How Many More Times
He didn't know what woke him, but he woke to absolute darkness. He couldn't hear any of the normal morning noises in the bunker, the hum of the ventilation system, small noises from the kitchen since Sam almost always rose before him. The normal coffee smell wasn't there either. So perhaps Sam was sleeping in? His room smelled dusty and dank, which he didn't remember from when he went to bed. He stretched over to grab his phone from the nightstand, it wasn't there. And the mattress groaned and creaked at his movements, a spring digging into his side. Where was his memory foam? Did he go to sleep in one of the extra rooms last night? He didn't remember drinking much the night before, so how could he have done that?
Sighing, Dean rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up. His bare feet hit the cold floor and he shuffled them around. No slippers. Dammit! He got up and headed for the door, one hand in front of him groping in the dark. He found the door, but opening it did nothing to dispel the darkness.
"What the flying purple fuck?" he cursed out loud, his voice bouncing around the hallway hollowly. Then he hollered, "Sammy! We lost power again!"
There was no answer and as he listened he recognized the silence of a tomb. Am I actually in the bunker? To refute the little voice his fingers traced the metal numbers affixed to the door he was still holding open. 11. That was right, room eleven was his. Sighing loudly he began to shuffle down the hall toward the Electrical Room, hands slipping against the walls for orientation as he went.
When he made it to the Electrical Room door he could just make out the ventilation grill in the bottom third of the door. There wasn't light behind it exactly, it just seemed less dark enough to make out the louvers. He found the knob and tried to open the door. Sonuvabitch! He needed the key. They normally kept the keys on the big ring left in a drawer in the kitchen. He was losing patience with this whole mess and wasn't about to stumble around in the dark to the kitchen. Barefoot meant this was going to hurt, but he told himself what-the-fuck-ever and, rearing back, kicked in the door.
The door slammed open and he caught it with one hand as it rebounded back toward him. Near the center of the room a few buttons glowed on the waist high console. He strode over, trying not to favor his right foot and hit a green lit button. An immediate hum filled his ears and after a few seconds lights flickered on throughout the bunker. Finally!
He headed back to his room, striding in to stop short in disbelief. None of his things were there. Everything was covered in thick dust and the room was generic and impersonal. The bed didn't even have covers on it. All it held was a saggy, bare old mattress. His photos weren't on the desk, his weapons weren't on the walls, there was nothing familiar here. He turned quickly and hurried to Sam's room throwing the door open to see the same bare furnishings and thick layer of dust as in his room. What the hell is going on here?
He wandered from room to room finding the same was true everywhere. It was as if no one had been in the bunker in decades. It looked like it did when he and Sam had first claimed it. But they had been living here for months. So what the fuck?
It hit him suddenly, his mind turning to the memory of Zachariah sending him to the future in an alternate timeline where he'd met himself and Sam had said yes to Lucifer. He balled his fists in frustration. It wasn't Zachariah, he'd had the distinct pleasure of stabbing that asshat through his face. But this stank of angel meddling. Again. Dammit.
He blew out his breath, trying to calmly gather his thoughts. "Hey Cass! I need your help. Come on down here, dude."
He waited a moment, listening for the slight whisper of feathers that usually accompanied the angel's appearance. "Cass? Come on man, I'm prayin' okay? I need your help."
He waited a bit.
"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray that Cass gets his feathery ass down here." Well, it had worked before.
He waited a few more minutes and when nothing happened he tried not to be too surprised that Cass didn't show up. It wasn't the first time Cass had ignored him. But it was a damn inconvenient time to be ignored. Or if this was a different timeline then maybe he'd never gone to Hell. Maybe Cass had never saved him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. He sighed again. Taking stock, he realized he was standing barefoot wearing hotdog festooned pajama pants and a white v-neck t-shirt. Hardly going outside to figure out what-the-fuck-is-going-on clothes. He remembered that they had found the remaining belongings of the last inhabitants of the bunker in a couple of bedrooms in the back hall, so turning on his heel he headed back that way to see what he could find.
Half an hour later he was dressed in ill-fitting slacks and a long-sleeved sweater, also wearing too-small leather brogues over argyle socks. He felt like an idiot. But at least he had found a box with some petty cash in it. Enough to buy a pair of jeans and boots and a couple of shirts at a thrift store he hoped was still just past the cozy downtown of Lebanon. And theoretically enough leftover to get a burner phone at the Gas-n-Sip. He took the stairs up to the Crow's Nest and wrestled with the door. As he exited he realized that he didn't have the bunker key so he would have to leave it unlocked. Well, hopefully people would remain just as uncurious of the random manhole cover and metal door tucked beneath the power plant as they always had.
It took a while to reach the outskirts of downtown, and he spent the time noticing that everything seemed to be reflected in a funhouse mirror. The businesses he knew should be along a particular street were either renamed or not to be found. What the hell is going on? The pit in his stomach grew larger the further he went. Dean decided to just get to the Gas-N-Sip and get a damn phone. He could replace the clown clothes after he called Sam and found out just what the hell was happening here. Even if he was in an alternate timeline, as he was beginning to believe, Sam should be able to help him figure this out.
