Between the stress attack and the drugs they'd pumped into him, Dean had slept most of the day, so he wasn't really tired now. He was worn, not just physically, but mentally, and he figured that he could actually use another few hours before he felt back up to specs, but not right this minute.

A likey indigant emergency case hadn't rated a private room, a factor Dean wished he had taken into account when he'd agreed to this arrangement. He hadn't, which is how he'd ended up sitting here, working on his de facto journal while trying to block out the loud snores from the other side of a privacy curtain.

He'd been relieved to see that the notebook had made the journey with him, as had, thankfully, his pool winnings. No such luck with the skin mag, which wasn't all that important, but still pissed him off. Was nothing sacred?

He was working on comparative accounts of his and Sam's resurrections, in an effort to find some clue as to how and why he was even back, and why he had come back so weird when the silence of the room was shattered suddenly by the TV snapping on to blare a miracle product infomercial.

"Dude, Seriously?" he growled at the curtain but got only a mumbled, snorting response containing nothing that could be called an actual word. He reached over to pull the curtain aside and peeked through. His roomie shifted over onto his side, grumbling in his sleep, apparently no more pleased with the noise than Dean himself was.

Confused, he let the curtain fall back in place, clicked the TV off with the remote and tried to get back to work.

Seconds later the TV burst back to life. Before Dean could angrily grab the remote, or fully appreciate the benefits of a spring loaded, concealed blade screwdriver the lights flashed violently, crackling loudly and making the room smell of ozone. Dean scrambled from the bed, now fully alert, senses on edge.

The room's external window began to rattle, shaking visibly. Dean moved closer to examine what was happening and barely leapt back in time to protect his eyes when it exploded inwards on him. He stumbled to the floor, landing hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Glass shards that now littered the area cut into his forearms and knees as he dragged his way across the floor, which was becoming slick with blood from his fresh wounds. His mind scrambled in search of the most likely nearby source of salt or iron.

"Christo!" he yelled gutturally as a high pitched screech, like metal on metal, assaulted his ears and grew steadily louder. It dug painfully into his skull until all he could do was cover his bleeding ears and try not to scream.

"What's going on here?" a stern voice demanded.

Dean opened his eyes.

The floor was clean, no glass, no blood. He whipped his head around and saw the intact window. The room was quiet, no blaring TV, no deafening icepick of a noise gouging into his brain through his eardrums. Nothing was out of place except Dean himself. He pushed himself half prone and continued to survey the room in confusion. "What the hell?" he muttered.

"That's what I'd like to know." the no nonsense looking nurse in the doorway responded. "Here," she stepped into the room, "let's get you up." Dean batted her hands away when she tried to help him to his feet.

"I um, I sleepwalk sometimes." he explained. "I'll just... go back to bed. Sorry for the trouble."

"Mmm hmm," she muttered, assessing both him and the situation as she got him resettled. "Just try to go back to sleep. Would you like something to help knock you out?"

"No, it's fine. I'll be fine." he assured her.

"Ok, you can ring if you change your mind." she started to leave and then turned back. "Oh and honey, I'm Catholic too, so I encourage prayer, but next time, not at the top of your lungs, OK? God's listening. You don't have to yell." She went out.

Dean sat up in the bed and looked around the quiet, undisturbed room. Vivid memories of the chaos were still fresh in his mind. "No seriously," he said to no one, "What, the, hell?"