The Price of Happiness

by S-Jay494

A hunt goes sideways and Dean wakes up in 2005 in Lawrence. His family is alive, and there is no sign of an angel, demon or monster anywhere. Can he leave well enough alone or must he find out what happened? Happiness comes with a price, but is it one he is willing to pay? [Set in S8 post "Best Friends With Benefits"] Contains the Winchester Clan and other fan favs.

1. Chapter 1

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 1)

Synopsis: A simple salt and burn goes sideways and Dean wakes up in 2005 in Lawrence. His family is alive, and there is no sign of an angel, demon or monster anywhere. Can he leave well enough alone or does he have to find out what happened? Happiness comes with a price, but is it one he is willing to pay? [Set in Season 8 post "Best Friends With Benefits"] Contains hurt Dean/worried Sam and AU John, Mary, and Bobby.

Notes: Writer's block on my second novel continues so here I am playing in Winchester Land again. As a devout member of Team Dean, I wanted to give him a glimpse at a world where things turned out differently and where maybe, just maybe, he amounted to more than he ever dreamed, but how often do these things turn out well for him? Drop me a review if you have the time.

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There was something different about the mists in this cemetery. Dean was sure of it. He remarked on it, well more like bitched about it, several times, as he and Sam hiked in the pitch dark across the uneven ground. The sweet spot calling to them was at the back of the bone yard—the oldest section that dated back to the 1740s. It was after midnight, near the cusp of spring following a long and tiring hunt.

This was an old-school ghost hunt, plain and simple.

Or, at least, it was supposed to be.

Except the ghost took a week and a half to identify—Sam just wasn't on his A-game for some reason, and that was both pissing Dean off and worrying him. In his brother's defense, Dean too thought that the spirit had done a damn good impersonation of a spirit that was attached to an object rather than just one needing its bones torched. Next, someone had played 3 grave monty with the evil son of a bitch's burial site a hundred years earlier, oh, and the friggin' fire to the town hall in the 1950s made finding accurate records a class A pain in the ass. Not to mention it was a small town and in Vermont (friggin' Vermont!) where everybody knew everybody forever and their damn business, but no one could answer a question with a straight answer. It was like the whole state took a masters course on being vague and evasive.

Several false starts, two close brushes with the law (one with the state troopers and one with the local Barney Fife) added to many long days not followed by restful nights. That did nothing to put a shine on Dean's attitude. He was sick of being cold and tired. He wondered if that meant he was getting soft or just old. The four hours of sleep he got normally wasn't all that restful, but sleeping in their typical crap motel rooms was difficult for him now. The chill of the damp March air sunk into his bones and made him shiver constantly and warded off any hope of blissful sleep.

Plus, he missed his room.

Dean had a room waiting for him back in Lebanon, Kansas, and actual, honestly his, room. For the first time since he was a child, he actually had his very own bedroom. And he missed it. It missed him, too, Dean was certain; after all, the mattress on his bed was memory foam. What was the point of a memory if it didn't make you long and ache for something?

"We'll dig up the bones, burn them and be out of here," Sam groaned, sensing his brother's thoughts as he trudged silently over the sodden ground beside him.

"Damn right we will," Dean grumbled. "Friggin' hate this place."

"You actually like Vermont," Sam reminded him.

"No, I don't," he shook his head. "Not any more. And neither do you—not this time of year."

"Maple syrup, Dean," Sam reminded him of the very reason he agreed to take this job when Garth called to tell them about it. "You are the one who was rejoicing that this is the time of year when Maple syrup is born."

"Friggin' half-frozen ground and mud everywhere," Dean grumbled not listening to his brother. "The freak snow storms followed by torrential downpours followed by fog—all in the same damn hour. I'm surprised they didn't actually burn witches here; you'd think they'd want to do anything to warm this place up. You know what kind of people live in places like this?"

"Vermonters?" Sam wondered.

"Exactly," Dean nodded viciously. "Crazy people. Masochistic son of a bitches."

Sam shook his head. He was tired, too. He hadn't kept the same sleepless schedule his brother did, but Dean also wasn't the one on the verge of throwing up a lung. And if that and his own fears about what was happening to him wasn't hard enough to deal with, there was also the wearying task of trying to hide it all from Dean. Sam was no longer as optimistic about the trials that were allegedly going to slam shut the gates of Hell. The more he thought about it, the more it felt like his insides were liquefying slowly, and the more hopeless the situation seemed. He cut his eyes across the dark and misty space to look at his brother.

Dean continued to grumble under his breath, shaking his head and scowling at some inner dialogue about how much he hated this hunt and the weather and pretty much anything else that came to his mind at the moment. Sam left him to his grousing; Dean needed to stew about things until his mind burned out the anger or came to some acceptable resolution to the. Sam envied him his ability to do this, again and again, without giving in and breaking in a million pieces. Sure, Dean was… well, damaged. Life hadn't been fair or kind to either of them, but his older brother always seemed to take the brunt of the shit storms that came their way.

Still Sam marveled that, somehow, Dean always slogged through his floods of misery and crushing pessimism. Sure, there were the definitely unhealthy and worrisome bouts of self-medicating and the suicidal approaches to dangerous situations, but he always seemed to pull it together and do what needed to be done. He shouldered his hopelessness with stoicism and somehow made it look… Well, not easy, but he certainly kept one foot in front of the other as if there was no other choice. Sam used to get so mad at him for doing that—it was the reason Sam stepped in to do the trials. Dean was resigned to his death as a hunter and acted as if he would welcome it. Sam didn't want that for him. Dean had sacrificed enough in his life for strangers and for Sam himself. This was Sam's chance to pay him back for a lifetime of not putting himself first and for caring for his younger brother and taking care of him when no one else really seemed to do the same for Dean. Dean's choice to embrace the likelihood of his own dark and sticky end always enraged Sam, but now he finally understood that Dean's decision was not a weakness or a sign of defeat. It was a skill honed over a lifetime. Sam had faced death, his own and that of others, in his life, but not like his brother had. Sam felt terrible at the little, but growing, voice in his head that was telling him that he should have let Dean kill that Hellhound. He didn't doubt Dean could pass all the trials; he doubted he himself could. He didn't want to lose Dean, but he wondered if his selfishness in wanting to save his brother from this might result in both his own death and a failure to close the gates as well.

But the trials were another problem for another day, Sam shook his head. They were here in the Mt. Calvary Cemetery in northern Vermont to dig up the corpse of a nasty old preacher whose spirit had terrorized a dwelling for the better part of two centuries. An hour of strenuous digging in the thick and penetrating mist kept Sam's mind focused and worked his muscles into a state of exhaustion that felt good compared to the crushing pains that would flare in his chest every few hours lately.

He crawled out of the hole as Dean finished brushing away the dirt from the bones that lay on the ground. The coffin, probably nothing more than a pine box when it went into the ground, had disintegrated over the last 250 years. Dean raked the bones into a pile and climbed out of the muddy hole. Sam sat wearily on the ground, the dampness soaking quickly through his jeans. He shook his head. Dean would be pissed at the mud he was going to leave on the seats of the Impala, but Sam didn't care. It was all he could do to keep his head up as he fought the urge to cough and raise more chunks of blood from his chest.

"You okay?" Dean asked him. "It's this friggin' pea soup fog. We're both gonna get pneumonia."

Rather than wait for a response, Dean empted the can of lighter fluid into the hole, dowsing the damp bones before pouring a healthy shot of salt over the mess. The rattle in Sam's chest erupted quickly, sending him to his knees where he doubled over and gasped for breath. It was as if the midnight mists were flooding his lungs, drowning him. Dean was quickly kneeling beside him, his back to the gaping wound in the ground, as he pounded on Sam's back.

"Sam?" he asked. "You okay? Come on, man. Take a breath. Sammy?"

Sam turned his head to look at his brother as his concerned voice suddenly stopped. Instead, Sam felt a whoosh of cold, wet air, like something huge and fast swept between them. Next, Sam found himself flipping over into his back with his head slamming hard into the ground beside a crumbling limestone grave marker. His protesting lungs seized as he tried to shout for his brother, who was nowhere in his field of vision.

Dean's last conscious thought was that the mist shouldn't have arms or the force of a freight train. One moment, he was feeling the oppressive mist pressing in on him as he checked on his ailing brother. The next thing he knew, he there was a high-pitched shrieking in his ears, and he was falling fast through thick, wet darkness.

Dean's eyes opened to a dimly-lit room with a smooth, clean, white ceiling. He twisted his head to the side expecting to see Sam, some crappy bedspread, water stained walls or ugly curtains. The motels, regardless of the town or the state, were always the same: crappy dives where no one remembered your name or your face. In other words: a hunter's haven.

But this wasn't one of those.

