Dean did not remember the bet. He did, however, just vaguely remember the quantity of alcohol that he had bought the night before. So, when he came to with a raging headache and nausea that even a sailor would feel sympathy for, he could only assume that most of the alcohol (if not the entire store) was consumed.

That did not explain the sudden change of scenery, however.

Dean cracked open an eye with an obvious amount of effort, groaning when sharp sunlight pierced his vision. He was lying face-up, still in last night's clothes, and apparently in a forest. Trees were seen in his peripherals, very green and very tall. He clenched a hand experimentally, and his fingers were buried in dust-like dirt. He scowled. Where the hell am I?

"Dean." That was definitely Sam, his little brother.

Dean groaned again in response, suddenly extremely aware of his parched throat and itchy eyes. Shut up, Sammy.

"Goddamn it, Dean, get up!" Sam's voice was urgent, now. "I think I can hear people coming."

Dean raised an eyebrow at that and sat up slowly, his stomach tossing and his head screaming in protest. When he finally was able to see clearly, he found himself glaring at his younger brother, who was wearing a concerned and constipated look on his face. His long hair was wild and even had bits of twigs sticking out of it, his green eyes bleary and red-rimmed. Damn, Dean thought with a little half-smile, we got plastered last night.

Sam was not amused, and he quickly assumed a scowl as he roughly shoved Dean up to his full height, rising from his crouching position. "What the hell were you thinking, Dean?" he growled, looking thunderous. Dean felt himself pale. Sammy was dangerous when he was this angry.

"Wha' d'you mean, Sammy?" he asked, noting that, yes, he was still slurring. Damn.

When Sam's face morphed from thunderous to murderous, Dean briefly contemplated yelling for help. "You made that fucking bet, Dean," he hissed, forcing venom into every word he said. "You fired Gabe up. Your drunk ass made him have a fucking superiority complex and now he zapped us halfway to Fuckville!"

Dean frowned. He hadn't heard Sam say fuck that much in a long time. Since the Apocalypse, actually. This must be very, very bad. "Dude, I really can't remember that much," he said, willing himself into sobriety. He winced when Sam made a growl in the back of his throat; Dean swore his brother's eyes went red. "Jesus, Sam, calm down! We'll get ourselves out of this, we always do!" He just hoped that it would be soon, considering how pissed off his little brother was.

With an obvious amount of effort, Sam made an annoyed noise and shoved Dean away from him. "We better," he huffed, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt, "or else I'll kill you. I swear, Dean. I will murder you in your sleep." Sam gave him a look that said he wouldn't go back on his word, and Dean gulped. Sam could be downright scary sometimes, especially when he was taken away from his new boyfriend that had apparently sent them to the middle of nowhere.

"Okay, alright," Dean mumbled, "Let's see where we are, then..." he started to look at his surroundings, and he did not recognize what he saw. Normally, when he was stuck in the middle of nowhere, his father had taught him how to survey his surroundings and figure out what part of the country they were in. But he didn't know where they were.

Tall trees dominated his sight, only broken by a winding dirt path that was only about the size of a single-lane road. From their vantage point, the forest remained only broken by small trails until it reached a mountain, that climbed into the blue-gray sky in one direction. Dean whistled in appreciation, a smile curling at the edges of his mouth. "Damn, Sammy," he said softly, "this place is awesome, wherever it is..."

Sam was barely paying any attention to Dean, now. He was staring in the opposite direction, his back to Dean's, listening for the sounds of footfalls or, hopefully, the sound of car tires. Unfortunately, he was only rewarded with the sound of fast approaching hoofbeats, and the taller Winchester only had a few moments to catch Dean's attention before the riders came into view.

"Holy... shit." Dean whispered under his breath. He was staring at the four riders, two on white horses, two on brown. Red capes bled behind three of the four riders, and those same three were adorned in silver chainmail that caught the light and gleamed. A crimson flag that matched the capes was held by one of the riders, and upon that flag was a golden dragon.

Dread settled in the pit of Dean's stomach. They were certainly not in Kansas anymore. Not anywhere near Kansas. Kansas wasn't even called Kansas where (and when) he was, and wouldn't be called Kansas for centuries.

Dean barely registered Sam's urgent grip on his shoulder, or the "we gotta get out of here, Dean," that Sam muttered as the riders came even closer. Soon, they were staring right at them; well, at the leader of said riders, who pulled his horse to a stop and glared at Dean icily. In truth, he hadn't ever seen a man who could be that intimidating in chainmail (other than himself, of course).

The leader of the party sat astride one of the brown horses, shoulders squared and back completely straight. He had a strong jaw and a nose that looked like it had once been broken. His expression was one of haughtiness and superiority, one that Dean immediately loathed, but the one thing that kept him from wiping that look off the man's face was his eyes. Bright and icy blue, they reminded him of Cas' eyes when he let his angelic essence shine through. Those eyes were terrifying, keeping him pinned to the ground like a bug underfoot.

"I'd get out of the road."

Dean expected the accent, but he did not expect the tone. It was lazy, dismissive; the man was eyeing both him and Sam up and down, confused and disgusted but obviously not interested. It took serious effort for Dean to not drag Blondie off his high horse and belt him.

"Sorry," Sam breathed, the first one to come to his senses. He grabbed his brother and hauled him out of the way, causing Dean to trip. This made three of the horsemen laugh; the only one not chuckling was a slighter boy with brown-black hair and big blue eyes, who was staring at them curiously.

Blondie seemed delighted at the stumble. "And this is why you don't talk to men on the paths," he said to his comrades with a toothy grin. "They are usually either drunk, or very stupid." A louder eruption of laughter came from the amused knights (for what else could they be?), and the smaller boy just barely repressed a scowl.

Dean, however, wouldn't take the shit he'd been given. "Listen, you son of a bitch," he said, causing every man on the path to look at him in shock, "I have had the shittiest morning of my entire existence, so if you could please get your head out of your ass and move on, I won't have to drag you off your high horse and re-break your crooked-ass nose."

The moment of silence that stretched between the parties was suffocating. Sam's eyes were green saucers in his face, his hand clutching Dean's shoulder almost painfully. The knights were staring at him, dumbstruck. The only one who seemed to have a reaction was the skinny guy next to Blondie, who was stifling laughter with one hand. He seemed to be trying very hard, too; his eyes were watering.

Eventually, the silence was broken by said skinny guy, nearly doubling over on himself with laughter. Blondie looked over at him sternly, growling a sharp "Merlin!", that didn't do much at all. The guy continued to laugh, although slightly more subdued.

"Sorry, Sire," the man called Merlin gasped, breathless from laughing so hard. Blondie just narrowed his eyes and scowled.

"Did Blondie just call him Merlin?" Dean whispered to Sam, whose eyes were larger than they were before, if that was even possible.

"Jesus Christ, if that's Merlin," Sam hissed back, his grasp becoming impossibly tight on Dean's shoulder, "then that's King Arthur you just insulted." Sam looked at him in shock, and Dean suddenly felt extremely lightheaded.

In fact, the last thing Dean Winchester remembered was was somehow toppling over, and the humorous expression of sudden shock on all the men's faces.