Canon-ish. Post-season 7. Not my best work. Seriously, skip it.
Oh well, I'll never learn
You know how on TV and in movies when people are wounded there's usually someone around to comment on the amount of blood? Like 'I never knew there would be so much blood' or some such shit. Well, Dean had grown up on a steady diet of blood. He had dealt with more than his fair share of wounded people and had some personal experience with dying and blah blah blah.
That made it even more massively stupid when the first thing that came to his mind when Castiel got shot was; that's a lot of blood. Yeah, it was. It was gushing through his fingers. Not that he was freaked out by it. It was almost boring by now. Been there, done that.
But you couldn't think like that, because every time could be the last time, so he pressed his hands tighter to the wound and ignored Castiel's protests. It kept coming, like water. It was really alarmingly thin. Maybe he needed to take Castiel to a doctor after this. You had blood thinners; surely there would also be whatever the opposite is.
The whole thing felt off, because it was broad daylight and everyone was just walking around them. It was beyond strange. People were assholes, Dean knew that, but this was a bit much. Someone gets shot on the street during the day and every single person coming at them reacted to the sight of a bloodied Castiel by sidestepping them. That wasn't normal.
Dean was feeling kind of weird too. It would be super sweet if this meant that he was having a nightmare. He could definitely get behind that. Come to think of it, there was that typical disjointed quality to the situation. As if the facts of reality kept changing on him.
Just seconds ago he had been somewhere else. He was sure of it. He was less sure about whether the other place had been better than where he was now. You'd say it almost had to be, but that wasn't exactly how Dean's life worked.
The concrete under his chafed knees felt real, though. Castiel's blood was pretty realistic too. A little thin, yeah, but Castiel probably just wasn't eating right. It smelled like blood. Some other liquid was starting to spill out now. Dean didn't turn his face away. One of the many perks of getting shot in the stomach was the nice exposure to; let's call it, digested food. This was getting gross and dire.
So, instead of banking on this being a dream, maybe Dean needed to get a little more pro-active. Otherwise Castiel would probably bleed out. And that would suck.
Also majorly sucking? They were in a hospital now. Dean would gladly have chalked this up to a time machine or time loop or something epically screwing with his time, except for the fact that Castiel's head was bandaged. Annoyed, he sighed. Either there was something seriously wrong with him or the continuity in this dream was about as impressive as the continuity on the average soap opera.
On cue, Castiel opened his eyes and spoke.
'Who are you? Who am I?'
'Oh Christ,' Dean muttered, disgusted. If given the choice, he vastly preferred switched babies or falsified paternity tests over amnesia, thank you very much.
'Don't go The Notebook on me. You know I hate that,' Dean tried. Jokes were always good in these kinds of situations. Secretly, he was also hoping that his brain might switch to a sitcommier scenario. Something a lot lighter and more fun. He closed his eyes and opened them again. No such luck. Still the same room. Just Castiel and him and some depressingly practical furniture.
'I don't know what that means,' Castiel admitted. He was starting to look scared now, which tugged on Dean's rusty heart strings. The easiest thing to do would be to leave the hospital room, find the roof and jump off it. That would wake him up. Something made him decide not to. Might have been that he wasn't 100 % sure that this was a dream. Might have been Castiel's pleading blue eyes.
'Wish I could forget that movie,' Sam piped up, almost giving Dean a heart attack in the process. Dean whipped around to find his brother occupying a chair to his left. Sam chuckled at his start.
'Where the hell did you come from?'
'I was sitting here the entire time,' Sam explained. From abdominal wound to head wound, from street to hospital, from just the two of them to Sam suddenly also being there: this was all following classic dream logic.
'Do you know how rare amnesia is?' Sam asked. Castiel's head shot up and he moaned in pain. Quickly, Dean got up from his chair to help ease Castiel back down. This was not cool. Maybe Sam could stay with Castiel, while he put an end to this bullshit. This Sam didn't seem like the caring type, though. Also, if this was a dream, what's to say Sam wouldn't vanish the moment Dean walked out of the room? Then Castiel would be alone.
'No, Sam, I don't know.'
'Me neither, but I'm betting it's pretty rare.'
Sam nodded his head all wisely and Dean glared at him. This Sam seemed more and more like a hyper-exaggerated version of someone Dean hated. Time to leave, before he did something he would regret, like kill fake Sam. Dean made the mistake of glancing again at Castiel, who was looking pretty confused – pretty and pretty confused and pretty when confused – and sure enough, he couldn't leave after that.
'Ignore him,' Dean said loudly. A little too loudly perhaps, because everything was suddenly very quiet around him. And he was now in a forest. This was familiar. Despite the shadows moving about and the eerie feeling and the hazy quality of his surroundings, Dean instantly knew that he wasn't dreaming or whatever anymore. Still, he curled his fingers into a fist and punched the nearest tree.
Now his hand hurt. He had closed his eyes and was reluctant to open them. So, he applied the ripping off a band aid principle. No peeking through his lashes. Just bam! Open. And wouldn't you know it...
Nope, still in Purgatory.
'Son of a bitch.'
The end.