Welcome to the jungle
It gets worse here everyday
Ya learn ta live like an animal
In the jungle where we play
Welcome to the Jungle - Guns N' Roses
Dean openned his eyes.
No motel room, no weird shining eyes, no Sammy. What the fuck just happened?
His hand was still on the doorknob, but this one was different.
"You think you can just leave?" a drunk voice asked, obviously pissed, but Dean didn't turn around.
That couldn't be with him. Wherever he was, he didn't have the time to... well, do anything! Dean liked to create some sort of mayhem just as much as the next person, but this time it just couldn't be his fault.
"Hey! You think fooling around with my wife is funny?"
Well... Maybe he could be involved.
"I'm in a hurry" Dean answered without looking back, inching towards the door.
And when freedom was close, oh so close, something that could've been a chair one day crashed on the wall, covering his jacket in wood chips.
"Get back here!"
Ahm... No.
The back door was unlocked and fortunately the poor bastard was too busy yelling threats to actually fulfill any of them.
Dean checked his surroundings, trying to figure out where he could be, and the neighborhood seemed... normal. White picket fence houses, with blue shutters, green lawns, and kids riding bikes. The only thing that didn't fit there beside himself, was the Impala, parked in a garage on the other side of the streed, four houses away.
"This is ridiculous" Dean grumbled. It wasn't just that he was feeling inadequate, that was the very definition of the walk of shame! Come on, the kids were shying away from him! In fear!
Like he was Freddy fucking Krueger.
And here he was thinking he was good with kids...
Trying to pretend that the terrorized stares, Dean started to do inventory:
- clothes? Check. Weren't the same from... this morning? Yeah. Whatever.
- weapons? Check. All in their rightful places and some more he didn't even remember.
- motel room? Half check. There was a room, but it wasn't a motel and it wasn't his.
- Sam? No sign whatsoever.
- Impala? Check in one second.
Ok, that's taken care of, so... Cue desperation.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to figure out how to merge with the scenary so that everyone just stopped staring at him, instead, he found a set of keys. So far so good, after all he needed keys for stuff like starting the car, but the Impala keys weren't the only ones there.
Standing on the driveway next to his girl, Dean caressed the hood – to show some love – and stared at the house's red door. I see a red door and I want to paint it black...
Well, there ya go. Mental break down all done and paid for, and he was singing Rolling Stones to a frecking door. At least now the investigation could go on.
Looking ato both sides of the street, Dean expected – hoped, really – that someone would stop him, but everyone was too busy looking scared out of their pants and diverting their eyes to do anything else, so he kept going.
The unknown key opened the red door.
The inside of the house was... The inside of a house. Completely anticlimactic. With nothing else to do until someone or something gave him a clue of what in the name of God was going on, Dean thought "Eh, what the hell" and went in. It all smelled of dry blood, not completely dried clothes and gunpowder.
Strangely, that combination made Dean feel at home. Add some mold or something unidentifiable, that obviously couldn't come from anything good, and it would be the perfect description of Dean's childhood smells. Or at least the smell of more than half of the rooms and abandoned houses – "in need of some handy word" as John used to call them, hypocritical son of a bitch – that he and Sam grew up in.
Another step and no sound but the creaking of the floorboards under his weight. Either the house was empty, or everyone who lived there was incredibly silent. A voice that sounded a lot like Sam's whispered in his head: Or maybe they're just asleep, genious.
And shit, that made sense too.
So, as a safety mesure, Dean kept silent and let the floorboards be the only noise there. The living room was small, with a couch, a coffee table and a TV, all littered with half eaten snack boxes, crumpled napkins and empty beer bottles. Whoever owns this house, obviously lived like a king.
Another room, a little more trash, but no leads. Dean didn't even try the kitchen, the fungus growing around in there were probably toxic, and possibly full of sharp teeth, the stairs seemed like the safer choice.
"Who knows? Maybe they even left a trail of trash for me to follow" Dean said out loud, the silence was getting to him.
And no, there wasn't a trail of trash, but a lot of muddy footprints on the steps – some kinda looked like dried blood, but he was no expert – and all of them led to the same door.
Of all the things Dean thought he would find, that room was... What's that word? Oh, yeah, fucking awesome! It was every adolescent boy's dream bedroom, at least it was Dean's dream bedroom when he was a teenager. Actually, Teen-Dean would've been happy with a room that had a real door, that really closed, with a lock or something. No, no, better yet: Dean wanted a room with a door when Sam became a teenager.
