickering until he can’t stand it any more.

“Shut the fuck up!”

Yelling at illusions shouldn’t help, but somehow, it does. Silence falls with a sigh like a blanket of snow sliding off a roof. Sam shivers as if the snow is real.

Castiel might have siphoned off Gadreel’s residual grace but Sam still feels occupied.

It takes Sam several attempts and probably way too much blood before he finds a combination of symbols that works. Sam’s room where Gadreel had set his trap had been largely empty, save for a truckle bed, a sink and a mirror fixed to the wall. Sam’s duffel resides on the floor, and there are a couple of books on the bedside table, but that’s about it. Which makes it even more of a mystery as to why Dean had decided to go in there in the first place. Drawing the Enochian on the mirror is what finally gives Sam the breakthrough he’s been looking for. He leans wearily on the basin with both bloody hands and stares at the strange scene that unfolds before him.

He’s looking at the inside of a gymnasium, and it’s not a seedy boxing gym, or even one dedicated to the pursuit of macho body-building. No, this gym has carpeted floors and wall length mirrors and shiny electronic exercise machines, and no doubt at peak times is full of corporate douchebags, middle-aged housewives and glamorous chicks in lycra. Apart from that latter thought, it’s one of the unlikeliest places for Dean Winchester to be hanging out in that Sam could ever have imagined.

It actually takes him a moment to recognise Dean, his brother is acting so out of character. Dean’s on one of the treadmills, actually running. He looks good.

There’s a healthy flush on Dean’s freckled cheeks, his gait looks relaxed and easy, his legs and shoulders toned. Sam’s gaze becomes transfixed by the trickle of fresh sweat running down Dean’s neck and disappearing down the front of the black running vest Dean is wearing. His Dean wouldn’t normally be caught dead in a fancy singlet and - oh my god, lycra soccer shorts; this is all so twisted up and strange.

Sam feels like a voyeur, tries to stop staring. He blinks and cudgels his brain into working again.

“Well, you got farther than I expected. Clearly I should have made this a harder challenge,” Gadreel is saying. Lucifer nods his agreement. Riot and Bones rush about scattering Sam’s piles of books and bowls of arcane mixtures around the floor with the thoughtless sweeping of their tails.

Sam clenches his fist and winces at the pull on the open wound he’d sliced into his wrist an hour ago. Part of him thinks perhaps he should bind that up. The other part of him doesn’t give a shit. That’s the part of him that is watching Dean, or some version of Dean anyway, through a one-way mirror. Tentatively, Sam reaches out and presses one fingertip to the smooth glass. It’s cool, and feels exactly as a mirror should, but the moment he makes contact, Sam can hear as well as see what is happening on the other side. As if his finger has closed a circuit.

He watches as an attractive thirty-something woman steps up onto the treadmill next to Dean’s.

“Hey, Tina,” Dean smiles at her and Sam frowns. That smile isn’t much like Dean – where’s his brother's much too open appreciation for her obvious charms? The creases in Sam’s forehead deepen when Tina replies.

“Hi Jensen, how’s the training going?”

Dean (Jensen?) is answering, but Sam is only half listening, his mind is whirring, trying to remember why that name sounds so familiar. Then Dean says something about the long hours and a tough filming schedule, and it all slips into place.

That crazy son of a bitch Balthazar, his ridiculous alternate TV show universe with the dopplegangers actors…Damn.

Dean beleives he is Jensen Ackles, the actor. How could that happen? Last time they’d still been themselves in that other universe…Sam’s heart is beating too hard, he can hear his own breathing, too loud and harsh, as if it’s him doing the running instead of Dean. If Dean doesn’t know who he is any more, where does that leave Sam?

Sam allows his hand to fall so he can steady himself by gripping the rim of the washbasin. The loss of contact with the mirror immediately cuts off the sound from the other side. He stares blankly as Dean continues to run nowhere, chatting to the stranger, Tina.

Meg, who for Sam is always the original incarnation who had made herself so at home inside his body, sidles up behind him and drapes herself over his bent back, resting her sharp chin on his shoulder.

“You know what? It pains me to say it, but he looks happy, doesn’t he?” She observes. Sam can feel her teeth pressing against his skin when she smiles. He ignores her but can’t help looking back into the mirror at Dean. Meg’s right. Dean does look relaxed and happy. The usual tautness of his jaw isn’t there, the tired lines around his eyes are smoothed out so they are barely visible, and the smile he’s giving Tina appears genuine. He looks years younger than the Dean Sam last saw, the one who was back to hardly sleeping and was always nursing a half empty bottle of jack. The one newly scarred with a mark that could mean nothing but trouble – for Dean and maybe for the world.

