Dean is certain of a great many things in life. He knows he loves pie, that he loves taking care of his baby, and that no amount of bitching from Sam could ever convince him to turn down his music. He knows how to research lore in dusty tomes and how to clean his guns and how to hunt down and kill more supernatural creatures than some people could possibly imagine. He knows that he's currently lying down in the backseat of the Impala, surrounded by the comforting smell of clean leather, with no idea how he got there.
Oh, that could be an issue.
Furrowing his brow in confusion, Dean rises from his relaxed position, the seat squeaking uncomfortably as his weight shifts. The windows are fogged, covered in an irritating sheen that obscures the outside world, preventing Dean from seeing anything more than the blurry shapes of trees. The morning sun is shining at the perfect angle to break through the glass and cast a blinding stream of light across the back of the seat.
It's cold, both outside and inside the car, and Dean feels the urge to reach forward and turn on the Impala if for no other reason than to let the vents blow hot air onto his chilled body. His breath is rising in the air, forming a small cloud of mist that rises like smoke to the ceiling until it finally vanishes into the air, only to have the process repeat itself the next time he exhales. He pulls his jacket tighter around him, wishing for nothing more than to either find a blanket or have Sam complain about the temperature so Dean can finally have an excuse to blast the heat.
Sam is nowhere to be found. Dean tries to ignore the overwhelming feeling of dread that comes with the thought and chooses to remain calm and focus on positive thoughts, no matter how hard that may be. For all he could know, Sam is just outside of his line of sight, taking a moment to stretch his ridiculously long legs amidst the cool outdoors. As soon as Dean figures out where the hell he is and what he was doing, then he can worry about his little brother's whereabouts.
A sudden, sharp tap against his windows shakes Dean from his thoughts and immediately puts him on high alert, his hand reaching back instinctively to the gun resting in his waistband. The damn fogged-up glass keeps him from seeing anything more than a vaguely humanoid blob that definitely isn't Sam.
Dean's breathing is shorter and his shoulders are tense as he waits for his opportunity to make his move. Seeing that the blob isn't moving away from his door anytime soon, Dean carefully pulls his gun from his pants and readies his free hand by the door handle. With one last breath, Dean sharply rips the door open, slamming it roughly into the blob. The harsh thump and grunt that results is satisfying to hear as Dean pushes the door open fully and watches as the blob crumples to the ground. Face pulled in a serious frown, he glares down at the stranger who is currently clutching his arms around his stomach and gasping desperately for air like a gaping fish.
"Don't move!" Dean orders. Thankfully, the stranger obeys and stays put as he attempts to catch his breath.
Now that he is outside, Dean can see that the Impala is parked in the middle of a clearing, dew clinging to the tips of grass that eventually fade into the shadows stretching lazily beneath the circle of trees. With a forest making a border along the clearing, Dean can see no road on which the Impala could have driven on to make it to this strange clearing. Puzzled by his surroundings, Dean barely notices when the stranger rolls to his knees and begins to stand.
"I said don't move!" Dean repeats, gesturing with his gun threateningly. The stranger halts, his back facing Dean and face turned away, arms raised in a gesture of surrender. "Who are you?"
The stranger chuckles, a low and deep rumble that sounds eerily familiar to Dean, like a long forgotten memory that once meant something to him but has now faded to nothing more than a vague reminder of the past. "You'd think you'd recognize your own father."
Dean's resolve wavers as the voice's familiarity suddenly makes sense. His stomach plummets and his hands shake as the stranger turns his body, that recognizable leather jacket swinging as the sunlight hits the rough face of John Winchester, a nostalgic smile pulled across his face.
"Dad?" Though Dean may recognize that face, there's no way he's lowering his gun, not yet.
"Hey there, Dean." He replies, body now fully facing his son, looking as if he were healthy and whole and alive.
"What the hell is going on? You're not my dad, you can't be. John Winchester died." Dean insists.
John chuckles again, his eyes darkening slightly and his smile dimming minutely. "Well, you're not exactly doing too well yourself, Dean."
Dean narrows his eyes, fingers tightening reflexively around his gun and forming choking grip that turns his knuckles white. The imposter lowers his arms, standing his ground firmly even with the nasty threat of a bullet to the face. Even if Dean doesn't like the way this monster plays, he has to respect that display of determination. But, this imposter has stepped up to a whole new level of wrong by taking the form of his father, gruff demeanor and all.
