Chapter Text
Cas is hogging the blankets. Again.
“Dammit, Cas, you’re killin’ me here.”
“I told you we need a space heater in here,” Cas says, and then promptly pulls the covers around his own shoulders even tighter.
Dean retaliates by seeking out Cas’ calves with his frozen toes. The resulting yelp is intensely satisfying. “Why would I need a space heater when I’ve got my own personal oven?” he says, inching in close to Cas’ back. “Seriously, human you runs hot.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Rolling his eyes, but smiling despite himself, Dean leans in and plants a soft kiss to the back of Cas’ neck. “Tomorrow you’re helpin’ me sort through that last storage room. As payment for grand blanket larceny.”
Cas nods sleepily. “I don’t think that’s a real crime.”
“Tell that to my hypothermia.”
“You’re being rather dramatic,” Cas mumbles. He’s practically asleep already.
Dean thinks he manages a reply – undoubtedly devastating and incredibly witty – before passing out, but the next thing he knows he’s jammed up uncomfortably against Cas’ back, and absolutely freezing again.
He’s right up against the edge of the bed, with Cas encroaching onto his side more flagrantly than normal. Somehow all the blankets have bunched themselves up at Dean’s feet, and his arms are a tangled knot against his shivering chest.
Clenching his eyes against the glaring daylight, he manages to extract one arm to shove at Cas’ back. “‘M fallin’ off here, Cas,” he mumbles, then frowns. It doesn’t feel like Cas – it’s more like a wall of pillows. “Wha’didjudo to the bed?”
“Who’re you dreaming about?”
Dean furrows his brow, then slowly opens one very confused eye to find Sam at eye level, looking amused.
“Sam. Whadder you doin’ in here?”
“Uh, sleeping,” Sam says. “Although not as well as you, evidently. C’mon, Bobby’s gonna make eggs.”
“Mmhmm.” Dean yawns, readying himself to sit up, then all of a sudden Sam’s words settle into his brain and both eyes shoot wide open.
Instead of the brick-lined wall of his bedroom, he’s staring over Sam’s head at very ugly and very familiar floral wallpaper. There’s real daylight streaming into the room from real windows, and the pressure against his back isn’t Cas, but Bobby’s old red couch.
Dean sits up immediately, planting his bare feet on worn hardwood and looking around the room rapidly. Everything looks exactly as it used to – the walls, the furniture, the shelves lined with dusty books. God, it even smells the same – like mildew and woodsmoke and burnt coffee.
He’s in Bobby’s house. Bobby’s house that burned down more than seven years ago.
“What the hell.” This is the most mundane and yet freakishly vivid dream he’s ever had.
“What’s your problem,” Sam asks, absorbed with tying up his boots.
Blinking, Dean looks down from the couch to focus on his brother. While the house looks just as Dean remembers, Sam looks. . . different. It’s hard to tell sitting down, but he’s maybe a bit slighter in the shoulders. And his hair –
“Look at me a sec,” Dean says.
Sam obliges, tilting his head up to Dean with a puzzled expression, and the changes become even more obvious. There are fewer lines along his face; he’s a bit softer somehow, and his hair is definitely shorter. However, before Dean can open his mouth to comment, Sam cuts him off.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you? You look, I dunno, sick or something.”
Taken aback, Dean stands from the sofa and stumbles over to the mirror on the wall, but then frowns. Other than needing a shave, he looks fine. Normal.
He turns back around to find Sam looking him up and down, his expression growing more worried by the second. “Did you put on weight?”
“Hey!” Dean says.
But Sam shakes his head. “I mean since last night. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Me?” Dean moves his hands awkwardly to his stomach, suddenly very conscious of the hint of beer belly he’s been sporting the last couple months. “What about you? Why does dream-you suddenly look like an MTV reject?”
Sam stares at him for a second. “What?”
Just as Dean opens his mouth to reply, the kitchen door creaks open behind him, followed by a voice that makes Dean’s heart stutter.
“If you boys are gonna stay another night, you’re gonna have to get your asses to the store. You’re eatin’ me outta house and home.”
Hardly daring to believe it, Dean rotates slowly in place until his eyes land on a heart-wrenchingly familiar, plaid-covered back. Bobby Singer is standing at the kitchen sink, unloading a large handful of eggs onto the counter.
“Bobby?” Dean asks, voice cracking.
“I mean it. You animals are limited to two slices of bacon. Between ya.”
“Bobby, hold up. Something’s wrong with Dean,” Sam says.
“What was your first clue?” Bobby asks, but turns around to look at them. His eyes fall on Dean and he frowns. “Sam’s right. What piece of roadkill crawled onto your face and died?”
“Hey,” Dean says again, but his confusion is way too strong to be overpowered by indignation right now. Seeing Bobby again, in his. . . well, in his prime isn’t the right word. But he’s alive and he’s standing in his kitchen.
Shaking his head, Dean reaches across himself and delivers a savage pinch to the meat of his arm. When nothing happens, he does it again, and again, muttering little “ow’s” as he goes.
Finally, Sam steps forward and pulls his hand away. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m trying to wake up,” Dean says, “because this is obviously some kinda messed up dream.”
While Sam and Bobby exchange a bewildered look, Dean resumes pinching himself.
“Dean, you’re not dreaming. You’re awake. We’re all awake,” Sam says, suddenly sounding rather wary.
“Oh really,” Dean snaps, abandoning the pinching experiment. “Well if we’re all awake, then tell me how I went to sleep in my own bed last night, then woke up in Bobby’s house –” he throws out a wild arm “– and Bobby’s here.”
“Where the hell else would I be?” Bobby asks.
“And what do you mean ‘your own bed?’” Sam says.
