The smell of breakfast was what roused Dean from sleep, hand rubbing at his face and cracking an eye open to cautiously peer around him, disoriented at first to not be in his and Lisa's bedroom. Blearily, he blinked in confusion at the room, trying to get his sleep addled brain to make sense of it. His inspected stuttered to a halt when his eyes landed on Castiel sitting in the chair with a book and a curious head tilt.

"Good morning," greeted the angel.

Oh. Right. He groaned and sat up, craning his neck until it popped, then pushed to his feet and staggered toward the kitchen and coffee, absently giving Cas' shoulder a pat on the way by and mumbling what could be interpreted as a greeting.

Dean did a double-take when he looked out the window and saw the sun wasn't even up yet.

"Oh hell no! Why am I up if the sun isn't? Why are any of us awake at this God forsaken hour?" He looked around desperately for the clock as though it had betrayed him, groaning when he saw it. "Oh this is for the birds," he decided, turning sharply on his heel, all thoughts of coffee and breakfast forgotten. "I've been out of a game a minute, so I need more than four hours of sleep."

Castiel intercepted him as the hunter made his way back to the couch, fully planning to face plant on it. The angel smoothly grabbed him by the elbow and used his forward momentum to hook him in the direction of the stairs, one hand shoving Dean between the shoulder blades, while the blond gave him an incredulous look.

"You need a shower and for your clothes to be added to the wash. You may have forgotten, but you are covered in a fair amount of questionable organic material. There will be coffee and food when you get out, and you will thank me later."

Mouth opening to speak, Dean shut if firmly when Castiel continued to stand in the way between Dean and the couch he very much wanted to reacquaint himself with, part of his mind wondering that if he did try to shove past Cas and get some more sleep, shower be damned, if the angel would just teleport him fully dressed into an ice cold shower.

Something of this thought must have shown on his face, because the corner of the angel's mouth curled in the barest hint of a smirk, one brow arching in challenge. And yeah, no, Dean did not have enough functioning brain cells at the moment to play that game with Cas.

He made his way upstairs, ignoring the sense of smug victory he felt coming from the man behind him. It was probably his imagination anyway.

As the shower coaxed his brain to wakefulness, Dean thought back to Lisa, trying to find any sense of remorse or second-guessing his decision to leave. He'd thought that maybe after his first hunt back on the job, he would realize that 'no, if given any actual choice in the matter, the hunter life was not the one he wanted', but the feeling never came. Now did he want this forever? To live and die by the hunt? He didn't want that either, no one in their right mind did.

He wanted the house, the stability of a home base like they got with Bobby's, but he couldn't see completely walking away from this life of hunting either, at least, not with Lisa, maybe not at all. There had to be some way, some… balance to be obtained.

Finished with his shower, he dressed and bounded downstairs and then down to the basement, throwing his clothes in the washer with a heap of detergent. It was when he made his way to the ground floor again that Dean frowned, glancing around. Cas was sitting at the table with Bobby, going over the night-before's hunt and Garth's logic defying ability to stay alive while so hapless.

"Where's Sam?" questioned Dean, making his way into the kitchen to fix himself a plate of food and a cup of coffee. He took the available seat next to Cas and sat down.

Bobby was dragging a piece of toast through the last of his grits and butter. "He's doing his morning workout with Sarah. They do it every day this time of day ."

Dean nodded, noticing the way Cas' gaze had drifted to the untouched cup of coffee by the hunter's hand. He straightened, gesturing to the steaming mug.

"You wanna try it?"

The angel blinked. "Wha-? Oh, no, I was just-"

Dean waved him off, sliding the cup across the wooden surface with his hand. "Try it. We can add more cream and sugar if it's too bitter for you." He considered his friend for a moment. "I get the feeling angels have a penchant for sweet."

Cautiously, Cas picked up the cup, frowning at it for a moment, then glanced warily at the two men watching him with mild curiosity, as if suspecting a trap. He took a tentative sip, blinking for a moment, then wrinkled his nose and moved to hand the cup back. Dean laughed and rose, bringing over the pot, another cup for himself, along with the cream and sugar. He plopped back down, scooping another spoonful of granules into the cup and some more cream, lightening the color to almost blonde, before stirring it and handing it back to the angel.

