"It's okay, Sammy," Dean chanted. "It's okay, I'm here. I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving, Sam. It's okay. It's okay."
Dean leaned heavily against the side of the car: his baby, his and Sam's home. The epitome of their lives and their loves—for each other, for their jobs, for their lost childhoods—it all lay in this one rather extraordinary vehicle. This time, however, he wasn't leaning leisurely, or even moodily, as he had in the past. He was leaning because his own legs wouldn't support him anymore.
Dean had never, before this moment, actually meant what he said. This was Dean's soul pouring through his mouth, everything Dean had always wanted to say, ever since that fire in Sam's nursery. Ever since Dean had carried his baby brother out of that burning building he had called home. But now that he was getting it out, he wasn't even sure Sam could hear him.
The punches kept coming. A steady stream of pain erupted behind his eyes, in his nose. He could feel his teeth cracking and falling out, feel his jaw pulling away from his skull. Through it all, he chanted his mantra. Not even Lucifer could take that away from him. "I'm not going to leave you, Sammy."
Sam's large, bloody fist loomed once again, ready to strike, when something in his face changed. Dean instantly recognized Sam as being himself again, though he still chanted. He couldn't stop it, now; maybe he had suffered some brain damage. Sam looked horrified, confused, scared shitless. "I've got him," he said, just barely able to get the words out. "I've got him, Dean. I've won."
And then he threw the rings on the ground, chanted the words, and leaped into the pit. The cage. With Adam—no, not Adam. Michael.
Dean was alone. Castiel's remains lay scattered on the ground and splattered all over Bobby, who lay face down in the grass. His skull seemed oddly disconnected from the rest of his body, like a doll whose head was pulled off and put back on crooked.
At first, the only thing Dean could think about was his own head. Thoughts weren't even fully forming; it was just a cacophony of pain and angry screaming. Dean knelt in front of the hole, staring at the ground. As much as he wanted to scream Sam's name over and over until he was hoarse, he couldn't get his mouth to move or any words to come out; instead strange, animal howls ripped through his broken teeth and mashed bones.
The process of dragging himself into the road was long, and almost as painful as Hell. When he had firmly planted himself in the middle of the road, he sat up as best he could and waited for a car to pass. It ended up being some couple; the woman shrieked, and the man almost crashed in his hurry to get off the road and away from the battered body lying there. Dean didn't remember anything past that.
When he woke up, he knew where he was. He didn't remember how long he had been there or why, but the smell (clean and chemical, like new rubber) and the sounds (the beeping of his pulse on the machine, the chatter of nurses in the hallway) were familiar, reminiscent of too many days spent in hospitals and too many quick getaways, never letting himself properly heal. There was always a reason to rush off half-dead and dead tired; an important job, demons in the staff, the apocalypse.
Dean looked down and cursed his ugly, ill-fitting garb; he noticed the bracelet on his wrist. John Doe, it said. He briefly entertained the idea that he could pretend he had amnesia and couldn't remember who he was, thus saving himself the trouble of getting tracked down by the FBI. Again.
A nurse walked coolly into his room (he wasn't sharing it with anyone, he noticed—bad sign) and pulled a pen from behind her ear, ready to take down information on her clipboard. Looking closer, Dean saw it was actually a small computer and a stylus. It must have been longer than he thought since his last hospital visit.
They went through all the information; what's your name, how old are you, when's your birthday, what's your social security number, etc. When the nurse asked who the hospital could call to pick him up when they released him, he bristled—everyone he knew was dead. Except maybe Rufus, but Dean didn't think he knew him well enough to call for a ride home.
That's when it really hit him; everyone he knew was dead. Not one friend left. He was well and truly alone, and he cried; it wasn't like when he told Sam about Hell, or even when Sam was killed. It was worse. So much worse. He didn't even care that the nurse was still in the room with him.
He thought about Sammy, his gigantic, overgrown ox of a brother, who could never seem to get anything exactly right, who Dean was constantly suspicious and scared of because of what he was, how he was different. Who felt a different kind of pain than Dean ever did, and for longer than Dean ever could. Who had a heart of gold and a good head on his shoulders, too, even though he always forgot the pie. Who never liked Dean's stupid jokes.
And Dean felt terrible for all the things he'd done to Sammy; he had never let him make his own choices, except to kill himself. He had screwed him over and made Sam live with his death because Dean couldn't handle being alone. He had never treated him as an equal, never told him that he didn't care how much demon blood Sam drank; he would always be Dean's little brother, always be his family. He told Sam once that he would want to hunt him. And Lucifer knew all these things, knew how Sam worshipped Dean and knew how to hurt him that way.
