Disclaimer/Spoilers: See Chapter 1

A/N: In this chapter a reference is made to the gates of hell being shut, it's not in pertaining to the end of season 8 but you'll just have to keep reading to find out what did happen.

Through the Never

Obligation to survive

We hunger to be alive

On a quest, meaning, reason

Came to be, how it begun

All alone in the family of the sun

Dean reclined contentedly on the hood of his Impala, gazing out at the expanse beyond the cliff he was perched on, one arm resting on his bent knee as he sipped on a cool beer. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there, watching the sun slowly sinking toward the desert cliffs and the river below, painting everything in a warm gold-and-red hue.

It was a breathtaking sight that Dean had never seen before —at least not one he had seen in person. From where he sat, he could see the history of the world woven into the walls of the canyon. He absently wondered what those walls might say a thousand years from now. What story would they tell about the time he lived once it was long past? Would they speak of the sacrifices that were made to keep everyone safe, despite the world's apparent desire to just drive the bus off the cliff? Or would everything and everyone be buried under the dirt to be all but forgotten? Would there even be a world left to forget?

The hunter breathed in deeply, taking a moment to enjoy his surroundings for what they were: a temporary sanctuary, a calm before the inevitable storm. There were, of course, other places he would consider more peaceful, but he couldn't deny having wanted to come here for a long time with his brother. He wasn't sure why they never did. Sam would have loved it. Dean smiled fondly around the mouth of his bottle. He could see his baby brother now, geeking out over, well, everything. He would of course call Sam an encyclopedia of weirdness, making fun of his brother's vast wealth of random facts. Sam would then retaliate with his own jab, maybe about his love for cars or girls or food.

Dean's breath hitched in his chest as he thought of the events preceding him waking up in this place. He lowered his bottle, letting it rest in his relaxed hands. They should have gone to the Grand Canyon. Dean squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to banish the last images of his brother from his mind and replace them with something else, like why he even was where he was. Taking another calming breath, Dean opened his eyes, absorbing the view, letting it wash over him. He knew this place wasn't Hell. Aside from the lack of torture and eternal torment, the gates were sealed, and Hell was closed for business—no demons out and no souls in. He knew it wasn't Heaven for much the same reason, except Heaven's gates had been closed years ago; it was the portal that was recently sealed. They never did figure that one out.

The crunching sound of footsteps in loose dirt pulled Dean from his thoughts; he knew immediately who it was and steeled his expression appropriately. "If you're here to tell me that everything the light touches will soon be mine . . ." He shook his head, bringing his beer once more to his mouth. "I gotta tell you, man, you can keep it."

Castiel didn't look at Dean, instead eyeing the slowly setting sun, but a small smile rested on his lips. Dean watched him for a moment before returning his own gaze out toward the canyon.

"So this isn't the veil." Dean gestured widely in front of him.

"No, this is . . . someplace else."

"Well that's specific."

"Dean." Cas turned his full attention to the hunter. "We don't have much time."

Dean tilted his head to the side, letting out a humorless chuckle. "Sounds about right." He rested his beer on his lap. "Cas, what's going on?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't get to you sooner. By the time I reached you and your brother . . ." He looked away, allowing the unspoken words to sit between them before continuing. "When I saw what happened—what was happening—I tried . . . I did the only thing I could think of."

"Cas, what did you do?" Dean prompted, unsure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

"I attempted to send you back."

"Back? Like back to the bunker?" Dean shot a glance out over the canyon. "I think you missed."

"Back in time." Cas shifted his stare back to his friend.

"Back in time? Haven't done that in a while, but I thought you couldn't actually change . . ." Dean let the sentence trail off. Time travel had never been one of his favorite subjects. Trying to figure it out was like a dog chasing its tail. There was no end in sight, and you just ended up dizzy.

"It is possible, though very difficult, and there is always a chance of things turning out far worse."

"Worse than sadistic, soul-eating creatures bent on turning the world into their own all-you-can-eat buffet?"

"Yes."

Dean nodded appreciatively. "Awesome . . . wait." He paused as the angel's exact words caught up to him. "What do you mean you attempted to send me back?"

