Chapter 21

It was perfect. And he was happy, more so than he ever thought he could be. His home, his wife, his son. He was a lucky man, who couldn't ask for anything finer. There was just the one small thing. It was a feeling, really, nothing more. Sometimes, in the quiet, he would have a sense that he was in a film, that somehow, there was a little artifical quality to his world. The sense of it was rare, but it had been coming to him more often lately. It unsettled him when it did; he couldn't put his finger on it. It was almost a restlessness, and he feared it. It's just in my head, he'd admonish himself. Mid-life-crisis crap. But the feeling wouldn't go away, and when it plagued him, he would throw himself into some physical task, to purge it from his mind. He'd even thought of calling Sam, out in Seattle, but he always stopped himself. For one, he didn't want to look like an emotional basketcase to his brother. And he was even more afraid that Sam would say something that could add validity to the feeling. Let sleeping dogs lie, he thought. Don't be stupid.

And he could have gone on like that. He could have fooled himself forever; it was worth it. But there came the unhappy day when there was no turning back.

He was out in the yard. He had the damned mower on saw horses, Daniel had hit a rock with it the other day, and the blade was hopelessly bent. He cursed the rusty nut that held it on, and finally he had to spray the works with oil until it could loosen. As he stood waiting impatiently for it to work, he was struck by the familiar and unwelcome feeling. The sun shone warmly on his face as he looked up, trying to convince himself that it was nothing. It persisted, and he frowned, surveying his beautiful and simple realm. Damn. Quit over-thinking everything and just be thankful, Winchester, you jack-ass. As he looked over the bushes edging the garden, he caught sight of movement. It had been years since he'd had to rely on them, but his instincts were still honed sharp from his hunter years. Something hid there, he was sure of it. Still a practised observer, he whistled nonchalantly, fiddling with the mower while watching out of the corner of his eye. It was too large for anything like a rabbit or cat. It moved again, stealthily, in a way that a deer or other animal never would. He carefully picked up his largest wrench, all the while appearing unconcerned. When he was sure he was right, he looked around to make sure Maggie was inside, then stalked toward the place. "Come out! Show yourself!"

The figure behind the greenery hesitated, and Dean repeated the demand, with more profanity. There was no avoiding the confrontation. A man stood up reluctantly, and stepped out into the sunshine.

Dean blanched and dropped the wrench, retreating in shock. "You!"

Bobby held out a hand. "Dean, let me explain-"

Dean stared like he was seeing a ghost. It was no wonder, because he thought he was. "No! No, you are not here! What the hell are you? I buried you four years ago, you sonofabitch! I sweated your eulogy!" He crouched, snapped up the wrench and held it up, wishing to god it was a gun or a knife.

Bobby stepped carefully toward him, holding his hands outstretched in a gesture of peace. "Please, Dean, you don't understand, none of this is what you think-"

Dean waved the wrench at him and backed away. "You're a shapeshifter, or some other damned thing!" He glanced wildly at his house, fearing his family was in jeopardy. "You stay away from us, you evil piece of shit! I swear to god I'll crack your head wide open!"

Bobby dropped his hands. "What do you need to be convinced?" he asked.

It threw Dean for a moment. "Convinced? Of what? That my old friend is back from the dead?"

Bobby swore. "Look, say any latin you know, douse me with holy water, pour salt on my head, whatever you like. But hear me out after, that's all I ask."

Dean turned back again to check the safety of his home and his loved ones. Without letting go of his wrench, he nodded toward the small shingled building at the edge of the yard. "Head to the barn. I'll follow you. And don't even think of trying any shit!"

Bobby did so. Dean stayed behind him, tense and ready for any deviation. When they reached the privacy of the small out building, Dean curtly told his visitor to find a seat on something. Bobby looked around, and sat on an upturned clay planter that was pushed against the wall. He waited patiently as Dean snatched a pitchfork from where it was hanging and levelled the makeshift weapon at him.

"Who or what are you?" he demanded.