This Dean’s forearm is bare, his skin new-made and perfect. Yet not for one second does Sam doubt that this is his brother.

Suddenly inexplicably angry, Sam swipes his hand across the surface of the glass, smearing the symbols and the view of the other world is lost. He shakes Meg off and blindly storms out of his room, Riot and Bones flanking him, always faithful. Meg’s laugh stalks him as he flees down the corridor, and he can hear Lucifer and Gadreel discussing his petulant behaviour. He can only be thankful that Kevin and his mom are nowhere to be seen.

Sam ends up in Dean’s room, because he can’t sleep in his own room any more. He flings himself down on Dean’s precious memory foam and rolls over onto his back, staring at the blank ceiling.

“If the situation was reversed, and I was dying, you’d do the same thing…”

“But that’s the problem, Dean. I wouldn’t do the same as you; I wouldn’t bend every rule to save you – not if I thought you wanted to let go. And now, it’s even harder because you aren’t dying this time, you aren’t even suffering. Where you are, it’s better than heaven. If that world is anything like the one Balthazar sent us to, there’s no angels, no demons, no ghosts or monsters. No fucking Mark of Cain, whatever that means.”

Sam is silent for a moment. Riot whines a little, and Bones’ cold wet nose pokes its way under Sam’s hand where it rests on the edge of the bed.

“Nothing to kill, and nothing to sacrifice yourself for. No family.” Sam says to an absent brother and imaginary dogs.

“No me,” he whispers to himself.

It’s a long time before Sam falls asleep.

Sam feels better when he wakes up. His head feels clearer than it has at any time since Dean’s disappearance. Clear and quiet. The only noises that surround him are the Bunker’s ever-present hum of machinery, and the familiar domestic sounds that Sam makes as he putters around in the kitchen, fixing himself some breakfast.

It actually makes him physically jump then, when Lucifer pipes up from the corner.

“You should leave him there, you know.”

Sam jaw sets, as all the anxiety of the night and days before slams back into him as if it’d never been gone. He grimly carries on filling the coffee machine, pretending Dean’s going to amble in any second, all wrapped up in that dead-man’s robe he loves so much, bleary eyed and jonesing for his first caffeine fix of the day. Sam does his best to ignore the Devil while he works.

Of course it’s impossible.

“Don’t pretend the thought hasn’t crossed your mind, Sammy,” Lucifer continues, and Sam can hear the glee underpinning the smooth tone.

Lucifer knows what Sam’s been thinking, naturally. Lucifer still lives inside Sam’s head, especially when Dean isn’t around. And that is the crux of Sam’s problem, right there. Without Dean to ground him, Sam isn’t sure who he is any more. When Dean had walked away - and hadn’t that been a shock, even though Sam had put on a good front of nonchalance for the benefit of both Cas and Dean himself – when Dean had left after the Gadreel revelation, Sam supposed it was hardly surprising that his makeshift walls started crumbling.

The erosion had been gradual at first, but when Cas had flown off to do whatever it was a fallen angel with stolen grace was called to do, Sam’s insides became fluid, his thoughts ungraspable, slipping though his fingers like water. On the surface he functioned as a normal human being, well as normal as any hunter could ever be, anyhow. But underneath, Sam was no longer the boy with his finger in the dyke, holding back the ocean. The rising tide was slow, unlike before when Dean and Castiel had been sucked into Purgatory, and Sam had thought them both lost forever, but the result was the same. The dyke had been more than breached, it had totally dissolved, and Sam was slowly drowning.

Luckily, he’d bumped into Dean, on a hunt. Sam hadn’t forgotten, or even forgiven, but the reunion kept him afloat. Dean was Sam’s life-preserver. Dean had once said they keep each other human. Sam thinks it’s at once less and more than that; they keep each other sane.

So now there isn’t really any decision to be made, no matter what Lucifer says. Sam has to try, has do anything he can to get Dean back, and he doesn’t really know if, on balance, he’s doing it more for Dean or for himself.

“And ain’t that a kicker, son?” Bobby said, tipping up his grubby baseball cap to scratch his forehead before slamming it firmly back down onto his head. Sam was grateful it wasn’t the one with the bloody bullet hole in it. This time.