There was something distantly familiar about the space, but he could not place it precisely. It wasn't his room at the batcave. Although he and Sam had only recently taken up residence in there, Dean had quickly adjusted and become accustomed to the layer. The feel of the air, the concept of the size of the space, the smells and the sounds were now all filed and stored in his memory.

This was not the place he currently thought of as their stronghold. This place was smaller, a bit warmer and… slightly tense. There was something about the forced quiet of the place that made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand up and prickle.

He blinked hard and instinctively moved his fingers and toes, glad to note that they worked.

He knew he was awake, but the sudden churning of his stomach made him feel like it might also be the cusp of a nightmare. Dean couldn't place why at first. Sure, he didn't recall how he got wherever he was. That he didn't know where he was wasn't very reassuring either. It had been a while since he'd woken up in a place where he didn't recall going to sleep. His head hurt, which led more weight to the leading theories of a hangover or a head injury. He looked carefully around the room again taking in the details for what they were rather than what they were not.

There was one bed, so no Sam in sight. The walls were a pale blue. The trim was white. There were two windows, shrouded by dark curtains with no discernible pattern in them.

Someone's bedroom, Dean presumed as he slowly sat up in the double bed and looked more carefully around the space. There was a closet along the far wall and adjacent to it. He looked around, expecting to see evidence of a woman. Why else would he be in some stranger's double bed? But he found none of that.

He looked at himself. He wore a light gray T-shirt and a pair of thin cotton black drawstring pants.

Not naked, he shrugged, which eliminated his theory of a bar hook up resulting in strange location and an evening of recreation.

Dean raising his hands to his face to wipe the sleep out of his eyes, he felt an ache in his muscles, like he had not moved in a while or like he had healing bruises on his back. His head also throbbed, a dull pounding, but when he ran his hands through his hair, he couldn't feel any knots or bumps. There was, however, a tender line along his hairline above his right eye.

"What the hell?" he said and scrambled out of the bed toward the mirror on the dresser.

He stumbled on stiff legs to it and leaned in close. There was a recently healed scar, from an expert sewing hand, hidden just inside his hairline.

"What the fuck?" he muttered then looked more closely at his reflection.

It was his face, sort of. He couldn't quite put his finger on the issue, but he looked slightly different. The more he looked, the more he was drawn to his eyes. They were the right color. There was no bruising around them but they appeared… different, softer (maybe) or… less… haunted? Dean blinked hard several times then shook his head, and regretted it, as the throbbing flared.

Taking a slow, deep breath, he then turned to look at the room for more clues for where he was and why.

Before his eyes could dissect things further, a voice called out and froze his blood in his veins.

"Dean," she called, "are you awake?"

His throat got tight and his mouth went instantly dry. He felt his heart trip in its normal rhythm and his previously stiff knees felt weak as the voice registered in the cobwebs of his mind.

"Honey?" she called again.

"Yeah," he said and heard the crack in his voice so he cleared his throat and tried to sound calm. "I'm up."

He shook his head again and (once again) regretted it as the world spun and warped itself making him dizzy and his stomach flip. He took a deep, slow, steadying breath and opened the door to find himself in a hallway that he last stepped foot in seven years earlier. It was Sam that made him go there the last time because one of his freaky visions. Dean wondered fleetingly if his brother was downstairs with an explanation for this, but he didn't think even Sam could make sense of the voice Dean heard calling to him a moment earlier. It was not one he could remotely be hearing, not unless something had gone gravely wrong.

What had happened? He had been in Vermont, friggin' land of cows, Ben & Jerry's, and hippies with hair as bad as Sam's, to hunt a ghost. Garth sent him and Sam there. They had tracked down the naughty Casper and were heading off to do a typical salt and burn and then… His memory after that was hazy…. No, not hazy. Misty. That mist. He knew there was something off with it. It was too cold and too thick and had tried to choke Sam.

How the hell did weather do this, he wondered as he walked stiffly and cautiously down the stairs.

Scifi film sized butterflies filled Dean's stomach as he descended to the first floor and into the living room. The room looked different from the last time he saw it and from the last time he called this place home. The paint was a warm, fresh and neutral color. The furniture looked new but settled, like it had been in place for some time but didn't suffer the wear and tear of young children. There was a large, flat screen TV against the wall and the fireplace had been fitted with a gas insert so that there was no more iron grate for wood. With jitters bubbling in his stomach and radiating out into his limbs, he continued into the kitchen toward the thin woman with long blond hair. Her locks were pulled back in a sloppy pony tail as she stood in front of the sink with he back to him. She was looking out the window while speaking on a cell phone. His breath caught in his chest as she turned and beamed at him so brightly he couldn't help but return the expression, although he felt tears in his eyes.

"So I'm dead," Dean said quietly to himself and nodded as he looked anxiously into the welcoming face of his mother, Mary Winchester.

"See you in a few," she said into the phone. "The door's unlocked."

She disconnected and looked at Dean with an expectant expression.

"Mom?" Dean said with a tight and shaky voice.

"Did I wake you?" she asked. "I'm sorry. I thought you were already awake already."

Dean swallowed dryly and shook his head, his heart thumping hard against his ribs almost making them ache.

"That was your father," she said putting down the cell phone.

"Of course, it was," Dean nodded then shook his head as he rubbed his hand over his neck. "Cell phones in the beyond. That's gotta be a bitch of a long distance plan."

"What?" Mary asked him, looking at him oddly as if she didn't quite hear him.

Dean shook his head and simply looked back at her, enjoying the moment, despite the frantic fluttering of his heart which was making him lightheaded. His mother was there, in front of him. Her face appeared older than his memory of it, but her eyes—those bright, wide eyes that always seemed to smile at him—were the same. She placed her hand on his face, in a caressing and comforting fashion. The muscles in his stomach rippled and his heart continued to stutter.

"Honey, are you okay?" she asked warmly as concern washed over her features. "You look very pale."

"Not really worried about the whole pale thing," he replied looking around wildly taking in the space as his breathing came in gasps. "I just… can't believe that… I'm… That you're… here."

"Of course, I'm here," she smiled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Rather than answer, he pulled her into an embrace and held her tightly. The sensation was overwhelming. A lump the size of a baseball formed in his throat and his eyes burned hot with tears. She hugged him and patted his back as she chuckled.

"Not that I mind a hug from my son, but you're worrying me, Dean," she said as he released her. "Honey, are you alright?"

"Well, obviously not, but I'll get over it eventually," he shrugged.

She pressed her hand to his face. Her skin was warm and soft. The mild scent of some sort of hand cream filled his senses as she ministered to him.

Dean swallowed hard. This didn't feel like his other memories of heaven. It was too tangible, too present tense. Heaven looked real and sounded real and even tasted real, but it lacked something. Dean could never put his finger on what, but it was like being able to tell the difference between really good CGI and actual footage. The discrepancies were miniscule and were only apparent if you concentrated hard, looked for them and knew they did exist. That was lacking here. This also was something not in his memory—not even from a dream or the time that Jin tried to siphon the life out of him. This moment was new.

"Dean, sweetheart, tell me what's wrong?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I… uh… When did I get here? I don't remember dying."

"Dying?" she snapped and shook her head. A deeply concerned expression washed over her face as she pressed the underside of her wrist to his forehead. "Why are you talking about dying? Does your head hurt? Did you have a seizure? Sweetie, sit down. Now."

She forced him to sit on one of the stools pulled up to the island in the kitchen. She focused on his eyes, as if she was looking through them into his head. She then pressed her fingers to his jugular and felt for his pulse.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Feeling your pulse to see if you're going to faint," she said.

"I don't' faint," he scowled.

"Shh," she hushed him. "Your heart's beating kind of fast. Well, you don't feel warm. Can you hear me okay, baby? Can you see me?"

"Yeah, I can," he nodded slowly. "That's kind of the issue."

"What issue?" she asked. "I don't think you've got a fever, but your color is off. How do you feel?"

Dean licked his lips then chewed the bottom one for a second as he pondered the question. He had no viable answer so he merely shrugged as he let his eyes drink in the sight of her playing nurse to him.

"Let me get back to you on that," he nodded as he heard the front door opened followed by the sound of heavier footfalls down the hallway.

"John?" Mary called quickly over her shoulder. Her voice held an urgent quality. "Get in here. Now."

Dean turned instinctively to see if it was his father that was approaching. He felt his eyes go wide with his second dose of shock. John Winchester, or something that looked a lot like him, was striding quickly toward Dean. His hair was dark with just the faintest hints of gray streaking through it, but the deep lines cut the corners of his eyes by years of worry and sleeplessness during hunts were missing by half. He sported a version of his worried expression, but it lacked some of the aggressiveness Dean normally saw in it. There was also a smile hiding under his worry. Dean rubbed his slightly trembling hands over his face and ground the heels of his palms into his eyes as he stared back at the man.

