Sometimes, he found himself stopping and wondering when his life had gotten so completely out of hand. Where did he go wrong? When did everything become so very complicated and … strange - so twisted? If he would be his brother, he assumed, he would blame his father for the fact that everything had happened the way it did and that his father had been the reason why had taken on that very road which had ultimately led him to arrive at this place. Wherever this was. However, he was not his brother, right? Despite the fact that his brain was foggy most of the time since he came here, he was almost one hundred percent certain that he was not his brother. Then again, what did that mean in a place like this anyway? He was more like … ninety-eight percent certain, now that he really came to think about it.
And hell, where was he even? Half the time, he didn't know.
»My name is Dean Michael Winchester.« He heard a voice mumble somewhere in the world around him and as he opened his eyes, he grew aware that he was alone. Alone in a world white as snow. No windows, just flat white walls all around, encapsulating him, making him feel small, making him feel claustrophobic as if he was lying inside a coffin. A completely white cubicle, a world of snow. His father had liked to tell him that the world had been completely white from freshly fallen snow in the night when he had been born. But that was a long time ago. His father had stopped talking to him about the past, somewhere along the way.
»My name is Dean Michael … Winchester.« The voice sounded again, so close to his ears this time, that the person who was talking had to be right behind him but as he tried to turn his head, there was no one. »I was born, January twenty-fourth nineteen...« The voice stopped and there was a groan. Damnit, his head hurt like hell. »Nineteen … Seventy? No, that's not right. I was born January … January…« Poor guy couldn't even remember his own birthday.
As he tried to rise to his feet, he noticed that he couldn't. His feet were stuck in the snow around him. It reached almost up to his hips. His whole body was covered in snow, in fact. Pure white snow. He tried to move his hands to his head so that he could massage the tension out of his temples, but he couldn't move his hands. They too were stuck in the snow. The only thing he could do was to lie here in this snow-covered world and listen to that poor crazy man ramble on, repeating his name until he couldn't even do that anymore. With every second, his brain seemed to get foggier and he thought, for a moment, that it was the snow filling his head now too after it had conquered the entire world around him already, making him forget, drowning him in endless white and bitter cold calmness.
Maybe it was better this way. If he would drown in the snow, he wouldn't need to feel pain anymore, he figured. Here he would never need to feel the sting of betrayal anymore. Here, he would never need to experience violence anymore. No yelling, no screaming, no condescending looks, no brother who looked at him like he was bonkers, no pity in the eyes of those he loved.
As he opened his eyes again and stared at the white sky above him, he tried to remember the eyes of his brother. He was almost certain they were green. Not a pure green though. Not candy apple green. Not like his. A mixture of blue and green. Maybe sprinkled with brown here and there. Not like his because his brother wasn't like him. They were two sides of the same coin. His brother was the sun and he was the moon. Or was it the other way around? He couldn't tell. He didn't need to tell. All he could think of were the stars. They were twinkling above his face on the clear white sky and the sunlight was almost blinding. He couldn't see his brother's eyes when he closed his eyes. There was no green in his memory. There was only blue. The deepest and clearest kind of blue he had ever seen. A blue that was so strange and vibrant that it was impossible to be of this world.
And as he tried to focus on this color, as he squeezed his own eyes shut again to ignore the blinding sunlight and the snow around him, he could almost see a face in front of him. A face that belonged to this color.
»My name is … is D … Dean. My name is D-Dean … Winchester … My name is … My name is … Where is Castiel?« That didn't sound right, even to him and hell, what did he even know about that poor bastard? But the crazy man was rambling on around him and with every word his voice sounded more helpless and confused. Almost he felt pity for him, but those blue eyes that he could see staring right back at him now behind closed lids, calmed him enough to ignore the poor man who seemed to be locked in with him in this endless snow filled void. He tried to sleep and for the first time in hundreds of years, it seemed even possible for him to sleep.
»Where is Castiel … Where is … the Angel … Where is the Angel…«
If only that man would finally be silent.
-End of Prolog-