TEASER

The last daylight was fading from the little clearing around the fallen tree when they appeared. The tree had been toppled years ago in some summer storm, now long forgotten; though it had sent the residents of this part of Southern Illinois to their tornado shelters, in the end, no tornado had ever touched down. The wind had sheared down this particular oak tree, tearing a gash in the canopy. Now blackberries grew rampant in the sunlight, and the root crown balanced in the brambles like a beach umbrella in the sand. The blackberries were budding.

When Dean came to, he was lying on his side, his mouth and nose filled with the smell of leaf mold. Above him, Sam was crouched and looking upward, a dark profile against the dusk. Cicadas screamed in the canopy, and frogs and crickets chorused in the distance, hailing the oncoming night.

“Try him again, Mom,” Sam was saying. “If the plan worked, they should be back on this side.”

Back where? Dean’s eyes roved over the dark tangle of brambles in front of him, an indistinguishable snarl. One thorny tendril stroked his forehead.

He rolled over. Something slid over his legs.

“Hey,” he said hoarsely. There wasn’t enough air in his lungs.

His brother started, and looked down at him. “Cas?” he said.

Dean rubbed his eye.

“What? No.”

“Dean,” said Sam, putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean could hardly make out Sam’s face, his eyes hadn’t adjusted. “You feeling okay?”

Sam helped him sit up. Dean groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Jesus,” said Dean. “Everything hurts.”

A few yards away, Mary was leaning against an oak tree with her back to them. She held a phone to her ear, with her other arm wrapped around herself.

Dean exhaled. Sitting up had taken a lot of effort, and he had dirt or something in his eye. He blinked, rubbing his eyelid with his knuckle. His arms felt weirdly heavy. “Did we make it back?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Sam, his voice tired and raw. “We made it back to our Earth. You, me, and Mom."

Dean was distracted by his own arm, which looked unfamiliar somehow.

"...So what's the plan?" he said.

"We... aren't sure yet."

Dean frowned, one eye still closed. "Great."

The cicadas screeched above them, and the evening air moved restlessly over Dean’s skin. Mary hung up her phone. Pushing brambles out of the way, she walked back to Sam and Dean. Sam, still crouching, turned to her as she approached.

“Still no answer,” she said.

“Dammit,” said Sam. He shifted to his other knee, brambles catching at the back of his jacket.

“What happened?” said Dean, looking from one to the other.

Sam looked at Mary.

So Dean looked at her too.

“We need to get back to the bunker,” she said. She turned and left.

Dean looked back at Sam and made a ‘what the hell?’ face.

“Do you remember anything that happened, Dean?” he said.

“The last thing I remember is the church,” said Dean. “I think.” He squinted into the trees. The details were rapidly disappearing into the dusk.

Sam wasn’t saying anything. Dean turned to look at him.

“Nothing else?” Sam prompted. “Nothing since then?”

“How long ago was that?”

“That was three days ago.”

Dean made another face. “Jesus.” He looked at the dark Sam shape again. “No. I got nothing.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “All right. Mom’s right. We should get moving. Come on.”

Sam climbed to his feet and offered Dean a hand. Dean accepted, and Sam pulled him up, but when Dean stood, a wave of vertigo washed over him, and he had to grab onto Sam’s arm with both hands. The earth tilted away below his feet, and his legs were weak and shaky, as though they’d run a marathon and he’d forgotten about it.

“Whoa, whoa,” said Sam, holding him up. Dean focused on the gray leaves beneath his boots, blinking.

“What’s wrong with me?” said Dean at the same time Sam said, “Oh, God, you haven’t eaten any food in three days.”

“Oh,” said Dean, staring hard at the leaves, willing himself not to black out. “Uh-huh.”

“We need to get you some calories. Aren’t you hot?” Sam pulled on his coat. “You want this off?”

“No,” Dean said, closing his arm protectively.

“You sure? It’s kind of...”

“I’m good.”

“Okay. Come on,” said Sam. “I think we’re close to a road.”

“Where the hell are we?” Dean managed.

“I don’t know.”