Sometimes, Dean felt it was his fault. It was his fault for not raising Sammy better, for treating him like a child when he was obviously an adult. It was Dean who made Sam rebel against their father, against himself. Lying there, in the clean, soulless hospital in Kansas, made Dean realize he was right. He had always been right about himself; he ruined his brother, time and time again. He ruined his whole family. And as much as he hated his father for saddling him with the responsibility of taking care of everyone – even his mother – before he could even comprehend what taking care of someone meant, Dean knew a better man would have made it work, would have come out alright.
The nurse simply stared at Dean as he howled with pain. She was afraid that her patient had cracked, couldn't handle whatever it was that had made him this way. She knew how long he had been in the hospital, how long he had been in a coma. Compared to some patients, it hadn't been long. Compared to most, he should have been taken off life support. That he woke up at all was remarkable, and that he could talk was a miracle. But sanity? That was almost too much to ask for. Though she did feel bad for him, that his handsome face couldn't bring itself to smile.
Dean cried for days. Not the wails of the first day he woke up, but a steady stream that always ran down his face. He couldn't force himself to eat, so he was fed through a tube.
He passed the time thinking of everyone. Cas's beautiful face and crazy hair that he could never plaster down; Bobby's habit of calling them 'idjits,' his forced gruffness ; Sam's hatred of haircuts. They'd rattle around Dean's mind, all day every day. He couldn't shake the pain.
After nearly two weeks had gone by and the tears had slowed to a drizzle, Dean had a visitor. He hoped to God it was Sammy, and kept his eyes closed while he waited for his visitor to speak.
"Dean?" The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. He opened his eyes.
It was Cas. His angel. His only hope in dark times. The tears started up again. "Cas, I-" Dean stopped short. Something was wrong. He looked Cas up and down, carefully. The details trickled in slowly; he was wearing a t-shirt, no tie, no coat. Jeans instead of trousers. Sneakers instead of dress shoes. His eyes traveled back up. There was a strange look in Castiel's face and his hair hung over his forehead, though it didn't seem to be gelled down.
"Cas, what's wrong with you?" Dean asked, confused. Cas shuffled around a bit, waiting for Dean to put two and two together and—ding. It wasn't Cas. "Jimmy?"
Since he had spent so much time with Dean (in a way), Jimmy knew how Dean talked. "Yahtzee," he mumbled, attempting a smile. Dean recognized the look on Jimmy's face as nervous.
"Why…what happened to Cas?"
Jimmy grimaced. "He's… he's dead. I died, too. Someone in heaven said that it was unfair to kill me because it wasn't my fault that I was the vessel. So I came back, I guess. I woke up in that field next to-" Dean held a hand up, stopping Jimmy.
"They let you remember heaven?" Dean was almost angry about this factoid; Jimmy was just a guy. What gave him the right to remember heaven?
"Yeah, I guess. They said they wanted me to remember something…" Jimmy looked hard at the floor, as if the tiles could remind him of what he was supposed to say. Suddenly, his head popped up. Dean jumped. High. "I'm sorry," Jimmy said, putting a hand on Dean's arm. Dean flinched at the contact. "I'm sorry," he said again. "What they wanted me to remember was that Castiel fell. Not for freedom, but for you."
When Dean heard those words, he started laughing. Maniacally. Uncontrollably. He laughed so long and hard that he thought he might throw up. And poor Jimmy Novak cried, knowing that he had fallen in love with a man who didn't exist anymore. While still sharing a body with Castiel, he had predicted that Dean (and Sam, but mostly Dean, for he was the topic of much conversation between the two) could not withstand so much pressure for much longer.
Castiel had told Jimmy to "shut his cakehole."
Apparently, he didn't like to think of Dean going crazy.
Dean spent much of the next few days chuckling, as he had sobbed earlier. Jimmy visited often, but said little.
"I visited Sam's grave today," Jimmy said.
Dean chortled.
"I love you," Jimmy said.
More laughter.
Dean was released three days after Jimmy told him he loved him for the first time. Jimmy had felt awkward confessing such a thing in front of the nurses, who would tear up like Jimmy did, knowing that Dean was insane and didn't even know what love is anymore, but imagining what he had been like before whatever had happened happened.
Determining how Dean lost his sanity was a popular game amongst the nurses. Jimmy would walk through the halls and hear, "Maybe he saw someone die. He talks about a Sammy sometimes, in between giggles." And "I heard he got hit by a truck and the brain damage was too severe to recover from." Jimmy knew what had really happened, but he kept his mouth firmly shut, and if the nurses ever wondered why he didn't clear things up, they never said anything about it.
