There was nothing but darkness. The inaudible ticking of an imaginary clock was the only sound to be heard. Nothing but darkness, darkness, darkness.

There was no more energy. Nothing left to feel alive, just enough to wallow in thoughts you didn't have time to think about.

It was like Frodo, steps away from the entrance of Mount Doom. There was nothing left; it was right there, but nothing to pull you up by the hand and guide you to the resolution of all problems. Only surrounded by thick, muggy, hot air, nearly too thick to walk through, and darkness, occasionally getting the feeling someone was watching, knowing someone was watching. There was a silence that was so awfully loud that it didn't feel like silence at all. Invisible armies kept the enemy distracted. Darkness, darkness, darkness.

It was but an illusion that made the time pass so quickly, yet every moment was achingly slow; Breathing in nothing but smoke and fire.

It was in these moments where you start to forget. The memories of home forgotten. The sound of water, touch of grass, and taste of strawberries were wiped from existence. There was no Samwise the Brave to bring the facts back into existence. No companion to carry you the rest of the way.

'Do you remember that bit of rabbit, Mr. Frodo?' he said. 'And our place under the warm bank in the Captain Faramir's country, the day I saw an oliphaunt?'

'No, I am afraid not, Sam' said Frodo. 'At least, I know that such things happened, but I cannot see them. No taste of food, no feel of water, no sound of wind, no memory of tree or grass or flower, no image of moon or star are left to me. I am naked in the dark, Sam, and there is no veil between me and the wheel of fire. I begin to see it even with my waking eyes, and all else fades.'

Sam went to him and kissed his hand. 'Then the sooner we're rid of it, the sooner to rest,' he said haltingly, finding no better words to say.

Suddenly, there was light.

It was unknown to Dean whether it had grown from a speck, or abruptly popped into reality, but it didn't seem to matter. Hot light flooded the room, bright and white with a fiery red tint. The whoosh of air that rushed in reeked of sweat and blood and contained screams, and it was warm and thick, but nevertheless fresh to the stuffed-up dungeon.

The light did not dim, nor did Dean's eyes get used to the sudden light. He didn't give much thought to the questions that his brain was screaming out. Is that the way out? Why is it open? Who opened it? Did Crowley let me out? Did someone else? Was it on accident or on purpose? Where will it take me?

Dean felt some strength return. He brought himself up onto his knees, then hoisted up onto his feet, clutching the iron bars for support. Dean squinted into the light and staggered closer, trying to look past through it.

Hell had layers. Dean was located just outside the core, just outside the cage. If he concentrated, Dean could just barely make out levels of hell through the bright light of the door. A shiver crawled up Dean's spine, and suddenly he stood up straight. Still squinting, he used the last bit of hell-drained strength to walk into the light.

For a moment, everything was bright. Slowly, it started to fade. He saw trees around the edge of his vision. The sky was a soft blue and the sun off to the east. It was morning. He turned his head, and then from the corner of his eye he saw it. His car.

The Impala looked as if it hadn't been cleaned in years, though usually, when Dean was there, he made sure it was washed every couple of months. Usually more.

The whiteness started to fade into his surroundings. The bunker.

Dean cursed under his breath.

The door to the bunker sat right there in the hill like a Hobbit Hole. They were surely waiting in there for him. Dean cleared his throat as he stared at the door, wondering how long it was since the last time he spoke. Then he wondered why he was thinking of such a thing.

In his gut, Dean knew that this had been set up. He did not arise in hell when he left the dungeon. He did not appear in the park at which he vanished from oh-so-long ago. He was at the bunker. Their supernatural Batcave.

The door must have been cursed, he concluded. The door leading out of the dungeon must have been cursed to lead him here. Of course it was Crowley who opened the door.

There was nowhere left to go. Dean had to go inside to get the keys to the car. He could not muster up the power to teleport somewhere else. He was weak, and whether he wanted to admit it out loud or not, he knew it.

There was no other choice. So many thoughts buzzed around in Dean's head, but he felt as if they were only background music. Dean descended down the metal stairs and stopped in front of the door. A bubble of slight distress popped in his body. What if the door was locked? Would he knock on the door, or just sit outside and wait for Sam to come out, leaving to retrieve snacks?

The anxiety drained out of him when he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and turned. The door opened.

He pushed it open slowly, and it creaked as it did so. Most of the time, they swung the door so quickly they barely heard the distressed moan of the hinges. Dean cringed, knowing the sound echoed through the whole bunker. Dean first saw the distant, warm lights of the table lamps and relaxed. For the most recent years of his life, the bunker was home. Safe, permanent, and room for family. This was home.

Forgetting that five others lurked about in the underground home, Dean wandered in and closed the door behind him. He was careful and slow, stepping down the metal staircase without a sound. His eyes strayed from his feet as he reached the wooden floor, vision sweeping about the familiar main room of the bunker. Nobody was there, not yet. The tables were clean; no open books (or closed, for that matter), no stray papers, no forgotten glasses of water, no notebook, and no tablet.

Something red caught his eye as he took another step forward. He cursed under his breath again. Dean stood in a devil's trap, freshly painted the night before on the smooth, dark floor.

"Well, well, well, looky here," a smooth voice drawled, starling Dean from his discomfort. He whipped around towards the voice and saw nothing, and then turned back to face the rest of the bunker, where he saw Crowley standing next to the table. "I see you've found your way back to Kansas." Crowley had a smirk playing at his lips, eyes staring directly into Dean's.

"You let me out, didn't you?" Dean asked, choosing the most relevant question that swirled in his head. "You cursed the door to bring me back here."

Crowley shook his head, looking slightly amused. "I put a spell on it," he corrected, "so that when you passed through, it took you where you most desired to go, even if you didn't realize it."

Dean's eyebrows creased together in thought. "How'd you know if I wanted to go here?" Crowley said nothing; he just tapped his temple with his finger, as if that explained everything. Dean sighed. "Where are the others, why aren't they here? It's like, what, the butt-crack of dawn?"

"Oh, they are here," Crowley said as if it was a signal. However, it may as well be, because once the words flowed out of his mouth, Sam, Cas, and Gabriel descended into the room from the hallways.

Their expressions were calm, as if they rehearsed this scene plenty of times, like for a play. Gabriel's expression turned to a panicked one, staring down at Dean's chest. Dean ignored him and immediately noticed something different about Sam; it was in the way he stood, the way his eyes contained fires though he was completely calm, the way a strange, hellish buzz came off of him. Suddenly, a devilish grin flashed across Dean's face.

"I see you've drunken my blood, eh, brother?"