"Try it again." The angel obeyed, this time pursing his lips. Dean added another scoop of sugar and gave it a stir without asking, grinning when the man beside him nodded his approval and continued to sip from the cup. "Dirty blonde and sweet. Good choice." He glanced back at the older hunter as he stole a piece of bacon off of Dean's plate. "You two find anything while we were gone last night?"

A shrug. "Sam found a few things he'll be looking into further today. Found a psychic in a town where weird stuff is going down and people keep dying."

"We're looking for a prophet, Bobby. Small, scrawny, tends to look like a nervous dog about to wet the paper? Ringing any bells?"

"A psychic might go a long way in helping with that, doncha think? Or might even be a prophet herself." Dean shut his mouth. "Either way, we can start sending Sam out in the field-"

"Oh hell no!" snapped Dean. "I already told him-"

"Wearing a suit and flashing a badge ain't the same as decapitating an army of the undead, boy," Bobby groused, giving him a look. "He goes." Dean's teeth clacked as he slammed his jaw shut and clenched his teeth. Bobby continued, "Like I keep saying, you boys need as much good PR as we can muster. Especially Sam. I'd have you saving kittens and kissing babies if I thought it would work. If she's the real deal, maybe she can help us find Chuck."

"And if she's not the real deal?"

"You find out if she's responsible for the deaths and put her down."

"I'll come along and see if there are any signs of demonic activity," offered Castiel. "It could very well be a witch, I which case we may need to worry about the backing demon as well."

The hunter beside him groaned, chasing the last of his breakfast around his plate with a corner of toast. "Man," he sighed heavily. "I friggin hate witches. Thanks for bringing that up, Cas."

"You are welcome, Dean." The angel poured himself the last of the coffee, while Dean idly wondered if there was any risk of Cas ending up hyper from the caffeine and what in the world that would look like.

Bobby smirked and stood to go start another pot of coffee.

The harried waitress that had been an eye witness in the death of the most recent victim directed them to Gabriella as the resident psychic nearly half the town seemed to revere… or fear. After a couple of hours asking questions around town and at the coroner's, Dean and Sam were standing on the sidewalk in front a small Victorian style house on the edge of town, it's yellow paint and open-curtain windows inviting as they regarded it skeptically.

Sam double-checked the address while Dean glanced around for any signs of Cas. The daisies lining the walkway to the front door weren't exactly screaming malevolent forces in Dean's opinion though, so he doubted the angel was anywhere close by.

"What do you think, Sam?"

His brother sighed and put the pad away in his jacket pocket. "This is the place. I mean, there's even a sign."

Dean eyed the wood burn sign hanging above the stairs. Welcome to Gabbie's. It better befit a B&B than a psychic, but it was less over the top and cliché than a fortuneteller could be. He shifted his weight and coughed lightly, glancing once back at where he'd parked the Impala by the curb.

"And we just, what? Go in and ask for an appointment?"

Narrowing his eyes, Sam considered the house in front of them, trying to see beyond the surface. "Well, if she's a psychic like Missouri, she'll know why we're here. If she doesn't, then she's a fake and quiet possibly responsible for what's been going on around town."

His brother turned his head to regard him. "That's it?"

"In ascertaining what we're dealing with?" Sam snapped back. "Yes, Dean, that's it. Once we find out what she is, well, then we come up with a new plan on how to deal with it."

"Well okay then," his brother said, striding forward, leaving Sam making an irritated expression at his back before hurrying to match his gait.

Knocking on the front door got them no answer, just caused the unlocked door to swing open on silent hinges. They both drew their weapons, Dean signaling to his brother and taking point, while his brother nodded and fell in step behind him. Gun raised and at the ready, Dean carefully scanned the living room, feeling Sam at his back doing the same for the breakfast area and doorway into the kitchen. The door in the living room mostly likely went to a bedroom, or perhaps the entire first floor had a connected layout. A narrow set of stairs went up to a second floor.

