Disclaimer: This is a fictional work done for my amusement and others. All rights to the characters originating from the CW's Supernatural belong to the appropriate parties, who unfortunately are not me. I am merely a fan who can't seem to get the boys out of my head and am taking my frustrations out via my own plot.
Warning: This will eventually become a Mary Sue of sorts, but I'm going to do my best to ensure it doesn't become too ostentatious. (I know, I know. I'm not that fond of them, either, but this idea's been with me for a while now. Putting it down has been helping me placate the plot bunnies.) It's also the first piece I've published here, so I'm looking for constructive feedback, particularly in regard to characterization and dialogue. I know it's rough; thanks for bearing with me.
Chapter 1: Where the Hell are We?
The first thing Dean became aware of was that the sheets he was tangled up in were much softer than normal. He twitched a hand experimentally, twisting a bit of the pillowcase between his fingers, and was surprised to encounter thick, practically new material…not something worn threadbare, and thus rendered soft, by use. This was, in no uncertain terms, a GOOD sheet, which was practically unheard of in the kinds of motels he and Sam were used to staying in, which meant…
The first impulse to bolt upright was countered by the overwhelming realization of pain as his breath suddenly left him and fire shot through his ribs and a pounding headache rose with a vengeance. As he waited with forced, bated breath for the assault to subside, Dean mentally catalogued his injuries: at least one broken and likely a few cracked ribs, concussion, and a tightness in his left ankle suggesting something pulled or sprained. How he'd come to be that way, he couldn't quite recall, but that wasn't important because as long as he could move—and he could—he needed to figure out where Sam was.
A problem which was solved rather easily, he noted, when he finally managed to open his eyes and glanced across the room to find his brother sprawled across a futon mattress resting on the floor, his feet, which would normally be dangling off, propped up by a sea of pillows barely visible underneath a faded-looking quilt. Now that he was awake, he could hear the familiar, rhythmic breathing and found himself relaxing ever so slightly, sinking into the soft mattress and taking a moment to quietly watch his baby brother sleep. No hitched breath or lines of pain on Sammy's face, Dean noted somewhat happily. It looked like whatever had happened hadn't taken a huge toll on them, or at least nothing worse than normal.
Looking around the room, though, Dean couldn't decide whether to be confused or concerned and pulled himself carefully into a sitting position to better grasp his surroundings. Although the walls lacked decoration—definitely not a hotel, then—an armoire with barely viable jewelry sprawled across the top and the rich red and brown comforter currently covering him, plus a baby blue sweater casually tossed across a chest partially visible near his feet, suggested he was in a girl's bedroom, but he didn't remember hooking up with anyone at a bar last night. Couldn't remember being in a bar last night. And it wasn't like he would have dragged Sam along for the ride even if he had. The brothers were close, yes, but not that close.
Shaking his head at the mental image that conjured, he slowly swung his feet over the side and stood up, cautiously hobbling over to Sam to give him a closer look. Up close, Dean breathed a silent sigh of relief as he noted that while Sam had a spectacular shiner going, looking like he'd gone a few too many rounds with Caleb like when they were younger and training, nothing major appeared to be wrong. Still, they were in a foreign environment, and since he still couldn't remember how he got there, he knelt down with a muffled groan and shook his brother's shoulder.
"Sammy, wake up."
He watched with carefully disguised amusement as a hint of the younger Sam briefly made its appearance, reminding him of the days when he'd made sure they were both up and ready for school on time. As much as he'd personally disliked it, Sammy had loved learning, always had, and with the lifestyle they'd led, anything and everything he could do to make Sam's life that much better, he'd done without question. Even when it meant waking up ungodly early. So now he watched, fond memories swirling through his mind, as his now six foot four brother swiped at his eyes like a tired child, digging his head into the pillow a bit more before freezing with the same realization he was sure he'd had. Blue eyes jerked open, and he put out a cautioning hand to save Sam the same fate.
"Easy, tiger," he said softly.
"Where are we?" Sam asked as he looked around curiously, face assuming a puzzled expression as he realized where he was. "Am I on a futon?"
"Just the mattress, dude. Bringing back any fun college memories?"
"More like nightmares," Sam grumbled back as he slowly sat up, wincing as he rotated his shoulder the wrong way. "What's going on?"
"I was hoping you could tell me. Last thing I remember, we were in that diner having breakfast and talking about where to head to next."
Although he'd only been hunkered down for a few moments, Dean felt his muscled locking up and rose, stifling a groan as he did so, before the pain returned. Offering a hand to Sam, he pulled the other man up, watching as his eyes scanned the room. From this angle he could see into the walk-in closet—definitely a girl's room, there were skirts—and spied a sink and mirror in addition to a second door he assumed lead into a bathroom. The other entrance, which he'd noticed during his earlier scan, was closed, effectively cutting them off from whatever was outside.
"Are we…?" Sam started to ask, the hesitation to continue clearly visible on his face.
Unable to resist, Dean waggled his eyebrows and smirked. "Maybe I finally talked you into having some fun, Sammy." His reward was rolled eyes followed by a hiss of pain. "You okay?" he asked, immediately in concerned brother mode.