"Okay, this is a whole new bucket of weird," Dean muttered.

"What is it?" John asked. "Is he okay?"

"I don't know," Mary replied. "He seems a little disoriented and said something about being dead."

"Dead?" John repeated then shook his head as he chuckled dryly. "Well, that's more than a little disoriented, Mary. What's going on, Slugger?"

Dean looked at the man and choked down a breath. Hearing his father's voice, warm and close, speaking so kindly was soothing if foreign. Dean felt steadied as John hand gripped his elbow reassuringly.

"Honey, are you in pain?" Mary asked quickly. "Do you feel lightheaded? Is your vision blurry?"

"Give him some space, Mary," John said softly but firmly. "Dean, what's going on? You even awake yet?"

"Um," Dean began then shrugged. Their worry and concern cut into him deeply. Lying to ease that seemed like an easy cure. "Uh, now, maybe. I had a… weird dream, I guess."

"That all?" John asked in a firm voice Dean recognized. "A weird dream? Being dead is just a weird dream to you? Be straight with me, Champ. How are you feeling?"

Champ? Slugger? What the hell? The most I ever got was 'dude.' Something is definitely wrong. Maybe I've had a stroke.

"Or I'm in a coma," Dean muttered without meaning to.

"Coma?" John repeated then looked at Mary knowingly and nodded. "No, hey, that's all in the past now. Okay? You good? You're awake now. Right?"

Dean blinked hard several times and looked up at the faces of his parents. They looked real, solid and not at all like a mirage. The room felt real. The temperature was… well, room temperature. He could feel his feet on the floor, which was not something he ever thought about in a dream which made his heart race faster. Time travel, the backward kind, didn't make sense. His mother was older here—more like the age she should be if they had lived. His father appeared younger than he had at his death, but not by much, more like what he would have been if life had been easier and kinder to the man. That signaled to Dean that this certainly wasn't a trip to the past. He never knew or saw these moments with them. Whatever this was, Dean had no idea when or where he was. There was, of course, an easy way to solve that dilemma.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"September 15," John replied.

"What year, you know, just for the hell of it?" Dean inquired.

Mary and John exchanged concerned looks. When his father answered slowly with 2005, Dean couldn't suppress his laugh.

That explained things. Yep, definitely some sour mojo going on here.

Someone had thrown his ass back in time—to a time that never occurred, granted. His leading theories out of the gate were another Jin rush or an angel hijacking. He didn't recall encountering any Jin recently, but he knew how to end this; he just needed to attempt to kill himself. God, he hated doing that. Even when you were 90 percent sure it was the right thing and would save you, shivving your own ass was not easy. Of course, if this was angel high jinx, one of those ass monkeys would step in and stop him before he did the deed (probably) or simply bring him back afterward (assuming Death let them; he had been pretty firm with Dean the last time they conversed that he wasn't to heedlessly throw his life away anymore and not expect more permanent consequences).

"Honey, what's so funny?" Mary asked, petting the side of his face.

Her touch sent shivers down his spine, not because it was cold or harsh, but because he could actually feel it. She was there. They both were. Standing there, breathing, looking at him, talking to him.

"Nothing, just," he shrugged. "The year. Makes perfect sense now. It's not 2013. Its eight years ago. Of course."

"Eight years?" Mary repeated. "Sweetheart, what are you talking about?"

"Uh, the… dream," Dean said shaking his head deciding to play along. The worried look on her face made his heart ache. She might just be a really strong hallucination/ high def angel clay-mation deal, but he couldn't let her worry like this. "Had a really, really… weird, vivid dream. Thought it was real. That's all."

She relaxed and sighed in a way that released the tension from her face. Her lips curled into a sympathetic smile as she rubbed his cheek for a moment, raising another lump in his throat and a prickle of tears in his eyes.

"A few messed up dreams is not surprising all things considered," John nodded understandingly.

Yeah, that was just too weird. Someone didn't do their homework. First Dad's all Father of the Year with the patience and now the old man is understanding? Strike two on the reality count.

"Right, screwy is expected," Dean nodded, then continued figuring his play dumb strategy was working so far. "Uh, why is that again?"

"Well, they've taken you off a lot of medication in the last two weeks," he said. "The doctors said that could wreak havoc with your sleep for a bit. I remember when I had my back surgery two years ago. There are two days after surgery when I don't remember a thing, but apparently, I was up and walking and talking. I even called you and had an 20 minute conversation that I don't recall."

"That makes two of us," Dean mumbled.

Okay, drugs. Another option. Not usually my style, but maybe it wasn't my choice. An injury? Painkillers maybe? Or did someone slip me something?

The last option seemed more likely. Dean knew hadn't tried anything recreational. He wasn't even filling the flask much lately—too worried about Sam and those damn god trials to close the gates of hell. He had to stay sharp, keep his game face on and spot the danger before it spotted he and Sam. Maybe there was something on Garth's boat… Weird aquatic mold giving him a brain fungal disease…

"I'm calling Dr. Grayson," Mary said.

"No doctors," Dean said instinctively.

To his relief, his father nodded. Whether he was agreeing for the same reason didn't matter; Dean was just happy to have an ally. Having that ally be the most stubborn man he ever met wasn't too bad either.

"Mary, stop," John said. "He just woke up. He obviously didn't sleep much and was… dreaming. Let him clear his head. Dean, take it easy."

"Yes, sir," he nodded as John placed his hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

His mouth felt dry and his heart continued to race. While the situation was weird and his head was desperately trying to figure out what was going on, a part of him didn't care. He was sitting in the kitchen of the house that should have been his home, talking to his parents, both of them, alive and well. It was kind of hard, no matter what terrible act sent him there, not to feel fan-friggin'-tastic about it, even in a little way.

"Son, look at me," John said, his eyes warm but intense as he looked hard at Dean. The pressure of his hand on Dean's neck was made him tremble and John seemed to notice it. "Do you feel okay?"

There was the worry Dean recognized (but that he usually associated with looks the man used on Sam), and something else there was well. It was an openness, an unabashed affection and care, an unrestrained and unashamed warmth directed at him that made Dean's chest ache.

"Sure, I guess," he shrugged. "It's just a little weird being… here… isn't it?"

John nodded and patted him gently on the shoulder. He turned his gaze back to Mary and shook his head, confirming his order to cease summoning a doctor.

"See?" he said. "He's okay. He woke up in his old room, and it threw him a bit after some spaced out dreams. That's all. Right, champ?"

Dean nodded. Sure, he could go with that for now.

"Well, you've only been home for a three days, so I'm not surprised," he said. "This is a lot in a short time. Do you remember anything at all from that day you got home?"

"I don't even recall getting here," Dean said truthfully.

"I'm not surprised," John nodded. "You were still kind of out of it from your meds. So you need to take it easy. You're freaking your mother out."

"They should have kept him in the hospital," Mary said sternly. "He shouldn't be here."

Her tone was fierce and angry. Dean winced at her words and the sharp and accusing look in her eyes. They stung him painfully. He nodded and moved from his seat.

"I can go," he said quickly and started to move away.

"Oh, no," Mary gasped quickly, her cold expression melting as she hurried to his side and coaxed him to sit down again. "I didn't mean it like that, honey. I didn't mean I want you to leave. No, of course not. I mean that I wasn't convinced you were well enough to be discharged."

Discharged? From what? Heaven? Hell? Purgatory? My life? Yeah, I'm not sure I was ready either; I just haven't a friggin' clue how I was 'discharged'… or where I am now.

"Just coming home took so much out of you," she sighed as she stroked his cheek. He gazed back at her and stopped worrying about all the questions bouncing around in his mind. "I'm not surprised you're confused. Dean, don't try to be brave or strong for me. Remember what we agreed to with the doctors: You could come home as long as you're upfront about how you're feeling. You need tell me if you feel dizzy or lightheaded. We need to know so we can make sure you're okay."

"I'm good," he nodded cautiously.

"Are you dizzy?" she asked.

Her expression was suspicious yet somehow trusting. He found that he couldn't lie to her.

"A little," he nodded.

"Headache?" she inquired as her hand cupped his chin.

He gazed back into her bright and shrewd eyes and felt tears brimming in his own. He knew they would spill over his lids if he looked at he any longer.

"Uh, yeah," he said, looking away. "Woke up with one. It's… not bad."

"Okay," she replied satisfied as she smiled lovingly at him. "Anything else?"

"No," he shook his head. "I mean, I'm a little confused about the day and what I'm doing here precisely, but overall, I'd say I've felt much worse. Right?"

John loosed a rumbling chuckle and exhaled any tension he was holding.

