So I managed to split this into two seperate chapters; it was originally the end (and used to be two pages long. Now it's five.). I practically rewrote the whole thing. This is how much I love you, readers! ♥

Thank you so much for all the reviews and kind words. Remember, constructive criticism is GOOOD. I'm always looking for things that'll help me out in the future. So thanks for reading. I'm glad you like it. And now, onward!

--

Chapter Nine

"God damn it!" Dean shouted, punching the wall in frustration as he looked around the apartment he remembered as the one he'd picked Sam up in before Jessica died. "What the fuck is going on? I want out of here, you hear me? I don't want to watch this shit anymore! It's in the past! Let it go!"

It took Dean only a second to realize that his words applied to him.

"Oh hell no," he started, walking around the empty room. "No. This ain't happening because I can't let it go. I did let it go. It's been let go of. And damn it, I'm lying through my goddamn teeth." Dean slumped down onto a nearby couch, letting his head fall backward. "This is ridiculous. I just want to go home."

There was a long quiet in the room as Dean just sat, reveling in the silence as his thoughts flowed freely, albeit choppily in his frustration. He hadn't let it go, none of it. Not the Shtriga, not the incident in the woods, hell, there were even a ton more things that he hadn't re-experienced that he hadn't let go. Fights, accidents, harsh words, anger and grudges. But maybe he had to. Maybe this was happening for that reason exactly, maybe feeling the pain again was a more direct re-enactment than what he'd been repeating over and over in his mind over the years; a final crack of the whip on his back to make him realize just what he was doing to himself.

God knew that Sam was always telling him to let the stuff out; to talk to him instead of keeping it inside where it would build up like carbonated liquid, building and building until, finally, it popped. There had been plenty of opportunities for that, too, to talk and get things out – because they were spending how many hours stuck together in the Impala in the run of a week? – But Dean's pride wouldn't allow for it. His pride and maybe the small fear inside that if he did try to explain it, Sam wouldn't get it or he'd get pissed off because he never said anything before. Hell, one of the reasons might even have been that he didn't want his little brother to see him in a weak moment, spilling his guts as if Dean were an over-emotional teenaged girl and Sam a diary.

Once when he was younger, he, his father and Sam were driving through some almost eerily perfect white-picket fence town somewhere in Oklahoma. He remembered looking at each of the houses they passed and thinking that beyond those doors there must be some messed up shit going on. It looked so perfect and cheerful on the outside, but perfection and utter happiness? It was all a ruse. It had to be. Nothing was perfect and nothing was clean-cut and whitewashed, trimmed and pruned. It could look like it on the outside, but on the inside things couldn't ever be fine. They could be ignored and tucked away, but everyone had their problems and everyone had their dirty little secrets behind closed doors. He remembered identifying with the houses, relating to them. His whole family was a whitewashed townhouse, all three of them pretending it was all well and good but no one ever really believing it. The fights, the injuries, the careless mistakes – they would be erased a day or two later, or seemed to be – like trying to wipe a chalkboard with a piece of paper. They were just never spoken of again in a feeble hope that if it wasn't talked about it would go away.

Hell. Forget him, his whole family was messed up.

Eventually, Dean was pacing. Thinking about their dad, thinking about Sam. Sam, man, that boy… talk about problems. Dean was outright with his anger, and he knew it. If he was pissed he wouldn't bust a cap at the nearest person, necessarily, but he'd be more than happy to beat the shit out of some supernatural creature that didn't see it coming. Dean would fight out his anger, but Sam… he didn't want to admit it, but Sam scared him sometimes. He'd adopted the stony quietness from his father, letting it boil beneath the surface rather than having it spill over the top of the pot. And he was so good at hiding it that he didn't know when his little brother was angry anymore. Like a dormant volcano, all that happening beneath the surface with no rhyme or reason as to when, exactly, it was going to blow.

Dean sighed and rubbed his temples, leaning against the nearest wall. How was he supposed to let all that go? Stupid mistakes – things he could have avoided, god damn it – and arguments, things he would never forget no matter how hard he tried.