Bobby sighed. "I'm Bobby Singer, you idiot. The year is 2009, and you and I and Sam are in the hospital nearest to my house. You're hurt pretty bad. A lot of things have happened, and it put you in this state."

Dean snorted. His heart raced though, he had a feeling he was about to hear some things that he really didn't want to know. "Oh yeah? And what state is that?"

Bobby met his eyes. "You were cut, by a demon bitch named Ruby. Do you remember? Your brother and Castiel beat her. They finished her, thank god. I drove you to hospital, but you were bleeding out, and by the time we got back to you, you were in a coma state. We can't wake you. Dean, Sam is devastated. He needs you now, more than ever. His demon blood is strong, he used his powers to save you and kill that bitch. But he's rudderless without your strength. The shit is hitting the fan, and we all need you.."

Dean blinked. His hand dropped a little. "No.." he said. "That was a long time ago, a lifetime ago! I left all that crap behind-"

Bobby hated doing this. He never even had the chance to make a decision about whether to drag Dean from his mental sanctuary; his discovery by Dean had precluded it. But the reality was that Dean had seen him, and now there was no turning back. He turned his unhappy gaze toward him.

"I'm sorry. I am so god-damned sorry to bring this on you now, boy. But this life you have here; it's a beautiful dream. And you deserve it, more than any sorry sonofabitch I know. But it ain't real. You must know that, on some level..."

Dean shook his head, shocked that this man, or whatever he was, had echoed his deeply held fear. He felt sick, and when he found his voice, he demanded, "Prove to me you are who you say you are."

Bobby reached into his pocket. The hospital had given something for safe-keeping. He held it out to Dean, it dangled from it's cord, miserably familiar.

Dean put a hand to his throat automatically. His amulet. He wasn't wearing it. It was a profoundly significant omission. He understood then, that it really was Bobby Singer sitting here. And his fears were realized...it was just as he'd felt, in those quiet moments, when he tried to convince himself that he was being an idiot. His perfect life was, somehow, nothing but illusion. "Bobby...it's really you?"

Bobby nodded, apologetically. "In the flesh, sorta."

The pitchfork fell from his nerveless hand, and he stared at his old friend. He was torn between wanting to embrace him, and wanting even more to run from him.

Bobby could see the emotions battle within him, it was etched deeply in his taut features. He spoke quietly."I am truly sorry, Dean. I didn't want to have to do this. What you have going here is something fine, and someday maybe, it will be this way. But not today, son. It isn't time. The troubles are on us now; they're far from over, and your brother is in the middle of it. He's distraught and lost and hurting without you. Please, Dean...don't hate me for dragging you back from this, but I got no choice. And you must know, deep down, that you need to come back to the real world..."

"The real world." Dean echoed, dazed. That ugly, harsh and painful place. He shook his head. "Well this is real, at least to me. And Sam is here; he's out west, he has a practice out there. He's got two little girls... Why would I change this for what's happening back there?"

Bobby found his own words hollow, and it broke his heart to say them. "Because back there it's real. It's miserable, it's hard, but it's real. And this-" he gestured around him, "This is fantasy. I don't blame you for taking refuge in it, boy. I'd have done it myself. But you gotta know it can't last. It'll fade, or break, like any dream, and when you wake up, there'll be nothing left. You'll have lost Sam, to his fear, to his weakness. They'll take him, Dean; the bad guys. They'll make him one of their own."

Dean knew that every word was true. He felt it, but he didn't want to believe any of it. "Aw no...no. Don't do this to me, Bobby, I'm begging you! You don't know how perfect this is now; I can't even begin to tell you..." He sat down heavily, burying his face in his hands. "It was all behind me... It was over, things are good. Maggie is my wife, she's been with me for over twenty years. I've got a good kid, a son... I built a life here, can't you see that? There's no devil, no demons, no pain! You of all people should understand that."