Shapeshifter? Dean muses to himself. He hopes that he can escape the imposter's careful gaze long enough to sneak into the Impala's trunk and dig out the silver he knows is there. Do that, and he'll be able to find Sam and get the hell out of there.
"Where's my brother?" He demands. He'd hoped that if Sam had gone off to do something hunt-related that he would have returned by now. Then again, Dean still has no clue when his brother left and if they even knew they were tracking down this shapeshifter.
"You don't need him right now, Dean." The imposter takes a cautious step forward, rugged boots slowly sinking down into soft earth.
Dean frowns deeply, cocking his gun and stopping the imposter in his tracks. "I said, where is my brother?"
"That doesn't matter, Dean." The imposter says, the guise of John Winchester's deep and controlled voice sending chills down Dean's spine. "I know what you're thinking but I swear to you that I'm not a shapeshifter. Dean you have to listen to me."
"I don't believe you, I can't."
The imposter's face is serious, pulled into the same expression that Dean remembers receiving as a teenager when he would choose to ignore researching in the library with Sam, who was quite eager to be surrounded by books. "Son, test me however you want, but it's really me."
Still suspicious of the imposter's intentions, Dean backs slowly around the side of the car, gun still raised and free hand tracing the sleek outline of the Impala as he navigates his way to the trunk, not once dragging his gaze away from the man who wears the face of John Winchester. He props open the trunk with a sawed-off shotgun and fishes for his silver knife and flask of holy water. The clearing if eerily quiet as Dean fetches his supplies, only the rattle of various weapons smacking against each other joining the soft breeze that makes the wet grass sway lazily from side to side. Dean once again wonders where Sam is, wonders if he's somewhere unconscious in the cold, slumped under a tree as blood trickles down his head with no one to come for him. The thought forms a lump in Dean's throat and he retrieves his desired items with more urgency than before.
Quickly, Dean moves back to the imposter and mercilessly pushes up his sleeve, swiftly dragging the knife across the tanned wrist. Other than a quiet grunt and a slow stream of blood, the reaction is completely normal, with no sizzling skin or burning flesh to accompany the new wound. Concealing his surprise, Dean splashes water from the flask onto the previously untouched part of the arm, only to have nothing happen yet again.
If Dean thought he was confused before, that's nothing compared to how utterly lost he feels now.
John grimaces as he carefully wipes the holy water off on his faded jeans and proceeds to take his time while pulling the sleeve his leather jacket and flannel back down. "Believe me now?"
Dean's gun is now lowered, safety clicking back into place as he places it back in his waistband, a position that provides easy access if this man suddenly turns into something hideous. "Do I have a choice?"
John smirks. "I guess not. Come on, son, let's go take a walk." He turns his body, already heading off to the edge of the clearing.
"Hold on a minute." Dean interjects. He holds his hands up and shrugs in disbelief. "Shouldn't we be looking for Sam?"
"He'll be fine, Dean," John insists. "Now come on, we have to go."
"No," Dean says stubbornly, feet planted firmly in the ground, so much so that his boots have actually begun to sink into the muddy soil. "We need to find Sam."
"Dean," John starts, his voice becoming more and more impatient in a manner that Dean is all too well-acquainted with. "He's fine. Let's go."
Still reluctant to potentially leave Sam behind but also feeling compelled to obey his father's orders, Dean silently trudges forward, falling into step with the familiar yet strangely foreign gait. How long had it been since he had walked beside his father? Years and years had passed since his and yet, Dean feels he could still find his dad in any crowd just according to his confident stride and heavy footsteps. Even so, the thought that he could be here with his dad and his strong march is slightly unnerving, almost as unnerving as seeing his face once more after such a long passage of time.
The forest they are traversing through is much like the clearing Dean found himself in. It is still cold, though the high coverage of dark leaves and mossy tree branches has prevented any rain from falling down and staining the forest floor with mud. Though the foliage surrounding them is immense, Dean can tell that there is a trail that has been cut through various obstacles, forming a long and winding trail that is just the perfect width to fit both John and Dean comfortably side by side.
"How are you even here?" Dean questions, finally spitting out what had been lingering at the back of his mind.
John sighs and keeps his eyes forward. "Take your best guess."