Castiel hesitated for a moment, searching for the correct words. "By the time I reached you most of my grace had been depleted from fighting. I believed there was enough to send you back whole, but that was not the case."

"All right." Dean started slowly, "If we're not in the past, and we're not in the veil or dying in a dirty warehouse, then where are we?"

"Simply put, we are on a type of metaphysical plain created in part by the grace I expanded and the cognitive—"

"Whoa, whoa, Cas." Dean held his hands between Castiel and himself. "Terms I can understand." He turned his palms upwards, careful not to spill his drink. "Like I'm five."

Castiel looked away, tilting his head to the side as he once more searched for the proper words. After what felt like hours, Cas spoke again. "It's a place in between life and death. My grace gave it life, but your mind gave it shape."

"Like Limbo?"

Castiel thought for a moment, then nodded. "That would be a fairly accurate description, yes."

"All right. So you tried to send me back in time and we ended up in Limbo. I'm assuming you have some kind of plan?" Dean asked hopefully. He wasn't all too keen on spending eternity in Limbo or on some plain of existence in his head or whatever was going on. Maybe he should've stuck with trying to figure out time travel.

"Well, technically we aren't here. You are."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Come again?"

"When I used my grace to send you back, I used all of it. And without my grace . . ." Castiel let the sentence trail off. He gestured to himself as he faced Dean. "What you see is more like an . . . afterimage created by my grace, so I could talk to you. That is why we don't have much time. I don't know how long this place or I will last."

"All right then, Obi-Wan." Dean gestured to Cas to continue as he took a drink of his beer, only to find it disappointingly empty. He glanced around, looking for a cooler or more bottles, then gave a much put-upon sigh when his search came up empty.

"I wasn't able to send you back whole, but the spell can still be finished with a slight . . . modification." Castiel pushed on before the hunter could interrupt him. "I can't send you back like the other times. But I believe I can send your soul, memories, and consciousness back to your past body."

Dean tilted his head, narrowing his eyes a fraction. "Is this going to be like the Enochian thing?"

"It will not."

"Good."

"You have a much better chance of exploding rather than ending up a vegetable," Cas supplied in a calm voice, as if they were just talking about the weather.

"Awesome." Dean looked around the area again, having a sudden urge for a glass or bottle of whiskey. "Okay, so let's say we do this. What happens to . . . all that stuff with my past self?"

Castiel shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Cas?" Dean said, slowly drawing out the angel's name in a question.

"Theoretically, your soul and your past self's soul would merge together into one single soul, as would your consciousness and memories."

Dean sat up straighter, gesturing to Castiel as he spoke. "Theoretically? As in you don't know?"

"It's never been done before, and the human body isn't meant to hold two whole souls. There is no telling what may happen when your soul comes in contact with your past soul."

Dean sighed heavily. He wasn't particularly keen on exploding—not even really sure how that worked—but he knew the chance to change events was too great to pass up. If they could stop those soul-suckers from gaining a foothold, then they could end up saving millions of people. Really, there was no decision. On the plus side, if he did explode, that would certainly change history. Dean slid off the hood of his car, coming to stand in front of his friend. He held his hands out to his sides. "Okay then."

"I'm not sure how far I will be able to send you back—maybe a few years or so. But it should be enough to make a difference." Castiel reached up to place two fingers on Dean's forehead. Just before he made contact, he paused. "Good luck, Dean. You'll need it."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," he said, echoing the words he had spoken to another long ago."Let's dance."

Dean felt Castiel touch his forehead. At first it seemed like nothing was going to happen, like the spell was a dud, or maybe there just wasn't enough juice to finish the spell. He was about to tell Cas when he felt a fire starting at the angel's fingers, racing down through his limbs, rocking through him in tumultuous waves. The fire crashed and bounced within him, centering in the middle of his chest like the eye of a terrible hurricane. What felt like an eternity in time lasted only seconds before everything went black.

He decided waking up was much like trying to swim through molasses in the middle of winter, not that he ever tried swimming through molasses in the winter, or anytime of the year for that matter. It would probably be pretty awkward, and sticky. Moreover, he wasn't entirely sure where one would even get a tub of molasses big enough to properly swim in. Dean gave himself a mental shake; there was something he was supposed to do. It was important. At least he was pretty sure it was important. Like ninety-five percent sure . . . maybe ninety . . . or eighty-five . . . percent . . . sure. Eighty-six. He was eighty-six percent sure of . . . something.