He met his brother's gaze, gesturing with two fingers that Sam go one way while Dean went the other, and they cover the ground floor first. Sam nodded.

"That's not necessary," a voice interrupted, causing both guns to swivel and train in on the speaker. A petite blonde with wavy hair was leaning casually against the door leading from the living room, her arms folded across her chest. "I was beginning to wonder when you two would show up."

"Cristo," muttered Dean, not lowering his gun. She arched a brow, expression belying 'Really? Are you kidding me?' He cleared his throat. "Are you Gabriella?"

"I better be," she said, and Dean swore the light and shadows seemed to shift around her, perhaps it was just the light reflecting off a car passing by outside.

Neither man relaxed their posture. "Your door was unlocked and open."

"Because I was expecting you." She let her gaze fall to the weapons still trained on her. "I'm not a demon and I'm not a burglar," she told him, lips curling upward in an amused smirk Dean found vaguely familiar and couldn't place. "Put your weapons down."

Both brothers slowly put away their weapon, Dean with far less ease than his brother. The muscles in his jaw clenched and flexed, fingers twitching with the desire to still be holding his gun.

Everything about this seemed just off enough to make him nervous, and he would have felt better with the familiar weight in his hands. Sam shot him a look, clearly seeing where Dean's thoughts were going. Strategically, Sam placed himself between the woman and his brother. Smiling in a self-deprecating manner, he glanced down and then at the girl across from them, almost seeming embarrassed. Dean really thought he'd have made a better actor than a lawyer.

"You said you were expecting us?" She nodded. "T-that's what we heard. I-I mean, that you've got a gift for seeing things before they happen. It's why we're here."

There was a slight smirk on her face, the corner of her mouth barely curving upward in amusement in a way she probably wasn't even aware of. The smirk grew more obvious and Dean realized she was amused, at what, he had no idea, but he was increasingly ready to leave.

"What's so important it's brought the legendary Winchesters to my door?"

Both brothers stiffened. Saying she was expecting them and then calling them by their real names was two very different things. If she had caught wind of them asking around town, she should have been expecting Agents Frye and Saucier. Dean let his gaze rake over her again, assessing the situation.

To an outsider, if anyone ought to feel uncomfortable or threatened, it should be Gabriella. She was barely five-feet-tall, petite, with hazel eyes, and a crooked smile, cad in ripped jeans and white novelty shirt with gray and black striped sleeves. By all appearances, she just looked like a regular girl, save for the way Dean swore he thought he saw gold glint in her eyes when she smirked and the light and shadows didn't seem to settle on her just right.

He glanced at his brother to find Sam frowning in the way he did when he was trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together. Dean wondered if Sam could feel the power rolling off the girl as well, the way it tickled at the back of Dean's mind with its familiarity.

She pushed off the door frame and sauntered a few steps closer, her eyes

flicking back and forth between them as she placed a finger to her lips, tapping it contemplatively. "Let me guess… you must be Dean." Her gaze shifted to the taller hunter. "Which makes you Sam." She grinned. "I'm Gabriella," she offered. "Gabbie, if you like."

Dean found himself studying her, eyes trailing over every aspect of her face, trying to place why she seemed so familiar. The answer felt right at the edge of his mind, elusive and intangible. A prophet she wasn't, but there was a very real chance she was a god. Problem was: which one?

"How can I help you crazy kids?" she wondered

"You're the psychic," said Dean, finding his voice. It came out gruffer than he meant. "Shouldn't you know?"

"Dean," hissed his younger brother, glaring furiously. Dean rolled his eyes and snorted as his brother took over. "Please forgive my brother," Sam said appeasingly, even though she didn't look angry. "We actually came here because a friend of ours has gone missing. You were the closest shot in the dark we have."

She met his gaze without blinking. "Chuck Shirley. Prophet of the Lord and author of the Supernatural books under the name Carver Edlund, correct?" They looked at each other in silent question, and she shrugged, hands sliding into her pockets. "You were thinking it. Kinda loudly."

And, yeah… having your mind read would never be less than disconcerting, making Dean more on edge than he already was, feeling naked and vulnerable with some, as of yet, unidentified entity.

