When I woke up (it sounds better than "came to"), I felt like the morning after free tequila night. I hold my liquor damn well, better than Sammy even though I'm thirty pounds lighter, but everyone has limits and I've had some serious fucking hangovers in my life. This one was up there when it came to sheer suckiness—pounding headache, surging nausea, a taste in my mouth like a shapeshifter had molted in it. What worried me was that I didn't remember doing anything to have earned the hangover.

I sat up and so wished I hadn't. The room spun around me. I braced my hands on the mattress until I was pretty sure I wasn't going to just collapse if I tried to stand, because I needed to get to the bathroom like five minutes ago. And drink something. Take it from someone who's been around drunks since age four: you can take most of the edge off a hangover with plain old water. It works better if you drink the water at the same time as the booze, but a lot of what causes a hangover is dehydration so after works too.

I staggered the few steps to the bathroom, trying to remember the night before. We'd only just gotten to our latest lead, which meant there was no reason to have gotten plastered in celebration of a successful hunt. No one had died—at least, no one I knew personally had died—so no drinking to absent friends. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror for a minute, but my reflection wasn't helping any more than my memory so I gave it up and swallowed a few handfuls of water before using the toilet.

By the time I was done, I felt a little better for the water. My clothes were nasty since I'd slept, or passed out, in them, and what the hell, I was already in the bathroom so I stripped off, wondering when Sam was going to get back from wherever (Breakfast? Coffee, oh please coffee?) so I could ask what I'd done the night before. I had one foot in the tub when I heard Cas's voice out in the room.

"Taking a shower, Cas," I called. "Be out in a few minutes." Much as I wanted to know why I had a headache like the wrath of God—Cas being a good person to ask about the wrath of God, even—I wanted hot water on my back more, and besides Cas wasn't likely to know what fun I'd gotten up to. Cas is bad at fun.

That was about as far as my train of thought got before the bathroom door flew open hard enough to hit the wall and rebound. There I stood in not a friggin' stitch, looking at a Castiel who totally had his smiting face on. He glared at me as I jumped and tried to cover myself. "Cas, Jesus, I'm naked here!" I barked. (I didn't squeak. I don't squeak.) "We talked about this, you still can't-"

"Who are you?" Cas growled right over me. He took a step towards me and suddenly I was running out of bathroom. I backed away as much as I could, which wasn't much, and fetched up against the towel bar.

So I freely admit that Cas is one sexy son of a bitch when he's smiting things, or looks like he wants to be, but trust me: it's way more awesome when it's pointed at someone who is not you. And Cas asking me who I was was frankly fucking scary, because it implied that something was seriously, seriously broken in his angel brain. I mean—Cas in 2014 (oh God that was never gonna happen) knew me on sight, and he wasn't even an angel anymore. Whereas this Cas still had the trenchcoat and the stupid sex hair and oh shit the angel sword in his hand.

"It's me," I said, a little desperately. "It's me, Cas, what the hell."

The smiting face was not going away.

He crowded me into the wall, the towel bar digging into my spine uncomfortably. Under other circumstances I could've gotten into it, but the point of his sword had settled under my chin and he was eyeing me from about four inches away, which was a little close even for us. Low and furious, he demanded, "Who are you, and why do you carry my Grace?"

I was trying to come up with an answer that wouldn't lead to immediate brain-kabob when I heard a man call, "Cas, that you?" from the room. Cas didn't look away from me, but he raised his voice a bit to be heard over the shower and said, "In here, Dean." Which: what?

A guy stepped into my line of sight over Cas's shoulder. He was maybe two inches taller than me, damn good-looking, wearing the same kind of rugged, practical clothes Sam and I live in when we're not digging out the FBI agent suits. And he looked really familiar, but I couldn't nail down why. Behind him loomed a second guy, really tall and really broad, who resembled the first guy a lot around the eyes—brothers, I thought. The second guy was almost as hot, in a kind of adorable puppy way, and just as weirdly familiar.

The first guy took in what was happening and pulled a gun.

Well. He pulled my gun. My 1911, the one that was not in my pile of clothes because even trashed I'm not dumb enough to fall asleep with a gun in my pants, but apparently I am dumb enough to not pick up a weapon when I get out of bed hung over.

"Is it Meg?" he said, calm and controlled and all-systems-go; the tall guy was on alert too. Hunters, had to be. But I'd never met them and how did he know about...

"No I'm not Meg," I snapped. "How did you guys get in here anyway?" It was a little late to pretend I was just an innocent bystander, given that I'd called Cas by name.

"It's our room," the big guy said, in a well-duh way that reminded me of Sam being snotty. He hadn't produced a weapon yet, but his hand was near one, I could tell from his posture even past Cas and the first guy.

"It is not your room!" I said. Right then Cas decided to get back into the conversation. "I won't ask again," he snarled. "Who are you?" And he jabbed up a little with his sword.

Flinching away from it I yelped, "Dina! My name's Dina Winchester, who the hell are you?"