Thank you hugs to Jenjoremy, SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for beta'ing, outlining help and pre-reading. Thank you all for reading, reviewing and supporting the story. It's much appreciated.

Chapter Three

Something woke Dean. He didn't know what it was as everything was quiet, but something had happened.

He rolled over slowly, not wanting the creaking of his bedsprings to wake Sam, but when he looked across the space between them, he saw Sam's bed was empty. Empty but neatly made with a sheet of paper on the pillow.

Dean cursed as he threw back the bedclothes, grabbed up the paper, and read a few lines of the message.

Dean, I'm sorry.

I wish things were different, but they aren't. I can't stay knowing what I could do. It's better for everyone if I'm gone, so you have to let me go this time…

He should have known this would happen. Sure, Sam had come back, but he'd had time to think on it since and he'd obviously decided sticking around was the wrong decision. Perhaps he was now hunting Michael as well as Lucifer. That seemed like the sort of thing he would do. Anything to protect Dean.

Let him go? Not a chance. Sam was making a mistake leaving and Dean was going to track his ass down and tell him. Dammit, Dean needed Sam. He'd just found out he was an archangel's vessel for an epic, world destroying battle. That was something a guy could use his brother's support to get through.

I know what will happen if I stay. He told me. I can't risk it. I have to do what I can. Take care of each other.

Sam

P.S. Tell Ellen, I always knew just how much.

Dean's hand balled into a fist. It was so easy for Sam because he wasn't the one left behind. He was John Winchester's son in every sense of the word. They'd both abandoned Dean when he needed them. Dean wasn't letting him do this. They had Castiel now. He could find Sam wherever he was and Dean was going to use him to drag Sam back so he could talk some sense into him. He would make him see that this wasn't what you did to family. Whatever he—whoever he was—had told Sam, they'd fix it together. They were always better together than apart.

He wandered into the kitchen, noting as he did the chill in the air and the sound of the rain, louder than it should be. The back door was open. He frowned. Sam was usually a little more security savvy than to leave a door open like that. Unthinkingly, he walked to the door and pushed it open wider.

The bottom dropped out of his world.

Sam was lying on his back on the rain and mud soaked ground, perfectly still. One arm was flung out at his side, the hand facing up and water collecting in his palm, and in the other hand was the gun. It was at his side, the silver looking out of place among the colors of the night: the deep green grass, the navy sky, the dim yellow light pouring out of the door, and the blood, oh god the blood. It looked almost black, spread as a stain on Sam's chest and lightening to deep pink where the rain was diluting it at his sides.

"Sam!" he shouted, running out into the rain and skidding down on the mud. He fell to his knees, his hand coming to automatically steady himself on Sam's unmoving chest. "Sam! Sammy, no!"

He patted Sam's cheeks, his forehead, he grabbed his chin and turned his head from side to side, but Sam didn't react at all. And though Dean knew he wouldn't—couldn't ever again—answer him, he pleaded for him to talk, to say something.

Someone screamed behind him, and yet he didn't turn. Feet appeared in his line of view and voices shouted, and still he didn't look at them. He was staring at his brother's face, tears streaming down his own, and he was trying as hard as he could to wake up, because this had to be a nightmare. He couldn't be in this position again. Sam couldn't have done this again. Not to Dean. Not to his brother. This was all a nightmare and he was going to wake up and Sam would be there and he would be okay.

"Sam," he moaned, and then there was a shout of surprise and someone was unceremoniously dragging Dean to his feet.

He looked into Zachariah's smug face and he was talking, but Dean heard him as though he was coming through static. "…perfect…going…see something…Winchester…" And Dean looked down over his shoulder at Sam and that was the last thing he saw before everything went black.

When he woke, he was in motion before his eyes were even all the way open, scrabbling to his feet and looking around. He was still outside The Roadhouse, but things were enormously different to the place he had been. It was day. It wasn't raining. The ground was dry and the grass dead and yellow. There was no Sam, no Zachariah, and no voices. There was no sound but cicadas singing and the pounding of Dean's own pulse in his ears.

"Sam?" Dean said hopefully, but there was no response. "Ellen? Jo? Ash?"

There was no answering voice, but Dean thought he heard a creaking inside the building, a creaking and another strange sound, a human approximation of a growl.

He crept across the grass and through the open door into the kitchen. The place he had left was neat and clean, with its yellow door cabinets and pine table and chairs. There were mugs on the counter beside the coffee maker.