Dean blinks. “I mean my bed. In the bunker.”
Now Sam looks completely lost. “The what?”
Panic has started to creep up Dean’s spine. “What d’you mean ‘the what,’ the bunker. You know, the –” he trails off, waving his hands randomly.
Bobby shakes his head. “Boy, this is not the time for you to be having a conniption. We got seals to research.”
“What do you –” He stops, an alarming explanation suddenly crossing his mind. “Did you say seals?”
“Yeah, Dean, seals,” Sam says, still talking like Dean’s walked off the deep end. “Sixty-six of them. The ones Castiel told you about.”
“Castiel,” Dean repeats. “Seals.” Bobby and Sam keep staring at him, but Dean starts looking around the room, searching out a newspaper. “You said Castiel.”
Sam nods, very slowly. “Yes. The angel.”
Dean nods too, but more to himself. “Castiel. Not Cas.”
“What?”
“What day is it?” Dean asks, moving away from the others now to dig around on Bobby’s desk.
“Friday?” Sam says.
Dean has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “The date, Sam.”
Sam just looks at Bobby, bewildered.
“September 26th,” Bobby supplies.
Finally, Dean’s eyes fall on a newspaper, buried under a worn, leather-backed book, and he nods grimly. “2008.”
Dean’s getting old, there’s no other explanation. His back is aching, his hip is digging into something hard and cold, and there’s a serious kink in his neck. Bobby’s couch has always been a torture rack, but this is ridiculous.
Though he’s still groggy, Dean grimaces to himself. Maybe it’s a bit too soon for comparisons like that.
Slowly, he opens his eyes, only to squint them again. He’s not on Bobby’s couch at all – he’s on a completely unfamiliar tile floor, staring down a long, brick-lined hallway.
Instinct and adrenaline send him rocketing up, landing silently on socked feet and darting his eyes up and down the empty hall. There are no windows, and the air is still and cool. Underground, maybe? There’s no way to tell. He has no memory of coming here. Was he knocked out? His head isn’t throbbing, and he doesn’t feel drugged or like he’s shaking off a spell.
He reaches behind himself, but there’s no gun tucked into his waistband or pocketknife in his jeans. Wherever he is now, he’s arrived just as he was when he curled up to sleep in Bobby’s living room. His heart is pounding. He’s weaponless, and therefore defenseless.
For a moment he weighs his options, then very hesitantly calls out. “Hello?”
The only sound to follow is the quiet echo of his own voice, bouncing back against the stone.
Alone then. Maybe. Who knows how big this place is.
Doorways line the hall every few feet. Dean cracks one open as quietly as he can, letting out a breath of relief when the hinges don’t squeak. It seems to be a small storage room, with shelves and boxes lining the walls. Before he can explore more thoroughly, however, he hears what he thinks is the distant swing of another door opening.
Heart rate picking up again, he backs out of the room as quietly as he can, then starts moving down the hall. There are more doors, behind any of which there could be a means to arm himself. Or, he reasons, a swarm of demons, or vamps, or any other number of things that could’ve brought him here. So he keeps moving.
After a minute he comes to a fork, and at the end of one hall there’s light spilling from an open doorway. It’s as close to a lead as he’s come across, so he creeps up to the door as silently as he can, bracing his back against the wall. He strains to listen, but there doesn’t seem to be any noise coming from inside. After taking a few slow breaths, he carefully peers around the corner.
To his astonishment, it’s a kitchen.
Frowning, he moves away from the wall and steps into the room, wide eyes traveling around to the large, industrial oven, the pantry shelves stocked with food, and the dishes drying on a rack by the sink. The big appliances are old – pre-war, maybe – but the coffeemaker at the opposite end of the room is new.
New and full, in fact. The scent wafts through the air, and over the slight hum of the refrigerator, Dean can hear little ticks from the hot plate. Someone lives here, and they’ve been in this room in the last twenty minutes.
Dean’s eyes find a butcher block full of kitchen knives, but before he can grab one, he hears soft footsteps coming toward a second doorway on the far side of the room.
There’s no time to hide or dive for the butcher block, so Dean just stands there, frozen, as a man comes yawning into the room, barely sparing him a glance before shuffling over to the coffeemaker.
“You were supposed to be bringing me a cup,” the man says, and Dean’s jaw hits the floor.
If it weren’t for the low, gravely voice, Dean wouldn’t have recognized him. Gone is the too-big suit and the flasher coat, replaced by dark boxers and an old robe and a ratty –
“Is that my shirt?”
Dean has no idea why that’s the detail in this bizarro situation he’s latched onto, but it can’t be denied. There’s a self-professed angel of the lord, who a mere twenty-four hours beforehand had threatened to chuck Dean back to Hell, sleepily pouring himself coffee and wearing Dean’s second-favourite Zeppelin shirt.
“Wha – what the hell’s goin’ on here?”
“It’s comfortable,” Castiel says, inhaling deeply before taking a long sip of the coffee. “I thought you liked it when I wore your clothes.”
If possible, that throws Dean even more. “Excuse me?”
Castiel finally looks Dean in the face, and almost instantly his confused frown turns to a look of unmistakeable shock. “You’re. . . you’re not right.”
That’s a bit rich. “I’m not right?” Dean says indignantly, alarm bells still ringing in his head. “What the hell did you do to me? Where am I?”
Castiel’s eyes are still wide and his mouth drops into an O as he gives Dean a long look, head to toe. After a moment his eyes come to rest on Dean’s chest. “That necklace.”
Dean follows his gaze to the amulet hanging around his neck. “What about it?” he asks. “And again – where the hell am I?”
Finally, Castiel snaps his mouth closed and looks up again to meet Dean’s eyes. There’s a completely foreign expression on his face. Dean didn’t think it was possible, but he looks nervous.