Dean attempted to push his way through the cotton that someone had stuffed his head with. He struggled to remember why everything felt so . . . cottony. Was that even a word? His thoughts and memories were murky and disjointed at best, floating nonsensically. Every time he tried to grasp onto a thought, it drifted just beyond reach. He remembered a crappy motel room, and Cas, and the Grand Canyon. But that didn't seem right. The Grand Canyon wasn't in a crappy motel room —or was the crappy motel room in the Grand Canyon? That didn't seem correct either. He was pretty sure he had never been to the Grand Canyon. It was a place he always wanted to go, but there had never seemed to be enough time. Or was it never the right time?

Bracing himself against the broken jigsaw puzzle that was his mind, Dean tried to center on a single memory; if he could just grasp onto one, maybe he could build from there. Cas seemed to be the clearest memory—the angel had told him something. It was important: he was sending him somewhere, somewhere so he could fix things. Make things better. Save someone. As he focused on that single thought, his memory cleared at a painful crawl.

Sam. He was going to save his brother. And the world by proxy. He was sure whatever plan he came up with though was going to have to start with waking up.

The chair Sam sat in redefined uncomfortable: the back had a weird curve to it, and all the padding in the seat seemed to have been worn flat long before he was born. The fact that he had been sitting in it for almost two days now didn't help. Sam leaned forward, digging his palms into his eyes with a groan of frustration. It had been forty-two hours since his brother collapsed in their motel room. Forty-one since he got the name of a doctor of sorts they could trust from Ellen. Thirty-seven since they arrived in the middle of the night. Twenty-two since his brother stopped breathing for the third time. And fifteen since the doctor sighed, patted him on the shoulder, and told him he didn't know what was wrong with Dean. For now all they could do was treat the symptoms and hope he woke up on his own.

Sam studied his brother's still form. Everything about it was so wrong. His brother was practically motion personified. Dean never stopped moving—there was always something to do, somewhere to go, someone to save. The last time Sam saw Dean that still was right after the accident almost a year ago. A shudder ran through him; he had hoped to never see his brother in that position ever again. At least this time he's breathing on his own—mostly. There was no respirator forcing air into his lungs like before, but there was a nasal cannula to supply oxygen, along with a blood pressure cuff, EKG, and a pulse oximeter.

For the last forty some hours Dean's stats had jumped all over the place. They would be within normal ranges for a few minutes to an hour, only to drop dangerously low or spike dangerously high before leveling out once more. The doctor, Daniel Haynes, had told him that he didn't often use the more modern machines with his patients, preferring instead the homeopathic or witchcraft side of medicine. Sam snorted mirthlessly. Witchcraft. Dean's gonna love that. However, when nothing seemed to work, the good doctor felt it was prudent to have something that could closely monitor what was going on so they could better counter it.

Standing up, Sam stretched, trying to work out some of the kinks and soreness in his muscles; pacing the room, he soon found himself looking out a small window on the far side. Technically, there was nothing medically wrong with Dean. They thought it might be something supernatural—they still did. Unfortunately, the only supernatural encounters they had recently was the Djinn earlier this month, the whole peanut butter disaster they swore never to speak of again a few weeks after that, and of course the each-uisge just a few days ago.

None of those instances really explained Dean's current state. Sure, the Djinn could make people catatonic—put them in a dream state—but that Djinn was dead and Dean wasn't catatonic. Sam heaved a heavy sigh; he felt so lost and wished for his brother to wake up and make everything better just by virtue of being. He knew it was a childish thought, but he couldn't help it. It was as much an ingrained response as his brother's need to protect was. Sam glanced back over his shoulder; he felt his heart skip at the sight that greeted him.

Dean's eyes were open. They were glassy, unfocused, and moving everywhere at once as if watching something only he could see, but they were open.

Covering the distance between them in a few quick strides, Sam sent a fleeting glance to the door of the tiny room, wondering for a moment if he should fetch the doctor. He dismissed the idea for the moment, not wanting to leave his brother just yet.

He placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and moved into his line of sight. "Dean? Hey." Sam kept his words low and soft but forceful enough to pull Dean's attention. He watched him blink hard a few times; he could tell he was still struggling through the fog of waking up.

"S'm?" His voice sounded like broken glass. Dean reached up, his fingers tangling themselves loosely into Sam's sleeve. "You're not . . . " He took a shallow breath. "You're . . . okay?"

It was a normal Dean-type question to ask, but the intensity he asked it with set a cold pit in Sam's stomach. Dean looked at him with an almost desperate, hopeful, and, if Sam didn't know any better, he would say scared countenance. Dean didn't do scared. At least not where anyone could see.

"Yeah, man, I'm fine." Sam smiled weakly. "I mean besides the heart attack you tried to give me," he added in an attempt for levity, but it fell short. "Dean?" he prodded when his brother continued to watch him like he was worried Sam would disappear between one moment and the next. He could feel Dean grip his arm convulsively. "Hey, Dean. You with me, man?"

Dean's eyes snapped into focus. "Sam?" he said like the whisper of a prayer.

"Yeah, man." He squeezed Dean's shoulder firmly. "I'm right here."

Dean watched him for a moment longer before nodding mutely. Sam wasn't sure which one of them the nod was for. Dean's eyes slid off him to take in their environment, though his hand remained tangled in Sam's sleeve. The younger hunter watched carefully as Dean took in the room before letting his own gaze follow Dean's. He realized for having spent two days there he hadn't really paid their surroundings much attention. Not that he didn't notice the warm brown walls, plain if not for the various drying herbs that seemed to be arbitrarily draped around the room, or the chaotically filled shelves in the corner. His focus had just been set on the man that had been lying inert at the center of it all.

Sam's attention was pulled back as the grip on his sleeve fell away, and he felt his brother shift under his hand as he pulled off the nasal cannula and struggled to sit up. Sam shifted his hand to his chest. "Dean, maybe you should take it easy. You were—"

Dean made a clumsy swipe at Sam's hand. "Ge' off," he muttered half-heartedly, continuing to push against him.

Sam sighed; trying to get his brother to sit still when he had other plans was like . . . well, he really had nothing to compare it to, as nothing was quite as hard. He tucked his hand beneath Dean's shoulder and helped him sit up, adjusting the head of the bed into a reclined position.

Pain spiked through Dean's head as he shifted elevation; he scrunched his eyes against the scenes flashing across his vision. It was like watching the last few years of his life playing out in no particular order at high speed. It made him feel like he was going to lose the lunch he remembered eating both forever ago and what seemed like only a few hours ago. It was beyond disorienting. Dean pressed the back of his hand to his mouth with a groan. "Almost wish I'd exploded," he muttered.

"Dean?" his brother questioned softly. "Maybe I should go get the doctor now."

He felt Sam give his shoulder a squeeze before he started to let go. "No!" Dean jumped slightly, reaching out to grab Sam's arm. He cleared his throat, trying to cover up the action. "No need to bother the doctor yet." He didn't want his little brother to leave, not just yet. The last images he had seen of him were still too fresh in his mind and kept superimposing themselves across this current version of his brother. He held onto Sam for a few more seconds before letting go to rub his forehead. "'m fine," he mumbled wearily.

Sam snorted mirthlessly. "Dude, do you even know what fine means?"

As he was opening his mouth to retort, Dean stopped short as another image flashed across his vision, this one different. Where the others had been memories, this one wasn't, not really. It was more like a picture of what appeared to be a seal or a sigil. Dean pushed against the bed, shoving a flash of pain and dizziness to the side, looking around for something to write on. He had the overwhelming feeling that it was important and he didn't want to lose the image.

"Dean? Hey." Sam snapped his fingers in front of his face. "Dude, talk to me. What's wrong?" Apparently he had been trying to get Dean's attention for the last several minutes.

The hunter glanced up at his brother for a moment. "I, uh . . . I need some paper, and a—" He moved his hand in a universal sign of writing.