Now the table was on its side against the opposite wall, like someone had used it as a fort. The chairs were tipped over on the floor and the counters were bare of all but gritty, broken glass and china. The chalkboard that they'd all used to leave notes for each other was still there, and it bore one faded message, 'Sorry'.

"What the hell happened?" he asked the empty room.

He heard footsteps racing towards him and he lurched away from the door automatically. Ash burst into the room, but it wasn't Ash as Dean had ever seen him before. His hair was tangled, matted in places, his skin was smeared with grime, and his eyes… they were red, as if he had burst blood vessels. They were wide and unknowing as he launched himself at Dean, knocking him to the floor. He snarled like a rabid animal and his teeth snapped close to Dean's face.

Dean reacted automatically. He bought up a knee and smashed it into Ash's groin. Ash rolled off of him, and Dean jumped to his feet, backing away toward the opposite wall. Ash only stayed down a few seconds though. He was quickly scrambling to his feet and coming at Dean.

Dean knew only that something awful had happened to his friend and that if he didn't defend himself he was going to be killed. He picked up a chair from the floor, hefted it through the air and crashed it down over Ash's head. Ash dropped like a stone, bleeding from a wound on his temple.

Dean stood for a moment, panting, with the chair still in his arms, and then he lowered it to the floor again and scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn't killed Ash, he could still see him breathing, but it didn't make what had happened any easier to take. What on earth had happened? Where were Ellen and Jo? Were they rabid, too? And where was Sam? He had to be okay, because he couldn't be dead. That had been a nightmare. It was all one crazy acid trip dream and he was going to wake up soon.

Nightmare or not, Dean had to get out of there before Ash woke up. He needed to wake up. He needed a jolt. He needed pain.

He crept across the room and picked up a shard of china that had once been one of Ellen's mugs. He pressed it against the tip of his finger and jabbed it through the skin. It hurt. It bled.

"Not enough," he breathed. He needed something real to make him wake up, something stronger that a prick on the finger.

Ash groaned, and Dean realized he had no time to screw around experimenting. He needed to leave. Now.

He bolted out of the back door and round the building to the parking lot. There were three cars parked there, two of them were parked on flats, but the third, a Toyota, had full tires and an unlocked door. It was as if someone had left it for him—another tick in the dream column.

He got in and closed and locked the door behind him. He bent in his seat and prized the panel away from beneath the steering column. With a few once practiced movements, he had the engine running and he was pulling out of the parking lot.

He got a few miles out of town before he realized he didn't know what he was doing or where he was going or even why. On the seat beside him was the shard of china he'd taken from the kitchen. He pulled over onto the hard shoulder and picked it up. The finger prick hadn't been enough, but perhaps something a little more lasting would do the job.

He brought the shard to his wrist and took a breath.

"What is it with you Winchesters and suicide?" Zachariah asked.

Dean twisted in his seat and looked at the angel sitting beside him.

"You!" he snarled.

"Me," Zachariah said.

"This crap is down to you?"

"That depends. Do you mean your wannabe-martyr brother's suicide? No. That was all down to him. Bouncing you ahead five years so you can see what will become of the world if you say no to Michael? Yes, that's down to me."

"What do you mean bouncing me ahead?"

"Dean, Dean, Dean, how did you make it through college? I thought you were smart. Let me break it down into little words for you. Sam is dead. You are not. This is 2014. You are here. The world is a mess. It's your fault."

One part of the explanation resounded in Dean's thoughts. Sam was dead. It wasn't possible. He didn't believe it. So why was he crying? A single tear traced its way down his cheek.

"So…" Zachariah said expansively. "You're up to date. I can go."

"Wait!" Dean said quickly. "What happened to Ash?"

"Before you gave him a concussion, you mean?" He laughed. "That's a story for another time. Now, Dean, off you go. Plenty to do and people to see. Make sure you drink it in, pay attention to the little details, learn from the experience."

"No," Dean started, "Take me…" It was too late; Zachariah was gone.

Dean knew he needed to get somewhere safe, though he judged from the view out of his window as he drove, there was no safe anymore. Cars were abandoned in roads, many of them burned out. Buildings had busted windows and graffitied walls. Doors hung off hinges, and the people… the people were like dogs. Some just stood and watched him drive past, glaring balefully, while others chased the car, shouting and snarling, and making Dean want to be sick.

What the hell had happened to the world?

Without thought, he directed his path to the safest place he could think of other than at Sam's side—Bobby's house. He tried not to allow himself to hope, but his mind presented him with an image of the rest of them bunkered down in Bobby's panic room, safe and waiting for him. Sam would be there, because he had to be. Zachariah had to have been lying. Sam was okay, because Dean needed him to be.