"Well then, can you or can you not help us in finding him?" he snapped.

A feral grin stretched across her features and Dean knew it wasn't his imagination this time when the shadows in the room shifted, and gold flitted across her eyes. "Oh, but that's not all you want to ask me, is it?" Her teeth were bright and sharp. "You want to know if I'm the one handing out fortunes around town and making them come due."

Sam cleared his throat, hand coming up to smooth over the front of his tie and shirt, and then over his slacks, a disguised reach for his gun. "Uh, well, there was that, too," he admitted.

"It's my job," she said. "The one I was tasked with. The one I was born to take over. I reward the deserving, like Rhonda and her volunteer work at the shelter. And I strike down the wicked who have gone unpunished, like Daryl and John."

Her tone had taken on a chill, her smile razor sharp, and God that voice at the back of Dean's mind was nagging him that he knew this particular poisonous snake.

"You don't have the right to make those calls," Sam told her reasonably, and her expression softened, eyes landing on him.

"Being a Reaper isn't a pretty job either, but you can't accuse them of doing something wrong when they, too, are just doing their jobs."

"So you're receiving orders?" demanded Dean.

She canted her head to the side, lips pursed. "It isn't quite like that. It's just a knowing. My actions are always a reaction to theirs. They come to me wanting to know what their future holds, that is what frees me to do my job regarding their past. I have my role in keeping the balance of the world, just as you have yours in beating back the things that prey on humanity."

"But who and what are you?" Dean pressed.

That same enigmatic smile stretched across her face. "I can help you find your Prophet, or at least, look for him," she said, changing the subject. Her gaze trailed to Sam. "But if I do, what's in it for me?"

"Beg pardon?"

She shifted, hands falling to rest at her hips. "Balance, Sam. Everything is about balance. I cannot do a task without something being freely offered first. Were I to do it, I would require a sort of compensation."

"Oh, I'll compensate you alright," growled the elder Winchester. Sam swatted at him furiously, making Gabbie grin in delight.

"What would be the cost for your help?" Sam questioned earnestly.

"Sam!"

"It's very important we find our friend, and frankly, he doesn't have anyone else," admitted the taller male, "so if we don't find him, no one else is even going to look. We need your help."

She watched him for a moment, that same contemplative expression on her face as she regarded him. She was enjoying riling Dean, but it was like she really did already have a soft spot for Sam. Why was that so familiar?

Gabbie frowned, folding her arms and shifting her weight to her back foot. "I have no interest in going on a hunt across the world looking for one misplaced Prophet when I have plenty of other work to tend to." She paused, hazel eyes drifting over both hunters in cheap suits and fake personas. Then a slow smile crept across her face, her eyes lighting up. "To balance the scales, one of you will have to be equally inconvenienced until the time comes that I have completed my task. Who will it be?"

"Me," they said in unison, before glaring at each other, Dean's hackles rising as the power in the room started to swell and Gabriella's eyes began to glow a steady gold, her hair wafting gently around her shoulders as though ruffled by a breeze.

"Sam, no," growled Dean, one hand snaking out to dig into his little brother's arm and shove him back.

The other man yanked out of his grip. "Dean, she said 'inconvenienced' not 'dead' and it'll be temporary, just until she fulfills her end of the bargain, right?" he asked, turning his head toward her as the wind in the room swept up and now blew his own hair around.

"Oh yes," she purred, grinned stretched across her face and hands splayed out by her sides.

Sam stepped forward again. "Then I volunteer."

"The hell you do," roared Dean, shoving his way forward and forcibly holding Sam back. "I'll do it. I'll pay the price."

"Dean, no!"

An inhuman chuckle escaped her, like voices overlapping as a Cheshire grin stretched slowly across her face and full gold eyes regarded them. "Oh this is gonna be SO much fun."

At her side, her fingers snapped with a crack like a gun shot and the house began to tremble violently. Things shuddered off their shelves and crashed to the ground. Plaster cracked and fell from the ceiling. The brothers looked around frantically, trying to steady themselves as the earth shook fiercely beneath them, before looking demandingly at Gabbie

"You're offering, freely given, is accepted," she hissed, splaying out a hand toward Dean.

