Sam's eyes snapped open at the voice. He carefully pulled out his handgun, stood, and turned, prepared for the worst.
He could never have been prepared for what he saw.
Leaning against the doorframe, not quite inside the church, in a familiar uniform of blue jeans, a brown leather jacket, and a smug grin, was none other than the late Dean Winchester.
Sam was rendered speechless. His mind was racing: ghost, shifter, demon, trickster. Some creature with his brother's face. He wasn't quite sure what to feel, but anger was definitely creeping in. However, even though he acknowledged the probable danger right in front of him, he also knew that there was a very, very slight chance that it was really actually Dean. Coming back from the dead wasn't entirely unheard of, after all. Sam slightly lowered the gun.
"What, are you just going to stand there or are you going to come say hi?" Maybe-Dean asked, nonchalantly dusting his sleeves. Sam slowly advanced, taking stock of the weapons he had on him. The gun in his hands, the silver knife in his jacket, and the demon killing knife in his right boot. Everything else, including holy water and salt, was still in the car. By now, Sam was about five feet from the door and Maybe-Dean hadn't budged.
He held up a hand before Sam could get any closer, "hold on, I know. I got it." He then did exactly what Sam was thinking. He took out his own knife, gave Sam a good look at it to verify that it was silver, and made a little cut on the back of his hand. No burning or boiling, not a shifter; he bled, so not an illusion or spirit of any kind. He then pulled a flask from his jacket and splashed some water on his face. Again, nothing happened, not a demon. He gave a little shrug and an eyebrow raise while stashing the flask and stepping further back into the sun.
Sam's eyes widened and he lost his grip on the gun. It was him. It was impossible, but it was him. "Dean," was all he managed to hoarsely croak. He quickly closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around his brother, patting his back to make sure he was real, squinting back the tears that threatened to come pouring out again.
He pulled back, "Dean — I — you're... here," he got out, not quite able to sort his thoughts into words, "you're alive! H-How... How are you alive? I mean, you..." the excitement in his voice faded as he realized where Dean should be at the moment, "you went to hell, right?"
"Yeah," Dean grinned and dropped his head, as if in a fond memory, "but I'm finally out. It's real good to see you, Sammy. How long was I down there anyway?"
"Seven years today. How did you get out?"
Dean shook his head at this, looking at the ground. "Seven years." He mumbled with a smile and a laugh, he seemed to be finding the whole thing very amusing. "Seven years of hell. Time does fly, huh?" There was a strange gleam in Dean's eyes when he looked up at Sam.
With a nervous chuckle, Sam remarked, "well, it didn't exactly fly up here. It's been hard without you, Dean."
Another laugh, slightly more hysterical. "Not up here. Time is so much slower up here! I would have killed to be in hell for only seven years." Dean had started to sound less amused and more manic.
"Dean, how long were you down there?" Sam asked warily. He started slowly backing towards the impala, realizing that this was not normal. Something was off about his brother.
Dean followed, sounding more and more angry. "You were up here having a grand old time for seven short years. Do you want to know how long I was there? How long I was in Hell?" He stopped advancing when Sam got near the car. He paused briefly, glancing over his brother's increasingly defensive stance, then continued with a quieter, darker tone, "time passes pretty different downstairs. When I finally clawed my way out, I had been there for nine hundred years."
At this, Sam stopped, his eyes widened, mouth slightly open in surprise.
Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and started to slowly and casually pace back and forth. He took a deep breath and looked up to the relatively clear sky. He looked to be calming himself. After a pause, he continued pacing and talking. "Hell, man. It does some crazy things to ya. First couple hundred years, it was all 'why me' and 'poor Sammy's all alone'. But after a while, I felt almost like I belonged there. It was almost bearable, the fire, the blood, the screams." A small smile flashed across his face and he paused briefly to let his words soak in. "I think that somewhere around six hundred years, I just stopped caring, stopped feeling. I started to think, 'hey, maybe it's not so bad down here'. And, just like that," he snapped his fingers, "I'm gone. Well, it was weird. Nothing about it changed, but I don't think I was really me anymore." He paused again to look at Sam, who was all but cowering against the impala, looking increasingly scared. Dean continued with his speech, now staring at his brother. "You learn the funniest things, you know? For instance, did you know that demons are made from tortured souls. Every demon used to be human, but they were sent to hell and," he snapped his fingers, "finally snapped. Nine hundred years, Sammy. That's a lot of time. Nine hundred years down there can do a hell of a lot to someone's sanity." Dean stepped forward until he was just out of reach.
"I'm sorry, I really am, but," he deliberately blinked to reveal, to Sam's horror, two pitch black orbs, "I'm pretty sure that I'm not human anymore."