Bobby's place looked promising from the outside. There was none of the damage he had seen in the other places along the way. It looked as it always did, though there was no sign of life from the outside. He hadn't expected there to be really, though, not if they were in the panic room.

He pulled the car to a stop close to the house and got out, listening hard for any sounds or voices that would portend friends or foes. It would be Winchester luck to get this far only to be taken out by one of the rabid.

He scaled the steps to the house and tested the door; it was unlocked. That was the first clue he wasn't going to find his family inside. Bobby would be more obsessed with security than ever seeing as the world had gone down the toilet. He eased it open and walked inside. The room smelled of mould and must. Furniture was tipped over and in front of the fireplace the desk was in a state of chaos. There were books and papers, but they'd been shoved back and coated with blood—oh god, the sheer amount of blood—that had dried to black.

Dean sucked in a shaky breath. Something terrible had happened there.

He turned away from the blood and walked slowly to the basement door. The stairs and rail were coated with dust that Dean disturbed into little clouds as he descended. When he got to the bottom, he took a breath before looked around at the panic room door. It was ajar. "Hello," he said tentatively. "It's me, Dean."

There was no voice in return, and Dean's heart sank impossibly lower. He moved to the door and eased it open. The panic room was empty.

Disappointment rushing through him, Dean spun on his heel and ran up the stairs through the hall and into the lounge. His eyes were drawn once again to the blood soaked desk. That was when he noticed the photographs propped up in front of the clock on the mantelpiece. He couldn't see them clearly, but he thought he recognized a familiar outline in one. He walked forward and picked it from the shelf. It was a picture of him and Sam he had never seen before. They were sitting at the corner table in the Roadhouse, beers in hands. Dean's head was thrown back, laughing, and Sam had a wide smile on his face. He didn't know when it had been taken, but the angle showed him it was taken from the bar, which meant Ellen or Jo had sneaked it without them knowing. A lump formed in his throat.

He glanced at the other photo and then snatched it up as he recognized other people he knew. Ellen, Jo and Bobby were standing together, dressed in fatigues and carrying rifles. At the side of the shot was a wooden sign with Camp Chitaqua carved into it.

Dean had heard of the place, as he'd arranged for a couple of kids to get subsidized time there when he was working. It was on the other side of the state. He glanced back at the bloodied desk and nodded to himself. It wasn't necessarily all bad. Bobby was obviously alive in that picture. Maybe the blood wasn't his. It could be a rabid, killed before Bobby moved on to the camp.

He had to check. It was the only clue he had to where his family was.

He didn't know what made him look when he got outside, but something drew him to the back of the house. After, he wished he hadn't looked. There was a rectangular pile of ash, the kind left after a large fire, a pyre. A hunter's funeral.

"Oh, Bobby…"

He couldn't bear to be there another minute. He had to get away from those ashes, that house, and the memories associated with it. He thought he would lose his mind if he stayed. He spun around and made for the car again, but before he reached it he heard a snarling sound. His breath faltered. A rabid. His eyes swept the ground for some kind of weapon. All he could see were rocks half buried in the ground. He kicked at one to loosen it and then bent to pull it from the earth. It wasn't big, but he thought he could knock someone out if he put enough force behind it.

He crept forward as quietly as he could and then peered around the corner of the house. It was a man, dressed in dirty and ragged clothes with hair that trailed down his back and a scraggly beard. Dean saw him in half profile as he stared at the door to the house. He was too close to the car for Dean to be able to get there without being seen. He couldn't move an inch without drawing the man's attention. There was no chance of subterfuge, so Dean went with surprise. He ran forward, the rock clenched in his raised fist.

The man turned and his bloody red eyes widened with shock and then narrowed with ferocity. He rushed forward to meet Dean, pulling a short bladed knife from his pocket. Dean was fast though; he got to the man and smashed the rock down on his temple before he could find his balance to attack in turn. The rock tore skin and blood rushed down the man's face. He brought up a hand to the wound and then shook his head as if annoyed. Dean made to run, to get back to the car, but the man recovered too quickly. He caught Dean and dragged him back with one arm tight around Dean's chest, constricting his air; he brought the knife to Dean's neck and pressed the tip against his throat. The man's warm breath tickled the back of Dean's neck. In the split second it took Dean to process what was happening, a name rushed into his mind: Sam!

