2008's Dean POV
Bobby finds me in one of the storage rooms I was definitely told not to be in—but I figure that if my older self really meant that, he and Sam would have put in locks that were harder to pick. "What are you doing in here, boy? Ain't you supposed to be getting a memory transplant right about now?"
"Like you rush to get a prostate exam."
"Who needs one—when I already got you to be a pain in my ass?"
I tip a vial over on its head, watching the ink-like spheres inside the clear liquid merge together and then separate like the stuff in lava lamps. Then, I notice the label—Shrinking Potion (affects certain body parts only)—and rush to put it back on the shelf.
"I don't like the idea of someone else being in my head," I say, finding a mostly sturdy wooden crate and plopping down on it. "I mean, Cas is cool—and I trust him, which is probably insane considering I've known him less than a week—but…I mean, Sam and I have lived outta each other's pockets our entire lives and still managed to keep some boundaries, you know?"
"Shouldn't Cas be feeling that way more than you? He's the one doing all the sharing."
"You're kidding, right? That's freaky, too. I mean, I get that Heaven is apparently upside-down Hell, but I don't know if I wanna find out what happened to make an angel fall like that."
Bobby looks at me. He snorts.
"What?"
"It's not like you to be humble. You talk pretty girls out of their numbers and cops into letting you onto their crime scenes. If you had any other parent than John Winchester, you mighta been the first kid to ever successfully talk their old man into giving them a pony. If we needed an angel to switch teams, I'm pretty sure you're what happened to him."
Bobby must see something in my face, because he quickly sighs. "I wasn't saying that as a bad thing, son. From what I can tell, Castiel is exactly where he wants to be."
"Trapped in an underground lair fighting with my other self for days because he apparently never got a memo saying he was wanted around here?"
"Relationships are messy. It was with Karen." I open my mouth to protest, but he just rolls his eyes. "It's like that with you and Sam too. But often it's the people we yell at the loudest that we care about the most. You saw it. Even when the two of them were arguing, they were struggling to keep apart—like two magnets fighting their nature."
I had seen it, but like hell if I was going to admit that out loud.
Still, I wait for Bobby to say anything—to comment on their…themness…and how it seems…different…from what Sam and Castiel have. I mean, I'd never really had a best friend before—and I'm also not used to angels. Maybe they all stand really close and soul strip people with their eyes. That's gotta be the explanation. But I'm not sure if Bobby understands that's all that's going on there. Maybe I should tell him. But only if he brings it up first.
Of course, that's when the wood box I'm sitting on decides to give out.
Dozens of glass shards bite through my jeans into my ass, brightly burning, as purple-colored smoke wraps around me. "Son of a-"
/
Two hours later, we've finally sorted out my senses so that I'm smelling through my nose and seeing out of my eyes again. But I will forever shudder at the memories of when they were mixed up. "Did you ever think of—I don't know—getting rid of some of these disasters in the making? I mean, there's a pot in there that says it conjures ferrets. What could you possibly need a ferret-conjuring pot for?"
"Sam," Cas asks, with a frown between his eyebrows. "Do you think we could modify the spell on that pot to produce bees instead?" The four of us blink at him, simultaneously. "What? The dwindling bee population is highly concerning and has a direct effect on the global food supply."
"We'll work on setting you up with a hive out back, OK? So long as you promise not to wear them this time," my older self promises the angel, who offers a sheepish, almost embarrassed smile in return. Whatever that story is, I want to know it. "And to answer your question, Mini Me, what do you want us to do with all of it? Dump it in the ocean? It's safer here where no one can touch it…Well, almost no one."
"Dean," Sam claps the other Me on the back. "Stop being judgmental over something that a version of you did."
"Yeah," I smirk. "That's just the ferret-conjuring pot calling the kettle black."
I don't care about the groans that comment gets me. It was fuckin' hilarious.
/
"So, uh, where are we going to do this exactly?" I prompt Cas when it's finally time to get down to business, trying to hide the way I'm wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.
"Wherever you'd feel most comfortable. Your bedroom?"
If I was eighty years old and had one of those medical alert necklace things, that would have been enough to get me hitting my panic button. "Uh, that seems a little claustrophobic to me. What about right here," I say, gesturing to the set of two armchairs in the library and then, answering my own question, I scramble into one—denim squeaking over leather.
Once I'm settled down, I expect Cas to just get on with it with the same sense of purpose that he does everything. Instead, he just stands there, hands buried in his trench coat pockets. A thought occurs to me. "This morning—when you guys didn't come look for me—were you stalling too?"
"I—yes," he admits, walking over to the corner—where I've just realized there's a wet bar for the first time. Dude pours himself a full glass of bourbon and downs it in about a gulp. "Want some?" he asks as he pours himself a second.