Dean leaned forward over his knees, pressing his palm tightly against his forehead; the memory replay was finally tapering off, leaving in its stead a headache that Dean was convinced was going to cause physical cracks through his skull. He started slightly when a notebook and pencil appeared in front of his face. He took the items, flipping to an empty page, and began drawing the image that was relentlessly pounding through his head in between the memories. It was a five-pointed star inside a six-pointed star, inside an eleven-pointed star inside a large circle. There was writing throughout—he recognized as Enochian—but the image wasn't clear enough to make out the actual words.

"What is that?" Sam asked, leaning in a bit to examine the drawing from a better angle.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "I have no idea." That wasn't completely true. It was true in that he didn't know what the symbol was for, nor why it was in his head. But he was fairly sure that the image was Cas' doing. For one reason or another, the nerd angel had planted it there; he just had to figure out why.

"You don't know?" Sam reached out for the notebook. "It kind of looks like a devil's trap, but . . . different. More elaborate."

Dean gave up the notebook with a small shrug, watching as Sam tore the paper out. He was pretty sure it had nothing to do with a devil's trap, though he couldn't really deny the similarity between the two. However, there was no reason for Castiel to plant the image of one in his head. He would have to figure it out later when he had time and access to some old books. But first he had to figure out what time he was in, and then he could move on from there. He knew he was back further than just a few years,; he could tell from Sam alone. The kid still had that air of innocence, less than when he first pulled him out of Stanford, but it was there nonetheless.

Figuring the best approach would be the direct approach, Dean cleared his throat before turning his attention back to his brother and asking as nonchalantly as possible, "Hey, Sam. What's the date?"

Sam lifted his gaze up from the drawing; he raised his eyebrows as he took a moment to think. "The twenty-ninth, I think."

"Twenty-ninth of . . . ?"

"April," Sam responded, a bit slower.

Dean nodded his head once, wincing at the pain the movement cost him. "Twenty-ninth of April, two thousand . . ." He let the sentence trail off, hoping Sam would finish it.

Sam watched Dean for a long moment, then shoved the piece of paper in his pocket. "Okay, I'm getting the doctor."

"No, wait, Sam." Dean reached out to grab him, but his brother was already out the door. "Damn it." He let his hand fall back to his lap. That worked out well. On the flip side, the sooner the doc came and decided there was nothing wrong, the sooner they could get out of there and work on more important things.

Dean sighed and started to fiddle with the pulse ox still on his finger. He reached over to the machine it was connected to and started messing with the knobs. He knew better than to remove the device before shutting it off. Some of them had a tendency of making a lovely ear-shattering wail when you did. Dean chewed on his lower lip as he inspected the machine; it looked like someone had pulled it right out of the forties.

The unexpected sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted Dean's current mission, startling him into swinging back around toward the door. He squeezed his eyes shut and cradled his head as the movement caused the world to tilt viciously on its axis.

"I see what you mean."

Dean blinked his vision clear and looked up to find the owner of the voice standing next to his brother, who was wearing a rather impressive bitch face at his attempt to shut off the medical equipment. Dean gave a small apologetic shrug ,even though they both knew he wasn't sorry in the least. He turned his attention back to the currently unknown person: the man was tall, maybe only an inch or so shorter than Sam. He kind of looked like Marko Ramius from Hunt for Red October, but instead of being dressed like a Lithuanian submarine commander he was dressed rather casually in jeans and a button-up shirt. Not exactly what he expected from a doctor.

"It's good to finally see you awake." The Marko Ramius look alike approached the bed and held a hand out to Dean. "Daniel Haynes."

Dean smiled tightly at the man, returning his handshake while hiding his disappointment that the man didn't share Marko Ramius' accent, but instead had a slightly less exciting normal southern drawl.

"Your brother told me you are having trouble recalling the date?" Haynes asked while he moved around the bed, checking on the equipment Dean had just been toying with.

"Twenty-ninth of April," Dean replied. He wanted to get out of that place as soon as possible and go somewhere he could think and plan what he needed to do.

"Dean, I just told you that not even five minutes ago." Sam folded his arms over his chest.

The doctor looked between the two brothers for a moment; he then turned his attention back to his patient. "Do you know what year?"