"Yeah, I'll say," he replied and then offered a few more details. "You were discharged from the hospital two days ago following an extended stay after a car accident. You felt much worse the day you got there and on a few more after that."

From his calm and measured tone, Dean got the feeling this was not the first time he had given this speech. Dean exhaled slowly as dread began spreading through his body.

"What car accident?" Dean asked.

His blood ran cold as he realized he was the only Winchester offspring in the house at the moment. Fake reality or not, he worried about Sam. Even fake reality Sam dying was not good in Dean's book—especially if it turned out something Dean did ended up killing him. Had they wrecked the car? He remembered something about Sam choking but not why or whether he was able to get help. They hadn't made it back to the car as far as he knew.

"There was an accident in July—the day after the All Star Game," John said carefully.

"Was I alone?" Dean wondered. "Wait. Did you say All-Star Game?"

That made no sense. Watching sporting events, especially pointless exhibitions like all-star games, didn't make it into Dean's calendar and certainly wasn't the way his father ever measured time. Things happened after they torched a Wendigo or while they were stalking a skinwalker or the night they ganked a werewolf. The world of hunting held many secrets and while Dean considered he and his brother to know most of it now, he knew it was foolish for him to believe he knew all of it. So that led to another (possibly ludicrous) question: Did hunters have a professional league? He really should have known if they did. And if there was an All-Star hunting team, he was certain he and Sam would make the cut, be starters even. They'd have to at least let Garth sit on the bench with them and keep stats. Screwy little guy had grown on Dean; he couldn't be left behind.

Of course when Dean thought about what that game might entail, he wasn't sure he wanted to be a part of it. No doubt the end was bloody whether you were the winners or not. He shook his head at the possibilities.

"You were the passenger in a car that was hit by another," John explained. "It was a head-on collision. The driver of the other car was killed. You got hurt. You're lucky to be alive, Dean."

No mention of who was driving him, Dean nodded. That was a clue and a positive one in his book. If it was Sam driving (like the last time he was nearly killed in a car wreck), surely that would have been mentioned. The lack of information, while maddening, was a little reassuring. Dean decided to wade more slowly into this.

"Lucky, yeah," he nodded, feeling more lost by the minute as he rubbed the new scar on his head. "Hit my head?"

John nodded and explained about the airbags deploying but Dean still receiving a skull fracture, a few fractured vertebrae and a few other breaks along with some soft tissue damage. Dean wasn't really listening to those details. He was too overwhelmed by the haunted look on his mother's face as his father recited his litany of injuries. When he finished, Dean found he could only nod for a moment as he felt himself rubbing his hand along the phantom healed breaks of his ribs.

"Is your chest hurting?" Mary asked, spying his motion. "Do you have any numbness in your hands? I know you're supposed to work out today, but maybe it's better if you just rest more."

"Mary, he's got to build up his strength," John interjected. "Those are doctor's orders."

"He needs to be up and active," she countered. "No one said he needs to act like he's in training."

He felt the tension in the room rise as his parents' voices took on a bickering tone that made him feel anxious and like a scared child again. He felt stupid, but he was worried his father was about to start yelling and then would storm out has he did in some of Dean's earliest memories. Dad leaving always scared Dean back then; he realized years later that it was those moments that added to his desperation to please the man when they took up hunting. The fear of his father growing angry and leaving him was one of his two greatest fears growing up.

"Please don't," Dean interrupted their budding argument.

Both stopped speaking and looked at him with a mixture of apology and worry. He blushed slightly and told himself to pull himself together.

"So, accident was in July and now it's almost October, but I just got sprung from the doctor jail?" he summarized. "Seems kind of long for a stay considering I don't feel like a drooling, brain damaged mess. Am I missing something or deluding myself?"

"Honey, you were basically in a coma for nine weeks," Mary explained. Her eyes grew red as she blinked furiously. She sniffed quickly and blinked a few times. "That's why your memory is a little fuzzy, but you're going to be okay."

"I always thought my head was hard enough to withstand anything," Dean mused mostly to himself but caught a half smirk from his father that, while uncharacteristic from the man, and made Dean want to smile back even if this bizzaro hologram wasn't his real father.

"We thought so, too, kido," John agreed and tossed him a wink. "So far, looks like we're right. You're bouncing back just fine. I'd say you take after me with that hard head, but I'll give your mother some credit, too. You're too damn stubborn to stay hurt. She's always been tougher than me so I guess you get that from her, even though she still thinks you're her fragile little boy."

Mary scowled and swatted at John, not entirely playfully, but the slight curl of her lips at the end took most of the sting out of her displeased expression. Any fears Dean had that they would begin yelling angrily at each other disappeared.

"Wait, fragile little boy?" Dean repeated and shook his head. "Okay, that's just not right. This is bordering on a trippy."

"Trippy?" she laughed. "You're not on anything right now."

"But when you were on the really high-test stuff, it must have been something," John chuckled. "Some of the stuff you said made me think you might understand the '70s even better than I do."

Dean looked at the man with a mildly shocked expression. The old man was joking, well, not joking because his expression was a truthful one, but he was making a joke all the same. Dean didn't know how to reply so he merely looked back at the man with his jaw hanging open slightly.

"John," Mary sighed and shook her head scolding him. "Sweetheart, they had you on some very heavy medications because you had a few seizures, but it's been weeks since that happened. You're doing very well so you've been eased off most of those medications. You still have a few you're taking and they do cause you some disorientation if you're overly tired or if your temperature is up. You felt a little feverish last night before bed. I looked in on you when I went to bed and you were restless. I'm guessing you didn't sleep well. So, that may be what is causing you some confusion this morning. Don't get discouraged. Remember, the doctors told us this was normal."

"Let's hope I didn't lose too many IQ points," Dean remarked. "Don't exactly have enough to run a deficit."

"I'm fairly certain UCLA is not revoking your degree," John said.

"My degree?" Dean repeated then nodded cautiously. "Right, because it's really useful one."

UCLA? College? I went to college? To study what? Breaking and entering? And in California? No, that was Sam's deal. Although, the coeds…

"I wish you wouldn't do that, honey," Mary said, but her expression lost more of its worry and took on a slightly frustrated 'you always do this' shade. She rubbed his arm supportively. "It's wonderful that you have a career doing what you love, but there is no reason for you to downplay your other accomplishments."

Yeah, killing ghosts; starting and then stopping the apocalypse; escaping Purgatory. Bet there aren't many resumes like that in the world.

"You have an education," she continued. "It's okay to be proud of that, too. It might not be considered cool or impressive with your co-workers, but you worked hard for it. I know that some of the guys have degrees, too. Granted, theirs are in geography or phys ed…"

"GPS and gym class?" Dean noted. "Yeah. That's impressive."

John smiled and nodded.

"Which is why he doesn't throw it in their faces, Mary," John shook his head. "It's a guy thing."

"If we'd had a daughter, what excuse would you have then or would I be allowed to say 'it's a girl thing'?" she wondered tartly but there was no anger in her eyes.

"Fair enough," John relented with a teasing sound to his voice. "As you know, I don't usually agree with your mother, but she's right on this. Mechanical engineering as a fallback option isn't such a bad thing. Once you're done with this career, you can combining the two: Invent some new training apparatus that helps the boys up their batting stats without juicing on steroids."

Dean nodded simply because he had no idea what the man was talking about and it seemed easy to agree. After all, this really was a fun delusion. Dean Winchester, college graduate. Ha. Dean Winchester wasn't even a high school graduate. Education was not his thing—not the formal kind anyway. That was Sam's world with the libraries and the books and the studying. Sure, his younger brother called him a genius a few weeks back, but that was more if a pathetic attempt at a pep talk. Besides, Sam was just referring to the stuff they didn't teach in school. Okay, so Dean could build his own EMF meter out of a broken old walkman, but that was more about necessity and keeping his hands busy. As for spotting connections and patterns in the details of a hunt, that just came fairly easy to Dean and was mostly based on experience. Sam was the one who excelled with Latin and history and literature. Dean could build (and rebuild) things. He could think strategically, but a degree in engineering? Yeah, this was trippy. Fun, but trippy.

"So, this accident," he began again, feeling the pangs of dread. "How did it happen?"

"We don't know," John explained. "The other car spun out on the expressway leading to O'Hare airport. The driver ending up going the wrong way and hit the car bringing you to the airport head-on at nearly 80 miles per hour. The police figured your car was traveling over 60 miles per hour."

"That's a 140 mile an hour impact," Dean whistled lowly. "I walked away from that?"

"Eventually," John nodded. "You got lucky, kid. Damn lucky, thank God. The airbags helped more than they hurt you. The head injury was the most serious, but the others were nothing to ignore either. Fortunately, Chicago has great trauma doctors. You had us scared for a while, Champ, but you're bouncing back."