Dean crinkles his forehead in confusion. "You mean you have no idea?"
John frowns at the trail. "I'm just as lost as you are, Dean."
His son snorts cynically. "Probably just as lost as Sam is now, too."
"Hey," John says, voice low and stern. "Don't worry about Sam. I'm sure he's fine, and we'll find him is necessary."
Dean doesn't like to think that finding Sam is ever not a necessity but he still bites his tongue and nods. "Yes, sir."
John nods in approval. "Good." Their conversation drifts away again, falling prey to the crunch of leaves beneath their boots.
"Where are we going?"
"Jesus, Dean," John says, clearly exasperated. "What are you, five again?"
Dean wants to tell him that he wouldn't need to ask questions if he actually got some straight answers for once, but he lets this one go. Poking an angry and frustrated John never tended to end very well for him.
The trail begins to veer slightly to the right, taking their path downhill and over a fallen tree covered in moss and mushrooms that they have to climb over. John has said nothing more since Dean's last unsuccessful attempt at getting some answers. Not entirely sure if he's the only one confused or the only one willing to show it, Dean glares at the back of John's head as the older Winchester swings his body fluidly over the top of the tree, his son following closely, but hesitantly behind.
There's still no sign of Sam anywhere. Though Dean knows that his younger brother is definitely old enough to take care of himself, he still can't help but feel a headache coming on at the thought of his brother being somewhere with no idea where Dean is. For all Dean could know, he could have completely ditched his brother in the middle of a hunt, depriving of some back-up that could very cost Sam his life.
No matter how badly he wants to drop everything and run through the woods screaming Sam's name, he's too captivated by the existence of his father to do much else than stew in his concern and keep a watchful eye out for any suspicious moves. Though he may seem to walk and talk like his dad, Dean still isn't too sure that this person is truly the deceased John Winchester. But, with all of his tests proven false and with nothing else to go on, all Dean can do is be extremely cautious until he gets some hard evidence.
Still, even with his suspicions filling his head, Dean still finds it ridiculous that John has told him absolutely nothing about what they're doing, especially considering that Sam's out somewhere all alone and John hasn't even batted an eye to lecture Dean on his stupidity.
"Dad, seriously, what are we doing?"
John stops his determined march and turns around fully, posture stiff and irritation clear on his face. "Dean, that's enough. You just have to trust me and everything will be okay."
"No!" Dean protests, gesturing wildly with flailing arms at the surrounding trees. "I'm done with this! You expect to drag me away with no explanation and that I'll just follow you without question? No, I've been hunting too long to not know something's up when my dead father randomly shows up outside my door! Either you tell me what's going on or I'm shooting your ass and going to find Sam!"
John does the last thing Dean expects him to do. "Okay, Dean," He says, the picture of complete calm as he takes a few steps closer to his son and lays a calloused hand firmly on his shoulder. "You're right. You're a good hunter, I'm proud of you for that, and you're certainly old enough for me to be damn straight with you for once. I swear to you that I'll explain everything as soon as I can but, for now, you're just gonna have to trust me, son."
For a moment, John's words sink into Dean. Somewhere high above, he can hear birds chirping and rustling leaves as they flit through the air. Wind blows around the bushes, causing them to shake and shudder as if they themselves are getting cold. John's face is now pulled into a gentle smile, something that completely contrasts his obvious displeasure from a few moments ago.
Dean lets out a puff of air and shrugs off John's hand, backing slowly away as John's head tilts and his expression shifts to confusion. Dean reaches a hand back to his waistband, brushing his gun as he searches for something he can actually rely on.
"You're not my dad," He states with absolute certainty.
John scoffs and his lips turn into a perplexed half-smile. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"My dad would never say he's proud of me. He would never say those things. Now, who the hell are you?"
"Dean, you have to listen to me. I am your dad, and you need to listen to me because you're gonna need all the help you can get."
Dean reaches back and grips his gun, ready to pull it out at the slightest hostile movement. "I don't need your help. You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
He rips his gun free, aimed steadily and prepared to pull the trigger.
He doesn't get the chance.
Dean blinks.
And he is gone.
More specifically, he is standing back in that god-awful clearing, the Impala missing and his arms held out and ready to shoot.
