Chapter Text
A large warm hand was holding Dean’s shoulder, shaking him lightly.
“Dean.”
Dean swatted at the hand, mildly surprised when it didn’t let go. People usually gave him a wide berth when he was asleep now, unsure what reaction he'd have from being woken up suddenly. The hand dug in harder, could feel the blunt fingertips push in under his collar bone.
“Dean, come on.”
Dean opened his eyes, ready to tell off Cas or Sam— whoever it was— for waking him so soon after he lay down. John Winchester stared down at him, brows knotted together with a grim look. Dean nearly launched himself backwards off the bed, banging his head sharply on the motel headboard and pressing himself bodily against it— far away as possible from the spectre in front of him.
“What the fuck,” He said hoarsely, rubbing a hand over his face. Still there. “Dad?”
John chuckled.
“Like waking the dead. Must have been a nice dream.” He said. He dropped Dean’s bag on the bed. “Okay, get packed. We’ve gotta hit the road.”
Dean looked wildly around the room, trying to find Sam or Cas, but he and John were alone— a run of the mill no-tell-motel like he’d stayed in most of his life. Dean rolled out of the bed and backed up, towards where the bathroom would be. John had stopped looking at him and was packing his own belongings, counting the clips laid out on his own meticulously made bed. Dean bolted, shutting the door hard behind him.
Don’t hyperventilate, he scolded himself as his back was against the cold door. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror and nearly— his heart stuttered, he instinctively averted his eyes. His 24 year old face looked back at him when he glanced up again.
No no no no no no. Grief like nothing he’d ever felt rolled over him in suffocating waves. He got close to the mirror and inspected himself. His skin was fresh and smooth, some acne on his chin— but his eyes were bright, like he’d never— Dean bit his fist to stop himself from making a noise. The incongruence of his memories with this version of himself was like being thrown in cold water.
What happened? He pressed his fingers over his eyes, sparks shooting in his vision. Last night he’d been in the bunker, arguing with Cas about what movie to watch, made dinner with Sam and force fed Cas a sandwich because the twerp still hadn’t gotten the hang of eating a few times a day. Then he’d taken his regimen of anti-depressants and passed out after drinking a large mug of chamomile tea. And then he’d woken up after being slam dunked back into one of the worst periods of his life. And his fucking dad— fucking standing out there in the motel room like he hadn’t—
John banged on the door.
“Dean! Stop preening and get a move on!”
Dean gritted his teeth, anger rippling up his spine— he smacked his hand against the sink and stood up straight, rolling his shoulders back against an ache that he didn’t have yet. Grief grief grief sang through his veins—how could he adjust his mind to a body that hadn’t lived through hell, through everything since?
He stepped out of the bathroom, physically shocked again to see his dad standing there. Arms crossed, looking unimpressed just a few feet in front of the door. Dean felt trapped.
“Dad,” Dean croaked, surprised at the high timbre of his voice. “I’m— I gotta— can you give me a second?”
John squinted at him, pressed the back of his hand against Dean’s forehead.
“You don’t feel hot. You okay?”
That threw Dean for a larger loop than if John had slapped him. Somehow, he forgot to anticipate the small sweet moments his father sometimes had.
“No it’s—,” How was he supposed to explain any of this to his dad?
“Dean? What’s going on?” John’s hands landed on his shoulders, holding him still.
“I’m not— I feel fucking weird.” Dean couldn’t tell him. He didn’t know what to tell himself yet. He sidestepped John and grabbed his jacket, scrabbling through the pockets to find his phone. God damn it, fucking flip phones. He pulled it out triumphantly, and ran back to the bathroom.
He clicked through trying to find Sammy’s number. Once he found it he pressed call and sat on the edge of the tub. Finger stuffed in the opposite ear as if John would be able to hear his thoughts rattle around his skull. The phone rang through, without a voice mail message. Dean pulled it from his head and looked at it, surprised. His stomach plummeted to his feet— fuck. He backed out of the call, checked the date on the small screen.
It was 2003. Sam was at Stanford and wasn’t talking to him. Even if he’d been pulled back from 2022 too— he’d be waking up with Jessica and would be dealing with his own freak out.
Cas. Dean clasped his hands together. He hadn’t done this in a while.
“Cas, buddy. Castiel, I guess, at this point. Can you explain what the fuck is going on?” He whispered, looking at the ceiling exhaust vent. Nothing.
Oh, he was so screwed. Dean ran his hands over his face, bit his tongue to stop himself from tearing up. He could hear John moving around the room grumbling. Dean knew he’d have to go pack, get dressed, and follow his Dad. He didn’t have another choice except to do what his dad said— he wouldn’t have another choice for many years. His stomach rioted at the thought.
He emerged, hoping John wouldn’t say anything. John didn’t do anything except side eye him while he packed up. Christ. 2003. What happened that year? What month was it even? Calendar on the wall said February. Did he even have the impala now, or would he be stuck in the car with John? No, he didn’t get the impala yet. John would give it to him later this year, when he finally— got sick of dragging Dean around, figured his son was more of a liability than a hunting partner.
“I’ll be out in the car.” John told him, standing by the door.
“Okay.” Dean said, avoiding his eyes. He could feel his dad staring him down for another second before he thumped his way out of the room. Finally alone, it felt like the room had air in it again. Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He finished packing and saw that his phone had lit up with a text. He grabbed it, checking as he closed the door. An unregistered number had texted him an address and a time— 11:30 am, 340 Bellview St, Becksville. Dean looked around wildly, but there wasn't anyone in his line of sight. He jogged to the car, poking his head in the open passenger side door.