Things he couldn't forgive himself for.

"All right," Dean vocalized, pushing himself off of the wall. A black cloud is what it was. A black cloud, like Eeyore had in those Winnie the Pooh episodes Sammy used to be transfixed on when he was a baby. It had been following him since he was nine years old – since the Shtriga – and had more or less become a part of him ever since.

Dean didn't want to be rained on any longer, especially if experiencing something like this was the result.

He had to forgive himself and forgive his father. He couldn't spend his whole life dwelling on past mistakes, and he was beginning to realize that. He had to try, as much as he didn't want to. For himself and for his worried little brother.

Dean let out a long sigh, walking around the living room as if expecting something to happen. Which caused him to think – why hadn't it? Where was the show, the memory, he and Sam scrapping in the dark, Dean making up a lame excuse as to why he was there and trying to convince Sam to talk to him? Where was pretty ol' Jessica, all short panties and too-small Smurf t-shirt – oh god, stop imagining that, Dean – and Sam, getting defensive as if to rub in the fact that he had a girlfriend and Dean didn't? "Whatever you wanna say, you can say it in front of her." Hah, yeah. "Uh, Sam, dad went out hunting one of those creepy, ugly, supernatural monster things – you know, the ones that used to kick your butt when you were little? – and hasn't been home in a few days. That's kinda a problem, so I kinda need your help finding him."

Yeah. That'd really go over well with the girlfriend.

Sam and his normal; what a laugh that was. He had nothing against his little brother wanting it, no, but to expect that after the way he grew up? He faced terrifying evil things daily. Their father had been right on one thing: no matter what either of them did, it was their life and it would always be there, waiting for them to turn around and look it in the eye once again. Maybe Sam was strong to try and turn his back on it, maybe he was stupid. He did know one thing, though, and it was that Dean would never be able to do it. Never be able to leave hunting behind for something normal, something that wasn't this. It made him feel safe, as contradictory as that sounded. Hunting, the Impala, Sam… it was all home to him and he couldn't imagine life without it. That adrenaline, that bond, that feeling of pride when more people were saved.

Dean wandered around the living room, hands in his pockets as his headache slowly ebbed away. This had opened his eyes, if anything. He needed the kick in the ass, whatever it really meant in the grand scheme of things. He still had no idea what was going on, if he was dying – but he wasn't, which he had decided on, so that wasn't even an option – or if this was all some whacked-out dream. Yeah, he'd just be waking up soon. Soon.

He looked up at the ceiling.

"I learned my lesson! Now send me home, you bastards." He paced as he spoke, looking up at the ceiling as if this was all some kind of divine intervention and whoever was pulling the strings was up there. "I get it, all right? I get it. I've been screwing myself over the past few years. I'm sorry." He paused. Should he really be apologizing? And to whom was he apologizing, anyway? "Look, I just want to go home, okay? I learned my lesson." He slapped his hands down at his sides in surrender. "Gotta let things go. Can't keep it inside forever. Yada yada." He was being outwardly blasé about it, but he knew that somewhere he actually meant it. Maybe it was time to try a new approach, let go. Stop being a jerk about keeping it all inside and personal, at the very least. But when he ended up with nothing, he merely sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor, looking around the living room again for some other means of escape.

"Dad's on a hunting trip and he hasn't been home in a few days," he heard himself say from another room. He jerked and turned around, following the voice, but strangely he could not find its source.

"I swear, any more of this freaky crap and I'm gonna lose it," he muttered to himself as he scanned the room. But as he walked the room became whiteness and the whiteness became shapes. Grey rectangles with white beams – a ceiling.

"Wh-what the hell?" Dean questioned, his voice surprisingly weak. Immediately he tried lifting his head, feeling like a dump truck had just run over him. Repeatedly. "God…" He winced. "Where am I?"

"Dean?" Came a familiar voice to his right, and he tried to move his head – damn, why was his neck so stiff? – To see its source. "Dean, it's all right. You're gonna be fine."

"Sam?"

--

R&R. Last chapter either tomorrow or Friday; I've got an Art exam and other very busylike things.