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth; he looked over at Sam, trying to gauge the man's age and thus the year. "Two thousand . . ." he trailed off thoughtfully, taking a moment to try and search his memories. Unfortunately, they were still a big garbled mess overlapping each other; he couldn't figure out which were recent from this time and which just stood out enough to feel recent. ". . . nine?" he finally finished slowly.

Doctor Haynes pursed his lips together tightly enough that Dean was pretty sure he hadn't hit the mark and may have even been more than a few off. On the plus side, he narrowed the date down to not two thousand and nine.

"Have you been experiencing any other memory problems since you woke up?"

Dean had to bite back a laugh, because it was funny. It really was. He opted instead to just shake his head, wearing the best innocent face he could muster. He glanced over at Sam, who had taken a seat next to the bed, watching him intently. He fidgeted, abruptly knowing how the animals at the zoo felt.

Haynes studied him for a moment as if he knew something Dean didn't. "Do you remember where you were when you . . . collapsed?"

He did know that one. "New York. No, wait." New York had been the warehouse he was in before Cas Days of Future's Past-ed his ass. "Ohio," he answered confidently. He figured he had about a one-in-forty-seven chance of getting it right.

"Dean," Sam started slowly.

Damn it.

"We were in Florida. Remember we were hunting the each-uisge? You almost drowned."

"Right, the thing with the . . . thing . . ." Dean trailed off. He spared the doctor a glance as he realized that Sam was talking about hunting in front of someone they didn't know, or at least he didn't know. He shot Sam a look, figuring the kid would immediately know what he was asking.

Sam glanced between his brother and Daniel. "He . . . knows about hunting and the supernatural." He fidgeted in his chair. "After you, uh . . . I called Ellen and she recommended him. I should probably call her soon and let her know you're, well, you're awake."

"Ellen?" Dean shifted on the bed, giving Sam his full attention. "As in Ellen Harvelle?"

"Yeah . . ." Sam's eyes flicked worriedly from Dean to the doctor and back again. "Dean . . ."

He didn't hear the rest of what Sam was saying—the impact of what it meant if Ellen was still alive hit him like a ton of bricks. If she was alive, that meant Bobby was alive. It also meant that Sam hadn't jumped into the cage with Lucifer yet. That also meant that Cas had sent him back more than a few years, but closer to—he did some quick math in his head—maybe around eight years. But eight years ago would have been two thousand nine, and he already established that it wasn't two thousand and nine. At the latest it was two thousand and eight, which meant . . . Holy shit. Lucifer hasn't busted out of his cage yet. If he could stop that from happening, that would cause a huge ripple effect. He might actually be able to stop two thousand nineteen from ever happening and save his brother a lot of pain and guilt.

"Dean!"

He jumped, surprised to find Sam standing directly in front of him with both hands on either side of his face. When the hell did that happen? He saw both the doctor and his brother looking at him with varying degrees of concern. Nice one, spacing out is really going to convince them that you're fine. Dean attempted to lean back from Sam, not that there was much room for him to go. "Dude, if you're going to kiss me, you're gonna have to at least buy me dinner first."

Sam let his head drop to his chest with a growl as he stepped back, but before he could say anything, the doctor spoke up, addressing Sam: "How long has he been awake?"

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Dean for a moment before turning back to the doctor. "Maybe twenty or so minutes, I think."

"Has he spaced out at all during that time, or any time before he lost consciousness?"

"No. Well, he sort of spaced out right before he passed out, like he was seeing something only he could see."

"Interesting." Haynes ran his thumb back and forth across his chin. "And there was nothing else out of the ordinary?"

Sam started shaking his head, then stopped, remembering something. "Oh, there's this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the drawing Dean had done earlier, handing it to the doctor.

Haynes took the paper and studied the crude drawing for a long moment. "What is it?"

"We don't know," Sam said with a shrug.

Haynes glanced up in surprise, his gaze bouncing to Dean for a split moment before returning to Sam. "You've never seen it before?"

Dean watched the two go back and forth like a volleyball game; it was starting to make his already splitting head hurt worse, if such a thing was even possible. Dean cleared his throat in an effort to grab their attention. This twenty questions thing was going to get really old really fast, and his inability to properly answer their questions was just going to get them worrying in the wrong direction. Personally, he would have preferred them to not worry at all, as he was fine—comparatively. "You know, as much fun as this is, I really am fine. I mean my recent memory is a little muddy, but everything else is in working order. I promise."

"Dean, you're not fine. Something's wrong with you," Sam insisted.

"I've been told that."

"No, man, you collapsed in the motel room and we still don't know why. You were in a coma, an actual coma for almost two days, during which time you stopped breathing three times." He held up three fingers, emphasizing his point. "Your heart stopped. Stopped, Dean." Sam ran his hand through his hair with a frustrated breath. "God, Dean, I thought you were going to die." He let his hands drop back down to his sides. "After Dad . . . I can't lose you too, man."

Dean pulled his lips against his teeth, feeling exceptionally guilty. Sam had no idea what was going on. If the roles had been reversed, he would have been going out of his mind with worry for his little brother. He tapped the air between them. "All right, all right. What do you want me to do? We don't know what caused all this—" He felt ten times worse lying. But it was just for now. "—and at the moment there is nothing we can do about it."

"I know, just—just stop trying to brush it off like it's no big deal," Sam said in a small voice that immediately reminded Dean of when he was just a kid looking for safety in his older brother.

Yup, Dean thought to himself, feeling like pure ass now.

The sound of a throat being cleared broke what was quickly becoming an awkward chick-flick moment. Both Sam and Dean turned to the doctor.

"As much as I hate to admit it, your brother is right." He gestured to Dean. "My best guess is that whatever this is it's supernatural in nature. Unfortunately, we can't really do anything at the moment except maybe research the symptoms to see if they match anything another hunter has come across before." Haynes handed the piece of paper back to Sam. "I've never seen a seal or sigil that resembles this one. But if you poke around I'm sure you might find something in an older book."

Sam took the piece of paper back, tucking it into his pocket once more. "Thank you for your help. Really." He reached out to shake the man's hand.

The doctor accepted his gesture. "I'm going to send you off with some painkillers for that headache and something for the dizziness." He turned to Sam. "Keep a careful eye on him. If he passes out again don't hesitate to call. That goes for anything else that might come up. And I'll do some poking around; I'll let you know if I find anything."

Sam frowned, glancing at his older brother. "Do you think there's a chance he might . . . I mean . . . fall into another . . . ?"

Haynes shrugged. "Sorry, son, I honestly can't say."

Dean waited a breath before he clapped his hands together. "Does this mean I'm free?" He gave a hopeful look, already half off the bed.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're unbelievable."

Dean gave him his most charming smile. "Very true."

Dean relaxed into the impala's seat, letting the familiar roar of the engine wash over him and sooth away any lingering stress. It didn't matter where he was or what time he was in—he would always find comfort in his baby. He would much rather be driving, but after nearly eating dirt twice while walking from the not-quite-a-clinic to the car, only saved by his brother's quick reaction and insistent hovering, he begrudgingly gave into Sam. Though to be fair, even if he hadn't almost face-planted, there was no way he could have driven. Both Doctor Feel-Good and Sam had been adamant that he take a little something for his head before he would be allowed to leave. It only took a few minutes for him to realize that that "little something" had turned out to be a rather potent something. Downside, walking in a straight line was now off the table. Upside, he couldn't feel . . . anything.

Thankfully, it wasn't anything that made him really loopy or chatty; he could still think reasonably clear. He still had his wits about him, enough to tell without opening his eyes that his brother was glancing over at him every five seconds.

"Dude," he started. "Stop staring at me like that. You're not my type."

He could practically feel his brother rolling his eyes at him. Dean waited a moment before counting down in his head, Five, four, three, two . . .

"You sure you're okay?"

So close. Dean smirked to himself. "I told you, Sammy, I'm fine."

"Dean . . ."

"Seriously, Sam, whatever those little magic pills are the doc gave me, they are working." He turned his head to look at his brother. Sam still looked worried, but nodded his acceptance of Dean's words.

"Okay, I think there's a motel maybe another forty minutes ahead. Why don't we stop there for the night? Get some rest, then we can head off to Bobby's in the morning."

