Displacement.

The world was spinning, and Dean Winchester had the biggest headache of his life. He was disoriented and everything looked blurry. The scenery slowly refocused and Dean found himself not in a city but in a forest. He stumbled to his feet and found himself in a three-foot crater, surrounded by shockwaves from what looked like a meteor strike and himself planted in the epicenter. Strangely, a tree stood next to him completely intact and in full bloom.

Where the hell am I? He thought, and tried calling out "Hello," as he stumbled to his feet. No voice though - and the headache suddenly increased into a daydream of sorts where he remembered a blinding light, calling out for his brother Sam and angel mentor Castiel and something about the end of the world. The last flash he remembered is Cas grabbing his arm as his brother, playing prom dress to Lucifer, fell dying. As the vision faded Dean whipped around, instinctively looking for his younger brother. "Sam," he hoarsely called out. "Cas? - Anyone?" Nothing. Either option was unlikely. Sam had given himself over to Lucifer and Castiel was Heaven-bound. There were just birds, a gentle breeze, and Dean in the middle of somewhere. He checked his arm and found the same painful hand print as the one that raised him from Perdition. Had he died? Again? Had Sam? Again? Where was he?

Then metal scraping on metal and the sound of kids yelling. Dean made his way towards it and found himself in a park, a playground occupying children as watchful parents and nannies sat nearby. He shook the dust off and considered talking to someone before thinking better of it. He turned and walked to the nearest road. He found a hotel and stumbled into the lobby.

"Well, you look worse for the wear," said the front desk jockey, amused.
"Room," Dean cave-manned. He handed over one of his many credit cards. The jockey went to run it. The beep of failure rang out from the machine, once, twice. The jockey looked at the card and smirked.
"Buddy, what do you take me for?" He asked. "This card's valid from date ain't til 2008."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, so?"
"Yeah, so, wanna give me a card that is actually valid before 3 years from now?"
Dean shrank back a bit. "Excuse me?"
"Look pal, cash or no room."

Dean angrily reached into his pocket and took out a fistful, tossing the money over the counter. "Just give me the damn key!" The receptionist hesitantly obliged. Dean stumbled down the hall and into an all-too-familiar room with two double beds. For the first time in years, one would be empty. He collapsed in a heap on the bed and slept.

Daylight, just like Dean had fallen asleep in. He knew it was 2:55 but he had no idea what day, what month, or - given the last conversation he'd had - what year. He sat up on the bed and took out his cell. No service. His stomach rumbled. He freshened himself up quickly and sauntered out the door. Eventually he stumbled into nearby suburbia and the nearest drug store. Dean grabbed a water from the cold beverage center and went up front to pay.

"What the hell is this, Monopoly money?" The cashier tossed back the $5 bill Dean had passed over.
"Where the hell you been - under a rock?" Dean shot back.

He had no patience for this crap again. The cashier opened the drawer and produced a bill...the way $5 bills looked before the Treasury redid them. "Here in the USA the money's still green," the cashier snarked. Confused, Dean pulled a couple of ones out of his pocket. He started to walk away when a whistle stopped him. "Hey, your change...?" the cashier asked, tossing it on the stack of newspapers.

Dean returned to grab the change, but something in newsprint caught his eye. He grabbed the newspaper under it instead. The dateline. His eyes grew wide. Two thousand and five. 2005. "What. The..." He gasped, mentally trying to process everything. He looked through the rest of the papers in disbelief - was this some kind of joke? 2005, 2005, 2005. Same dateline on all of them. He walked out with the paper, down the step, onto the sidewalk, and almost into the path of an oncoming car. Ignoring the driver's recourse he found the nearest bench and continued to scan this too-old paper. He looked around. He took his cellphone out of his coat and flipped it open. No service. He spotted a man on a bench not too far away.

"Hey buddy, what's up with the service in this town?" He asked.
"Oh yeah, only one tower around here," the man said. "Hey - that's a fancy phone you got there." The man took his own out. It was a big, solid one-piece, not the small flip Dean kept.
"Where'd ya get it?" Wide-eyed, Dean could not reply. He got up instead and took a walk to process things. He went to the nearest parking lot and tried to play it off as though he was looking for his car.

2005, he thought. Two-thousand-and-frickin-five. Dean tried to remember. Hunting. With Dad. Sam. At college. Jess. Azazel. It was all slowly coming back. Dean met up with Sam again late fall - around Halloween. Dateline of the paper said October 14. It was before. Everyone was still alive, except Mom.