“Whats this town called again?” He asked John.
“Becksville.” John told him, shooting him an odd look. Dean smacked the top of the car.
“Can you— uh, give me like, three hours more?” Dean asked, peering in.
John ran a hand over his face— a familiar gesture that Dean realized he’d adopted whenever he was annoyed.
“You’re acting damn weird, kid. I don’t know whats going on with you, but if I give you the three damn hours will you get in the fucking car and we can get a move on with our week?”
Dean nodded frantically. “Yes sir. Absolutely.”
John sighed. “Alright. I’m going to get breakfast and do some research. You can pick me up at 12:30pm, and we’re leaving no matter how much unfinished business you got here.”
“Thank you.” Dean said earnestly, going around to the driver’s side and watched John get out, hesitantly handing Dean the keys. He was frankly surprised John didn’t put up more of fight. Sometimes though, his dad had been willing to indulge him, whenever it didn't interfere directly with his mission.
“No scratches.” John warned.
Dean watched him walk away, to the diner next to the motel, before pulling out the map in the glove compartment and opening it up to find Bellview Street. He headed there early, just to case out the place and see if anyone went in or out. 340 Bellview Street turned out to be an even shittier motel than the one he just left. But it had to be about why he woke up in 2003, right? Why else would he get this text right now? Dean slunk down in the driver’s seat, eating a bag of peanuts he found in his jacket pocket, and watched the patrons leave and enter the motel. He didn’t recognize anyone. At 11:15, he got another text.
Room 201.
His stomach twisted— it felt like a trap. If he’d been in this body, this timeline, yesterday, he might have an idea of what was waiting for him in that motel room, but as of now he had not a single clue. It’d been a while since he deliberately walked into a trap. Dean patted his pockets, checking for his gun (right pocket), his silver knife (up his sleeve, slipped under the leather bracelet that he still wore in 2003). An angry sort of grief welled up in his throat again— he thought about the kids he knew in his regular life. If he saw a 24 year old strapped up like he was, well— he'd tried to get a few of them out of the life. Mostly didn't work. No one was going to try and help him, though at 24 Dean still imagined it. The fantasy of being rescued didn’t leave him until he made the deal with the crossroad demon.
Dean got out of the car and stalked towards the motel, looking for room 201. When he found it, he stood outside, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands in his pockets, watching the surroundings for anything suspicious. Debating just leaving, debating watching from afar for whatever Big Bad was out there harassing him. Finally, he crowded up to the door and tested the handle. Open. He opened it slowly, bringing his gun out in a ready position. The room was dim inside, curtains drawn tight and the single bed in the corner looked unmade. The bathroom door opened and someone walked out. Dean trained his gun on him.
“Put your fucking hands up.” His voice was too high, he sounded scared. He cursed himself silently.
“What the fuck?” The guy dropped the towel he was rubbing his hair with and half heartedly raised his hands. “Is that a fucking gun? Dean?"
How did the guy know his name? Dean kept the gun on him. He didn’t recognize the man— a few years older than him, maybe 28. Tall, not quite as tall as him, shirtless so Dean could see the lithe muscles along his torso.
“How do you know my name?” He asked.
The guy laughed, took an aborted step forward. “We met last night. At the bar?”
“What bar?” Dean barked.
“Oh shit— do you really not remember? You didn’t seem that wasted. Can I— can I sit down?” The man suddenly looked unsteady on his feet, face pale as it seemed to click for him that he was stuck in a room with a dude pointing a gun at him.
Dean lowered the gun, embarrassed. He didn’t remember any of this— not even in his normal life, normal timeline.
“My name is Clive.” The guy said slowly, lowered himself to the chair at the table. “We, uh. Had a drink. I invited you back here but— you said you had to meet your dad. So you gave me your number and told me to text you.”
Dean laughed, shocked. “What?”
Then it clicked. Oh shit. He did remember this. Had forgotten it had been this early in his 20s. At some point just after one of his birthdays, he and John had been in a big fight; what it had been about was long lost to a foggy memory. It obviously hadn't been that important, but John had nearly wrenched his arm out of its socket when he was trying to leave the room. He was hurt and angry, John was upset— Dean had stormed out once he’d pushed his shoulder back into place and went to the nearest bar for a drink. No, not quite. He found a queer bar. This must have been the guy that he— christ, he’d given him a hand job hadn’t he? That’d been a secret he’d conjure up at dark moments, remembering the times he’d tried to be a real boy, following the very real urges he had. Before Chuck jerked him back to the pre-set path he’d been given.
“You were— god you aren’t a gay basher are you? Are you going to shoot me?” His hands began to visibly shake, where they were perched on his knees. “Shit, what the fuck.”
“No, no no. What?” Dean held the gun up and engaged the safety, dropped the clip into his other hand to show it was out of play. “No, god. I’m just— really fucking confused.”
“I’m sorry, I really didn’t think you were that drunk, I wouldn’t have texted you—,” Clive was babbling. “I thought you were coming on to me, with you putting your hands all over my— legs, and whatever—,”
“God, I’m sorry. I— I’m having an insane day.” Dean told him, rubbing his forehead with his palm. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
Dean had forgotten that, before Hell, it was easy to get him spiralling out just enough to knock loose the homophobic laces, which kept him upright and walking down the straight and narrow. Flash forward 20 years, he’d been pussyfooting around with Cas for literally over a decade— they’d been in every situation imaginable together and somehow hadn’t ever been able to bridge that gap. He sent a little prayer up— probably alarming the Castiel that was currently bumping around up there— that if he ever got home, he’d finally, finally say something.