"You're pretty calm about this," Dean nodded. "It's making me think we've had this discussion before."

"It's good you feel that way, because we have," John nodded. "Several times in the last few weeks. That's normal, Champ. Your short term memory is still going to be affected for a little while. The doctors said that is absolutely normal and they have every reason to think it'll get better. In fact, your mother and I have noticed massive improvements."

"Yeah, but long term memory?" he wondered. Seeing as he had no recollection of this life, it seemed wise to ask.

"That'll be fine, too," John assured him. "I mean, you know who I am and who this lady is, right?"

"Sure, Bonnie and Clyde, my favorite felons," Dean nodded and smirked as his mother gave him a flat lined mouth expression. His father hung his head and grinned while shaking his head. "I mean: the best parents a forgetful guy could ask for."

"Very funny," John smirked. "Just cool it with the sarcasm. Your mother is still worried you'll keel over any minute."

"I am not," Mary said and cut her eyes sharply at him. The truth of his father's words obviously stung her, but Dean was amused by them.

"Right, no keeling, check," Dean nodded. "Hey, where's Sam?"

His parents looked at each other, unspoken words arcing between them. Mary's face grew dark and she turned her head away. John sighed and rubbed his neck. There was a strained and frozen look on his face that Dean could not read. He felt a cold knot in his stomach but forged onward.

"The memory thing might be an issue, here, I guess," Dean said cautiously. "Maybe my brains are a little scrambled, but I seem to think that I have a brother named Sam."

"You do, Dean," John nodded. "Of course, you do."

"Where is he?" Dean asked, swallowing hard, worried he would get the answer he dreaded: dead since childhood. "Was he in the car?"

"No," John shook his head. "He wasn't in the car with you."

Dean sighed and felt the tightness in his chest release a bit, but his mother's continued dark expression was not inspiring him with good feelings.

"Is he… alive?" he asked slowly.

"As far as we know," Mary scoffed.

"Mary, please," John warned.

"Whoa, what?" Dean asked quickly. "What does as far as you know mean? Where's Sammy?"

His pulse quickened and his muscles tightened. It was bad enough he got his ass thrown back in time, but if he'd been torn from his choking brother only to find himself in a place where Sam was missing, Dean was not going to be the least bit kind to who or whatever did this to them. He looked determinedly back at John who blinked and shook his head. Dean stared back questioningly.

"Your brother is at school," his father answered. "He's where he is supposed to be."

"School?" Dean repeated and exhaled slowly as he dialed back his adrenaline. Maybe things weren't that off or wrong here after all. "Stanford?"

"Well, it's good, you remembered where he went to school," John replied. "See, it's all coming back to you, except you're a little behind on things. Your brother's not at Stanford anymore. He graduated last May. He's in Chicago at law school."

"Presumably," Mary said snidely.

"Presumably?" Dean repeated. "Is he there or isn't he?"

"He is," John said forcefully. "Mary, please. Dean, your mother is just… It was a rough summer, son. All of us just need to relax a bit, okay? Don't worry yourself about anything. Your brother is fine. "

"Your father's right," Mary replied then softened her expression and tone. "I'm sorry if I made you worry, sweetheart. I'm just not pleased with your brother right now, that's all."

She was pissed at Sammy, Dean nodded then smirked. Well, he knew that feeling with regard to his brother. Looking at their mother's and putting the expression in context, he understood it better. The kid was probably being aloof or pretending he didn't remember how to call home, Dean suspected. He'd felt that way toward his brother years ago when he took off for college. Before he could think on it further, his mother interrupted with a better topic.

"Now, on to more important things," she said. "How about some breakfast?"

Dean blinked and stared back at her. As dreams or hallucinations went, this one was better than living a version of Total Recall (both the Arnie and the Colin Farrell versions). When the Jin juiced him up, his father was dead. This time, both parents and Sam were alive. Granted, he and Sam might still hate each other, but before he figured that out, he might even get breakfast made for him.

"You want to make me breakfast?" he repeated.

When she offered blueberry pancakes, he suddenly stopped caring that something horrible had likely happened to rip him from his reality into whatever this was. In fact, the more he thought about it, despite feeling lost, he couldn't think of a single reason why he should want this one to go away anytime soon when there were pancakes—his mother's homemade pancakes no less—on the way.

He stood up and offered to help at least get dishes and utensils for the table (anything to speed up the process), but was waved back into his seat with an amused chuckle before being served a glass of orange juice. He requested coffee and was denied as his father took a seat beside him and began talking about some car purchase that Dean deduced involved his work at the garage. A few minutes later, Mary served them tall stacks of pancakes and joined them at the table.

Dean felt giddy. It was a strange feeling, an embarrassing one, too. He was sitting at the dinner table, flanked by his parents, eating pancakes; he knew there was a dumbass grin on his face that would take a bazooka to wipe off. As he thought about it, he realized he could not think of a moment that he recalled ever being happier.

The conversation was light and insubstantial, but Dean couldn't have enjoyed it more. They talked about the weather, something about someone who might have been a neighbor and a parking dispute erupting downtown near the university. Dean listened, happy not to participate, and simply watch them.

"Well, time to go," John said, pushing away from the table as he finished eating.

"Where?" Dean asked. "Why?"

"Some of us don't get an off-season, kido," he chuckled. "Besides, I wouldn't want to wear out my welcome or have Mike start to think I'm giving him my half of the business. Mary, thanks for breakfast. I'll check in later. If you need anything, call me."

His mother nodded and started collecting dishes from the table. It wasn't an affectionate "have a nice day" sort of farewell, but that did not surprise Dean. His father had not been there when Dean came downstairs. He had been on the phone with his mother; she had said something about the door being unlocked for him. Doing the math (no engineering degree needed for this) Dean deduced John did not reside in the house. Again, sort of already chewed ground in Dean's memory.

His parents had been polite to each other during breakfast, cordial even, but it had not slipped Dean's notice that neither of them wore wedding rings. In his childhood memories, they fought a great deal in the months leading up to his mother's death. In fact, when he thought hard enough about it, his memory told him that they began fighting even before Sam was born, leading him to wonder if perhaps having his brother was an attempt at reconciling a failing marriage. So, whatever state of their relationship at this time, he was at least pleased they were not at each other's throats.

"I'll talk to you later, Champ," John said and clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he departed. "Take it easy today."

"As opposed to the mountain climbing I attempted yesterday," Dean smirked and got a scolding but amused eye roll in return. "Gotcha."

Dean waved to him, feeling a slight pang in his chest as his father left. He wasn't sure if he would see the man again and feared missing the chance to say a true, heartfelt goodbye to him, but this didn't seem like the right opportunity. Both his parents were on edge with worry about him. An embrace wreaking of finality surely wouldn't help matters so he opted instead for the much less satisfying casual wave and nod. John smiled back; apparently, Dean's choice was the wise one.

He then turned his attention then to the remaining parent.

"Well, I'm glad your appetite is coming back," Mary smiled at him as she ruffled his hair and began to clear the dishes from the table. "It's about time, too. I was starting to worry I'd need to force feed you. You barely even touched my soup yesterday."

"Tomato and rice?" he ventured.

"Of course," she said as she moved away toward the kitchen, turning her back on him.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked.

"To take care of the mess in the kitchen," she replied. "Unlike some people, I don't employ a maid to pick up after me."

Dean looked around and figured the remark was meant for him. He wasn't sure how to react to it, but the concept of housecleaning didn't seem important.

"Leave it for now," he said.

He didn't know how long this dream or delusion would last. Wasting it seemed criminal. While seeing his father walk away was hard, he wasn't sure he could waste time with his mother so casually. He had John in his life for nearly 30 years. Mary left him after just four and half.

"And what should I do instead?" she asked.

"Just sit here and…,"Dean swallowed hard. "Can we just sit here and… talk?"

"You want talk to me?" she repeated.

Dean shrugged then nodded. Her face split into a wide and relaxed grin as she placed the plates in the sink and returned to the table. She sat beside him and pet his hair affectionately.

"Oh honey," she cooed. "I don't know if that's the injuries or the meds taking, but I'll take it. Something tells me that once you're completely back on your feet, I'll need to threaten and beg you once again just to get you to speak with me for more than five minutes. So, I'm all ears. What do you want to talk about before you're too busy for your poor, old mother?"

He smirked at her words and blushed slightly. He was thankful no one else was around to hear them. The chick-flick score on this was one point shy of a maxipad commercial.

"What, me, too busy for you, no," he shrugged. "I'm not… ever that way… Uh, am I?"

"Since you turned 13," she nodded.

"Ouch," he grimaced. "Well, my bad. Sorry. I guess that's why I… feel like I haven't talked to you in a very, very long time."