Without breaking eye contact, Castiel angles his head back towards the side door and calls out “Sam?”
Adrenaline spikes through Dean again instantly, only this time it’s not panic, it’s fear and anger. “What the hell did you do to my brother?” he says, hands forming fists at his sides. A few quick steps and he can make it to the knife block.
Castiel raises his hands, palms forward. “Stay calm, Dean.” He takes a step closer, and on instinct, Dean takes one back, his own fists coming up.
Something flashes across Castiel’s face. Bizarrely, he looks hurt, but then an instant later he’s back to that same pacifying expression. “You’re in no danger, Dean, I promise you that.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna trust you,” Dean says, eyes darting over to the butcher block again. “I don’t even –”
Dean is cut off by more footsteps from the side door, and Dean’s heart leaps in relief as Sam steps down into the room.
“What’s up,” he says, like everything’s normal, like it’s perfectly acceptable to start your mornings being served coffee by a monster wearing a bathrobe.
Dean swallows, trailing eyes over his brother. Only it doesn’t exactly look like his brother. His face is darker somehow, and his hair is longer than Dean’s ever seen it. “Sammy, get away from him,” Dean says. “And tell me what the hell’s goin’ on. And why you look. . . like that.”
But Sam doesn’t move away, instead he only looks confused, eyes sliding back and forth between Dean and Castiel. “What are you talking about? Cas, what’s goin’ on?”
Cas. It just rolls off his tongue, easy as anything. They’ve never even met and already Sam’s giving him a pet name.
Shaking his head, Castiel finally breaks his silence. “Look at him, Sam.”
Now uncomfortably pinned under twin, scrutinizing stares, Dean starts to get even more nervous.
After a moment Sam extends a finger. “When did you start wearing that again?”
None of this is making any sense. “What is with the damn fascination about my necklace?”
“You. . .” Sam is now studying his face intently, his eyes growing wider. “You’re younger?” He turns back to Castiel. “Is this a witch thing again?”
“What?”
But Castiel shakes his head. “It’s not a spell,” he says. “He’s the wrong Dean.”
“The hell I am,” Dean snaps back, not even properly understanding what he means by it.
“It’s not just his memory, you think?” Sam says.
Castiel gestures to him. “Look at him. Look at his face.”
“Nothing’s fucking wrong with my face.”
“He knows me,” Castiel says, as though Dean hadn’t even opened his mouth. “But he’s wearing the necklace.”
Sam nods slowly, seeming to understand something, but Dean is even more confused, not to mention pissed off.
“Hey, flyboy, wanna stop talking about me like I’m not here?”
They both turn to look at him fully, and Sam swallows. “He doesn’t trust you,” he says to Castiel, who shakes his head. “So, ten, d’you think?”
“Almost exactly, I’d say.” Castiel nods, and he looks strangely devastated.
Dean’s just about had it. “Son of a bitch, ten what?”
Sam throws one last glance at Castiel, who merely shrugs in a defeated kind of way. “Years, Dean.”
That explains. . . exactly nothing. “I swear to god, if somebody doesn’t start explaining what the hell is –”
“I don’t know how, Dean, but somehow you have come roughly ten years forward in time,” Castiel says.
The kitchen falls dead silent, save for the heart in Dean’s chest, which now seems to be thumping so loud he's sure they can hear it.
No. That’s bullshit. This is some angel trick, or maybe a djinn, or some other fucked up kind of spell because there is no fucking way.
“Fuck off,” Dean says, looking to Sam for a trace of sanity. Annoyingly, Sam is nodding – agreeing with this monster spouting bullshit. “There’s no such thing as time travel.”
Sam’s eyes widen even more, and he looks back at Castiel. “It’s even before you sent him back to Lawrence,” he says, like that means something. “He really doesn’t trust you.”
“No,” Castiel agrees, and again Dean feels a flicker of irritation.
“What’d I say about talking about me like I’m not here?” he says, but it comes out sounding rather weak.
Castiel grimaces and lets out a breath through his nose, then takes a few steps forward. Dean’s still wary, but this time, he holds his ground. Castiel looks encouraged. “Dean, you’re going to find this very difficult to believe. You don’t trust me yet, but you can trust your brother.”
Dean glances over to find Sam nodding reassuringly. He swallows, then looks at Castiel again.
“Right now, it’s 2018. This place, this bunker, it’s your home. And you’re safe here.”
No, no, nope, not happening. No way.
“It’s true, Dean,” Sam says, moving in closer too. He takes a moment, struggling to find his words. “I know how. . . unlikely that seems. I mean you, god –” he stops short, fighting to swallow “– you just got outta Hell.”
Something squirms in Dean’s stomach. His eyes dart over to the door, calculating his escape.
Sam seems to sense his anxiety. “A lot can happen in ten years, Dean. And I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, from where you are, but we. . .” Strangely, he throws a half smile to Castiel. “We make it out okay.”
Without noticing it, Dean’s been shaking his head. “We, huh? If this is all real or whatever, then explain to me how we somehow seems to include the thing that wants to pitch me back south of the border.”
That hurt expression flits across Castiel’s face again. “Like Sam said, a lot can happen in ten years.”
“Can it,” Dean says acidly. “Like what. DeLoreans? Maybe a TARDIS? If you’re telling the truth, then how did I get here, huh?”
At that, Sam cracks a bit of a smile. “You watched Doctor Who?”
“Shut up,” Dean says, blushing.
All of a sudden Castiel reaches out a hand to Sam’s arm. “Sam, he’s right. How did he get here?”
Sam frowns at him, then faces Dean again. “And where’s our Dean?”
“Slow down, boy, you’re not makin’ a lick of sense.”