Castiel. He did this. He sent Dean back. But why? And Sam. What had become of him? And where was Castiel? Dean needed help. He spotted a nearby phone both. He dumped in change and called Bobby. Was Bobby still alive? If this was 2005 then yes. Answering machine. "Bobby!" He growled. "It's Dean...call me back the second you get this." He slammed the phone down, only to realize that he would not get Mr. Singer's return call. "Stupid," Dean muttered to himself. He wracked his brain. Sam? Missing. Castiel? Same. Bobby? Not home.

Deeper memories. Ellen? She'd be alive now too. When did he meet Ellen, Jo and Ash? Not yet. They'd know John but not him. Should he head to the Roadhouse? No - too many questions would come out of it. He needed someone else, someone who could help him figure out not only where he was but when, and why. Pamela? He flipped through the phone book again and realized where he was. Or rather - who he was closest to in his formerly shrinking but now large Apocalypse Tragic Theater. Castiel had planned it well, if this whole deal was his doing. Dean had someone else he could talk to. Someone nearby. Someone who could help him figure things out.

He needed a ride. Suddenly missing his baby, he scanned around the lot for something appropriate. He found it - a 1967 Chevelle SS was taking up a lonely spot in the back of the lot. Unlocked - even better. Dean slipped in and hotwired it. As the engine turned over the radio came to life, joining Bachman Turner Overdrive's "Let it Ride" mid-verse. For the first time all day a smile made an appearance on Dean Winchester's face. Not the Impala but almost like it was meant to be.

Tragic Bachelor Pad Of Lousy Yet Remarkably Accurate Writing.

Dean rapped on the door insistently. "Open the door," he growled. The door opened just a creak, chain still attached. "We need to talk," Dean growled.
"Who are you?" came the voice from the other side. "Please just go away."

Adrenaline-pumped Dean pushed on the door, breaking the chain off. "I'm selling Girl Scout cookies," he joked. "Samoas? Or Tagalongs?" He made his way into the messy house.

"You can't be here," Chuck Shurley, aka Carver Edlund, aka a Prophet of the Lord, aka Potentially the Lord himself, replied. His eyes were bloodshot and he was holding a bat unconvincingly. Not that he was going to use it anyway.

"Do you know who I am?" Dean asked. Chuck was muttering - this is not real, this is not happening. "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?" Dean said again.
"You - you're -" Chuck sputtered. "Dean. You're Dean. I don't know how though."
Dean nodded. Good. "Chuck, I need you to listen to me. You're a Prophet. The headaches? The manuscripts? It's God's word, straight from heaven to your cracked out brain, to that ancient typewriter you keep in that lousy excuse for a dining room."

Chuck glanced back to said lousy excuse for a dining room. This Dean guy was remarkably accurate. Chuck dropped the bat and collapsed against the nearest piece of furniture. "Sonofabitch."

"You're just going to have to go with it," Dean continued, barking like a marine. "Because I don't have time to explain. I need your help."
Chuck nodded. "Want a beer?" He asked. Dean relaxed ever so slightly.

Couch, a few minutes later. Chuck used his arm to drag a pile of books and papers off of it to give his guest a place to sit. "So," Chuck said nervously. "You're Dean. And...you got...sent back here."

Dean leaned forward. "OK, so...so I did travel back in time?" He couldn't believe the words even as he said them.

Chuck shrugged. "I don't understand it either," the gangly Prophet said.
"When did you start..." Dean began.
"Getting headaches? Seeing things? Feeling compelled to write ridiculous, angst-ridden stories about people I don't even know?" Chuck ranted, his voice increasing with every word while his arms flailed about.
"Yeah, that." Dean said.
"About two months ago. You and your brother are a real barrel of laughs so far."
"Sam? Where is he?" Dean wondered.
"Not sure," Chuck said slowly. "I'm only seeing pieces right now. I was writing a different book until two days ago. You and Sam looking for your Dad. Then it was like you fell out of the sky or something. Almost like no one knew you were here at first. I had to start a new book."
Dean rubbed his forehead. "Great. The big watchtower in the sky had no idea where I was but someone dragged me here. That doesn't leave too many options."
"I don't know who brought you here, if that's what you're asking," Chuck demurred. "Not yet, anyway."

Dean tried to think of a reason why a demon would bring him back to this point. He wasn't even sure a demon could do this.