"Oh, sweetheart," she laughed as she shook her head and smiled at him. "I'm not going to complain about you being busy because you grew up. I have friends with children your age and they can't get them to move out of the house."

Okay, so I don't live here anymore. Makes sense with her comment about having a maid. Wonder if my maid wears those little French… No, wait, that's probably only in porn flicks. Focus, Dean.

"I just wish you would call more," Mary continued. "I feel like I'm the one who is always making the call to you. You call your father, don't you?"

Dean shrugged. He didn't know. Her expression gave him the answer, but he didn't fully understand why he would reach out to John more than her. Not that he saw a problem with having a close relationship with John. He was all for it, but he had spent his life longing for contact with his mother. The thought that he would willingly let those opportunities slide was disappointing. There was no way to judge the situation—especially seeing how this life just popped into his reality an hour earlier—so he opted to take the same approach with her that he did with his father earlier: cavalier.

"Are you giving me grief?" he wondered.

"Of course, " she grinned widely as rubbed his arm as she fixed him with a warm and affectionate expression. "That's my job, isn't it? I believe we established that I began ruining your life at age 16. I believe you announced that quite loudly just after you passed your driver's test. I'm pretty sure your father heard you clear across town. Your voice does carry when you want it to."

"Well, what the hell does a 16 year old kid know?" Dean shrugged, although, at age 16 he had known a hell of a lot more than the average kid that age.

He also made some seriously life altering decisions that year. Dropping out of school and devoting all of his time (when not watching over his brother) to hunting was the biggest. That and going all the way with Suzanne Cassavant in the projection room at that movie theater in that little town in Michigan. He grinned at the memory then caught his mother's watchful eyes on him and swallowed hard, glad she couldn't read his thoughts.

"You knew more than enough to turn you poor mother's hair gray," she sighed.

"What?" Dean scoffed. "Gray? No… No, you're not gray. You're…. sort of… platinum."

"Oh god, the charm," she groaned and fixed him with a stare. "Okay, out with, Mister. What are you trying to pull now?" Dean looked back at her blankly. "Come on. Just say it. You know very well what buttons to push with me, and you've always been a little too good at manipulating me. It's the magic of being the first born—we had to figure out this parent/child thing together and I've always felt that somehow you always had the upper hand at the end. So, what is it you want to tell me or ask me, Dean?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "Honest. I'm just… I meant it when I said I feel like I haven't seen you in a very, very long time. I… uh… I've missed you, Mom. That's all."

His throat was tight and the lump in it threatened to choke him, but he resisted the tears he could feel boiling under the surface. She looked hard at him, no doubt anticipating some scheme or evasion, but there was none. Her expression softened and she shook her head then squeezed his hand as tears brimmed in her eyes.

"I have always felt sorry for the women of your generation," she remarked but there was a proud glint in her eyes. "They don't really stand a chance with you. It's bad enough that you're so damn handsome, but you've honed those charming(and a bit naughty) little boy skills. Talk about an unfair advantage. You get your way more often than you probably should."

She stroked his hair in a motherly fashion then pet his cheek. He felt himself blush.

"Uh, I'm not exactly a catch," he shrugged.

He supposed that was true even in this alternate reality. After all, he was hurt in an accident, and it was his parents looking after him not a girlfriend or a wife. There wasn't even a hot and mildly unethical nurse strutting around in a skimpy uniform seeing to his needs.

"Oh, you are very much a great catch," Mary disagreed. "I'm just glad you haven't let yourself be caught yet by someone who isn't worthy of you. Not that running around with a new girlfriend every few months is something I like, but I think it's wise that you aren't tied down with a serious relationship right now. You're still too young to settle down."

"Too young?" he scoffed. "I'm…" He paused and remember that it was 2005 to her and had to do some quick math. "I'm 26. That's not young."

"To you, it's not," she corrected.

"You were 25, no 24, when I was born," he recalled.

"That was a different time," she said tetchily. "My point is that I think maybe you should take some time just for yourself rather than waste your time with whoever throws herself in front of you and the photographers. I know they're all pretty, Dean, but there is more to life than a pretty face and a good time. Now, I'm not going to lecture you about your private life…"

"Really?" Dean chuckled. "'Cause it sounds like you are."

"Dean," she sighed.

"No, by all means," he nodded. "Go ahead. I don't mind…. at the moment. Lecture away."

He threw in the last bit for levity and an effort not to start her worry vibes from going into overdrive again. She raised her eyebrows for a moment but then continued as she shook her head.

"Fine, I will," she said. "I know I've said this to you a dozen times, and I know what you're going to say."

"Maybe you only think you know what I'll say," he replied and grinned.

While not one for sitting through a lecture of any kind willingly or happily, he did not mind this one in the least. It was an unbelievable chance to feel what he suspected normal was for most people. Sure, he wasn't happy to be getting the unneeded advice, especially as he had not done any of the things she was basing her opinions on, but that didn't matter. This was his mother. Talking to him. He'd take whatever he could get. And what he got was a flat stare.

She looked back at him and offered up a bored rolling-eyed expression that he instantly recognized as his own. Dean always thought he favored his father, although he knew a great deal of that was intentional on his part (keeping his hair short, wearing clothing like he did, listening to his music). There were some physical similarities between them as well. John had dark hair and deep set eyes, as did Dean. The man wore brooding expressions and rarely smiled. Dean knew he could be described in the same way, yet here, he saw something that he never expected. He was very much his mother's son. They had the same fair complexion; the same thin, straight noses; identical shaped eyes; and thick dark lashes. His mouth matched hers. A careful inspection of her face revealed a spattering of faded freckles that would nearly match up with his own.

"Oh yes, I do know what you'll say," she continued then spoke in a low tone meant to mimic his, "Mom, I know, okay? They like getting their picture taken, big deal. I'm not marrying them; I'm just having fun, and there's no law against having a little fun."

Dean raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

"Do I sound like that?" he wondered. "See, that doesn't sound like me as far as I'm concerned. It's kind of a girlie tone." Mary chuckled and slapped his hand playfully as he grinned shamelessly. "Okay, so maybe I might say something like that, but so what? What's wrong with fun?"

In his mind, he wondered precisely what these women looked like and whether any were in the area. If he had to be here for a bit, he might as well experience the whole thing. Besides, fun sounded like… well, fun, right now. He wasn't sure where the photographers came into the equation; he would be happy to leave that part out of it.

"They're in love with the image not with you," Mary said firmly. "Dean, you deserve someone who actually loves you not just everything around you. I know; I get it. You're too busy living your to settle down; you're young and I suppose it's fun to have a new girlfriend every few weeks."

"Also saves you the trouble of remembering holidays, anniversaries and birthdays if you keep switching things up," Dean remarked casually as he nodded but stopped as he got caught in her flat, displeased stare.

"I raised you better than that statement indicates," she replied. Dean grimaced and chewed his lip. "Look, I get that it's different for you than it was for your father and I—and obviously, we should not be used as an example. Our marriage was a disaster."

"Disaster?" Dean repeated.

Granted, he would not have called it perfect, but the word disaster was a little strong from what he recalled. Then he remembered there were a lot more years in this woman's history than in the mother he knew. He wondered, with a flutter of worry in his gut, how bad things had gotten between his parents.

"With the exception of you and your brother, yes, I think disaster is a good description of what your father and I accomplished during our marriage," she said quickly, squeezing his hand lightly. "But that in itself is a lesson. People end up together for a lot of reasons but not always good ones. You father and I recognized that too late, well, not too late. I mean, we married too young and had very different expectations and reasons why we wanted to get married. I think that maybe if we'd made some better choices earlier in the marriage—like ending it when it actually fell apart rather than waiting several more painful and angry years—we wouldn't have put each other through the anguish we did. I worry sometimes that our marriage tainted you and your brother against the whole idea of marriage."

"Certainly not on my radar," Dean admitted uncomfortably. "But that's more of a personality thing on my part."

"And how much of that is influence by how your father and I behaved?" she wondered. "Look how long it took us to become civil with each other after the divorce."

"The divorce?" Dean repeated and felt like an idiot for the pang of sorrow the word caused him. Dead was much worse than divorced, yet he grieved the end of their marriage all the same. He shook his head. "Right, the divorce. That was… How long as it been?"

She looked at him oddly for a moment then thought for a moment.

"Nearly 15 years," she said, looking at him with concern. "He moved out for the last time just before your 12th birthday."

"Right," he nodded and threw out an easy detail that might reassure her as the worry lines appeared on her face again. "Just after Christmas."

She nodded and relaxed as he hoped. His gamble paid off.

"The worst Christmas ever in this house, yes," she sighed. "Your brother ran away on Christmas Eve because he was sick of us fighting. You asked to move in with Jake Thompson's family—for the same reason. We tried to keep you boys out of the court process as much as possible, but we obviously failed at that. I know you pretended like you didn't know what was going on, but we both knew that you and Sam were aware of exactly what was going on, especially when things got ugly."