He saw a gas station canopy ahead, but it wasn't decorated in the familiar blue and yellow of the Gas-n-Sips he knew, but rather in gray and red. When he got closer he could see it was called Fuel-n-Go. Right. Whatever. So long as they have a burner phone.
He entered the mini-mart, ignoring the curious look the attendant gave him. Or rather his outfit. I look like I fell out of Macklemore's Thrift Shop video, so what? He didn't say to the young man as he went to the nearby shelf full of pay-as-you-go phones. He picked up the cheapest one and paid for it at the counter, not meeting the kid's eyes and only grunting in response to his questions.
He went outside and extracted the phone from the box quickly, inserted the SIM card and checked to see if it had any charge. The battery icon showed about a quarter charge. Good enough. The first number he tried was Sam's. "I'm sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in service." Seriously? He tried Sam's backup number, and the same message played. What in the hell is going on here?
Sighing, Dean tucked the phone into a pants pocket and started down the street again. Time to lose the clown getup.
A few hours later he reentered the bunker. He'd found an Army/Navy surplus and was more comfortably dressed in worn combat boots, jeans and a flannel. The craggy old vet at the store hadn't batted an eye when Dean had asked to change clothes in the back, where he tossed the borrowed items into a trash bin. He'd also purchased an olive drab canvas backpack which was now stuffed with all the groceries he could afford. And he in no way regretted the apple pie or the small bottle of whiskey. As far as he was concerned this was an emergency situation which meant he had to keep his morale up.
He dropped off the food in the kitchen, except for the pie and the whiskey which accompanied him to his room. He dropped the pack on the bare bed and sat at the small table. He took a healthy swallow of the whiskey then opened the pie box, immediately digging in with a fork.
There wasn't much pie left when he was finally sated. He leaned back and stretched, then got up to find a blanket, and a dead man's robe. He was damned if he was going to forego all the comforts of home, even if this wasn't exactly his home.
His last thoughts as he drifted to sleep were to wonder what Sam was doing back home, and what happened when his alter had woken up on his memory foam mattress and didn't recognize a thing.
-wWw-
He spent the first part of his morning sipping coffee and trying every car and motorcycle in the garage trying to find one that wouldn't take many repairs to get running. The problem, of course, was that all these cars were ancient and getting parts wasn't a good option. Which meant he was going to have to find something in town to hot wire. Well, he'd keep an eye out on his way into town. He wanted to hit the library and see if he could find numbers for Sam and Bobby, or maybe Jodie.
A couple of hours later he sat in front of a computer at the Lebanon Library, which was in the building the post office was supposed to be in. This was going to take some getting used to. He smiled at the cute librarian as she wheeled her shelved cart past him for the fourth time. He debated trying for a hook-up, but he really needed to find Sam. Or anyone for that matter. This wasn't his world, he was sure now, and he had to find someone, anyone, who could help him. Reluctantly he turned back to the computer and clicked the search button. A short list of answers was displayed and he perused them slowly. When he saw what he was looking for, his eyebrows rose in surprise. Samuel and Jessica Winchester, 46589 Dew Drop Circle, Walnut Grove California.
He quickly copied the information into a pocket notebook he'd found in the bunker with an expensive-looking fountain pen. He tapped the end top of the pen against his slightly pursed lips, deep in thought."Okay," he murmured to himself. "What exactly does that mean?"
Dean began searching for more information about Sam, typing in his name under the legend "Find it on the Internet" where he was used to seeing "Search the Web". A long list of articles came up and he clicked on one that had a familiar face in a small picture beside it and began reading.
It was an article where Samuel Winchester, Esq. was honored for his philanthropic work. In the picture a smiling Sam was shaking hands and accepting a plaque from another man. He was wearing an expensive suit and his hair was shorter and slicked back off his forehead. His smile seemed a little forced, but then, maybe Dean just imagined that part.
Sam was a lawyer. So he wasn't hunting? Reluctantly Dean entered his own name into the search field. The site searched for a long moment before it popped up "no results". No results? Okay. Well at least he wasn't wanted by the FBI any more. But trying to look at the bright side wasn't necessarily going to get him anywhere.
He looked up Bobby. There he was: Robert Singer, Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He even found a number for Singer Salvage. He copied them into his notebook. Then tried Jodie Mills. Bingo. And she was Sheriff, too.
On a whim, he looked for Winchester in Lawrence, Kansas. If Sam wasn't hunting maybe mom...There they were: John and Mary Winchester. He couldn't believe it, but copied that address and number, too. So, his family was all here. Why didn't anything show up about him?
He worked for a while longer, finding a number for the Roadhouse and Bill and Ellen Harvelle. This meant Jo was alive, too, didn't it?
Finally, he looked up James Novak. Who appeared to be alive and well and still living in Pontiac, Illinois. Okay. So one mystery solved. Cass didn't have his vessel. So it might take him some time to show up. Dean admonished himself to be patient and to start trying to get ahold of Sam first.