It gave him anger and it gave him strength to fight back. He rocked his head forward and then slammed it back against the man's face. He heard a crunch and the arm around his chest loosened enough that he could get free. He scrambled forward and aimed a kick at the man's knee. He crumpled and the knife fell from his hand. Dean picked it up and kicked the man again so he was on his back. The red eyes looked up at him; they were devoid of all emotion but rage. There was no fear there. He wasn't human anymore.

Dean brought the knife slashing down across the man's throat in a fast, merciful movement and then stepped back from the flow of blood.

The man gurgled and gasped for a moment before falling silent, but Dean didn't stop and watch. He was already in the car, starting the engine. Reversing carefully around the body on the ground, he directed the car to the road. He had to get away from that place.

He reached the town Camp Chitaqua was located near around dusk. He'd noticed as he drove that the closer he got to his destination, the less damage there seemed to be to the buildings, and he hadn't seen a single rabid since he got within ten miles of the place. It was as if something kept them away.

He remembered that there was a long dirt track into the forest before you got to the camp itself, but there had been no manmade barriers there before. The trees and bushes had formed the fence. That was changed. There was a confused layer of wood and chain link fencing as far as he could see. There was also a heavy metal gate barring his entry with a thick padlock and chain holding it closed.

He pulled the car to a stop and got out, looking carefully up and down the road to make sure he was alone, and then approached the fence. Though it was obviously made in a hurry, it looked too sturdy for him to break, if he even wanted to. It occurred to him that the fence was there for a good reason in this broken world. He turned his attention to the gate. That was his way in. He walked back a way and then ran at it, legs pumping. Judging the moment right, he pushed up from the ground as hard as he could and grabbed the top of the gate. He caught it and, gripping it as tight as he could, he pulled himself up and over. His feet slammed the ground and the impact rocked up his legs. He took a moment to let his body adjust and then he set off along the track.

He was only a dozen paces along when he heard movement behind him. He turned on his heel, braced to fight again, but before he could take in what he was seeing there was a plank of wood flying at his head, slamming onto his temple. He fell back onto the ground, arms splayed at his sides.

He blinked drowsily, trying to make the face above him come into focus, and breathed the name just before he lost consciousness. "Ellen?"

Dean blinked himself awake slowly, his mind muddled and confused but urgent. He was at Sonny's and there were chores to do. He was in college and he had to get to class. He was in his house and he was late for work. He was at The Roadhouse and Sam was slapping him awake because they were…

"Sam!" He gasped the name as he jerked upright, at least as upright as he could get with his right hand chained to a bedpost. He looked around, confused and a little afraid, and saw he was in a room with log walls, a lantern on the shelf giving the room a dim glow and a wooden table and chairs. He was half sitting on a metal frame bed with a grey wool blanket on it. Carefully, he swung his legs around and eased himself fully upright with his hand still tethered to the bed frame.

His concussed mind tried to make sense of what had happened. He had woken up at The Roadhouse and Ash had been there. He'd got to Bobby's and he'd been attacked. He'd killed the rabid man. He'd driven across the state to… the camp. He'd gotten to the camp, and then when he'd got over the gate, he'd been attacked by… Ellen. It had been Ellen. Was she rabid, too? Was everyone? Was this world filled with all the people he loved diseased and dangerous?

The door creaked open and his eyes snapped to it, wondering what person or nightmare was coming through it. It was a person, not a nightmare. Her brown eyes were clear of the blood of the rabid.

"Ellen," he sighed. "Thank God."

She glanced back over her shoulder before entering fully into the room.

"What's going on?" Dean asked her.

She raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to ask you the same question. What kind of dumbass monster tries sneaking into this place? You suicidal?"

"Monster? Ellen, it's me."

She shook her head. "Nice try."

There were footsteps on creaking wood just outside the door and Jo walked in. Like her mother, she was dressed in ragged fatigues and her hair was pulled back tight from her face. She looked older than the last time Dean had seen her. In fact, they both did. There were lines around Ellen's eyes and mouth that hadn't been there before, and her hair had threads of gray. It was more than that though. They looked different. There was hardness in their eyes that hadn't been there before. Jo's zeal for life was missing; she just looked tired. And Ellen looked more than tired. She looked like she was a long time dead but forced to live.

Dean didn't think he had ever seen more desolate faces. That was before the third person walked into the room, though and blew his world apart.

It was him. Darker eyed, older for sure, and horribly different, but him. The mask he had so often cursed on Sam's face was in place over that Dean's. He gave nothing away, no trace of emotion. "What do we have here?" he asked.

Dean just gaped at him. He couldn't think of a thing to say.