"What do I do next?" He asked. "Why am I here?" Chuck, staring at his time-displaced visitor, didn't speak. Then he realized Dean was looking at him expectantly.
"Oh, uh, you mean, literally, what do you do next."
Dean raised a brow to confirm the duh.
"Well...you, uh, find an angel."

"Castiel?" Dean was excited by the prospect - the nerd angel was alive, and somewhere around.
"No, not Castiel. Don't know who that is. The angel I'm writing about is Raziel."
Dean groaned.
"Another damn angel. How many of these clowns am I going to have to go through?" Chuck nervously ticked. As this visit went on the only person's whose sanity he doubted more than his own was Dean's.
"So where do I find him?" Dean asked, surly.
"Not a him. It's a her - she's a her - you know what I mean. And it's just her vessel right now. She's a grad student."
"Where?" Dean asked, getting up to leave as soon as he had the next tidbit. "Tell me where."

Lawrence, Kansas.

Sam Winchester's remarkably broad forehead was pounding as his eyes snapped open. He found himself slightly below ground level in a sandy crater. He sat up. He blinked a few times. He noticed that though all the earth around him had been blown out of its roots, one tree sat fine next to him, still in bloom. Mounds of earth were above and around him. He crawled out of the crater. Sam heard the unmistakable lows and moos of cows. He smelled that not-so-fresh smell on manure. He spotted one Angus, and then another, and then another.

"Dean?" He asked, looking around. His brother was nowhere to be found. "Castiel? Bobby? Anybody?" Only cows. He rotated his right shoulder, suddenly feeling pain. He looked down to see a handprint branded into it. It was a mark he'd seen before. Had he been dead? Was he in hell? Heaven? Sam tried to recall a memory in a cow pasture but came up blank.

A tractor circa-1978 rolled up to him. "Son, you alright?" A man called down to him from the tractor. Sam just nodded. "You look like you fell out of a plane. Or space, maybe. You an alien?" Sam shook his head. "You talk, boy?"
"Yeah, sorry - where am I?"
"Kansas. You're in Kansas."

Great, Sam thought. Back where it all began.

A little while later Sam was sitting at the farmhouse table, the wife and son of the place staring at their strange new visitor. "You have funny clothes," the son, who was 10 or so, blurted out.
"Don't be rude!" admonished the wife. Sam slumped in his chair, bitchfacing a bit.

"You didn't see anyone else here - a guy, a little older than me? Shorter hair? Angry-looking, maybe?" They all shook their heads no. Sam heard static and his attention transferred to the family TV, a brown box with faux-wood paneling and two rabbit ears that made him smile. On the TV was an episode of "Dallas."

"Oh, hey, I remember this one!" Sam said. The father smiled.
"Yep, family's favorite show."
"Man this is an oldie," Sam continued. "Before Bobby died."

He stopped when he realized they were all staring at him as though he were crazy. "Son, whatever are you talking about? Bobby's been alive this whole time." Sam looked confused.
"No, no, he died in like '85. I saw the repeats. Then he came back. You know."
"Eighty-five?" The father asked, more than a little freaked out. "Where exactly did you say you were from again?"

Sam clamped up. He rolled his jaw, suddenly just as wary of this family as they were of him. "California," he answered slowly, cautiously. "Palo Alto." He looked around the house more. He saw the clues. The green countertop. The magazine covers. This family clearly hadn't gotten out since about 1983. Or had they not been human since then? He squinted, looking for beetle-black eyes.

Sam stood up quickly, the family echoing his moves. Their eyes never left Sam's. "You know what, I should go. You have been way too kind to me already and my family is probably worried about me." "I thought you said you were from California," the father said, slowly. Purposefully. "Yeah, they are, we're here visiting my aunt Joan. And I don't want her to think I'm a runaway too." Sam shuffled towards the door. "Thanks though!" And with that, the younger Winchester ran out the door and into the field. He sprinted as his adrenaline allowed, and when he finally felt he had enough space between him and the house he turned around. Sam expected to see demons with knives but instead he only saw the family standing in their doorway looking confused. Sam was confused too. He slowed to a walk and continued out to the county road.

A couple of hours later, in the middle of the night, Sam found himself in town. Maybe because he was unsure and just needed some grounding, or maybe because of morbid curiosity, Sam found himself walking towards the house that the Winchesters used to live in. He got to the road and turned towards the side where house number 1841 sat.