Dean is rifling through books in a blind panic, even though he knows there’s nothing here to help him. Time travel is a bit beyond Bobby’s library. “Makes perfect sense, Bobby. I somehow got Marty McFlyed a decade, and now I need to get back to the future.”
He glances up, only to find both Bobby and Sam looking at him like he’s completely lost his mind.
“I’m not crazy, okay? In fact, I think I’m handling this situation pretty damn well, wouldn’t you say?” Dean says, completely disregarding the mounting anxiety in his chest.
Sam takes a hesitant step forward. “Dean, what you’re saying – look, there’s gotta be an explanation. A sane one.”
Dean throws out his arms wide. “Look at me! You said it yourself, I don’t look like I’m supposed to, do I?” He raises an eyebrow at Bobby. “I mean, that roadkill thing – y’know, harsh – but you said it. Don’t I look ten years older?”
“And then some,” Bobby says.
“Alright, pump the breaks, gramps.”
Sam cuts in before Bobby can do more than narrow his eyes. “Okay, so maybe it’s some kind of aging spell. But come on, Dean, time travel just isn’t possible, okay?”
“There’s where you’re wrong, Sammy. In my time – or well, you know, whatever – you and me’ve been down this road a few times.”
“‘This road,’” Sam repeats. “You and me, we’ve time traveled. Several times. How?”
Shrugging, Dean drops the text he’s been skimming in favour of a box of files on Bobby’s desk. “Couple different ways. There’s this one spell. Plus the odd god here or there. And,” he abandons the box and steps around the front of the desk, “angels can do it. That’s where I’m starting.”
Sam stares at him. “What are you doing?”
Ignoring him, Dean rolls his shoulders and gestures for the two of them to back up. “Damn, it’s been years since I’ve done this.”
With Bobby and Sam looking on, Dean closes his eyes and takes a breath.
“I pray to Castiel. It’s Dean Winchester calling, in need of a little angelic roadside assistance.”
He listens, but there’s no tell-tale flutter of wings, no shift in the air that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“Hello, calling Castiel. Dean Winchester here, Righteous Man. Got your ears on today?”
“Uh, Dean?”
“Sam,” Dean says, opening one eye.
“What are you doing?”
The eye drops closed again. “Praying, Sam, what’s it look like.”
“Like you were dropped on your head as a child,” Bobby says.
“Hello! Breaker breaker, requesting flight assistance,” Dean says, a little louder now. “No? Okay, let’s see. . . how about Uriel, huh? Uriel, my man, my junkless friend, you’ve gotta be dying to get rid of me, huh? No?”
There’s still just silence, so Dean furrows his brow, concentrating. “Zachariah! Yeah, you’ve pulled this kinda shtick before, how you doin,’ pal? You playin’ another round of This is Your Life? What about. . . Balthazar! Balthy, buddy, it’s been ages. You like fuckin’ around with time, was this you?”
“Dean, stop it,” Sam says.
Through his panic, Dean feels an old, familiar jolt of anger. “C’mon, Cas, now’s not the time to be ignoring me.” Finally, Dean peels both eyes open. After a cursory glance around the room, he glares up at the ceiling. “This was a lot easier when you had a damn phone.”
His shoulders fall into a slump, and one hand comes up to rub at his temples. “Come to think of it, that never seemed to make much of a difference either.”
There’s silence for a good long while, until Sam says, “That’s what you call ‘praying?’”
Just as Dean huffs a humourless laugh, he feels the air around them crackle.
“What are you doing here?”
Christ. Dean had forgotten just how much Cas always loved an entrance.
His head whips up as Bobby and Sam back away in alarm, but Dean’s eyes instantly find Cas, framed in the library doorway.
He looks exactly the same as he had last night, except totally different. He’s still so new to that body, still so stiff and small in his oversized clothes. His hair is wilder than it’s been in a long time, and even through his suspicious glare, his eyes are cold and detached.
“Cas. Thank god,” Dean says.
Even as Cas’ shoulders tense up visibly at the name, Dean feels himself relax. He’ll be back home in no time.
“What are you doing here,” Cas repeats, looking Dean up and down with an increasingly appalled expression. “You don’t belong in this time.”
“See,” Dean can’t help but say, but Sam and Bobby both just stand with their mouths hanging open. “And yes, you’re right there, pal. So if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate you putting me back where I’m supposed to be.”
If possible, Cas narrows his eyes even further, examining every inch of him. Dean had forgotten how uncomfortable that could be. “How did you get here?”
Dean shrugs. “Don’t know, don’t care. Or at least, don’t care right now. Let’s just hop on the Angel Express back to 2018, probably figure out where 2008 me ended up, and we’ll call it just another wacky day.”
Cas is barely listening. “We must have done this for a reason,” he says, then pins Dean with his gaze. “Were you given a mission by Heaven?”
A snort forces his way out of Dean’s nose before he can rein it in. “Cas, buddy, Heaven hasn’t been giving me missions for a long-ass time.”
Cas’ eyes grow wide with shock, and Dean instantly regrets his words.
“Uh, I mean. Crap. I probably shouldn’t say anything like that. We are one bad Kutcher movie away from disaster.”
Cas just stares, so Dean turns to Sam. “Butterfly Effect, right? Probably a good idea to keep future stuff under the lid?”
“Uh,” Sam says.
Dean frowns. “That movie’s come out already, right?”
“Uh.”
“Okay, you’re not helpful,” Dean says, then turns back to Cas. “Listen, Cas, we both know I don’t know jack about paradoxes or whatever. But it’s probably best for, y’know, the universe, if I’m back where I’m supposed to be. Both of me. So, let’s get crackin,’ huh? We can sort out the how and why later.”