The other Dean walked toward him, and he flinched back automatically, both from the sight and the attack he was sure would follow. But there was no attack. The other Dean merely reached up to a shelf above the bed and pulled down a leather bag he recognized as the kit Sam had given him what seemed like a lifetime ago when he was just rejoining the life. He pulled a short bladed silver knife from it and a flask of holy water.

"I'm not a demon," Dean said. "Or not a shapeshifter or whatever else you're thinking. I'm me. I'm Dean."

"No. I'm Dean. I don't even know what you are. Yet." The last word was said with malice.

"I'm not a monster! Just listen to me and I'll explain." He saw no give in their eyes. They didn't want to hear it. He sighed and held out a hand. "I'll prove it. Give me the knife."

Ellen snorted. "Sure. We'll arm you. That makes complete sense."

Her voice was harsh. Dean had never heard her sound like this. He had seen her run through almost every gauntlet of emotion before, but she had never been shut down like she was now. It was eerie and wrong, and in that moment he wished more than anything that she would snap out of it.

The other Dean caught his outstretched hand and gripped it tightly, running the tip of the blade over his forearm. It stung and blood pooled, but there was obviously no other reaction. Rather than pleasing that Dean, it seemed to annoy him, as he grimaced and dropped his hand as if it had suddenly burned hot. He unscrewed the cap of the flask of holy water and splashed it over Dean's face. The water dripped down onto his shirt front and he blinked it out of his eyes.

"See? Not a demon. Not a shapeshifter."

"Ghoul," Ellen said.

"Ellen, I can't shoot myself in the head to prove the point," he said, then flinched as he remembered he'd said the exact same words to Sam a lifetime ago. "How would that even work anyway?" he asked. "I'm, he's, here, alive!"

"Maybe you're both ghouls," Jo said obstinately.

The other Dean rounded on her and she winced.

"Test me with Obsidian if you want," Dean said. "But I'm not a monster. If you'll just listen, I'll tell you what's happened!"

"Go on then," Ellen said. "What's happened?"

"Zachariah," he said quickly, knowing now he had the attention of them all. "He bounced me ahead to 2014. It is 2014, right?" He waited for Ellen's nod before he went on. "I'm supposed to see what becomes of the world if I keep saying no."

Dean's eyes widened. "Zachariah did this? Where is he?"

"I don't know. He dropped in on my way over and then booked it again."

"Pray," he demanded. "Call him here. Now."

"What? Why?"

"Do it!" he snarled.

Dean didn't know why he obeyed. Maybe it was because the mask slipped and he saw the pain in his future self for the first time. How could he feel so much and not be crying out from the agony of it? Even seeing it there was enough to make Dean want to moan with fear for his future.

"Zachariah, come back. I need to speak to you." He paused, waiting, and then said, "Please."

"He won't come, Dean," Ellen said, addressing the other. "You know that as well as any of us."

"Why would you even want him to?" Dean asked.

"Why? Why do you think? I want to say yes."

"But… you can't!"

"Can't I?" The mask was in place again but the eyes burned with fury. "When are you from? When exactly did Zach bounce you from?"

"He took me from… Sam had just… It wasn't real. It was a dream. It was all a dream."

"Sam just shot himself, didn't he?" Jo asked, voice empty.

Dean nodded. "I just found him."

Ellen shook her head. "It wasn't a dream. Sam killed himself. That happened."

"No! It can't have!"

Dean couldn't, wouldn't, believe it. He couldn't have let it happen, not again. Sam had been hurt again and again, and Dean swore every time that he wouldn't let it happen again. He hadn't failed that completely. Sam couldn't have died.

"It's a dream," he muttered. "All of it. It has to be a dream."

The other Dean lurched forward and slammed a fist into his face. The pain burst in his head like a bolt of lightning and warm blood poured from his nose.

"Does that feel like a dream?" he asked. "Does that blood feel real?"

"No," Dean lied. He had to lie because to admit the truth was to admit defeat.

"You can't lie to me, to yourself. You know you're awake. You know what it means."

"Sam's dead?" he asked quietly

"Sam's gone," Ellen said, and there was a hint of pain in her voice. "He's been gone a long time."

Dean bowed his head and started to cry. Pain pulsed though him, not the physical, that was like an echo of sensation. It was his heart that hurt. He had failed. Sam was gone.

"Oh, Sammy."

So… Poor Ash. Poor Bobby. Poor Dean. Poor Ellen, Jo and Future!Dean. Yet again I feel I need to plead for mercy — I'm wondering if that's going to be a constant thing in this story.

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx