After a couple of days away, Sam Winchester was en route back to the bunker.
His meeting with the Witch he'd gone to for help with the Mark of Cain had gone nowhere.
He hated leaving Dean alone, so he cautiously asked Castiel to drop in on him. That was the last thing he'd heard from either of them.
Plagued with worry, his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. The sun was nearly setting now, and the beaten up Honda Civic he'd stolen would only go so fast.
His long legs were cramped from the drive, irritating him almost as much as the many unanswered phone calls he'd made to Castiel and Dean.
Sam reached for his cell phone again and dialed Dean one more time.
"Ring..."
"Ring..."
"Ring ..."
No answer.
"Damnit, Dean!" He howled in frustration.
Sam was starting to panic, wondering if something happened to them.
Nowadays, it seemed like they had more and more reasons to worry about each other.
"Alright...Crowley. I'll try him."
Sam figured that if something had indeed gone awry, especially if it had to do with the Mark, Crowley would either be in on it or know about it.
He dialed Crowleys number, shaking his head at the notion that he was calling the King of Hell on a cell phone. Crazier things have happened, right?
"Ring "
"Ring "
"Moose," Crowley's voice came over the phone.
"Sad to hear from you. But, I assume since you're calling me that something is wrong, and you need Daddy's help...am I right?"
Sam pursed his lips in annoyance. "Remind me why we haven't killed you yet?"
"Because you love to hate me, and I'm more useful alive, bright one. Now tell Daddy who's picking on you?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Cut the bullshit, Crowley. Have you heard anything from Dean?"
"No, Samantha...are you two in a quarrel again?" Crowley snickered.
"No, we're not. I haven't heard from him, or Cas all day. I just figured you might know something. Thanks anyway," Sam began to pull the phone away from his ear to hang up.
"Wai-wait-Moose?" Crowley called.
"Yeah?"
"How is the squirrel, anyway? The Mark...it's been hard on him."
Sam frowned at the question. That's all he'd been worried about lately, about how well Dean was handling the Mark of Cain.
"That's old news Crowley. He's getting worse. I've gotta go."
Sam didn't wait for Crowley to respond, and hung up the phone, tossing it onto the passenger seat.
"Damnit, Dean," Sam said to himself. "You'd better okay."
Several hours had passed since Dean took his own life.
He had hope that maybe, someone up above would grant he and Castiel another chance. It was a 'Hail Mary' kind of move, but the both of them had died several times before, and it just didn't agree with them; so yes, Dean had reason to be optimistic.
Dean just wanted to tell Cas the truth. He wanted to tell him he loved him, and that he was sorry for being such a disaster.
If they could just go back to the beginning and start all over...
What a dream that would have been.
Ugh. The "What-if's"...
The two broken bodies of Dean and Castiel lay side by side. The dungeon was dark again, and nightfall had crept upon the bunker as the day's tragedies unfolded, one after the other.
Suddenly, Dean's chest began to move up and down slowly. It was a sight that would appear miraculous if anyone had been watching.
His eyes fluttered open, lashes stained with the salt of his tears that had flowed so violently earlier.
Dean's emerald green eyes were now replaced with two onyx black orbs that would frighten even the bravest of men. He laid there for a moment, still, like a robot recomputing who he was.
Finally he stood. The fatal wound from the First Blade he inflicted on himself was gone; though the hole in his shirt, and the blood on his chest and hands remained.
"What the hell..." Dean said to himself.
Dean didn't bother looking around the dungeon at all-not even at Cas.
He headed for the door. Treading down the corridor, he reached his bedroom.
For someone who'd just come back from the dead, you could say he seemed fairly calm.
Stepping into his bedroom, his eyes scanned the wreckage of that morning; broken lamps, mirrors, and broken picture frames littered the floor.
Lifting his feet, he dodged the carnage on the floor. He stood in front of his half-broken mirror blinking his eyes over and over, staring at his reflection.
The third time he blinked, his eyes shine black.
"Huh...well that's new." Dean said to himself sarcastically.
He knew why he was alive. Looking at his arm, he noticed the Mark of Cain still remained.
"Damn, you must really like me, huh?" Dean said, talking to the Mark on his arm as if it were alive.
That was the scary part; he half-expected it to answer him.
In the mirror, Dean noticed his torn t-shirt. His face showed that he remembered the fatal wound he'd given himself earlier.
He pulled the fabric of his shirt off his stomach, holding it out and to gaze through the hole in it.
"Son of a bitch," Dean said, shaking his head. "This was my favorite shirt."
Dean's bemusement trailed off as if he remembered something important he had to do.
He walked to his desk and pulled a piece of paper and a pen from on top of his stereo speakers.
He looked up for a moment in thought, then wrote something down on the paper.
Before he left his bedroom, he smiled at the stereo system.
It was funny to him how he'd came across it. Dean had hustled some poor bastard at a game of pool, and used the cash to buy the system at a local pawn shop.
Dean flipped through the discs laying out. He grinned at the disc he'd chosen in his hand. He slid it in pushing the play button on repeat, turning it all the way up.
With a mission in his mind, he finally left his room.
Standing in the dungeon again, he was reaping the view.
"Shit! I made a mess in here, too!" Dean laughed.
Just then, Dean's phone rang. Taking it out, he saw it was Sam who was calling. He rolled his eyes and declined it.
"Damn, Sammy. Clingy much?" Dean said aloud as he sorted through his phone notifications.
"31 missed calls, 42 text messages, 8 voicemails...and a partridge in a friggin' pear tree." His voice trailed off in boredom.
Dean took a quick moment to send a vague text message to Crowley.
"We need to talk.Now." He wrote, then pocketed his phone again.
Before he could be distracted further, he stood over Cas, and carelessly let the piece of paper he'd written on sail down, landing on top of his chest.
Then, Dean crouched down and stoically ran the tips of his fingers down one of the lapels on Castiel's bloody trenchcoat.
He maneuvered Cas's stark body out of the coat, and with inscrutable expression, he folded it.
Hoisting himself from his position next to Cas, Dean tucked the maimed trenchcoat beneath his arm.
Dean began searching his pocket for his car keys. They jingled as he fished them out.
He found the First Blade right where he'd awakened on the floor next to Cas.
Picking it up, an egoistic smile radiated on his face from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat, his lips curling with triumph.
His eyes bore into the First Blade, admiring the way the dry blood's red contrast made it gleam.
"Let's go have some fun."