His form falls apart at the change of scenery. He jerks his head around, so confused that he isn't even sure that searching for answers would be of any help. Now, Dean is positive that there is some messed up shit going on. And Sam is still missing.
"Hello, Dean."
Dean whips around, eyes narrowing at the sight of someone with a trench coat and dark hair. "What the hell Cas!"
The angel's face pulls into a confused frown. "To what are you referring?"
"What am I referring to?" Dean asks incredulously. "Gee, maybe the fact that I have no idea where I am and my dad magically appeared with a way out! What else could I possibly be referring to?"
"So that is who you saw first?"
"Saw first?" Dean shrugs his shoulders helplessly and replaces his gun. "Cas, what the hell is going on?"
"Dean, you are in serious danger." Cas says, voice grave and eyes low.
"How, Cas?" He asks. At this point, his confusion has just begun to melt into bitter frustration. "I'm in the middle of nowhere with no one out here for miles and my brother is still gone! He's probably in more danger than I am at the moment!"
"This world is a trick of your mind."
"Well, that helps clear things up." Dean comments sarcastically.
"Dean," Cas says sternly with a hint of sadness in his eyes. "You are dying."
Dean pauses for a moment, letting this revelation sink in. "Well, that changes things."
Cas nods, stepping forward across the soggy grass. "This place is your creation, where you may find peace in either life or death. While your body suffers in reality, you are trapped here until you can choose to fight or let go."
"That's obvious," Dean snorts. "Of course I'm fighting."
The angel's mouth is still pulled down into a frown. "Dean, you must realize how grave your situation is. You must consider this seriously."
"Yeah, yeah." He waves a dismissive hand and glares at the cloudy sky. "Are you even real?"
"That is for you to decide." Cas states firmly, which Dean decides means that Cas is having fun being all mysterious.
"So," Dean starts. "Now what."
He looks down at the grass once more and Cas has vanished. Typical. Hands resting uncertainly on his hips, Dean tries to decide what to do next. Now that he knows none of this is real, he can stop worrying about Sam for a moment and think. The pit in stomach disappears.
Then again, if Dean was in a situation bad enough to lead to something like this, would Sam really be okay? Would Sam escape unharmed? This thought brings back the pit, and he has to give himself false reassurances before he can even begin to consider his options.
He wonders, if summoned, that Cas would come or if Dean's weird mind reality works on a separate set of rules. But, even if the hunter succeeded in praying to Cas and the angel did show, he probably wouldn't be eager to reveal anything more to Dean, choosing instead to let Dean find his own way and make his own decisions.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Dean collects himself for a moment and closes his eyes.
When he opens them, of course everything has decided to change.
Thankfully, Dean is grateful to note that he is no longer in that damned clearing when he opens his eyes. He still feels unnaturally cold, but that's something he can live with, assuming he even gets to keep on living.
The building Dean finds himself in may as well be a distant memory, a long forgotten place lost to time that Dean had never thought he would see again. Even though so much time has passed, it feels as if it hasn't even been minutes since he last waltzed through the screen door and breathed in the smell of beer and stale pretzels. The floors are still warn, a faded brown that stretches to the decorated walls and creak under every step. The bar is fully stocked, folders piled sky high on the back shelves and counters glistening as if they were just wiped down. The lights are down low, adding a homelike and comforting atmosphere to the air. In the other room, a pool table still stands with its stainless green cloth looking respectable.
"Well, I'll be damned!"
Dean freezes, blood chilling at the sound of that voice. No, it can't be possible. But, then again, Dean's entire day has just been filled with unlimited impossibilities.
Entering from the back door, hands on her hips and smirk plastered proudly across her face, Ellen strides over to the bar, smoothly pulling out a bar stool and sitting down in one motion.
"Ellen?" Dean says, half of his mind willing to believe she's really here while the other half lives in denial.
Her eye brow raises as she leans casually against the bar, gesturing at the empty bar stool next to her with her free hand. "Well, who the hell else would I be?"
Dean approaches warily and sits, resting both of his arms against the wooden surface, turning his head so he can still speak with Ellen. "You'd be surprised, it's been a crazy day."
She rises, walking confidently around the corner of the bar until she finally finds her comfortable spot behind the counter. From shelves hidden under the counter, she withdraws two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. When she motions to pour one for him, he nods his appreciation, watching gratefully as the amber liquid gets drained into his glass then pushed across the bar to sit in front of his arms. He plays thoughtfully with the glass at first, turning it slowly in circles before him, not taking a long drink until he has observed every edge of the crystalline surface.