The only place he had to hide from Sam's bitch fits was the bathroom, unfortunately dad caught on and called the rights on the hiding spot, totally screwing Dean over.
Back to the awesome room, the walls were completely covered in posters, from AC/DC, to a classic metalic blue Corvette, up until Abbey Clancy in a purple bikini and a gray hoodie.
That chick is hot as fuck.
No. No, no. Down, boy... Focus.
Looking closely, not all the walls were covered with bands, cars, and fine women, the bigger one, by the side of the door, was this huge mural with tiny pins holding up newspaper articles, some from the internet. There was also pictures, but of course none of them was nearly as pleasant as Abbey Clancey, Dean was sure of that.
Vampires, ghouls, Women in White – he hated those bitches – were some of the stuff shown there. He understood perfectly that demented, kinda genious, method of conecting information. A hunter lived there.
Which ment that his break in could get complicated any minute now. But, on the other hand, the Impala was parked out front and Dean did have the keys to the door...
And remembering that brought up the fucking elephant in the room, the biggest hardest question – since "Is that a joint?" asked by dad when Dean was 16 and though it was a good idea to try new things. Getting caught turned out to be a lousy idea – how the hell did he get there?
That was not a good place to be, the bedroom was freggin amazing, sure, but the house still belonged to a hunter and having the keys didn't really help at all.
This all had the stink of angel work, but so far, not even a feather to prove that the fuckers were in the perimeter.
He stood still for a couple of seconds, felling bad 'bout the breaking in and feeling like a douche for feeling bad, then remembered he didn't do that kind of thing – feeling – and went back to snooping around.
It started t get boring when Dean realized that everything was pretty much where he thought it would be. And maybe that was what made the light bulb go on in his brain. 'Cause, come on, the clippings, picture, maps and even the few weapons spread all over every plain surface in what shouldn't be a organized mess, but was – kind of – the questionably clean clothes piled up in a chair, the other maps and posters pinned to the walls, all that screamed Dean Winchester. Or Unabomber, if he was being honest, but there were a lot more pictures of demons than of american presidents scribbled over or mutilated, even if one of those pictures over there, in the middle, kinda hidden, looked a lot like Bill Clinton.
Ok, all right, it wasn't Bill Clinton, not even a president, but it was a picture with real people, not monsters. Probably not even dad knew he had that picture, Sam had no clue. Usually, it stayed inside Dean's wallet, but it was right there... A blue candle on top of a piece of apple pie and Sam's skinny arms pulling Dean's t-shirt by the collar, while the two laughed histericaly.
That picture couldn't be there, but it was.
He wasn't school-smart like Sam, but he could do basic math:
Impala + house + keys to the door of the house + trash + AC/DC posters + birthday picture + weapons + Abbey Clancey = Winchester x (Dean)².
So... He had a house. With a white picket fence and a red door. In a seemingly respectable neighborhood, where all the kids were scared shitless of him.
Dean peeked through the window and yes, the Impala was still there, just looked a little bit more worn down, which was a crime on itself.
What the fuck was going on here?
"Cas?" he called out loud "Castiel?" and then felt stupid for standing there, talking to himself.
And it only got worse when there was no answer.
It felt like a great moment to just let the mental breakdown take over, but he had more places to explore before that.
xo0ox
Oh well. Exploring wasn't so thrilling as it seemed to be.
It really was hishishhis house, there was no way to deny it after a closer look, it still made no sense whatsoever, but it was the truth.
And the fact that he couldn't fathom how he got there or how he, of all people, could own a house, still hadn't change, but hey! One thing at a time.
Dean went to the bathroom looking for the antipsychotic medication that should be around there, but then, he saw his reflection.
A scar began on the corner of his left eye and went down all the way to his chin. It was thin, but anyone could see that whoever put it there, was royally pissed.
And Dean knew it wasn't there in the morning, just forty-somenthing minutes ago.
He was younger, with longer hair, not much, just enought that he could see the diference. he tried to see if anything else was different in his face, but the scar kept drawing his eyes.
It just shouldn't be there. Dean wanted to make a joke about women liking scars, but no one was there to hear it, and seriously? He was too freaked out to make any kind of joke. He should look what else had happened to his body. He should. Really should.
Another time... Yeah. Another time will work a lot better.