Bobby's heart felt like shards of glass. He came forward and gently hugged him. He could feel the strain in Dean as he swore a quiet litany and fought to contain his grief. "I know, son.." he whispered. "I know."

Bobby left him. He'd done what he had to, and it was up to Dean now to make his choice. He awoke in the hospital room. He took a breath and turned to look at Dean, watching his face as he slept. The slight smile that had been a constant feature there before was gone. Tears made wet tracks from his eyes, across his temples, disappearing into his hair. Bobby swore. Never had he hated the world more than at that moment. He couldn't look at the misery he'd brought, and he rose, and quietly left the room.

Bobby sat outside, alone, thankfully. He'd found the little garden that hospital volunteers had built, a place for the bereaved, or nearly so, to find some sort of peace. He sat stiffly on the cold metal bench, ignoring the nodding flowers, the swaying branches of the ornamental shrubs. It wasn't working. He couldn't stave it off, and he gave in to his anger. His hands balled into tight fists, he tearfully and silently railed at god for his poor stewardship of everything lately, especially Dean Winchester's life. He was strangling with fury and frustration, and guilt. He turned his face up to the sky and tearfully demanded an explanation, but predictably, none came.

Finally he'd spent enough of his emotion. In a final act of bitter anger, he stared at a sunny yellow chrysanthemum that grew beside his seat. He ripped the fluffy head off its stem and flung it against the cobbled walkway. He got up, wiped angrily at his eyes and ground the flower under his heel until his sight was blurred again and the blossom was nothing but a smear against the stones.

Bobby retrurned to the bland waiting lounge. He fumbled in his pockets, retrieving a handful of change and inserting the coins into the coffee machine. Another of the ashen, luke-warm comforts poured into the waiting styrofoam cup, and he took it out when it was ready, grimacing at the thought of consuming it. A hand reached out and gently claimed it, replacing it with something far more palatable from a local coffee shop. Bobby looked up at his benefactor. "Thought I told you to stay down for a few hours!" he growled.

Sam smiled wearily, pouring the vending machine swill into a nearby potted ficus. "I did. Four hours is close enough. I woke up after that, and figured you might need a break. By the looks of you, I was just in time."

Bobby stared at his cup. He sat, drooped-shouldered in defeat. Sam sat beside him.

"So...anything new?"

Bobby looked up at him then. The raw pain in his face caused Sam's heart to skip. "What? Bobby, what is it, is he-"

"No. Nothing's different." Bobby rotated the cup in silence, hardly aware that it was in his hands.

Sam remained tense. "Tell me what's on your mind then-"

Bobby sighed and stared off into the distance. Finally he spoke. "Sam...I think I just did the worst god-damned thing I ever done."

Sam didn't know what to make of that statement, other than to fear it. "I don't know what you mean, Bobby...talk to me."

Bobby remained silent. After a moment, he described what he's seen and experienced through the use of the dream root. When he was finished, he stared again at his untouched coffee, turning it slowly and methodically in his hands. Sam listened quietly.

"Sam, I think I made a big mistake...I think I ruined his one way to be happy."

Sam sat in stunned silence. A dream world...one filled with contentment, devoid of supernatural horror... He sighed heavily. "Bobby, I know how you must feel. Christ, I hate that it was you that had to do it. But you were right, this place he's been existing in, this mental paradise...it isn't real, and it wouldn't last. As much as either of us wishes it could stay that way for him, we both know it would go south eventually. You made a painful, difficult decision, but I think it was necessary to bring him back . If we're ever going to be able to push on after this, it's because you did this hard, hard thing. ..I have to thank you, Bobby. I know how you must feel, and you took that on anyway. I owe you...again."

Bobby nodded, without looking up. His voice was barely audible. "I feel like shit, Sam. I feel like a bloody banker foreclosing on the family farm. All his hopes and dreams are trampled, and it was my god-damned boots doing it. Mine..."

Sam had no words for him. All he could do was put a hand on the older man's shoulder and pray that this miserable thing worked.