"So," Ellen starts, taking a swig of her own drink and planting her hands firmly on the bar. "What're you doing here?"
"Good question." Dean mutters. Carefully, he observes Ellen and frowns. "Actually, what're you doing here?"
She tilts her head to the side and frowns. "I don't get what you mean."
"Really?" He remarks, his words burning his throat like the whiskey he just downed. "You mean you don't remember me getting you and Jo killed?"
"That wasn't your fault, Dean." Ellen replies, voice practically that scolding tone he had occasionally heard her use with Jo.
"Hm," He hums, mulling over her words. "Sure did seem like it."
"It was our choice, Dean." A softer, younger voice chimes in.
He whips his head to his left, nearing jumping out of his seat when he sees that the stool originally occupied by Ellen is now holding Jo. Her blonde hair falls softly over her shoulders, arms crossed over her chest and a small smile pulling across her cheeks.
"Jo," He says softly. "I'm so sorry."
She shakes her head. "We're not here for your apologies, Dean. There's nothing to forgive, we did what we chose to do. We're here to help you."
That has both of his eyebrows raising. "Help me? With what!"
Jo rolls her eyes. "Choose, dumbass! You're kinda not doing so well at the moment."
He throws his hands up in exasperation. "Why does everyone know this except me?"
"Oh, you know, sweetie." Ellen says. "You just don't want to admit it, that's what we're for."
"I'm not dying." Dean grumbles, finishing the last of his glass.
"Sure, Dean," Jo remarks sarcastically. "And the sky isn't blue."
"We're only here to help," Ellen comments. "We wouldn't be here if you didn't want us to be."
Dean wonders if it's his guilty conscience that's supposedly brought them here, not the part of him that needs to make some sort of decision.
He regards Jo and Ellen carefully. He remembers the last time he saw them alive. Jo, pale but still strong as she lay in her own blood on the cold tile floor. Ellen, teary-eyed and determined as she vowed to stay with her dying daughter for her last moments. He remembers his regretful goodbye, remembers looking back hours later from Bobby's house and realizing that their sacrifices had been in vain.
Wrong place, wrong time they had once agreed. Dean wonders if that's always going to be the case.
"Choices, choices, choices." Jo muses. Her mother has obviously retrieved a drink for her as a glass similar to his is clutched in Jo's hand, dark liquid swirling around and around as she swishes it with her hand. "That's all you've got, isn't it? Choose to live or die, nothing more nothing less."
She sighs wistfully, turning her fiery eyes and defiant smile toward him. "Then again, it's better to have a choice than to fall into inevitability, isn't it?"
Dean agrees and raises his empty glass in acknowledgement. He looks around at their kind faces, comforting, friendly faces that he has surely missed.
He wonders if it really is a blessing to be faced with this kind of choice. Even if he chooses to fight tooth and nail and survive, what kind of consequences will he have to face?
Dean blinks. The Roadhouse, Jo, and Ellen are all gone, leaving him back in the damn field without his car and brother.
He sighs and looks around, wondering if making choices had always been so lonely.
Dean loses track of how many different people he visits. Some are more helpful than others.
One time he's walking with Bobby through his car lot, drinking beers and talking about the cars until Dean is certain he would be content there forever, just chatting with Bobby, no hunts or crappy motels to worry about. Bobby stops him for a moment there in that lot, turning to Dean with his wise and stern face and telling him how proud he is of Dean, how certain he is that Dean will make the right decision. It's then that Dean is sure that Bobby isn't real, but he can't find it in himself to care.
Another time, Dean's staring down the barrel of Bela's gun, a cunning smirk on her face as she bargains with him for his soul, offering numerous, absolutely ridiculous offers that assure this Bela is also not real, for she would never trade something as valuable as a human soul for something as pathetic as bottle of cheap alcohol.