After a pause, Cas nods. “You’re from the future. Ten years.”
Dean blinks. “Wow, Cas, way to keep up.”
“So you know things,” Cas says, slowly, in realization, and suddenly Dean feels a jolt of panic in his gut. “You know how things turn out. The war. And Lucifer.”
“Whoa, hey, Cas –”
“You survive, evidently,” Cas says carelessly, and illogically, Dean can’t help feeling a sting of hurt. “That’s rather unexpected. And myself too.”
“Cas, what was I just saying about –”
“And you keep calling me that.” Cas takes a step forward. He sounds distinctly annoyed now. “You seem rather. . . familiar with me.”
Again, Dean can’t contain his snort, but this time he remembers to keep his mouth shut. “Yeah, it’s. . . it’s been kind of a ride, the last ten years.”
Cas narrows his eyes again, but doesn’t speak.
Dean sighs. “Look. If I knew nothing would go wrong, I’d tell you everything. Although I doubt you’d believe most of it. But I’m pretty sure my you would be telling me not to upset the cosmic whatevers.”
“Your me.” Cas tilts his head dangerously.
“Yeah, y’know,” Dean says quickly, “the you from my time. Who I would like to get back to. And my Sam, and –” he pauses, and with a pang, his eyes flick to Bobby. “And my family.”
There’s an agonizingly long silence as Cas just stares, until finally he speaks. “No.”
Dean’s heart drops out. “What d’you mean, ‘no’?”
“I cannot utilize time travel whenever I feel like it,” Cas says. “My superiors were undoubtedly responsible for this. They will decide the appropriate course of action.”
Oh hell no. Superiors means Zachariah, or maybe Michael himself. “Cas, man, you can’t bring them in on this. If you wanted to pick my brain, they’re definitely gonna. And they’ll probably be literal about it.”
“That is their right,” Cas says, supremely uncaring. “I’ll be in touch,” he adds, and then with a heavy rustle of wingbeats, he’s gone.
“Goddamnit, Cas!” Dean calls out after him. Predictably, he’s left in silence.
Sighing heavily, he turns to face Bobby and Sam’s stunned expressions.
“Okay,” he says, “I’ll open up the floor to questions.”
Sam is leading the way down the hall, throwing concerned glances over his shoulder that make Dean want to punch him. Castiel is worse though, trailing behind a few paces and just, y’know, breathing. And also being half-naked, with boxer shorts that leave almost nothing to the imagination, clinging to surprisingly thick thighs – and where the fuck did that thought come from –
“Do you mind,” Dean snaps. He’s feeling a bit edgy.
Castiel raises his eyebrows in surprise. “What?”
“You’re just,” Dean says, shoulders twitching, “I don’t like you behind me, okay? You’re creepin’ me out.”
There’s that face again, like Dean’s just kicked his fucking puppy or something.
“Dean, hey, take it easy,” Sam says over his shoulder. “Now, does any of this look familiar?”
Reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Castiel, Dean glares around at the walls. They’re in a hallway, one that looks identical to every other hallway they’ve walked through. “Yes, Sam, it looks familiar – it all looks familiar, it’s a fucking hallway. You can’t expect me to believe we fucking live here.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean, come on.”
“I don’t know, okay! I woke up on the damn floor. There was a room close by, just storage, I guess.”
“As you might imagine, that doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” Castiel says. Dean rounds on him, eyes narrowed threateningly, but Castiel pushes on. “Do you remember what was in the room?”
“I dunno, boxes. I didn’t open any of ‘em though.” Dean peers past Sam, concentrating. “I think that junction looks familiar. Y’know, more familiar.”
Sam follows his gaze, then walks the few paces up to the corner. Tilting his head, he glances down one hall, then turns back to Castiel. “Weren’t you and Dean going through some of the artifact storage earlier?”
Castiel nods. “Well, Dean was. I was going to start helping him today.”
Hearing the two of them talk about him, but not him, is seriously unnerving. Shivering, Dean takes the lead now, walking past Sam and down the hall until he finds what he thinks is the right spot. “Here,” he says, gesturing to a stretch of the floor. “I think this is it.”
Castiel comes up beside him, before moving ahead down the hall, head cocked.
After a moment of silence, Dean glances back at Sam, who is watching Castiel intently. “What d’you think,” Sam says. “Any leftover spidey senses tingling?”
Dean frowns at the phrase, but Castiel just shakes his head.
“No. Nothing I can sense, anyway.”
“Leftover spidey senses, what’s that mean,” Dean asks.
Castiel glances over. “It’s from a comic book,” he says. “It’s called Spiderman.”
Jesus Christ.
Dean looks at Sam, who seems to be trying and failing to fight back a grin, before glaring at Castiel. “I know what ‘spidey sense’ means, genius. What’s the leftover part about?”
At that, Castiel looks cagey. He turns to Sam for help, only now Sam seems hesitant too.
“Yeah, uh, I dunno, Dean. I don’t know how much we should tell you, y’know? Time travel stuff is. . . it’s complicated.”
Dean huffs. “Yeah, that’s assuming I’m buying this whole time travel thing. Which, y’know, I’m not.”
“Well then,” Castiel says, and strides forward along the hall. “Let’s see if we can prove it to you. Now, which store room did you look in?”
After a long, skeptical glare, Dean points to a door.
Castiel nods, and opens it, stepping inside and flicking on the old light switch. “If we find out how you got here, we can send you back.”
“Fine. Whatever,” Dean says, and follows him inside.
“Before you woke up in the hall,” Sam says, filing in after and crossing to a set of shelves on the far wall, “what were you doing? What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Going to sleep,” Dean says. “Everything was normal.”
Castiel is moving slowly around the room, head tilted like he’s listening for something. “Where were you?”