Bobby’s right, it is a kicker. Sam might be totally fucking crazy, but he isn’t blind, or stupid, or even delusional in any sense that matters. He is well aware that this is probably a teensy bit hypocritical of him, to be doing what he accused Dean of doing – acting in his own self-interest. It doesn’t help that he also knows that this is what Dean would want him to do, if Dean didn’t currently think he was someone else entirely.

“I was right. Dean was being selfish, trying to bring me back, never letting me die. Not letting go,” Sam says out loud. It’s a confession and his absolution of himself rolled into one. “But I’m dreaming about him every night, when I’m awake I’m never alone, because... because Dean isn’t here. So I guess I’m selfish too, because I want him back.”

“Oh baby,” Jessica says softly, and kneads the tension out of his shoulders until he relaxes. He indulges himself for a few more minutes before straightening up again.

Dean has to open this door from his side, which means Sam has to find a way to communicate that message to him through the mirror. And somewhere along the way, Sam will need to convince Dean that he is not Jensen Ackles, actor. Sam squares his shoulders and gets to work.

Gym ‘n’ Trim is deserted when Jensen arrives, one of the things he likes about it. If he hits it just right, he’s got the place to himself, in between the nine-to-fivers and the night shift workers. He heads for one of the empty treadmills and after a moment’s hesitation, plugs his ear-buds directly into the machine instead of listening to his own tunes. He doesn’t admit it, even to himself, but he’s curious. He wants to find out if the soundtrack’s changed as much as the visuals have, but more than that, he wants to know if the man in his dream, the guy who’d made him jump, says anything to him.

The belt whirrs and picks up the pace as the program starts, as always, with the map followed by Hollywood Boulevard. Jensen runs. There’s nothing unusual, nothing different. Hollywood Boulevard morphs into Sunset Boulevard and then the Strip, and he reaches the hill track section without any incidents. Disappointment mixes with puzzlement. There was no shaggy haired dude, and Jensen is starting to think he must be going a little bit crazy.

The gears grind noisily as the treadmill simulates the inclines of the Hollywood Hills, and Jensen is soon too busy concentrating on the burn in his thighs of the uphill section to think about weird anomalies. As he reaches the crest of the first climb, the tiredness he’d been feeling earlier hits him with the force of a rogue wave, and without thinking, he reaches for the screen’s touch controls. He’ll tamp the level down a couple of notches; no point in killing himself when he’s still got three more days of filming to get through before he can have a rest.

The moment his fingertip touches the screen, his lead foot crunches down on gritty soil, and a blast of dry Californian heat washes over him. His next step confirms to his body what his mind is busy denying. He’s no longer on a treadmill inside an air-conditioned gym at 10 o’clock at night. He’s running on the actual path in the Hollywood Hills. He is overwhelmed with the scents of California, all sunburned soil and sweet chaparral.

Off balance, he realises he’s running too close to the edge of the path, but the realisation comes too late for him to adjust. The ground crumbles as he puts his foot down and he’s falling. He lands painfully on one shoulder, bounces, and then he’s tumbling down the steep slope in an uncontrolled, clumsy roll that his stunt tutor would have been ashamed of. He has time to note – well, fuck that shit – that his shoulder is probably dislocated, and that the exposed skin on his arms is being ripped to shreds by the dry brush. He thinks he hears a distressed male voice shouting “Dean!” before his head whacks into a rock and it’s lights out.

Sam stares at the empty space where Dean had been a microsecond before and thumps his fist into the ground in frustration. Dust puffs up in a tiny storm cloud under the impact, the motes glittering briefly in the light before they settle again, gone without a trace. Just like Dean.

Riot barks once, sharp and imperative. Sam feels teeth snagging at his sweats and tugging, dragging him back into his own present. From the Hollywood Hills into the bunker. The transition is uncomfortable, disorientating, and very similar to being transported by Castiel, which isn’t surprising he supposes, given that this is an angelic kind of magic.

He’d been so close. Almost within touching distance, talking distance.

Then Dean had been falling, and then his brother was fucking gone again, and Sam was… Sam is back where he started. Back in his bedroom, staring at the blood smeared mirror, not knowing whether Dean is hurt or not.

“That went well,” says Lucifer, leaning forward and breathing frost onto the mirror’s surface.

Sam walks away before Lucifer starts drawing pictures in the ice.

Part 2 this way

The Treadmill - Part 1

Sam/Dean Minibang Recs