He gathered up his notes and headed out of the library, slowing to wink at the cute librarian before he got to the door.
-wWw-
After careful consideration, he decided that a phone call wasn't his best way to contact Sam. It would be easy to dismiss a disembodied voice over the phone. Besides, he really needed to see his brother. He was realizing how big and lonely the bunker was without him and dammit he needed to see someone familiar. Well, sort of familiar. Anyway, he wasn't going to call. He was going to find Sam and sit down with him and figure this mess out. Period.
First on his list before getting to Sam was finding a car. He walked around town for a couple of afternoons looking before he found a '76 Nova with a "For Sale" sign in the window in an empty field just outside of town. There were several cars and trucks with similar signs, but they were mostly late model and he'd drive the rusted-out Nova as it fell apart before he'd even consider one of those plastic pieces of crap. He had no Slim Jim so he put the tip of a screwdriver he'd brought into the door lock and tapped the butt with the hammer. The lock broke easily and he slid behind the wheel. Another tap of the hammer and he was able to remove the side of the steering column to reach the wires. Quick work with the knife and a twist and the Nova ground to a start. His practiced ear told him that the belts were slipping and it was misfiring on at least two cylinders. Great. No way was this thing going to get him to California without an overhaul. Well, he'd have to baby it a bit and look for another car.
He tore the sign from the windshield and drove back to the bunker. Time to find something, anything in there that he could pawn before he took off.
He spent the evening sipping coffee, planning his route on a map and reading a Zane Grey novel he'd found in the back of the library. There was a shelf of paperback books, mostly Westerns and science fiction beside the heavy serious tomes of supernatural lore. There was nothing like this in the library back home. So maybe all the Men of Letters didn't have sticks up their asses. At least not all the time.
The next day he pawned the guns he wouldn't be keeping for himself and sold the radio and phonograph to an antique dealer. He dug through a box of cassettes the dealer had and found a Zepp and an AC/DC tape that didn't look in too bad of shape. The Nova had a cassette player and it would be good to have some music on his drive. Now he had plenty of money for supplies and for the drive, and he'd never miss the things from the bunker. He wasn't planning on coming back here anyway.
A couple of mornings later he left early, after packing the trunk with a shotgun and a revolver wrapped in a blanket and the backpack packed with a second set of clothes and ammunition for the guns he'd taken from the shooting range. He spent a moment mourning for his favorite .45 Norinco M1911A, but settled for the 1943 GI Issue .45 Desert Eagle M1911A1 from the weapons closet. The Norincos were clones of the original 1911s, but somehow the DE didn't feel as good in his hand. He knew it was just the difference of being in this place that wasn't quite home and that the DE was a great piece of heavy metal and if he couldn't bring himself to use it he should have pawned it with the rest of the guns for a pretty price. So he snugged it into his back waistband anyway. He also planned to spend an evening equipping himself with specialized ammunition - Devil's Trap, and Witch Killing bullets - for the pistols with supplies from the bunker. The herbs for the witch killing potion were old but should still work, or he could look for a shop with hunter signs and buy fresh, but he figured he'd be okay with these. He'd have to find a mortuary for dead man's blood, and get the equipment to make salt rounds and to melt silver, but for now, he'd just have to avoid vampires, ghosts and werewolves. He'd also whip up a hex bag to keep demons off him, as well. Truth was he wasn't planning to hunt, but it made him nervous to walk around without adequate protection. This was enough and he'd make do as he had to.
He was really starting to appreciate all the hard work he and Sam had put into hunting, and how safe the warded bunker had made them feel. He regretted leaving it now, but it couldn't be helped.
He settled behind the wheel, placing a thermos of coffee beside him and started the Nova. He'd spent an afternoon tightening belts and gapping and installing new plugs as well as other maintenance. He couldn't do anything about the misfiring cylinders without doing a full rebuild but it was running a little better. Part of him wanted to head to Sioux Falls where he could do the work on the car so he didn't have to regularly steal new ones. Hell, he should go to Lawrence and steal the Impala, except that he didn't think his dad would have it since he figured his doppelganger was never sent back in time to stop Sam being fed demon's blood and his mom being killed. So Dean 'Van Halen' was never at Rainbow Motors to persuade John to buy the Impala. He sighed. It was getting depressing to keep enumerating the things that must not have happened in this timeline. He knew he should be happy that his parents were alive, but somehow it just complicated things for him. He had to get home, this place felt like it was bad touching him, it was so wrong.
He eased the Nova onto the highway and headed for Lawrence. He just wanted to see the old place, see his parents. He knew he shouldn't but was going to anyway. He wouldn't interact, wouldn't try to take his alter's place, but he had to see them one time before he went back where they no longer existed. Sighing, he popped the Best of Led Zeppelin: Early Days tape into the player and settled in for a long drive.
A/N: Hello again. First chapter with much more to come. Will keep you posted about a schedule, some things up in the air but I promise it will be at least once a month. No more disappearing!
The title is from a Led Zeppelin song, in case you were wondering. Please let me know what you think!