“Bobby’s. We’d spent all day researching the damn Apocalypse.”
Instantly, Castiel and Sam both stiffen, then turn to face each other with unnervingly significant expressions.
“What?” Dean says. “What are those goddamn looks for?”
After another moment, Castiel looks over to him, eyes wide. “So, the last time you saw me was –”
“The kitchen. When you told me you would throw me back into Hell if I didn’t show you respect.”
Rather satisfyingly, Castiel grimaces. “Right. That was. . . a long time ago.”
“For you maybe,” Dean snaps. “For me it was yesterday. So how about you cut me some damn slack.”
There’s a tense pause, then Castiel nods. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
“Whatever,” Dean says.
Sam clears his throat uncomfortably. “Anyway. So, Dean – our Dean – was sorting through these rooms the last couple days. Right?”
Castiel nods.
“So maybe he touched something he shouldn’t have.”
“That sounds like him,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes.
“Hey, I’m right here. But y’know. . .” Dean falters as Sam and Castiel both give him a look. “You’re probably right.”
Satisfied, Sam nods. “Okay. So we start looking. Anything that stands out.”
“Alright,” Castiel says, pulling open a box immediately. “Be careful what you touch,” he adds.
Dean looks at the two of them for a moment, working in tandem. It’s so easy, so natural – his brother, and the thing that pulled him out of Hell, friends. It’s beyond weird.
But with no better options, he pushes aside his skepticism and opens a box. It’s filled with. . . old crap. Little wooden idols and amulets and metal bowls, each of them with a yellowed identifying card attached.
“What is this place? A museum?”
Sam looks over, hesitant again. “Well. . .”
“Oh, come on.” This is getting seriously irritating.
Sam seems to weigh his options, then finally he shrugs. “It’s the bunker. It was a headquarters for this. . . organization.”
“An organization of what? Hunters?”
“Close,” Sam says, reaching for another box. “Like hunters, but less actual, y’know, hunting. They kept all the lore and did research on monsters and demons and stuff, but didn’t do any of the field work themselves.”
“Oh, so nerds.” Dean smirks. “Your people.”
“Men of Letters,” Sam says, and turns back to his box.
Dean snorts. “Dumb name.”
They work in silence for a few minutes, all three of them sorting through box after box filled with junk, until a thought occurs to Dean and he looks over at Castiel.
“Hang on, can’t you just, y’know, poof, find whatever it is we’re looking for? You can burst light bulbs and take a knife to the heart. You telling me Mister Magic Angel Boy can’t x-ray this room in two seconds?”
The silence that falls is distinctly uncomfortable. Castiel stops rifling around in a box, and Dean can tell that Sam is frozen too.
Slowly, Castiel stands up straight, then turns to look him steadily in the eye. “No, I can’t.”
“Well why the hell not?” Dean says.
There’s a long pause, then Castiel turns back to his box, shoulders slumped. “It’s complicated.”
“What’s that supposed to –”
“Uh, hey, got something,” Sam cuts in. In his hands is a strange, curved piece of something, partially wrapped in white cloth. He pulls it back to reveal something black, about the size of a dinner plate. “See this, it’s fresh.” Carefully, Sam rubs the white cloth against the curve, and it comes away black. It’s then Dean realizes the thing isn’t painted, it’s charred.
“What is that?” Dean says, moving across the room. “Is that a bow?”
“No,” Castiel says, and his voice is grim. “It’s a harp.” He steps forward too and reaches across to take it. “An. . . angelic harp. And I’d say it’s most likely what brought you here, Dean.”
Dean almost laughs. “An angelic harp. Seriously. You guys have harps.”
“Not all,” Castiel says. “Just one. Netzach.”
“What the hell kinda name is that?”
Castiel throws him a look. “He’s the angel of eternity. And he used this,” he says, setting the harp down on a stack of boxes, “to see through time.”
When did Dean’s life get so fucking ridiculous? “An angel uses a harp to see through time. Naturally. What the hell are you guys smoking up there?”
“So,” Sam cuts in again, “he saw through time. But he didn’t use it to travel, right? He had his wings.”
“Right,” Castiel says. “I don’t know how this could have pulled Dean forward on its own. And sent our Dean back, if that’s indeed what happened.”
They’re ignoring him again.
Sam reaches out for the tag. “Well, if the Men of Letters got a hold of it, maybe they did something.” He squints down at the label. “There’s a file number here – with any luck there’s some notes lying around.”
“Maybe,” Castiel says. “But that doesn’t necessarily solve our problem.” He gestures to the harp, and suddenly Dean feels a wave of uneasiness again.
After a pause, Sam nods, and pokes at the blackened wood. “I’m guessing it’s not supposed to look like this.”
Castiel shakes his head. “No, it looks like it’s burnt out. Whatever happened, I don’t think it’ll work again.”
A knot twists in Dean’s stomach. “What does that mean?”
They finally look up at him again, and then exchange uncomfortable glances.
“You don’t think it’ll work again. So how do I get back?” Dean says, trying hard to keep the panic from his voice.
“Hey, Dean, we’ll figure it out.” Sam’s got his reassuring voice on, but it’s not helping, not remotely.
“Hang on, wait.” Dean points a finger at Castiel’s chest. “You said something about some time when he ‘sent me back to Lawrence.’” Sam drops his gaze guiltily. “And then you said that this Nutsack guy used his wings to travel in time.”
Swallowing, Sam looks over at Castiel, then back to Dean. “Yeah.”
Dean nods. “So, angels can time travel.” He meets Castiel’s eye. “Right?”
“Yes,” Castiel says, quiet but resolute. “Angels can.”