"But you get along now," Dean said. He hoped that was the case. They seemed genuine during breakfast. He hoped he would have noticed if they were faking civility. If not, he was going to revisit the possibility he did have a head injury.

"Well, you and your brother being adults helps," she replied. "Custody issues never brought out the best in either of us, but now we've… matured. It took a lot of work and patience from both your father and I to put the past behind us., but you know that your father and I are… friends now."

"Friends?" Dean repeated. "As in friendly friends?"

There it was. The thing he sensed between them when his father was there. A lot of it was simply a shared worry for him, but there was also something a little more. It might be just the closeness of two people who had raised two children, but Dean didn't think so. For someone who had moved out of the house 15 years earlier and fought with her in a custody battle, John Winchester seemed quite comfortable in the house that was not his home.

"You know I hate the terms hook up and friends with benefits," Mary scowled. "Your father and I have a… complicated relationship. I would hope, now that you're an adult, that you would have let any childhood thoughts of us getting back together permanently to fade just because he occasionally still spends the night in my…"

"Oh, hey, no, whoa!" Dean shook his head and waved off her explanation then covered his ears for a moment. "That's just… I'll want to go back into a coma with that visual in my head now."

While no prude when it came to sexual relationships, Dean shirked at the thought of his parents in one. He knew they obviously had carnal knowledge of each other—he and Sam existed after all—but parental sex was not something he needed in his head. In his memory, he recalled an acceptable level of public displays of affection, simple kisses and arm over the shoulders kind of contact, but nothing more than that.

"Maybe now you know a little how I felt when that redhead you broke up with last year talked to that reporter and said that she'd go back to you in a heartbeat because you were the best lay she'd ever…," Mary began then stopped and shook her head.

"Wait, what was her name?" Dean wondered. Redheads were generally fun, a bit dangerous for certain, but fun all the same in his experience. However, his mother's glare ended his questioning.

"My point," she said forcefully, "is that while your father and I are at least friends, that is primarily because of you and your brother. We share a bond that not even a terrible marriage and nearly incompatible personalities could tear apart completely. If it wasn't for the two of you all these years, we'd surely have killed each other or made it a point to forget we ever met. As it is, we have forged a reasonable and cordial friendship that is platonic… usually."

She smirked for a moment and Dean shook his head.

"Seriously, the 'usually' and the little smile thing at the end there is not helping my recovery any," he shuddered.

"Dean, be serious for a moment," Mary continued.

"Oh, I am," he groaned. "When does that short-term memory glitch kick in?"

Mary shook her head and sighed as she continued.

"This whole discussion started because I was explaining to you that I worry about you and this revolving door of women in your life," she said. "If anything good comes of you being hurt, I think maybe it is you taking some time to think about your life and what you want it to be. This is a good opportunity to take your time and think about who is good for you, not just who is in it just fun. You've earned your reputation as a playboy and that doesn't attract the right kind of woman for you."

Dean laughed. She was lecturing him on his sex life, but tactfully calling it his love life. She was half a step shy of giving him the 'time to grow up speech' he heard other people got sometimes. Her greatest fear for him was a shallow, self-centered, gold digging broad more interested in some claim to fame (he hadn't figured out how he was suppose to supply that yet). She held no worries that anything evil or awful might happen to him. It was perfectly, almost hilariously, normal. As such, he found himself chuckling.

"Don't laugh at me, Dean," she said shaking her finger at him but she smiled. "I'm your mother. I'm allowed to have opinions about who you should be with and who you shouldn't. Just promise me this: You won't date any more models or actresses.'

"Models or actresses?" he repeated wide-eyed.

That was a little more upscale than he was expecting. Then again, he'd spent a night with an actual angel once. Seeing his expression, Mary shook her head and explained herself.

"You know I don't like any of them," Mary replied. "I swear, every time I see you with one of those women I just want to tackle them and shove a cheese burger down their skinny little throats."

He gripped her hand as he laughed. His side hurt from the sudden guffaw, and he found himself having to massage the stitch in the area as he wiped a mirthful tear from his eyes. He shook his head as he caught his breath.

"Okay, Hollywood and runways are off the list, check," he nodded. "Not a problem. Any other requests while I'm here on the mend?"

Her eyes smiled at him but tears lurked just beneath the surface as she smiled at him. She swallowed hard and her hand trembled a bit as she caressed his cheek again.

"Don't you ever scare me like this again," she said quietly. "I know it wasn't your fault, but honey, when you got hurt… I've never been so scared in all my life—and trust me, that is saying something. If anything bad ever happened to you or your brother, I'd…."

His heart tore in two as she choked up and shivered. Instinctively, he reached for her and pulled her into an embrace that he felt was for himself just as much as her.

"It's okay, Mom," he said.

Dean hugged her, tightly, and felt his own shivers in his stomach as his head throbbed a bit with the pressure of holding back tears. He released her after a moment and quickly wiped any traitorous moisture from his eyes. As if sensing his unease and mild embarrassment, she straightened her shoulders and held her chin higher as she fixed him with a challenging expression and pointed at him in an almost scolding fashion.

"You just promise me you are going to live until you are 103, Dean Winchester," Mary commanded as she wiped her own eyes. "I'm not taking no for answer, so if you ever want me to make you blueberry pancakes again, you will give me your word right now."

"Hmm,103?" he repeated. "You promise me you'll live to at least126 and you have a deal."

"Only if you get me a grandchild by the time I'm 56," she said then leaned over and kissed his forehead. "That way I can know my great grandchildren, too. By the way, I'll save you the time doing the math for your end of the bargain: You have five years."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but found he had no words. He had no idea how to respond. Instead, he sat at the table feeling a little weak and uncertain. His head felt cloudy and not from any injury or medications. This was sensory overload. He knew, even though it was impossible, that he was sitting in the kitchen in his childhood home in Lawrence. He knew his mother was here, alive and well, and had just casually given him marching orders to find a nice girl and reproduce with her. He sat at the table watching his mother now doing the dishes, hoping it didn't seem too pervy. A knot caught in his throat and a swarm of butterflies filled his stomach. Despite what logic was telling him, his gut was telling him there was no other explanation than that this was real.

After a while, he stood and wandered through the house with a multitude of long buried memories flooding his mind: the creaks in the floor where the old hardwood planks still rubbed against each other; the small notches in the doorframe by the back door where he stood on each birthday to have his height measured. The last time he saw them, the notch was roughly a yard from the floor. He looked more closely and found notches showing many more years than he ever got in this house. On the casing opposite, were ones for Sam. He grinned as he saw they were roughly equal until they stopped at about age 13. He smiled as he supposed that meant gigantor was still a freak of nature in this world, too. Then, Dean drifted up the stairs, thinking of the last time he climbed those steps as a resident of the house.

That was the night of the fire; the night his family was torn apart; the night his mother died. He wandered down the hall to the room that had been Sam's nursery. Now, it was a plain bedroom. A dark plaid comforter covered the bed. A desk sat under the window. There was a bookcase on the opposite wall with a collection of books. The closet held a variety of other supplies, Christmas decorations and a small stack of packing boxes marked with the words "high school" in Sam's handwriting. Dean nodded. The kid was now supposedly at law school now, having just graduated from college. It made sense he wouldn't have much of a presence in the house.

Dean left the quiet room and headed down the hall to the room that was his. He paid it little close attention when he woke that morning. He stepped over the threshold and felt the same detachment he sensed in Sam's room. The only difference in here was the style of the décor. The bed was covered in a solid colored comforter. The walls held framed pictures: A picture of a rocket lift off and a few baseball parks. He recognized Wrigley Field in both the actual photo that hung on one wall and the larger water color that hung over the bed. The closet had a few more items than Sam's—these appeared to be tossed in there recently and hastily. He pulled the luggage out and found clothing that would fit him. It appeared to have been recently packed from the lack of creases in the shirts. He supposed the clothing was gathered from wherever he lived before the accident that allegedly landed him back in Lawrence. The clothing appeared to be casual but high-end—much nicer than the typical jeans and flannel he wore as a hunter.

None of this still told him how he got here or who he was. Sure, he knew his name and those of his family members, but beyond that, this Dean Winchester was a mystery. He did something for a living that apparently made him someone who got photographed. That his mother wasn't embarrassed by him ruled out career criminal and porn star, but there was a lot of ground in-between those two options. He had a college degree, according to his father. Engineering? He shook his head. That sounded a little too out of reach.

And what the hell was up with Dad?

John had been… happy. Dean didn't recall ever seeing the guy so relaxed as he had that morning. Even in the instants when the old man seemed on the cusp of worry, he was calm. There was none of his high strung urgency that Dean knew so well.