Once, he's trapped in a dirty room that looks like it belongs in a haunted house. Lucifer stands in the opposite corner, arms crossed and smiling smugly under the mask of the poor man he originally possessed. Michael is in the other corner, standing authoritatively while wearing the body of Adam, yet another person Dean couldn't save. They constantly talk over each other, shouting louder and louder like the arguing brothers they truly are. Lucifer tells him about his waste of a life, insisting that Sam was always stronger, was always the more important one. Michael takes a different approach, telling him that he has the power to take responsibility, to live and accept his true role. Dean knows they aren't there, he knows that they're both stuck in the cage, shoved deep down in Hell where Dean hopes they'll remain for the rest of his lifetime.
No matter who he meets, Dean always ends up back in the clearing between his odd visits. Sometimes the Impala is there, and Dean sits on her hood and stares at the darkening sky as he waits for his mind to whisk him away once more. Sometimes, Cas is standing there, not saying a word, only staring sadly with a hint of tragedy in his eyes as Dean screams at him for help, screams at him for answers until his voice grows hoarse and his throat turns dry. Most of the time, Dean is alone to stand in the woods, cursed to watch as day turns to night and back again, cursed to wonder and question if he'll ever break or if he'll be trapped for eternity, forced to watch the world change.
Dean grows tired. He's tired of seeing old friends and enemies, most of whom are dead, but he can't break the cycle. He's tired of waiting alone, of waiting to see who will be his company next. He's tired of worrying about Sam, worrying where he is or how he's doing while times seems to pass infinitely where he is, leaving him to wonder if any time has really passed at all.
But he keeps moving, no matter how great his desire is for everything to stop. The people scream as he passes by, yelling at him to choose one way or the other, telling him that he needs to decide before he can't anymore. He wants to tell them that he's trying, he wants to tell them all to stop and let him think for a damn minute, but then he's taken back to the clearing for a brief second of lonely respite before another person is yelling.
Once, he's sitting on the floor in his childhood home, Sammy's crib tucked away by the window next to the stain of chocolate milk that Dean made when he snuck his beverage to the nursery to share with baby Sammy. His mom sits in front of him, eyes soft and kind as she cups Dean's face with her head, whispering comforting words as his eyes water pathetically. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cas leaning against the wall, staring at him but not saying a word.
"Please," Dean begs, voice cracking more than he cares to admit. "Make it stop."
"You have to decide." Cas says, low voice almost covering up the soothing tones of his mother.
"Show me how."
His mom is gone, but Dean isn't in the clearing.
Finally, Sam is here.
They're sitting in the front seat of the Impala, Dean behind the wheel with Sam on the passenger side. They're parked somewhere, the music turned down low and a bag from some fast food place sitting between them with the matching drinks sitting carefully on the dashboard. Dean looks to his right and sees Sam munching contently on a cheap salad, balancing the plastic dish precariously on his lap. Outside, Dean can tell that it's dark, a darkness that comes with nighttime but for some reason, he can see no stars shining down onto his car.
"Hey," Sam says after finishing off a bite. "You want your burger yet?" He sticks his hand in the crinkling paper bag, retrieving a poorly wrapped burger that is practically dripping with grease.
Dean takes the offered meal with a distractedly muttered "thanks" in his brother's direction. He peels off the paper, pauses, then rewraps it and places it on the dash next to what he assumes is his soda.
"This isn't real." He states. Even if he's grateful that his brother is finally here, Dean knows that he can't get his hopes up after all of the shit he's seen.
To his surprise, Sam rolls his eyes and nods. "Of course, it isn't, but you want it to be." He shifts in his seat, leather creaking beneath his blue jeans. "And isn't that the whole point?"
Dean furrows his eyebrows, looking at his brother with confusion. Of all of the confusing things that have come out of people's mouths over these past few days, Dean doesn't think that any statement has been more stupefying than Sam's words.
"I mean," Sam continues, reading his stunned expression perfectly though he isn't even real. "All you've been hearing has been that you need to choose to live or move on because your life is apparently in danger, but don't you already know what you want?"
And Dean feels frustrated and angry in a way that makes him want to punch Sam in the face. "Seriously, all of this time and I knew the answer all along!"
"Well, it's not really that simple, Dean." Sam consoles, getting that informative tone to his voice that he gets when he's about to explain some kind of lore. "Even if you did know it this entire time you'd never admit it. Even when you're bleeding out on the floor of some abandoned factory, you're too stubborn to admit when you need help. So, you got help from people who could help until you were ready to accept it."
"Glad to know that a list of helpful people includes Satan." Dean grumbles bitterly.