“Great, then what the hell are we doing poking around in some goddamn dust factory. Who cares how I got here, just send me back,” Dean says. For some reason, his heart is pounding again.
Castiel doesn’t look away. “I can’t.”
There’s empty silence afterwards. “Why not,” Dean finally says, teeth gritted.
A muscle in Castiel’s jaw twitches. “Like I said before, it’s complicated.”
“What’s the matter,” Dean spits, “you lose your fancy God privileges?”
Instantly, Dean knows that was the wrong thing to say, as cold, bitter anger flashes across Castiel’s face. For the first time, Dean recognizes the angel that stared him down in Bobby’s kitchen, and he feels himself shrinking.
Instead of responding, however, Castiel just walks right past him and out the door.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
“Dean, shut up, give him a break,” Sam says.
Dean whirls around, hackles raised. “Are you kidding me? You’re defending this guy, who won’t take me out of bizarro world and back home because it’s complicated? What the hell’s happened to you?”
Sam takes a moment to bite back a retort, before closing his eyes and inhaling through his nose. “A lot, Dean. A lot has happened, more than you can imagine.” He takes another breath and opens his eyes again. “I know it’s hard for you to accept it right now, but look, I trust Cas with my life, and so do you. I mean, our you. More than that – we’re family.”
Something like revulsion twists around in Dean’s stomach. “Did we somehow change what that word meant in the last decade?” he says coldly.
“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says. “We did.”
“You want the tears of a what?”
Both Sam and Bobby are hovering on the edge of the kitchen, out of the danger zone. Between the open cupboards and emptied drawers, Dean’s making kind of a mess. “A dragon, Bobby. Tears of a dragon.” Bobby’s usually got the right stuff in stock, but unfortunately he’s got nothing on the bunker.
“Sure, I’ve got some upstairs. Next to my unicorn horn. And the Lindbergh baby.”
Dean fights an eye roll. “Okay. What about some of the Sands of Time?”
“Left it in my other pants.”
“Okay, fine.” Dean turns around and plants his knuckles on the dining room table. “No problem. Don’t have the stuff, can’t do the spell, but – no problem. Everything’s fine.” He blows out a hard breath. And then kicks a chair.
Bobby comes up behind him, dropping a reassuring pat onto the back of Dean’s shoulder. “Alright, take it easy. We’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah?” Dean asks. “Bobby, without this spell, Cas is the only way back I can see.”
“Maybe. But we can still do some diggin’. I’ve got a couple books I can look through, stuff I used to think was bullcrap. But maybe not.” He pats Dean’s back one more time, then leaves the room. A moment later Dean hears the front door open and close, and a car engine start.
Blowing out another breath, Dean stands up straight and stares at the ceiling. “C’mon, Cas. I need to get home, man. Please, you know I don’t belong here.” He drops his head again, only to find Sam leaning against the doorframe, his eyes pointed somewhere around Dean’s middle. “You’re quiet.”
“What is that?” Sam says abruptly.
Dean follows his gaze, looking down at his stomach self-consciously. “What’s what?”
“No, there, on your hand. Is that –”
Panicked, Dean whips his hands behind his back in what he’s sure is a totally nonchalant way. “No.”
Sam takes a few steps forward, eyes coming up to meet Dean’s in astonishment. “Are you wearing a wedding ring?”
“Uh.”
“Dean. Are you married?”
Dean pulls back a gulp and tries to steady his breathing. The Big Conversation was a lot easier the first time around, when Sam had years of increasingly blatant evidence behind him. “Maybe.”
Sam’s eyes are wide with questions. Slowly, hesitantly, Dean brings his hands around front again, and his right hand instantly moves over to fiddle with the plain silver ring.
“Yeah. Okay, yeah. I am.”
“Wow.” Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “I mean, jeez, Dean. Who’d’ve thought, y’know?”
“Yeah, you’re tellin’ me.”
“I mean, congratulations, man.” He’s smiling now, almost beaming, and the tension starts to ease from Dean’s stomach. “Was I there?”
Dean gives him a look. “You think I’d pick a different best man?”
Sam’s really beaming now. “Yeah, damn straight.” He reaches up and slaps Dean on the arm, and then stops. “Hey, who is she? Have we met her yet?”
Instantly, the knot in his stomach is back, and Dean takes a step away, dropping his eyes. “Uh, yeah, I dunno Sam, I think this is getting into that future stuff territory.”
Sam’s eyes go wide. “Does that mean she is somebody we know? Who?”
“Look Sam, just – just drop it, okay?”
“Yeah, hey, alright.” Sam’s hands come up in surrender. “Sorry, I’m just, y’know, it’s a lot.”
She. Her. Every time, there’s a twinge in Dean’s gut. It’s been a long time since he’s had to live the lie. “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy, I get it,” Dean says, walking over to the couch. He drops down and rests his elbows on his knees, his fingers once again fiddling with the ring. He’s only had it on a few months.
God, he needs to get home.
After a moment, Sam sits down beside him. “We’ll get you back, Dean. Promise.”
“Thanks, Sammy.”
Sam smiles, and then a moment later he looks away, eyes going a bit shifty.
Dean knows a build-up when he sees one. “What?”
“I just –” Sam pauses, choosing his words. “I know you don’t wanna tell us everything. That’s fine, that makes sense and everything.”
“But?” Dean says, readying himself for another shutdown.
“I just need to know – Dean, do I get her?”
Dean furrows his brow. “Get who?”
Sam stares back at him. “What d’you mean ‘who?’ Lilith, Dean. Who else?”
The name hits Dean like a sack of bricks, and his heart sinks all the way down into the couch cushions. “Lilith.” He brings a hand up to his temples. “Jeez, Lilith, right.”
“Yes, Lilith.” Sam sounds strangely pissed. “What, did you forget about the demon that sent you to Hell?”