In that instant, it was like a bomb went off and they were at Ground Zero. Both brothers went flying backwards through the air, Dean crashing through a bookcase partition and landing hard in the dining room amidst broken wood and plaster. He lay there unconscious, even as part of the ceiling fell in.

Sam struggled to his feet from where he had crashed into the wooden table and then over onto the floor. The floorboards swelled and fell like the rolling sea beneath his feet, the house falling down around his ears with deafening noise, support beams crashed through the ceiling. One landed dangerously close to the crumpled and plaster covered form of Dean, his body already partially obscured.

Gabbie had vanished, her laughter still ringing in the air as her home collapsed in on itself. Sam swore violently under his breath, arms over his head and wood and plastered fell.

"Dean!" he yelled, finally close enough to start shoving away the debris covering his brother.

The sight of the other man stopped him short, all air leaving his body. With an ear deafening noise, a crack ripped down the middle of the house, prompting Sam to action again. He dropped down to lift Dean's dead weight, shouldering a beam aside. The rafter he pushed aside prompted half the roof to cave in and Sam barely rolled them out of harm's way, coughing and choking as dust and plaster filled the air and suffocated his lungs. He tried to use his bulk to shield his brother's body from more falling structure. "Cas!" he croaked. "Cas! Get us out of here!"

Several seconds stretched like minutes; Sam tried in vain to shove away the debris around him, the beam that had fallen across his back and obstructed him rising, relief flooding over him as black shoes stepped into view. He angled his head in time to see two fingers press against his temple.

Then suddenly, they were outside, soft grass under Sam's hands and clean air filling his lungs. He rolled away from his brother, coughing harshly and trying desperately to get a good breath of air. White dust fell from his hair and made his eyes water.

He coughed, looking up and around. They were in the lot next to the now destroyed house, the shattered frame jutting out like a ruptured rib cage. Gabbie was nowhere in sight. "She nearly killed us!" He snapped his attention back to his brother, noting the way Cas just stood over him, shocked and alarmed, unable to move.

Cupping Dean's face in his hands, Sam quickly glanced him over for injuries. He felt his brother's pulse, then delved gentle fingers into Dean's hair, cradling his head and checking for a knot or gash. He had to have hit his head pretty hard to still be out.

"Sam," Cas said softly.

The hunter sat back, frowning at the image in front of him at a loss. "Yeah?"

"What happened?" Sam could only shake his head. "Why is he like this?"

'This' was something even Sam would have never believed had he not seen it for himself. Dean was going to be furious. Bobby, too, probably.

"Sam?"

He turned, angling his head to look up at the distressed angel. He knew Cas was hoping Sam would have some sort of explanation for the current situation, but hell if he knew what happened and he'd been there.

Pushing himself to a crouch, Sam scooped his brother into his arms with far more ease than normal and stood.

"We have to get out of here," he told Castiel, trying to snap the angel out of his shock. Blue eyes riveted to his. "Before cops and firefighters show up."

The shorter man nodded, glancing back once at the ruined structure before his gaze drifted to the unconscious form in Sam's arms.

"He's a girl."

The words made Sam flinch, but he nodded, glancing down at his brother. Dirty blonde hair fell thickly, coated in the same white dust that covered them both, his suit now swallowing him awkwardly like the clothes belonged to someone else. He somehow looked younger like this.

Exhaustion swept through Sam and he sighed heavily. "I know. We'll… it's a long story. We have to get him back to Bobby's." He shifted his gaze past the angel to the Impala still parked at the curb. "Bright side is that at least his car is safe. Let's count our blessings on this one."

Cas opened the car door for him, and Sam got Dean settled in the back seat, laying him out with his jacket folded carefully under his head like a pillow. His brother didn't so much move while he was carried and maneuvered. Twisted around in the passenger seat, Cas looked on with a worried expression.

"I should have gone with you," he said as Sam got in the driver's seat. "Perhaps I could have prevented this."

