For notes, warnings, ratings, and notes, please refer to Chapter One. Otherwise, thank you much for the reviews and enjoy. I assure you, while this chapter doesn't explain, it's far more solid than the last three. Or, based more in reality, anyway.
At some point, they stole his clothes so when he comes to in the luxurious, over-sized bed, he immediately sees that the scars aren't there. For some reason, despite all the screwed up shit that's happened, it's his first concern. His skin's perfect, downy, soft, smelling strangely like Sammy did when he was very, very little still; not baby-powder and oils but clean and new. He studies his arms, his chest, his legs, everything, and finds that he looks normal—better than normal even. Some of the older scars from hunting accidents and everyday life have vanished as well. Tentatively, he touches his head to find his hair, though a bit overlong, to be fully there.
He drags himself out of bed, vulnerable as hell; no weapons, no clothes; it's not as though he minds being in the buff, it's the circumstances surrounding how it happened and where he is and, oh, the fact that the last thing he saw was a huge ass monster jamming a needle into his arm. His legs feel weak but positively so. It's the sort of weak he associates with getting better, not getting sick, but he tests his movement as he walks to the nearby dresser. A mirror's attached to it and despite the physical assurance that the worst of the scars are gone, he wants to see it for himself.
Nothing; just him, pale, scrawny, but in one piece with a patchy beard and his hair grown down over his ears. He scratches at it, taking himself in, putting this image permanently into his brain to fight against the horrific dream. It'll help, he convinces himself, as he turns to study the room. It'll keep him stable, sane. It'll be something to cling to as he staggers through the tribulations of the day. Strangely, he's already calm, not unconcerned but focused, like he is before a hunt. The worry and the questions have been catalogued in his brain, put into an order of importance. Of course, at the top of the list, comes clothing followed closely by finding a weapon. Then Bobby, he needs Bobby.
The room he stands in is bigger than any house he's lived in since his mom got pinned to the ceiling. Past the canopied bed and dresser sits a sofa and two chairs around an ornate table. There's a window on the far wall which stretches from floor to ceiling and has another seat with throw pillows on it. A closet isn't too far away from it and despite the closed door, he can tell it's the walk in kind that can double as a decently sized room. Next to it, on another side table sits a clock which reads nine oh two and judging by the light pouring in the window, he safely assumes that means AM. A desk lines the far wall, along with a door, and upon the desk, sits a neatly folded pile of clothing.
He staggers over to it, noting the jeans and t-shirt and frowning at the lack of ring and necklace. His fingers touch his neck, finding the familiar pendant gone and he glances at his hands to see that the ring's vanished, too. The necklace irks him, slightly, but everything emotional has dimmed down to a dull simmer he associates with a burnout. He pulls the t-shirt on and the pants, finding them to be a perfect fit. Over the back of the desk chair lies a hoody which he forgoes; hoodies are Sam's thing though he's been known to steal one every once in a while. Right now, he wants a jacket though, preferably his leather one.
He settles for just the jeans, just the shirt and opens the desk drawers once he's fully up. In the first one, he discovers a letter opener which he tucks into his back pocket. The rest have simple office tools, none of them useful and he discards the idea of searching any further in it. Bobby, he decides, patting his rear to assure himself his weapon's still there. Bobby and—
--his stomach growls. Food, he acquiesces, shocked by how hungry he is. He'll need to eat. His fingers close on the door handle and he tugs it open slowly, to avoid any possible creaking. It moves smooth and silent, letting him pass into an elaborate hallway with pictures and carpeting that envelopes his feet. With ease, he skulks towards the stairs and descends as quietly as possible, uncertain of which direction to go once he reaches the bottom floor. In front of him is a hallway, leading towards two large, glass-paned doors which he assumes leads out. To his left is a darkened room and to his right, he hears voices.
He chooses the voices because he wants answers and, thinking with his stomach, he smells something cooking. The food is terrific and the voices are low-key, non-threatening. One of them sounds suspiciously like Bobby but his hand drifts down to the letter opener just in case. Though familiar, the other voice has no name in his memory and he cannot be certain that the individual behind it isn't dangerous. He recalls the images he saw just before he passed out of the monster with the smoke and Bobby with the sword. It tightens his resolve as he steps into the kitchen.
It's a nice but functional place with all the essentials and—judging by the various instruments lying about it—a few less than necessary items. He blinks at the grey marble floor and white walls, feeling displaced. The conversation stops as he steps into the room; both occupants look startled at his sudden appearance. Bobby, who was sitting in a chair at a dark polished table, jerks to his feet and the man—whom he vaguely recognizes from the graveyard—turns abruptly away from the stove.
"Christo?" he offers, looking for someone to wince or go black-eyed. But neither of them do that; the man removes his pan from the hot coils while Bobby closes the gap between himself and Dean. He pulls him into a hug, rough with a few pats on the back to keep it manly.
"Good to see you up, kid," he says as he pulls back. "How're ya feeling?"
Confused, lost and strangely mushroomy, he wants to say. But, instead, he replies, "Violated. You undressed me, old man. Not sure I'm gonna get over that."
A weary grin crosses Bobby's face, "Idjit. Goddamn, I've missed ya."
"I just saw you a week ago or so, at the most, Bobby," he teases. "Getting lonely or something?"
The man, who has transferred the contents of the pan onto a plate, pauses in his movements. "See, Bobby, it's like I said—"
"Shut up," Bobby snaps, and he stares at Dean with features painted in concern. He looks older, much older, than Dean remembers, deeper lines and more grey than color dotting his hair. There's a jagged scar down his temple that Dean doesn't recall from only a week ago—it was a week, wasn't it?—and his clothes fit far looser on his body. When he speaks again, his tone's guarded, "Dean, what do you last remember?"
That's never good, his mind says but he answers anyway, "The cabin. Jim's old cabin in the woods. With Dad and Sam. The demon was there but it flew the coop." He remembers the pain, and Michael and the horror show and then nothing, but doesn't bring that up. He's not sure if any of that is real. The deadened part of him twitches a bit and he adds, "Bobby, where's Sam and Dad?"
"Fuck," is all Bobby says as he sinks down into his chair. "Fuck."
"What's going on?" He adds a command behind it, hoping someone will fill him in. Emotions, otherwise spent, start to well up again. "Bobby, tell me."
The man at the stove carries the plate over to the table and for the first time, he notices that there's already bacon, toast and condiments piled onto it. Two of the places, besides Bobby's, have dishes with milk and orange juice sitting by them. The plate in the man's hand is piled high with eggs and he takes his seat after he's placed it. Golden eyes, strangely reminiscent of the monster from his hallucination, catch his own as the man begins to serve himself.
"Sit," he tells Dean. "Eat. Give Singer a moment."
"No, damn it," anger, he's feeling anger in a distant, dull way, "tell me where my family is. They were hurt—"
The man smears butter on his toast. "As far as we know, they are alive and in one piece. Now, eat and tell me how the eggs are. I can hear your stomach growling from here."
He opens his mouth to argue but snaps it shut as his stomach snarls. Begrudgingly, he slinks over to the table and sits at the open space. There's a carafe with coffee which he takes some of before digging into the available edibles. The eggs are excellent, the toast is decent and the bacon hits the spot. As he munches, he takes in both of the people with him, trying to gauge mood and intention. Mostly, he's certain that the person next to him is Bobby but he knows nothing about Bobby's companion. Bobby sits with his head balanced on his hand while his other squeezes a mug. The man is another story. Wholly unbothered by whatever's on Bobby's mind, he eats his food and stares at the New York Times. Every now and again, he glances over at Bobby but doesn't change his expression. Bland, Dean applies, boring.
His plate clean and coffee finished, he tries once more, "Bobby, what's going on?"
"You sure the last thing you remember is the cabin, Dean?" Bobby asks, lowly. "Nothing else after?"
He wonders if he should mention Michael. "Nothing. Except waking up in…" He trails off. "Why?"
"Because, kid," Bobby's voice is heavy, "that was nearly three years ago."
He wants someone to leap out and shout, just kidding. He waits for it for several minutes even, wants someone to reassure him that this is one big, practical joke at his expense but it doesn't happen. Bobby rubs at his eyes and their companion continues with the New York Times. The only sounds are the ticking clock on the wall and his heart which is picking up speed.
"How could I lose three years?" he manages.
Bobby sighs. "Because, Dean, three years ago you died."
Silence from everyone because he's trying to process the idea of being dead but then returning. A million questions rush through his head along with another million realizations. The hazy recollections of being buried alive strike him with new meaning. He was the thing rotting down there, supposed to stay forever in the ground. Didn't that make him something that should be hunted? How is he any different than the ghosts that he'd burned a hundred times over beyond the fact that he is lucky enough to have a body?
Along with this came the confusion of how there'd been nothing during those years, that one second he'd been alive and the next he'd been alive again. Heaven, hell, God, Satan, all of it hadn't applied to him. He'd gone into a dreamless sleep, eternal rest, eternal peace; there'd been nothing at all. Was he so bad that heaven wouldn't take him but too good for hell to have any interest? And, if not that, did that mean that for years now, he'd been permanently snuffing the spirits of people? Had he been murdering the supposedly everlasting essence of humans?
More topical issues comingle with these, less contemplative but just as pivotal. Why hadn't his family torched him? This thought sticks out in front of the others, making him feel a little nauseous. When he was twenty, he had a close call with a spirit. Not that he was hurt badly, but there were several moments, while pinned to the wall with a knife inching closer and closer to his heart, that he was certain he would die. After that, he told both Sam and Dad flat out that he needed cremation. He wasn't going to turn into one of those psychos, wasn't going to take the chance that something or someone would try to bend him to their will.
Behind that thought, though, is the how, how did this happen and why and who and—
"Well, shit," is all he can say as he ponders it all. "That sucks."