And divorced. His parents were divorced? Not that it was a huge shock to Dean, he recalled their fights when he was a child, but it still surprised him a bit. Of course, they seemed to get along well enough. What was it his mother said? They learned to be civil and were maybe a bit more than just friends now? He didn't want to think more about what that meant. Getting lectured about his mysterious sex life was one thing; hearing details of his parents actual one was enough to make him wretch. There were some mysteries the universe should keep to itself in his opinion.

Mysteries, he paused on the word. With a shrug, he cleared his throat and spoke quietly, knowing he did not need to shout to be heard if his wingman was able to connect.

"Cas?" Dean whispered and looked toward the ceiling hopefully. "Hey, Cas, you around here anywhere? Cas? Calling on the more profound bond here, so Dean to Castiel, you read me? No? Nothing?"

There was no response. Not that that meant anything. If he truly was back in time, straight-laced Angel of the Lord Castiel did not yet know Dean Winchester. Their bond, profound or otherwise, had not yet been forged. So, if this was an alternate and previous time, then perhaps Dean wasn't even on angel radar at all. While he would miss Cas, there was also something very settling about the thought that Michael and the God Squad wouldn't be paying him any attention at all.

But that seemed unlikely.

His mother's reference to what it took to scare her resonated with Dean. She had a secret here: her past as a hunter. Apparently, if he read her correctly, that was still accurate, and why wouldn't it be? She and his father were only put together by a marksman cupid because Heaven decreed it. That meant the whole destiny bloodline thing was still in the mix somewhere, which meant, Castiel, the Dr. Sheldon Cooper of this little Big Bang episode, was still out there somewhere as well… most likely.

Of course, that didn't mean he would come to help Dean. His first few encounters with Castiel were not friendly. Dean had to win him over, and how he did that at all remained a bit of a mystery. And, even in the life he knew currently, Dean couldn't even be sure Cas would come help him lately. Ever since returning from Purgatory, something was off with his winged little buddy. He didn't know how he busted out after Dean escaped. He would disappear for weeks on end without explanation. He didn't always come when called. The knot in Dean's stomach said this was a bad thing. The last time Cas went MIA like this, he got delusions of grandeur to the point of thinking he was God. Sam sensed it too and now, with the gates of Hell just needing the right kind of nudge to close, they didn't have time to let anyone on the team break ranks. Which meant, Dean realized with a sinking feeling in his bones, he needed to get out of this better strange twist on It's a Wonderful Life, where he was finding out that his existence could be much better if only his mother had lived.

Still, staying was tempting.

If he knew it was real, if he knew it could last, what was the point of returning? And how the hell was he supposed to return anyway when he had no idea how he got to this nirvana.

Of course, that was the problem. This was nearly perfect. Therefore, it couldn't be real, and even if it was, there was no way his life could be this good and last. Sighing with resignation, Dean returned to his inspection of the room, searching for something that might give him a clue to who he was and what he did or perhaps how he got back here, but he found nothing. He didn't see a laptop in the house either so his research efforts were hampered even more: First, by his lack of a too-tall research junkie; and next, by the lack of avenues for him to do the dreaded task himself. He would need to find a computer or someone who could help fill in the gaps without raising too many suspicions.

In the middle of his pondering, the door to the bedroom opened.

"Honey, I need to head downtown to run some errands," Mary said. "Will you be okay here by yourself for a while?"

"I guess," he shrugged. "You sure you can trust me not to throw a party and invite some strippers over while you're gone? You're cool with me and strippers, right? They're not really actresses; they're more performers."

He didn't know why he said it. It certainly wasn't anything he ever pictured himself saying to his mother. Then again, his view of her until that morning was stuck on the permanent pause of a four-year-old's perceptions. In response, she offered him a flat, scolding stare that lacked shock or surprise, leading him to believe the comment wasn't precisely out of character. He grinned in return with a shrug. It was childish, but he wasn't sure how to have a adult conversation with his mother and sarcasm was his default language. After all, the last time he actually spoke to her they discussed what bedtime story he should get and whether she or his father should read it. As he recalled, she won out on that.

"If you're worried, you could take me with you to make sure I behave," he continued.

"The nosy people of the world still think you're in Chicago," she replied, which just added to his list of questions that needed answering. "Being seen in public will just bring them out in droves on the front lawn."

"Okay," he nodded. "Well, can I go see Dad then? I know he was just here and said he'd check in later, but… I'll go nuts just standing around here with nothing to do. Daytime TV sucks. Do you think he'd mind?"

This was his opening, he knew. He could get her to drop him off. Spend a few minutes with his father and then go in search of a library or someplace where he could boost a computer. The University of Kansas was in Lawrence so finding one would not be a problem.

"I'm certain he wouldn't," she said with a puzzled expression then shrugged. "I'm just surprised you want to chance being seen at all. Well, if hanging out at the shop is what you want to do, I guess it'll be okay. It's not like the whole city traipses through there during the day. Just give him a call so he knows you're coming—in case he thinks it would be quieter for you to stay here."

She nodded and stepped out of the room. Dean looked to the phone beside the bed and shrugged. He had no idea what the number was. He didn't see a phonebook so looking up the number wasn't an option either. There didn't seem to be a cell phone lying around among his things. Dean shrugged. If the old man didn't mind a visitor, Dean didn't think not calling would be a big deal. Instead of making the call, he picked through the luggage and pulled out some clothing. The jeans were dark with perfectly designed faded spots and miniscule tears; the green shirt was the softest cotton he'd ever felt. He stepped into the bathroom and decided shaving wasn't needed. The day old stubble look was typical for him. So, after brushing his teeth, he stripped off his T-shirt and stared in horror at his chest. Two things struck him instantly: He had no tattoo and there was a bright pink surgical scar on his chest.

Ignoring the missing ink, he instead pressed his fingers against the scar lightly and felt a twinge from the protesting nerve endings. Someone, apparently someone with training, sewed him up in the not too distant past. Dean thought back to the details dropped by his father: broken ribs and soft tissue damage. That would account for the healing mark. He took several moments and looked at the rest of his body. He had been healed of his wallpaper of scars several times in the last few years, but he always seemed to pick up new ones. This one, however, was larger than most though not nearly as conspicuous as some previously (how could anyone logically explain a palm print seared into your shoulder anyway?). Still, this one bothered Dean in that he had no recollection of getting it, and it wasn't in the course of his work that he earned it. This was apparently something done to him when he was… innocent. He shuddered at the word. Dean Winchester wasn't innocent. He wasn't a bystander. He wasn't a civilian. He was a hunter…

Or he had been until he wound up here.

He might have continued that pondering but for his mother's call up the stairs to see if he was still leaving with her. He answered that he was and hastily finished getting ready. He dressed quickly and grabbed the leather jacket he saw hanging in the closet. It was a sleek, supple, black leather that slipped through his fingers like butter. He guessed it would run easily three grand. He slipped it onto his arms—it fit perfectly as though tailored specifically for him—and slid his hand into the pocket. In one, he found a pair of Oakely sunglasses, the $600 kind. Dean laughed quietly. The jacket and the shades were worth roughly half of what he would make in three months of hustling pool.

He looked in the mirror and, shamefully he knew, admired the view. Maybe it was vain and maybe it was kind of girlie, but he grinned thinking he looked like he should model this stuff. Then, for a horrified second, he wondered if he was a model. His mother made a comment about him and models and indicated photographers were a part of his world. His flesh crawled at that thought. Yeah, he was good looking, he got that. Plenty of women had told him so over the years, but to make a living just because his parents gave him the right genes was… degrading. He decided he'd rather be a porn star.

Dean shook his head then automatically reached for his back and found he was not carrying a weapon. That made him feel naked and a bit jittery. He had no flask of holy water even. He pulled back the neck of his Henley and looked again at his chest. No tattoo, he shook his head again. He was completely unprotected. That made his stomach churn. He took a deep breath and figured he would need to locate a suitable ink artist that day to rectify this situation. Then he straightened his jacket and felt another bunch in the pocket opposite where the sunglasses were found. He reached inside and pulled out a smooth, black, leather wallet. Inside were a few credit cards. While it was surprising to see they were black cards, denoting a soaring credit line, his chin nearly dropped to his chest to see they were adorned with his actual name: Dean Winchester. He laughed at that, nearly as much as he did when he peeled $220 in bills out of the wallet as well.

"Whatever I do, I get paid very nicely for it apparently," he muttered as his mother called to him yet again to join her to leave.

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A/N: More to come. Thanks to all the "Dark Angel" fans who followed my work into the world of "Supernatural." As always, I will update as I am able (fanfiction is my cure for writer's block on my novels). I thank you in advance for the reviews.