Cranking the car, Sam shot him a look. "This is not your fault, Cas. Hell, I was there and it wasn't my fault." He glanced back at his brother's sleeping form, before shifting his gaze out the windshield with a shake of his head as they pulled out into the road. "This is freaking insane. Even for us." He sighed, adjusting the rear view mirror so he could keep an eye on his brother. "Well. He wanted back into the hunter life. Welcome home, Dean."

"We ran into a slight complication," Sam said when Bobby opened the door, frowning at the sight of the girl in the younger hunter's arms.

The older man stepped out of the way with a sweep of his arm. Sam quickly entered, shifting his brother a little. Cas was close on his heels, brows knitting together.

This was probably the most anxious Sam had ever seen the angel.

World was ending? He was stoic and unflappable.

Dean has a run-in with a witch or goddess or what-the-hell-ever that leaves him, uh… a little different and unconscious, and suddenly the angel was taking the role of Guardian Angel very serious.

Sighing, Sam easily crossed into Bobby's living room, carefully laying Dean out on the couch, before straightening to regard him. His long blonde hair was splayed across the cushion, his features soft in sleep. And god, he looked small and fragile like this, with his clothes no longer fitting him like they should.

The older hunter came to stand beside him, gazing down at the blonde as well. "Who's the girl? She the psychic or something?"

"She's Dean," said Cas, voicing what Sam wasn't quite able. God, how had he let his brother agree when they didn't even know the terms of the agreement yet?

Bobby's eyes snapped back to Dean, raking over his face that was still the same even while different. Freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose, dirty blonde hair with highlights from being out in the sun to work on the Impala, same long, dark lashes Sam had once teased him about.

The older hunter gave a low whistle, reaching up to adjust his cap. "Boy, you got yourself more than a slight complication. That's supernova. The hell happened?"

Cas was quick to place his neck on the chopping block. "This is my fault. I was not with them. Had I been-"

"Cas," snapped Sam impatiently, "like I told you in the car, this is not your fault. I was there and it wasn't my fault. She offered us a deal-"

"And ya took it?!" demanded Bobby, glaring. "Boy, haven't you two numbskulls learned by now never to make deals?"

Rolling his eyes, Sam moved into the kitchen. He needed a beer. He probably needed more than one. "Look, it wasn't like that. She said she could help search for Chuck, but that she didn't want to, that she had other work she needed to be doing. She said it would be an inconvenience to her to help us." He sighed heavily, taking a long pull on his beer, gaze drifting to where his brother lay. "She said the price for her help would be for one of us to be equally inconvenienced." He faltered. "I volunteered, but Dean wouldn't have it."

"Idjits!" barked Bobby, making Sam flinch and drop his gaze.

"How long will he be like this?" Cas questioned, his eyes drifting from the slumbering form to the two hunters. "And when will he wake up?"

"Please tell me you at least found that out before your idiot brother agreed to this."

The other hunter nodded. "It's temporary. It ends when she fulfills her end of the bargain. He has to be inconvenienced for as long as she is. And I don't have a clue when he'll wake. I guess that's part of whatever she did, it wiped him out."

Swearing under his breath, Bobby moved over to his desk, shaking his head and searching for the flask of whiskey he kept there.

Leaning against the doorframe, Sam regarded his older brother, jaw jutting to the side as he ran the different scenarios through his head of how his brother might react upon waking. Anger was the most likely initial reaction. Swearing and raging like only Dean could. Then when that passed and Dean realized there was nothing they could do to change the situation without breaking the deal… what then? He honestly didn't know, and that worried him.

His gaze shifted to Castiel, the angel looking almost pained as he regarded his unconscious friend.

"Cas?" The heavenly being in a man's skin looked up, and Sam wondered how he could look so utterly human at times. "You okay?"

Blue eyes fell back to the blonde, shoulders sagging slightly. "It's just… he's been here two days."

Another wave of guilt; Sam swallowed, gaze dropping to examine the toes of his black shoes. "…Yeah," he said softly.

Sucking in a deep breath, he turned and made his way upstairs to change into his normal clothes again, trying to shove away the nagging voice in the back of his head whispering that Dean ought to be living a normal happy life somewhere safe, not tangled up in all this bullshit once again.

The throbbing of his head was what woke him up, his entire body aching and feeling off, then horrible, rolling nausea, making him groan, curling in on himself and regretting it as his stomach objected fiercely.

"Dean?"

The couch was familiar beneath him, the worn material a comfort beneath his hands as he shoved his upper half up, eyes still screwed shut.

"I'm gonna be sick," he croaked and then immediately was.

He was violently sick, grateful for the trashcan that seemed to materialize before him right as the first wave hit, his hands gripping the sides of it as he retched, his whole body spasming with it. He was only vaguely aware of people moving around the room, of someone sitting down beside him, of a large, comforting hand between his shoulder blades as his stomach continued to purge itself over and over of everything he'd eaten that day.

He continued to retch until there was nothing left except internal organs inside him, and his body seemed to truly be contemplating making him force those up, and frankly, Dean had had quite enough of that particular experience in Hell, thank you very much. He was not repeating it while Top Side.

The thumb of the hand on his back was gently rubbing back and forth as Dean continued to violently dry heave and apparently find more things to purge itself of, the muscles in his stomach hurt with the force of it. The comfort being offered made him think of his mother, remembering the way she had done the same thing when he'd been sick as a child. The memory was possibly more comforting and achingly painful than anything at that moment.

The worst of it having subsided, Dean slowly began to take in other details around him. His hands gripped the trashcan tight enough his knuckles were bone white. A wet wash clothe was held out to him, and God, it felt blessedly cool against his skin as he wiped it across his mouth, hands trembling.

"Dean?" a voice asked. Not the one from earlier.

He lifted his bleary gaze, watching as the forms of Bobby and Sam swayed and tilted. He tried to place context with whatever he'd woken up to and his brain was like wet cotton.

"What the hell happened?" he slurred, voice rough and weak sounding.

The hand that had been on his back left and he instantly missed it, but then it was on his forehead, before sweeping over his hair in a pet, just like his mother use to do as well. His arms were shaking in the effort to keep himself held up, and he slumped back to the side so he was laying on the couch again.

"He's burning up," a nearby voice stated, a low rumble of sound. Dean rolled his head around to find the speaker, seeing that it was Castiel sitting on the couch beside him.

Bobby and Sam both swore and bolted in different directions from the room, his brother doing an awkward shuffle as his stopped and skidded back into the room. "Cas, can you do something?"

"The magic must run its course, it's too complicated for me to even attempt helping him right now."

"Fuck!" hissed Sam before he vanished down the hall.

His eyelids kept drooping shut, and Dean struggled to keep them open. "The hell happened?" he asked again, picking a spot to focus on in order to keep his eyes awake.

Cas was watching him with a weary expression, so Dean focused on him, though it was like looking through a film of water. "You'll be fine, Dean. You just need rest."

Another blessedly cool washcloth was brought and placed over his forehead and he sighed in relief, even while suddenly registering that he was bitterly cold. He curled his arms to his chest, his teeth chattering.

"But what happened?" he pressed. "Why do I feel like this?" Because while he had no idea what was going on, some part of his cotton filled brain was informing him that this was not a normal sickness, that something was wrong- wrong with him and his body was trying to reject it. "Everything hurts," he admitted, because, God, it did. His muscles, his bones, everything.

The angel reached out to cover Dean's clutched hands with one of his own, and since when were Cas' hands so much bigger than his that he could cover them like that?

"We'll explain when you are better."

Sam came skidding in to the room, fist curled around a small white bottle held up in triumph. "I've got it!"

Dean was too miserable and tired and in pain to fight them as they pulled him into a sitting position, he was trying too hard to stop seeing double and triple of the people around him while being handed a series of pills and a glass of water and a voice ordering him to take them, watching as he lifted shaking hands to take to pills two at a time and put them in his mouth. He had to be delirious with fever because his hand didn't look like his.

It had been a long time since he'd been this sick. He vaguely remembered being in a cheap motel room with dim lights, Dad checking on him and sitting in a chair by his bed as he cleaned weapons and wrote in his journal. He remembered Sammy peering at him over the edge of the mattress with wide, frightened eyes, asking if Dean needed to go to the hospital. He remebered their Dad saying no, even though the look on his face was doubtful. Sam had cried and asked if Dean was going to die, and John had patted him on the head and told him no again, to go finish working on writing his sentences and not worry.