From a few houses away he saw it. The unmistakable silhouette of Metallicar. Dean must have headed here earlier, Sam thought to himself. Way to wait for me. Something was different though. The license plates weren't right. They looked...different. Maybe Dean had swapped them. Sam stopped a house away in the middle of the street. He could see on an angle that the Impala's window was down. He approached it, and popped the trunk. But the trunk was empty - and missing some important contents. Sam unhinged the false bottom. But instead of artillery he found a spare tire. And then he heard a gun cock too close to his head.

"Step away from the car," a voice said. A familiar voice. "Nice and slow. Don't want to start trouble." Sam put his arms up and took a few steps back. The man kept the gun pointed at Sam's head.

"I don't want any trouble either," Sam said. "I know this car."
"You the old owner or something? I bought it from a guy in town - legally, I might add." Sam's brow furrowed. He knew the voice. It clicked. He tried to see the man through his peripheral vision but couldn't. After a few seconds he slowly turned it. The face that greeted him caused his face to turn to shock.

"...Dad?" Sam exhaled. "Is that you?" The barrel stayed focused on him, but he chuckled. "My boys are 4 and 6 months, so unless you're Dean after one hell of a growth spurt..."

Six months? Did John Winchester, Sam's dead-but-now-alive-again Dad, say six months? Sam rushed to put the pieces together.

"Sorry, sorry, I, uh..." he stuttered. "Look, I used to live here. And I had a car that looked a lot like this one. I had to sell it before leaving. I guess I just thought..."

John grimaced. He decided the kid was no threat and took the gun down. "Alright, well, you look like a big but harmless fellow. You need to use our phone?"
Sam exhaled. "Yeah, yeah, that would be great."

John nodded for Sam to follow. He did. He saw a small silhouette in the doorway. Once closer he knew it was Dean. Sam's older brother Dean, age 4. Sam didn't know where his contemporary brother was but now Sam knew where he was. The only question was...

"John?" A female voice this time. "Who is it?"

"Some kid, Mary. Get him a glass of water, would ya?" Sam tried to fight them back, but his eyes welled up with tears. His mom. Alive. Which meant baby Sam - himself - was upstairs. Did John say 6 months? Was Sam turning 6 months old tonight?

Lush Coastal Rainforests of Central South Dakota.

The Chevelle roared into Singer's Scrap Metal Yard as Dean slid it into a spot. From his usual perch atop a blue truck, Rumsfeld the dog lifted his head to let out a lazy woof. Dean got out of the car and headed towards the house. The dog tracked his every step but couldn't be bothered to get up. Dean headed inside.

"Bobby?" He called. And from the next room Robert Singer appeared, bound to no wheelchair. And his soul appeared intact.
"Dean Winchester," he said, frowning in a non-menacing way. "Where's your Dad?" Dean blinked. Dad.
"He's, uh, out on a hunt," Dean quickly improvised. "Sent me here to get a few things." Dean strolled over to Bobby and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "You look good, Bobby. Better than ya have in awhile."

Bobby's face twisted. "Dean, ya idjit. I seen you what, five times this year?"
"I don't know Bobby, you've just...always struck me as a great guy. A role model even."
"Son, you been drinkin'?" Bobby asked, smelling the air.
"No." Bobby glanced back at his desk where an empty shot glass sat with a bottle of whisky nearby.
"You want to?"

A couple shots down, Dean stared into his empty shot glass. It refracted what he saw - his hands, Bobby, the room. Maybe time and space. He closed his eyes and shook his head wondering if Speed Racer would re-appear. But no, Bobby was still alive and walking. Dean plotted. He had to keep a cover for now until he had things sorted out. Play things close to the chest. But he needed answers too.

Dean allowed his face to slip into a crooked, drunk smile.
"Can I ask you something," he asked, trilling his voice a bit. Bobby, who was a good 3 or 4 shots ahead of Dean, looked up slowly with bloodshot eyes.
"Wut?" Dean knew he had to sell past Bobby's skepticism. Drunk or not.
"Me and Dad were on this hunt a week or two back. This guy - he claimed he was an angel. Said he'd taken over a host body. You ever heard of anything like that?"

Bobby leaned back in his chair. "I've heard of demonic posession. But angels? I don't know."

Dean stared towards the ground so Bobby couldn't see the lie. "This guy said he was chosen by the angel. He called himself a vessel. Said he was on a mission. The angel asked him to do things so he did them - trials of a sort. Then once he passed enough tests the angel said the guy was ready, and told him all he had to do was let the angel take over his body. And his friend said they'd performed some kind of ritual to get the angel there. You ever heard of something like that?"

Bobby chewed on it. His brow furrowed. He shook his head. Dean expected to be thrown out.