Not in the hospital, anyway.
The other popular game was to imagine what Jimmy and Dean's life (for everyone assumed they had been together long before the 'accident') had been like before. Sometimes they imagined who would do the cooking and who would do the yard work, or which one of them had a job and what they did. Dean would hear the nurses whisper, "Maybe Dean was a mechanic. Maybe Jimmy was a traveling salesman. Maybe they worked together. Maybe Jimmy was a stay-at-home husband." Though at that point, Dean had no idea what any of that meant.
When Jimmy took him home, Dean chuckled at his little apartment and said a few words. "Small, funny-looking," he mumbled between outbursts.
"Our home," Jimmy said.
"Home," Dean repeated, but it didn't sound like it meant anything to him. It probably didn't.
When Dean woke up screaming the next morning, Jimmy didn't know what to do. The doctors hadn't told him about this. He tried telling jokes, making funny faces, telling Dean he loved him over and over, asking him to be quiet. He finally climbed into bed next to Dean and pulled him close, rubbing his shoulders until the screams faded into tiny "aaaaaa's" and then finally, Dean stopped making noise. Jimmy cried into Dean's shirt, which made Dean grin and paw at Jimmy's dark hair.
Sometimes, between outbursts, Dean would have moments of clarity. He would rub his eyes and blink, like he'd been asleep for a long time. He'd look at Jimmy and ask, "Cas? That you?" He'd notice his surroundings again. "Where are we? Are we on a job?"
The first time this happened, Jimmy made the mistake of telling Dean that it wasn't Cas, it was Jimmy. "Castiel died, Dean. Lucifer killed him. Eight months ago." And Dean cried, but it seemed like a normal kind of crying. Jimmy thought Dean had snapped out of it, that first time. Eventually the sobbing turned to laughter again and Dean was brainless once more.
The second time, Jimmy pretended to be Cas. He had spent a long time in Cas's head, or with Cas in his head, or both. He knew how to act. So when Dead said it all again; "Cas? That you? Where are we? Are we on a job?" Jimmy played along, though what he really wanted to do was hold Dean close for as long as he would sit there. He got a whole day of back-to-normal Dean out of it, but when he woke up the next morning, it was as if the day before had never happened. Jimmy cried. Dean giggled.
Even though Dean's brain was useless as far as emotions went, there were a few things he eventually learned. He had forgotten how to feed himself, for instance. After a month and a half, he was doing it almost as well as a five year old. But at least Jimmy didn't have to spoon feed him anymore. Dean had also learned how to shower, dress himself, go to the bathroom, brush his teeth, and wash his hands properly within a year. It seemed like a long time, but Jimmy realized a step was a step, no matter how long it took.
During this time, Dean's clear days were becoming farther and farther apart. Jimmy was afraid they would stop happening altogether, and when they did he covered all the mirrors, because seeing himself look differently made Dean snap back to crazy land. He was thinner now, and his face was perpetually stubbly because he couldn't shave yet and Jimmy couldn't do it for him as often as he should have. His hair was longer, too, and Jimmy let him cut it himself when he wanted, as long as he was supervised. When he didn't want to, he was taken to a barber and buzzed.
Jimmy missed the old Dean terribly, but he loved crazy Dean, too. He found it impossible not to love Dean, no matter what condition he was in. Though Dean often didn't talk, when he did, he was as straightforward and honest as a five year old. He had about the same vocabulary as well.
"Go for a walk," Dean said one day. Jimmy pulled some shoes on, made Dean put on a jacket, and held his hand as they left the apartment. He had things to do; bills, letters to family, suppers to plan. But when Dean wanted to go for a walk, they walked. Sometimes they walked all day and had to hitchhike home, which in truth made Jimmy nervous. But they always walked until Dean wanted to turn back, and never any less.
One day, Jimmy was on his way home from the grocery store and he was attacked, mistaken for Castiel. It was only when he died without a burst of light that the angels who killed him realized it was actually Jimmy Novak.
Dean never knew about this. He wouldn't have understood it normally, but when Jimmy died Dean was having a clear day. He left the apartment after calling for Castiel and not getting an answer. When he found Jimmy dead on the ground, Dean pulled the angel blade out of Jimmy's body and thrust it into his own chest.
Many of the nurses that treated him thought it was an accident; Dean was in the same hospital as last time, and everyone there knew he was crazy. They had no idea he had clear days.
Clear Day Dean was killed by an angel blade, but Crazy Dean lived in endless laughter for the next thirty years.
Crazy Dean died when another mental patient slashed his throat open with a jagged piece of plastic mirror from the bathroom. His last word was "Jimmy."