"Does that even do anything to you?"
"I would need an order of magnitude more than this to feel tipsy."
"Then why are you doing it?"
"Because, I've learned all my emotional-coping methods from Winchesters. Well, first they taught me about emotions. Then how to drown them in alcohol."
I walk over him and accept the glass he hands me, noting that his fingers aren't sweaty at all. We sip in silence.
"It's gonna be OK," I try to reassure him. "I mean, once I get back to the past and give the Other You these memories, he's supposed to wipe them from me, right? So, no harm, no foul."
"You'll have them while you're here, though, and I can't say how you'll react to some of the things you'll find out. You can be…unpredictable, sometimes."
"Is 'unpredictable' code for 'jackass'?"
"Only sometimes. That's why you're unpredictable."
A smile twitches the corner of my mouth. When I look up at the angel, I see a matching grin and, Wow. Dude's really got to smile more. He could give me and my panty-dropping abilities a run for their money.
"Look," I say, shaking my head to clear it. "I suppose I'm not in a position to promise anything about how this is going to go. But I'm usually pretty good at placing bets—and I would bet that you and me and other Me are going to work it out no matter what shit comes up. Capiche?"
"I capiche."
"Good. Now, quit pregaming. Do your thing. Unless you want to give me a hint what I'm about to see…?"
Cas's smile evens out where before it was twisted slightly to the left. "I'm going to show you how we were supposed to meet."
And then, with two fingers on my forehead, I'm suddenly back in a familiar barn.
/
This time, I'm looking at my own face, glancing between me—or I guess, Castiel—and the bursting lightbulbs.
"I can't see you in all this?" I ask Cas, somewhat disappointed.
"Do you see yourself in your own memories, Dean?"
I think about it, "Uh, sometimes?"
Cas nods, unperturbed. "That's not uncommon for humans. It's called observer point of view and is a coping mechanism used to keep your active self emotionally separated. People also have the tendency to let their more recent experiences color their emotions toward old memories. However, I am an angel. I remember things exactly as they happened, as they felt the first time."
The Dean and Bobby in front of me begin opening fire. I feel the bullets like I felt the insults of high school bullies—barely noticing of them, knowing that they have no idea who they're really messing with. Half a second later, I've forgotten about the bullets altogether.
The Dean I was less than a week ago gets his knife out instead. "Who are you?" he demands.
"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."
I see the chill that runs through his spine, even though he tries to hide it.
"Gotta agree with your Dean, Cas. Way more badass this time."
"Yeah. Thanks for that," the memory says, sarcastically—right before plunging the knife into Cas's chest. Castiel looks down at the blade—and I catch a glimpse of what he's wearing—which is, no surprise, what he always wears. Though the trench coat looks a little different. Might just be the angle.
Castiel feels…amused? Possibly. But the emotion is buried so far down—under layers and layers of strategy and languages and his intimate awareness of the time and his vessel's body temperature—as to be almost unnoticeable.
Castiel senses Bobby behind him—not just the idea of him—but everything down to his heart rate—and easily intercepts his weapon. Swings the old hunter around and renders him unconscious with a touch of his fingers.
"We need to talk, Dean. Alone."
"Who are you?" Dean asks, as he checks Bobby's pulse.
"Castiel."
"Yeah, I figured that much. I mean what are you?"
And I hate more than anything that I can't see the wings I feel extending from Castiel's back, especially when, from his perspective, bringing forth their shadows is like taking some of the air and the stars and all the pieces of the universe that are him and giving them back their real shape.
"Do you think you could rig me up to see Dean's version of this? So I can check out the merchandise?" I ask the future Cas.
He looks at me, startled, "I could…if he allowed it."
"Awesome."
I watch myself ask the exact same questions I would have. I listen to Castiel speak in the slow tones of someone who is genuinely unsure what and how much this human understands. And yet, it's not quite pity—it's curiosity.
"And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?" Dean demands at last. Castiel genuinely doesn't understand the question. He knows, of course, that few people get the second chance that this one is given—but he's also seen the Righteous Man's soul, how it shone pure and white against the reds and greys of Hell, the way it called out for its brother—not to ask for rescue from his torment, but because his soul is made of utter devotion—and he only finds it strange that his garrison wasn't called to collect him sooner.
"Good things do happen, Dean," Castiel settles on saying.
"Not in my experience."
And when Dean follows that up with a scoff, Castiel can't help but press closer. "What's the matter?" the angel wonders, almost to himself, examining Dean's eyes, trying to see through them. There's pain there—and Castiel is surprised he feels that, much more than the bullets. "You don't think you deserve to be saved." Well, Castiel thinks, he's only human. Humans are often wrong.