Inspite of the wrongness, at the same everything was... exactly right. His stuff was there, he could see his girl parked out front, he felt good, he could move every part of his body just as well as before, but... What happened?
Sam. He had to find Sam. Sasquatch should be going berserk by now, if not for Dean's act of disappearance, just because he didn't get to finish their argument.
With new found purpose, Dean strided to the car – barely looking around for the cheated husband, who might be the the avenger type – only to realize he had no idea where he was, how the hell could he get to Sam?
The wave of anger that hit him, was so strong he almost punched the car.
"Oh, sorry, baby..." he caressed the roof top "I wouldn't do that"
That time with the crowbar doesn't count. Dad died, you know I wasn't in my best shape.
Dean sighed and lifted his face towards the sky, counting to 10. Getting desperate was not going to help and he was already on deep shit anyway. It could always get worse, he just had to work with the stuff at hand. And what, exactly was at hand?
Nothing. A big fat load of useless shit.
Oh, get a grip! Deep breaths...
Checking inside the trunk, Dean decided that it wasn't "nothing", he had all his hunting crap. And those would help. Probably. It was enerving to have everything like it was a regular day. Plus a possibly revengeful husband.
Closing the trunk and swiping his eyes back and forth through the street, Dean tried to come up with a plan of action.
Where the hell were those maps with the red "You are here" thingy when you needed one?
He got int the Impala and squeezed the steering wheel.
"This is not the end of the world! I mean... It is! But... Oh crap..."
Taking a deep breath and leaning his head on the wheel for a second, Dean made up his mind, started the car, and drove around with no destination, in a grounds recognition mission.
A few minutes had passed when he noticed that these streets looked familiar.
Wait a minute... He knew this place, he made a point of never coming here, so why the hell him, of all the sons of bitches spread around the world, would have a fucking house right there?
Palo Alto, California. Fucking Stanford.
A wave of cursing and a small aneurysm later, the rumble of the Impala's engine finally calmed Dean down. He was still sweating, grinding his teeth and squeezing the steering wheel so hard that his fingers were getting numb, but, you know, calmer indeed.
It was obvious that this is not his universe, and painfully clear that somenthing was terrbily wrong, but could things have changed that much?
Stanford... No way out of this, it was the only place that made any sense going to in the moment. Or maybe, but it was the closest.
Even after 4 years, Dean's natural GPS system worked perfectly and getting to Sam's place was easy, but without knowing what he would find there, Dean would've been a lot happier if the path was harder or longer.
Dean went to the front door and back to the Impala five times, before he got the nerve to go inside and up the stairs.
Looking at his kid brother's door, once again Dean hesitated. He might be the weakest link – mentaly – in the Winchester chain, but even he knew that this time breaking and entry wasn't the brightest idea, so he knocked. A timid knock, but, yeah, a knock.
Sam opened the door, looking exausted and... young. A lot younger than he looked like in the motel a couple of hours ago, before Dean fell into... this... place... yeah.
"Sammy?"
The younger boy's eyes grew huge, completely surprised, and though Dean knew he wasn't gifted in the art of being sensitive or recognizing emotions, he saw when surprise became shock, when shock became anger and when anger became a fist flying towards his face.
"What the fuck, Sam?" he growled to his giant little brother, steping backward, holding his aching jaw.
That hurt like... Fuck!
"What do you want, Dean?" Sam sounded tired, pissy, and it was crystal clear that Dean wasn't out of the woods just yet and that a second punch was a very possible scenario. And, hey! Surprise! Shoot-first-ask-later was still the Winchester policy, it seems.
"Dude, what the hell just happened?" Dean almost stepped foward, but Sam's clenched fists changed his mind "What was that thing on the door?"
Sam's blank expression wasn't all that encouraging either.
"Are you drunk?" getting pissier and pissier by the second "Why'd you come here? Ruining my life and killing my girlfriend wasn't enough for you, Dean? You gonna finish the job?"
"What are you...? Sammy, this is serious!" the words were barely out of his mouth and Sam was charging with an armed punch, but this time, Dean had the presence of mind to deflect.
"Holly fuck, Sam!"
Sam grabbed his older brother's jacket.
"Don't ever call me Sammy" he growled menacingly, and pushed Dean off "Go away."
And the door slamed closed.
What just...? FUCK!
"Sam! Sammy, open the door!" Dean pretended not to notice the flicker of despair in his voice "What's going on?"
The distinct sound of a shotgun got Dean to let go of this hole brotherly love thing and just escape to the Impala's safety.