"About 10 years ago I was on a hunt in some town in the middle of nowhere. Someone claimed there were all these miracles happening. Checked it out. There was a guy, like your nutjob, who claimed he was touched by an angel. There were signs around the town - electrical storms, crops dying - the usual."

Dean gulped. This was not looking good.

"So I finally manage to corner the guy in a bar. I went to take him out back when these three guys grab us both and drag us out into the woods. They had been possessed. By demons. Never seen anything like it. But what's nuts is this next thing. They shine a light on the guy, and I swear I saw a 20-foot set of shadow wings behind him. And when the demons tried to stab him his eyes went all white and he blasted them the hell outta there."

Dean leaned forward again.

"Never told anybody about it. Stopped hunting the guy too. Just left town. So do I believe in angels? Hell, there's crazier stuff out there. Demons, ghosts, spirits, whatever. Angels seem to fit right in."

Dean nodded, as though he was taking in all this for the first time. "I did take a souvenir though," Bobby continued. "The guy's friend, he gave me this amulet. Said it was like a geolocator for God. I gave it to your brother a ways back. Seen it around your neck a few times." He nodded over in Dean's direction. Dean went to clutch it. The amulet wasn't there though. He inhaled, eyes wide. The amulet. He'd thrown it out. That complicated things to say the least.

"You got any books on this stuff," Dean started carefully. He tried to throw a look of ambivalence, shrugging. "How to summon an angel? Stuff like that?"

Bobby chuckled. "Yeah I got some. Looking for a little nighttime reading?"
"You could say that."

Bobby chuckled again and shook his head. He went over to the bookcase and grabbed two old, dusty books. "Here ya go," he said, plopping them in Dean's lap. "You planning on summoning some angels?"

"Yes," Dean said, looking straight at Bobby. Telling the truth but playing it off as a bold-faced lie. Once a few seconds had passed he laughed. "Naw," Dean reproached. "I just want to know what it's all about."
Bobby laughed too. "Alright kid. It's getting dark. You wanna crash here tonight?"
Dean nodded. "Can you help me with my car too?"
"The Impala? What's wrong with it?"
"No, not the Impala. I had to hotwire something. Need to switch out the ignition for something with keys and get new plates on it."
Bobby smiled. "No problem. He put out his arms like a tv spokesmodel. "Take your pick!"

Dean had planned to spend the night reading but he was exhausted, what with time traveling and making his way across states and time and such. Bobby shook him awake the next morning. "Breakfast?" He asked, handing Dean a cup of coffee. Dean accepted.

A little while later he was putting the heavy books into the Chevelle's trunk and getting ready to hit the road. Bobby gave Dean a few supplies Dean had faux-requested on his father's behalf - including a new cellphone. He gave Bobby a man hug.

"See ya around, Bobby," Dean said.
"Yeah, sure Dean. You stay safe out there, alright? And say hello to your Dad for me."

Dean half-smiled. He was so tempted to just drive til he found his Dad. But with only fuzzy memories of where the man might be and unable to shake the info from Chuck, he was sticking to his still-forming plan for now. "We're split up at the moment on hunts, me and my Dad," he said. "But when I do catch up with him I'll let him know." And I will catch up with him, Dean thought to himself. Just not yet.

Dean slipped into the car and turned the key in its new ignition. It turned over. With a wave out his window and a return one from Bobby in the rearview Dean was off.

Bobby shook his head as the young Winchester sped away. Angels? Crazy talk. He heard one of his phones ringing so he headed back inside. He grabbed one of the few unlabeled phones in his kitchen. "Hello?" He said, listening to the response. "Oh yeah, no problem. I got plenty. Head on over when ya have a chance. Where are you? Oh yeah? Sounds like a party," Bobby conversed. "Oh, hey, John, Dean just left...yeah Dean..." Bobby's face slowly fell as John told Bobby Dean was with him. "Whaddya mean with you? He just left, not even 5 minutes ago. No, I don't know where he was going...well then who the hell was that..." Bobby's voice trailed off. "John, let me call you back."

Bobby hit the connector in the cradle. He started to dial out to the cellphone he'd just given to whoeever that was that just left but thought better of it. Whoever this guy is, Bobby thought to himself, at least I can track him. He wondered what kind of man (thing?) stops by asking about angels. He turned back towards his desk and strolled over to the almost empty whiskey bottle. He splashed the last of it down his throat straight from the bottle and winced at the sour taste. "Sonofabitch," he said out loud to no one in particular.