Darkness pulled him in and Dean slept.

Wakefulness slowly crept over Dean's mind, making him draw in a breath and sigh, trying to sink further into sleep again, his body relaxed against his bed as though willing the sleep to come back. He had the strange sensation his sleep had started out bad, but then ended up being very good and he wanted to get back to it.

But no. His brain refused to cooperate, and also, it was bright, which meant the sun was up, and there were people talking- in low, hushed whispers, sure, but they were still talking- and finally Dean gave up trying to sleep and slowly peeled his eyes open and released a jaw popping yawn. His eyes felt like sandpaper as he blinked in the too bright light.

The room fell silent. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he raised his arms and stretched, nearly wincing at how sore his stomach felt, how sore and stiff everything felt. What the hell? When had he gotten his ass kicked? How? Sucking in a breath, he let his arms fall to his lap, blinking at the people in Bobby's living room with him, his brain trying to kickstart itself to wakefulness. Sam, Bobby, and Cas were all watching him like they were waiting for him to explode.

He eyed them warily. "What's wrong?" he asked, then frowned at the sound and taste in his mouth before he cleared his throat and tried again. "What's… the hell's wrong with my voice and what died in my mouth?"

Bobby and Castiel both looked at Sam. Sam, who was looking decidedly nervous and guilty. Dean narrowed his eyes on his brother. "What did you do, Sam?" The growl didn't have the usual depth to it, but it still made his baby brother flinch, which was good.

"What do you remember?" Dean was pretty sure that was Sam's attempt at stalling, and from the way Bobby rolled his eyes and wandered off into the kitchen, the older man agreed.

The elder Winchester indulged him though, thinking for a moment, he tried to reconstruct the day in his head. The pieces were fuzzy and fractured, like a dream he couldn't remember.

Sighing, he reached up to scratch his head in irritation. "I dunno, Sam, I-"

He looked at his hand. Except… it couldn't be his hand, because it wasn't his hand. He turned it over, examining the palm, the familiar calluses, turned it over again, recognizing the scars there. Green eyes trailed from the hand to the suit and shirt sleeve that were too big on his arm, down to the chest that was swallowed by the same too large suit, and as he looked, yet couldn't comprehend… a lock of blonde fell free and suddenly things fell into horrible, horrific place.

Dean's head snapped up, blood draining from his face and eyes huge with fear. Sam gave him a look Dean couldn't quite understand, the same look he use to give Dean when he was a kid and would accidentally break something and was terrified Dean was about to rip him a new one, or worse, tell their Dad. He also looked so apologetic Dean wanted to forgive him without even knowing what he'd done, but then he remembered this-whatever this was- wasn't Sam's fault.

Jumping up from the couch and scrambling to stand, Dean nearly tripped over pant legs that covered his feet and pooled on the floor. It was only the strong arm that grabbed him around the stomach and the hand on his shoulder that kept him from sprawling face first on the ground. He found himself looking at the person that caught him, looking at Cas, and it was so many levels of wrong because Castiel was taller than Dean in that moment, and he could feel his mouth fall open in horror.

He shoved away from the seraph. "I need a mirror."

He dashed to the downstairs bathroom, grabbed onto the door frame and slammed on the light to… just stare. A girl stared back. A girl with his eyes and hair color and wearing his suit. Her clothes looked almost comically too large, but there was nothing comical about the panic in her expression. His hand fell away from the light switch, raising it to touch his cheek, slim fingers smoothing over the freckles on his nose and cheeks. He watched as she mirrored his every action.

"Oh this cannot be happening," he said with a groan of dismay, watching as her full lips form the words, her voice in his ears. The voice was the same, but different, softer and somehow horrific. He shook his head in disbelief, looking down at his hands again, the way the sleeves left only his fingers visible. He examined his chest, deft fingers coming up then loosen the tie and unbutton his collar before pulling it away to see…

"SON. OF. A. BITCH!"

The three men in the other room all winced.