The awareness was poison, and Dean knew it. The moment he'd accepted that this wonderful place, this perfect life, was a dreamscape, it began to erode. He looked around himself desperately, and he could see the encroaching formlessness at the edges as the illusion failed. No...not yet...not yet! He got up and ran to the house.

Maggie was in the kitchen. She looked up from her apple-peeling quizzically. "That was a while! What did Danny hit with that thing, for heaven's sake, a boulder, or-"

He didn't let her finish. He scooped her into his arms and hugged her to himself, so tightly that she protested. "Easy there, Winchester; you'll snap me in half!"

He held on, feeling the warmth of her, the yielding. His wife, Maggie Williams Winchester. Her scent now, of raw apple and lavender soap... He buried his face in her grey-shot auburn hair.

She felt the intensity of his grip. "Dean, what is it?" she whispered fearfully.

He didn't answer, he couldn't. He sobbed once, a broken sound, and she heard it and hugged him back harder.

It faded then, his beautiful, flawless life. It melted to nothingness. All he'd understood, for twenty years, everything that he's centred his life on, was gone, disappearing like mist burned off by a harsh morning sun. He stood, empty-handed and alone, in a shapeless, colourless wasteland.

When he came to, he was without his watchful company. He stared around the unfamiliar room, trying to understand where he was, and why. His senses were dazed, it took some time before he put the puzzle pieces back in place and remembered. Ruby...and ... He wondered just how the hell he ended up here, instead of going into the light, which had seemed to be beckoning him, in his final memory. Panic gripped him; he tried to recall where Sam was, and he remembered that he was safe at Bobby's. At least there was that.. But his last conscious recollection was shuddering with cold and feeling the wall of blackness wrap around him, and his hands finally releasing from the wheel.

She had him. The demon whore; she'd won, or so it seemed at the time. But apparently someone had intervened. He was too drained to apply any more thought to it, sure that he'd never felt so tired in his life. He tried to raise a hand, but gravity had strengthened tenfold, and even breathing was a conscious effort against it. He managed to get his wrist in view, focusing on the bandaged stitches there. Nice. That'll be an embarrassing scar. He knew what people would think when they saw it. His right was wrapped in a formed plastic splint. He flexed his fingers, and his left hand responded. The right was sluggish, but so was his thinking at the moment. Hospital. I'm in a hospital. He frowned, hating the all too familiar and frequent venue. But he figured it was better than a morgue. He rubbed his eyes and grimaced. His teeth felt fuzzy, he wanted to find a can asap. Since no one seemed to be around, he pressed the buzzer.

It brought attention, and quickly. A matronly nurse hurried in, and she stood in momentary shock, staring at his green, wide-open eyes. "Oh my goodness! You're awake!"

He thought she was a bit of an idiot. "Yeah...uh, look, I could use a hand getting to a bathroom. And I need to get a hold of my brother."

She ignored him and checked his vitals. "Stay put, do not move! I'm getting Dr. Arnulfsen-"

He was about to voice an opinion on what she really should be doing, but she was already gone. "Crap." he muttered. He sat up partially, but had to grip the bed rail as vertigo swamped him. He'd been lying still for so long, the head rush at the altitude change was sudden and sickening. He leaned back onto his pillow, sweating and counting methodically until the feeling subsided and the curtain of hissing darkness lifted. When it did, he opened his eyes again, and was startled by a ring of astonished and concerned faces.

He looked at them crossly. "-What?"

Sam made a small, strangled sound, and suddenly Dean found himself engulfed in his brother's tight embrace. It seemed to go on for an embarrassingly long time, and he'd have pushed him off if he'd had an ounce of strength. But finally Sam let him go.

"Okaaay...what the hell was that for?"

Sam shook his head and laughed, but there were tears in his eyes. Bobby too seemed misty-eyed, and Dean realized his own hand was held in his mentor's tight grip. Annoyed, he pulled it free and stared from one to the other, demanding, "Ok, what is it now?"