"Yeah," Sam said distractedly as he rubbed his temples with one hand. "Just a headache."
"A headache, headache, or one of your I'm-about-to-have-a-vision-which-is-causing-my-head-to-explode moments?"
"Just a headache," Sam assured him as he pointed with his chin at the bed stand near Dean's bed. "Look."
Dean turned around and took in what his brother had seen: a bottle of pain relievers and two glasses of water. Glancing at the closed door again, he wondered what was on the other side, curiosity warring with concern. Over the years, he had experienced nearly every version of weird imaginable, everything from the outright crazy to the other end of the spectrum in Stepford territory, and while he still really wanted to know what had happened, the whole atmosphere of this place wasn't making his 'dangerous' meter freak out. A bit empty, it still radiated a sense of home.
Which, ultimately, is what strengthened his resolve to be extremely cautious, jaw hardening. They were in unknown territory with no way of knowing how they'd gotten there. They were unarmed. Whoever or whatever had put them in that position might be out there, waiting for them. Trying to trick them with some unknown agenda.
"Hey," Sam said, distracting him from his internal dialogue, and as he turned around, Dean came face to face with yet another confusing piece to the puzzle. Partially hidden beneath the blue sweater were three bags: his and Sammy's with all of their stuff and their weapons bag from the previous hunt, still waiting to be unpacked back into the trunk of the Impala.
"Our stuff's here," Dean said as he moved over to it, quickly pulling out his gun and slipping it into the waistband of his jeans—making him realize that both he and Sam were fully clothed…aside from jackets and shoes. It was amazing how safe he felt now that he had something to defend himself with, and catching the knowing glance Sam was sending him, his brother knew it, too. "Shut up."
Sam held his hands up in the traditional, 'I didn't say anything' gesture and frowned as he again rotated his shoulder.
"You alright?" Dean asked, suddenly concerned that maybe his initial assessment had been off. Even though Sam had already said he was fine, the kid could be stubborn sometimes, so much like their dad.
"Yeah, Dean, it just feels like I pulled something. Nothing a few Advil won't fix."
Immediately, Dean was digging through his bag, searching for the familiar bottle he knew was there somewhere. Whatever was going on, he didn't trust their mysterious benefactor, which made the pills on the bed stand off limits…at least for now. A moment later he held up the bottle triumphantly and tossed it over. "Here."
Sam plucked the plastic out of the air and wasted no time pulling out the muffling cotton to get at the painkillers beneath. Downing three, he palmed a few for Dean before closing it back up and carefully placing it back in Dean's bag, again rolling his eyes at the chaotic mess his brother's things were in. "Dean," he said, trying to get his brother's attention, but the other man was distracted.
Having decided to give the room a closer examination before breaching the closed door, Dean had walked over to the window to peer outside through the blinds, try to get a feel for their location, when he saw something white and powdery fall from the ledge. Carefully moving the flimsy plastic back, he blinked in amazement at the thick line of salt on the window sill, the whiteness of the blizzard obscuring vision outside momentarily ignored in his surprise.
"Someone demon-proofed the room."
"Both doors, too," Sam said from the first doorway. Dean's eyes switched back to him, falling back into protective older brother mode, as Sam knelt down—without any signs of pain, Dean was pleased to note—and tentatively felt the line. "It's almost like a groove was cut into the carpet and filled. Opening the door isn't going to disturb it."
"Smart," Dean remarked with a grudging sense of respect. "But is it meant to keep something out or something in?"
"I think that if it was meant for us, we wouldn't have been left the meds," Sam suggested as he straightened and walked over to the bags, digging through briefly before coming up with his own gun, which disappeared again in short order as a button-up was pulled on.
"Ya look real confident, there, Sammy," Dean said as he let the blinds fall shut and shuffled over to the bed, easing himself down carefully on one leg so as not to agitate the still-throbbing ankle. He could feel Sam's eyes watching the movement and knew that he hadn't been able to hide the uneven balance of his weight the motion had caused. Growling softly, he plastered a confident look on his face and said, "I'm fine, Sam."
"Uh huh," was the skeptic reply, followed almost immediately by a cautiously prodding hand along his side, causing Dean to wince away, hissing sharply. "Definitely one broken, two more close to it. How's your breathing?"
"Fine," Dean hissed as he shifted away from the painful probing. "Leave it, Sammy, we've got more important things to worry about, like figuring out where the hell we are and how we got here."
Sam continued to frown, clearly unhappy with the response, but backed off as he glanced around the room again. "Anything outside give you an idea?"
"Na. It's snowing like there's no tomorrow. I could barely make out a light, and that only looked a few feet away."
"Looks like we're not going anywhere for a while."
"We might not have a choice. You ready to take a look around?"
Sam drew in a deep breath—which Dean watched enviously—and stood, pulling a somewhat slower moving Dean along. Each double-checked his weapon one final time before moving toward the door. Sharing a glance, Dean reached for the handle and turned it, pausing to marvel at the undisturbed line of salt one final time before moving out into the hallway beyond.