"Bobby's? What for?" Not that he didn't want to see the man—just the opposite. It had been around five years his time since Bobby died; the thought of seeing him alive and well again made Dean practically giddy with excitement. A little anxious as well, if he was honest.

Sam spared a quick glance at him. "That thing you drew—if anyone will know what it is, it's Bobby."

"Good point." Dean cast a glance out the window; the sun had disappeared behind the horizon not too long ago, leaving the entire world beyond the car blanketed in darkness. "Hey, you said we were in Florida before I . . ." He made a vague gesture with his hand. "But this isn't Florida."

"We were outside . . ." Sam paused, trying to recall the name of the town, "Uh, Osyka, Mississippi. Now, though, we are about two hours north of it."

"Ah, Mississippi, home of the . . . Mississippians."

Sam turned slightly, giving Dean an odd glance. "What?"

Maybe a little loopy. He waved his hand. "Shut up." Dean tucked down into the seat, folding his arms over his stomach and leaning against the door. He couldn't remember the last time he slept that wasn't in a coma. He suddenly felt very tired and was looking forward to a real bed. Even if it wasn't his Memory Foam mattress back at the bunker.

They drove the rest of the way to the motel in relative silence, the sounds of Metallica turned low filling the space between them. It felt like only a few seconds later when Dean was nudged by a hand on his shoulder. "Go 'way," he muttered, trying to curl further into the door, but the hand was insistent.

"Dean, we're here," Sam told him. "I'm going to go get us a room. You think you can get the bags?"

Dean dragged his fingers across his eyes, trying to remove some of the sleep. "Yeah, sure." He blinked at the door handle a few times before reaching for it and popping it open. The cool night air rushed in, helping him wake up a little more as he unfolded himself from the car and stumbled toward the trunk. He glanced up, watching his brother cross the parking lot and enter the building.

Once Sam disappeared, Dean focused on the trunk before him. He opened it up, moving a few items around and grabbing what he felt they would need for the night. It wasn't really that much: change of clothes, few guns, salt, shower stuff. Dean plucked at his shirt, taking a small whiff. Definitely shower stuff.

Satisfied that he had everything they needed, Dean placed the bags on top of the false bottom and sat against the open trunk. He glanced back over toward the motel's office; Sam sure was taking his time. Maybe he found some little old lady to mother him, or worse, hit on him. Dean shivered at the thought, though a smile settled on his face. He dragged a hand down his face as he let out a heavy sigh. He wondered if Sam's penchant to attract cougars had become a thing yet. A part of him hoped so, if for no other reason than to give him ammunition against his brother. Dean chuckled. Sam did have a habit of collecting older ladies' numbers.

The smile dropped from Dean's face as a thought hit him; he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it earlier. He moved around the side of the car, slipping into the passenger seat, and dug through the glove box. He pulled out one of the many phones they kept. No matter how old the phones were, one thing remained the same: they always had the date, including the year. Dean flipped open the phone; the screen read April twenty-ninth, two thousand and seven. Dean nodded to himself. Two thousand and seven—he hadn't been that far off.

Now he just had to remember what happened around that date, what already happened, and what would soon happen. Something tickled at the back of his mind: the twenty-ninth was a few days before his brother's birthday. May second, two thousand and seven. The memory hit Dean with all the force of a speeding truck. May second two thousand and seven—that was exactly a year before he went to Hell. It was the day he sold his soul to bring his brother back after he was killed. That meant . . .

Dean's gaze shot up toward the motel's office; he wasn't sure how long Sam had been gone, but the icy feeling that suddenly took place in his stomach told him it was too long. Dean dropped the phone, making a mad dash toward the office, stumbling as the drugs still lingering in his system sent him off kilter. He wrenched the doors open and barreled in; the unmistakable smell of sulfur assaulted him immediately.

"Sam!" Dean yelled as he moved around the small space, but with the exception of a few stiff-backed chairs and a small desk in front of a closed door, the room was empty, devoid of any life.

He couldn't be too late—there was no way he had been sent back just to screw up already.

His gaze swept across the room, spotting the door on the other side. He closed the distance in a fraction of an instant and shoved it open. Outside was nothing but a poorly paved parking lot.

The cold pit in his stomach intensified tenfold.

"Sam!"