It was Dr. Arnulfsen who filled him in. When he was done speaking, he proceeded with his medical checks while Dean absorbed the news.

"I was out for...how long?"

Bobby answered. "Ten days. You had us pretty near losing hope, boy! Don't you ever do that to us again!"

Dean blinked at him, and he turned to Sam. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Bobby got you in here as fast as he could, but you nearly bled out, Dean. They weren't sure you'd ever wake up."

Dean saw the weariness in his brother's face. Bobby too, looked haggard. He scratched his hair with his left hand, feeling embarrassed and oddly guilty. "Well, shit, uh...sorry I scared you all then. All I remember is-"

He stopped talking. Bobby cast a nervous glance at Sam, who returned it in kind. Dean didn't speak for several moments. Memories of what he'd experienced while he was unconscious flooded to his mind, and he blanched to a new pallor. Anulfsen looked him over anxiously. "Are you alright? What are you feeling?"

Grief. Loss. Betrayal. He couldn't begin to put it into words, and he didn't want to. "Tired." he whispered. He turned away from them all and shut his eyes.

"Gentlemen, please wait in the lounge." Arnulfsen was brisk now, and he had tests, and questions that required privacy. His tone brooked no opposition. Bobby nodded and led Sam out, and they sat in the waiting room, tense and anxious.

"He went white-" Sam said.

Bobby put a steadying hand on his arm. "He's weak as a kitten, Sam. This is a shock to him, and we just need to thank the lord that we have him back. The doc will take care of him."

Sam nodded, distracted with worry, and they waited in silence for word. Bobby in particular, feared what was hitting Dean now. The look on the young man's face was telling.

When he'd checked him over thoroughly, and was satisfied, Arnulfsen sat back and addressed Dean.

"You beat the odds here, my friend. The general consensus regarding your future was grim. Now, I want to hear it from you that you won't waste all our efforts and try this again."

Dean was still reeling. He turned to the doc and whispered "What do you mean?"

Dr. Arnie leaned forward and grasped Dean's splinted right hand. "This. Your suicide attempt, which was damned close to being successful. Now I don't know what series of events brought you in here, but unless you want to be shipped off for a period of psychiatric assessment, I want your word that you won't try this again."

Dean had to shake off his feelings for the moment. The threat of further hospitalization, especially where he'd be required to discuss feelings with some clueless set of shrinks, was enough of a distraction. "No, trust me, I'm not going through this again!" He said it with vehemence, his meaning entirely different than what Dr. Arnulfsen took it to be, but the doc was relieved.

"Good. That's issue one. Now, you're not getting out of here without some counselling, I'll warn you right off. I may have your word that you won't try again, but you need to deal with the factors that caused you to act in this desperate way. If you don't, you'll just be putting the monster in the closet and it will come back out again to haunt you. In the next few days, I'm going to set up some visits with our resident psychiatrist. Her name is Dr. Sarah Gardiner. She's very easy to talk to, and she'll help you get things sorted out."

Dean wanted to tell him to go # $% himself, and have his smarmy shrink sort that out. But he knew enough to play the game, and he quietly agreed.

Arnulfsen smiled efficiently. Another box ticked off. "Excellent.. Now, you have a couple of loyal watchers waiting for you out there. Your brother and uncle have been with you every minute you were in here, so remember that, if you ever feel alone or unloved. Those two were fixtures beside your bed, the nurses were just about to adopt them. They're anxious to see you, can I let them in?"

Dean wanted to say no, leave me alone, but he knew it would bring the odious visit of the psychiatrist that much sooner. He sighed dejectedly and nodded. Alone for a few minutes, he tried to come to grips with his rapidly fading memory. It was a dream...all just a dream... And like any dream, it had a tenuous connection to reality, one that weakened with each waking moment. But the feelings remained; confusion, loss. He didn't want to see them now. He wanted to sit in his car, alone, and try to make some sense of it all. Instead, he pressed his head back against his pillow, and steeled himself for the big reveal.