Sam smiles. "Hey, that's not my fault!"
Dean knows it isn't, and he can't even hold a petty grudge for too long against a fake version of his brother.
They sit there in silence for a little bit, Dean staring out the empty sky and practically willing himself to fly away to a place where his brother is real. He glances around at the Impala, taking note of all of her slopes and curves and bumps that couldn't be avoided. He watches as Sam takes another bite of his salad, face peaceful and not displaying a bit of regret. Dean watches and wonders and hopes and maybe even a small part of him prays for this special kind of normalcy him and his brother share.
"So," He starts, turning to his brother. "What now, Sammy?"
"You get to choose," Sam says firmly. "But this time, you'll be certain of where you go."
Dean's world begins to fade. Sam disappears, the food disappears, the music slowly dies off, and the Impala dissolves to mix with the dark sky.
Dean is gone once more, but this time, he goes home.
His world is agony.
Wherever he is, he's cold, too. The hard floor is painfully damp, soaking lazily through his jeans to create a numbing layers of water over his skin. The air is absolutely frigid, enveloping Dean like a blanket of cold and pressing harshly into his lungs. He feels like he's been dumped in ice water, though he knows he's almost entirely dry.
Something wet and sticky is seeping across the front of his stomach and into the top of his pants. From the overwhelming stench of pennies that permeates the air and the fact that Dean's torso is the source of the extraordinary agony he is experiencing, Dean knows that whatever is killing him is ripped across his stomach.
He desperately wants to open his eyes, to examine the wound across his stomach and see if his organs are actually spilling out from his gut or if that's just what it feels like. He wants to see where he is, wants to see how much blood is splattered across the floor. He wants to see if Sam is nearby. But he can't, because clenching his eyes shut is the only relief he has right now, even if it isn't the best kind.
Sam. Oh, now that's he's back in this painful reality, Dean needs to know that Sam's okay, that he's out there killing a monster or whatever they were hunting and that he'll soon come running over the hills to rescue Dean's pathetic ass.
"Dean?"
Speak of the devil.
Dean has to smile a bit at the sound of his real brother's voice, even if it probably makes him look a little crazy.
Sam's footsteps are growing louder, pounding loudly against the floor. He hasn't started full on sprinting yet, so Dean can only assume that he's out of Sam's line of sight.
"Dean!"
His cry is more frantic this time, his sudden running matching his panicked tone as he surely sees his older brother laid out and bleeding against a moldy wall. Sam is definitely hurrying, his feet getting louder and louder until he practically skids to a stop beside Dean, falling to his knees with an impressive and likely painful thump.
His brother's hands are warm against Dean's face, calloused and careful as they roll his head from side to side, his nimble fingers searching for a pulse. Dean hears his brother's relieved sigh upon finding one and wishes he could open his weary eyes and see the look on Sam's face.
After some rustling around, something is pressed harshly against Dean's stomach, releasing a whole new level of pain that makes him want to throw up and forces a groan from his lips. He wants to lift his arms and swat at Sam, but they weigh a thousand pounds at the moment and there's no possible way he could lift that much weight.
"Dean?" Sam says, voice firm even though he's probably freaking out on the inside. "Hey, man, I need you to open your eyes for me, okay? Just open your eyes."
Only for Sammy would Dean open his eyes when he could be drifting off to a perfectly good nap. Surely enough, he wills his lids to lift slowly, leaving his vision blurred and faded around the edges. But he can see Sam, his expression painted with relief but touched with lingering concern that is enough to tell Dean how bad this really is.
"Hey," His little brother says. "We gotta get you out of here. I'll help you walk, but you gotta help me out a bit, man."
Dean moans, and his head lolls to the side. Sam's hand is still there to tilt him in the right direction.
"No, none of that yet, Dean." Later, Dean really has to compliment Sam on his ability to stay so calm. "We gotta leave first, then you can sleep."
"'M fine." Dean insists, though it's obviously a lost cause when Sam frowns at him and rolls his eyes.
"Sure, Dean. You're completely fine. But just in case, I'm gonna help you up, okay?"
Dean grins. If only this Sam knew about his fun adventure filled with people trying to help him. But if Dean's willing to let anyone help him, no matter how reluctantly he may allow them to, it's got to be his brother.
"Sure, Sammy." Dean concedes. "Let's head home."