All of this was wrong, so, so wrong! Rubing a hand through his face, Dean remembered another wrong thing. So fucking wrong!
I got punked by a freak with bright eyes, Sam hates me, I'm alone and there's a freaky ass looking scar on my face!
Bobby.
Yes. That was the answer. Bobby would know what is going on and would make everything go back to normal. Ok, normal's kind of a stretch for a Winchester, but he wanted his seick and twisted sense of normality back, 'cus this place sucks out loud.
Bobby. Yeah. Everything will get better as soon as he talks to Bobby.
Checking his watch, Dean did the math and if he drove like he always did – like a bat out of hell with a but load of crack up his ass – he could be at Bobby's in about 23 hours, but he felt like shit, his stomach was turning, his body was tired like he hadn't slept in days, though he knew he just woke up.
He could get some supplies and some rest before the road trip and with some luck, this whole thing was just a sick, sick, realistic nightmare and after a good nap, everything would be back to normal. Yeah, right.
Crawling back to his white picket fence, red door house, straight to his freaking awesome room, Dean barely felt his body hitting the matress. He just wanted to sleep his way home.
xo0ox
Light. There was street light coming in from the window and that was actually annoying as crap, even through closed eyelids, but at least it meant it was morning. And maybe it was the right one.
Smell. Oil and gunpowder. The matress was more comfortable than he was used to, but it seemed like a bedroom, with a bit of luck in a skeevy motel on the side of the road. And maybe it was the right one.
He slowly opened his eyes. God damn peripheral vision! Without even moving, Dean could see his surroundings and knew that it was the same room from the night before. Or yesterday's morning. Well... The wrong room.
It hadn't been a dream, definitely. Sucks-to-be-me, yadda yadda, knowing that didn't really help. At all. But it was the only thing he was sure. So, yeah... It really sucked to be Dean Winchester right now. What he also knew, was that when he felt tired, it was really freaking tired, he went out like a light and now, it was 5 a.m.
Dean sat on the bed and rubbed his face, still felling kinda creepy over his new face addition. Ok, ir he was going to be stuck in this place for God knows how long, he should find out what else is different, starting with his own body.
The bathroom never seemed so far away.
Dean took of his t-shirt and breathed deeply before looking in the mirror. Whatever happened, it wasn't easy on him. The scar on his face was clearly planned and executed with a lot of dedication by someone royaly pissed of at him. It began on the corner of his left eye, a few more inches and he would've been blinded – must've hurt like a motherfucker – from there, it followed his jaw line up until his chin. A quick thought crosses his mind that even so, he was still hot.
And people said that he had low self esteem...
His hands had burns, just as his right arm. Those look like they were a whole new different kind of fun.
His chest was a fucked up map of pain and it only made him wonder, rather grimly, what his back looked like. Claw marks decorated his shoulder and to complete the package, there was this distinct scar right below his ribs. And this one was surgical, 'cause it was pretty obvious that all he needed was some internal injury. Where would be the fun without one of those?
But the wrongest of all – beside everything else – was the thing that wasn't there, the thing that was missing. The tattoo. The anti-possession tattoo wasn't were it should be and it didn't seem to be anywhere else. On its alleged place, maybe a little to the right, near his collar bone was yet another cute display of pain, which strangely looked like a question mark.
He must've fallen down a trash compactor at some point, because it just seemed like too many scars for so little years of living. And he was thin. Just angles of muscles and bones, nearly no flesh. It was the same body he had as a teen, just a little bit more... banged up to hell and back.
Ok, enough with the horror show.
After a girly-me-moment – you know... Showering, shaving, the works – which Sam would be proud of, if he didn't hate me, Dean decided to stop felling sorry for himself, and passing that job to someone else.
Time to find Bobby.
A.N.:. ZOMG! Gotta tell ya, this one took like ten years out of my life! Which is so stupid 'cause I already had it writen, but maaaann...
I googled so much stuff to make sure I was doing the spelling right, that now? I'm not sure I can write my own name! So, if there are any spelling craziness, don't even tell me 'cause I'll probably cry!
Any other thing or expression that doesn't make all that much sense blame it on Google and on Hollywood! Kidding, I'm just really, patheticly tired.
Hey, did you guys notice that I used quotations for the dialogue? How cool am I?
Ok, gonna go now! Send me some love and tell your friends about this bitching story!
God, I'm soooo lame.