“It’s been a long ten years, Sam,” Dean says. “And some things, we’re better off not remembering.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The couch bounces as Sam stands. “What the hell happened? What’s gonna happen?”
Dean looks away. “I’m not sayin,’ Sam, no way. That’s too big. That’s cosmic big. We can’t mess with how that went down.”
“Are you kidding me, Dean?” Sam hisses. “This is Lilith, here. The only name I’ve lived and breathed for the last year.”
“Really?” Dean stands up too, shoulders squaring. “If I remember right, it’s one of two names.”
Sam frowns, puzzled. “What’re you talking about?”
Dean gives him a look. “What, did you think I’d never find out about your little summer romance?”
“You –” Sam swallows visibly, and his cheeks blush a furious red. “You know about Ruby?”
“Your me doesn’t,” Dean says. “Not yet, anyway.” Sam looks away guiltily, but Dean’s not done yet. “He also doesn’t know the other thing yet.”
Sam’s eyes snap back to Dean’s. They’re wide with fear.
“All the go juice you got runnin’ through you right now.”
Now Sam completely blanches. “I –”
He can’t seem to speak any more, and instantly, Dean feels the anger start to seep out of him, like a deflating balloon. “Sammy, look. I let all this go a long time ago.”
“Yeah,” Sam croaks out. “Sure sounds like it.”
Dean’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve. . . I dunno. But do you get it now? Everything I know now – I need to keep my mouth shut.”
But Sam shakes his head. “No, look, why are we bothering with any of that? Look at this opportunity you have. Everything you know, everything you – think of all the lives you could save. Dozens, hundreds maybe!”
Dean’s heart clenches painfully. “You think I don’t know that? Who d’you think you’re talkin’ to, huh? Don’t you think –” Dean tries to blink away the sting of tears at his eyes. “The mistakes we’ve made – all of us. I wish I could change them, you have no idea how much.”
“Dean, listen –”
“But I can’t. We have to carry it. All of it. Because all of it – Lilith and Ruby and the Apocalypse and a million other things that you can’t even imagine yet – that got us to where we are today. And I’m not gonna risk that, no way in hell. Not after everything we’ve lost, everything we’ve sacrificed.”
Sam stares at him. “You are so goddamn selfish.”
Thrown, Dean stares right back. “Excuse me?”
“So what, you got the girl, got your happy ending now, so the rest of the universe can just go fuck itself, huh?”
“Sam, I swear to god –”
“This was not the angel’s doing.”
Dean just about hits the ceiling. He whirls around to see Cas, standing rigidly in the centre of the kitchen. Apparently Dean hadn’t heard the wingbeats over the yelling. “God, I don’t miss that,” he says.
“I have done some investigating. You were not brought here on Heaven’s orders,” Cas says. “You must have done something.”
Dean can still feel Sam glaring at the back of his head, so he decides to ignore him entirely and walks over to Cas instead. “Kay well, that’s what I thought anyway. So what did they say? Are they gonna let you send me back?”
Cas’ face kind of twitches. “I – I didn’t tell them you were here. Yet,” he adds quickly, his shoulders straightening.
A grin fights its way onto Dean’s face. Cas, ever the rebel. “Attaboy. And, y’know, thanks.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Cas snaps. “I did it because you know things, things that will be of interest to me.”
Dean’s heart sinks. “Cas, hey, buddy, I just got into this with Sam –”
“Like that.” Cas takes a step forward, moving in close. Despite everything, an involuntary, primal thrill shoots up Dean’s spine.
It seems that no matter what year it is, Dean still turns into a hormonal teenager around him. Swallowing roughly, he attempts to re-take control of his bodily reactions. “Like what?”
“Why do you know me?”
Dean stares at him for a second. “What d’you mean? You pulled me out of Hell. Like, a week ago.”
“Why do you still know me?” Cas says, taking another step in. “You said you no longer take orders from Heaven. Then why do you talk as though we are still in contact? What further use are you to me?”
“Hey,” Dean says, stung. “You’d be surprised.”
Cas narrows his eyes. “You called me ‘buddy.’”
Dean chuckles a little. “Yeah. Haven’t actually been able to break that one.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means – I dunno, Cas, it means we’re. . . friends, y’know. You like me.”
Cas shakes his head. “No. Angels don’t make friends. Not with humans.”
Finally, Dean’s last thread of patience snaps. “Jeez, Cas, will you get your halo out of your ass for one goddamn second.” Dean hears Sam let out a gasp, but he ignores it.
“Do you remember what I said about respect?” Cas growls, but Dean’s had enough.
“No, alright, I’m not doing this. I’m tired of answering everybody’s questions, I’m tired of reliving this frankly shitty chapter of my life. I want to go home, back to my family. Back to my you, the real you, not the factory model.”
Cas’ composure is breaking. “And you – you think I could ever like you.”
“Oh not just that,” Dean says, feeling suddenly reckless. “You fucking married me.”
Cas freezes solid, his eyes wide.
All in, it seems, so Dean turns around to look at Sam, who’s standing just as stiffly as Cas. But the expression on his face is more than shock, it’s something else, something harder to name. It’s closer to betrayal.
“Yep,” Dean says loudly, looking back over to Cas defiantly. “You fell in love with me, Cas, and you married me.” He brings up his left hand and waves the ring in front of Cas’ nose.
“You’re lying,” Cas says.
Dean holds his eyes. “You know I’m not.”
Cas opens his mouth to speak, then abruptly closes it again. A moment later, he’s gone.
Dean stares at empty space for almost a full minute, then turns around to find Sam still just looking at him. Without another word, Dean turns and walks out the front door and into the comforting silence of the scrapyard.