“Reassuring.”

“Just walk.”

“I’m walking, all right. Come on, get off me.”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine, Sam.”

“Okay. Whoa—oh, okay, all right, no. You’re not. Stop it, give me your arm.”

“Unbelievable.”

“I’m unbelievable? Dean, you’re falling over. You’re dehydrated and your blood sugar is probably at zero, will you just—”

“All right.”

“—Mom! Mom, slow down,” Sam called out. They stumbled through the darkening wood together. Sam held him up by the armpit, squishing Dean’s face into his canvas jacket. Briefly, Dean opened his eyes, and the black columns towered overhead, swaying like they were about to topple over onto him. Wincing, he squeezed his eyes shut again. He felt drunk, and not in the good way—he was woozy and ill and top-heavy. They were stumbling down a short leafy slope, then they were on gravel, then hard flat asphalt.

Up the road, an 18-wheeler was coming. It screamed towards them, the headlights plowing into Dean’s squeezed-shut eyelids.

The church.

The thunder.

The wind through the shattered windows.

Say yes, Dean.

You know you want to.

The bright light passed with a whoosh of wind, and in its wake something shivered through Dean—a bolt of feeling, like déjà vu or acute nostalgia. Something brushed against his calves again.

“Sam,” said Dean, eyes still closed against Sam’s arm, voice muffled. “Where’s Cas?”

There was a pause before Sam answered.

“We’re not sure,” he said.

EPISODE 13x12: "SIGN, SEAL, DELIVER”

ACT ONE

When Dean next came to, he was in the back seat of a large, modern pickup truck with smooth, plushy seats and a noisy engine. His head was tipped back against the cab window. Over the sound of the engine, he could hear the low murmur of the radio, and Sam talking. His mouth was dry and his head weighed a million pounds. Someone nudged his arm.

“Dean,” said his mother’s voice. “Drink this.”

He took the water bottle and drank. When he did, he realized how thirsty he was, and gulped the whole thing down too quickly, and immediately felt sick.

“Ugh,” he said, stopping to breathe.

“Don’t drink so fast,” said Mary. “That’s all we’ve got for now.”

“Who’s got the fancy pickup?” said Dean.

“His name’s Barry. He’s taking us into town,” said Mary. “My phone’s dead, so is Sam’s, and you lost yours.”

Then he was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a motel lobby, squinting against the harsh fluorescents. He paged backwards, checking for memories of arriving here, but he found nothing.

Mary was handing him a power bar, telling him it was a gift from Barry, while Sam got them a room.

“From who?” said Dean.

“Never mind,” said Mary, giving him another bottle of water. “I’m going to go use the payphone. Stay here. You shouldn’t move around too much. But try not to fall asleep.”

“No promises,” said Dean. He was cold, the A/C was too high in here, and it smelled like pool chlorine. He pulled his coat around himself like a blanket.

“Hey,” said Sam. “We’re in 23. Second floor.” Dean blinked up at him. He had fallen asleep. Before he could form a reply he was being lifted up—“Again with the manhandling,” Dean mumbled, trying to stand of his own accord. The power bar had helped. “Got any more of those?”

“Those what?”

Dean gestured vaguely as Sam helped him down the hallway. “Bar,” he finally managed.

“Power bars? Yeah,” said Sam. “Let’s get you upstairs first.”

“Where’re we going?”

“Just—no more questions, okay, just walk.”

They made it to the room, where Sam sat Dean down on the bed. “Take off your boots and eat this bar. And take off that coat, too.” Dean heard the sink turn on. Unlacing the boots turned out to be a challenge, but he managed. He got the coat partway off his shoulders but then decided the granola bar was a better use of his energy.

Sam emerged from the bathroom with a filled water bottle.

“Coat?” Sam said.

Dean looked up from struggling with the wrapper of the granola bar.

“Wow,” Sam said. “You are seriously zonked.”

Sam tugged the sleeves off his arms, and Dean shrugged the coat the rest of the way off, onto the bed.

“That’s better,” Sam said. “It was getting weird. Here.”

He took the power bar from Dean’s hand—“Hey!”—and tore it open.

“Now drink this,” said Sam, handing him the water.

“Can I have my bar, please?”

“Water first.”

Dean rolled his eyes and drank.

“Drink the rest of that while you eat this. Then I’m going to fill it up again and you’re going to drink all of it before you go to sleep. All right?”

“Yeah, sounds great, Mom.”

Sam made his annoyed noise and went back to the bathroom. Dean sat at the foot of the bed, drinking the water as ordered. Once he finished, he stood, feeling lighter and steadier, and walked in socks to the bathroom. It was the kind with the toilet and shower on the inside of the door, and the sink on the outside. Sam was on the inside, moving around. Dean turned on the tap to fill the bottle again.

He looked up at himself in the mirror.

The person in the mirror frowned at him.

For a horrible, distant second, that person was someone else.

Not him.

With a sickening wave of unease, Dean lifted a hand to touch his own face—but by the time he touched his cheek and saw his reflection do the same, they were both Dean Winchester again.

His eyes roamed over his disoriented reflection. He had no visible wounds, but his eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles under them. There was a dark smudge of dirt under his chin, and dried blood inside his ear. And there was something else, still, floating on the surface of the glass, on the skin of his face—like an afterimage from looking at an optical illusion for too long. He looked... bright. Vividly colored.

He had a weird feeling in his stomach.

He had a weird feeling in his throat.

He bent over, almost not quite fast enough, and puked in the sink.

“Dean?” said Sam from inside the bathroom.

Dean panted over the sink, and turned on the faucet to wash it away, closing his eyes. Willing himself to keep the rest of it down.

“Dean.”

The toilet flushed.

“I’m fine, Sam,” said Dean, eyes still closed. He didn't want to see his reflection again.

He heard the room door open. “Sam?” said Mary’s voice. “The vending machine only had peanuts, but I got some Gatorade too... Dean. Are you all right?”

He heard the plastic of the peanut bags hitting the counter and felt his stomach lurch again, and he felt her hand on his back. The touch and the sounds and the light against his eyelids—all of it was too much, it was making him sicker.

He tried to breathe.

“Dean,” said Mary softly.

The bathroom door opened.

“Dean, why did you get up?” said Sam’s voice.

The water was still running.

A hand grabbed his arm.

“Sam—”

“Are you okay? Did you throw up?”

“Here. I got Gatorade.”

“No, I—”

“Dean, you need to sit down—”

“All right, enough!”

Suddenly and violently, Dean shook them off.

“Enough! Back the hell off.”

His eyes were still shut, and he was gripping the sink, barely keeping himself up.

He shut off the tap.

Now it was quiet, and dark, and no one was touching him. But he didn’t know how to get to the bed. He was disoriented, but he didn’t want to open his eyes.

There was a long, silent pause.

Dean realized he was going to have to ask for help, but the idea of physical contact right now was repellent. He didn’t even want to speak.

No one moved.

“All right,” Dean started to say. Then his throat seized up and he puked again.

They steered him back into the room. At the foot of the bed, Cas’s trench coat lay face-up, arms open. At the sight of it, another wave of nauseous vertigo overtook Dean and he squeezed his eyes shut. Next thing he knew he was sinking down into a cold motel pillow while someone turned on the shower in the next room. The pipes clanked and gurgled. The pillow smelled like washed-out bleach. He slept.

*

*

*

REAPER: Strange activity in this area, sir. Would you like me to dispatch somebody? Or check on it myself?

DEATH: Let me take a look.

(...)

DEATH: Leave it for now.

REAPER: Are you sure... sir? Preventing anomalies is our job, and this is anomalous...

DEATH: I think you’ll find that I do know what I’m doing, Jessica.

REAPER: Of course. Excuse me. (...) Wait. Sir—look at this. They’re back.

DEATH: Who?

REAPER: The Winchesters.

DEATH: Ah ha.

REAPER: They’re back on the map. But I can’t... I can’t get a fix.

DEATH: Can’t get a fix?

REAPER: No, sir, ugh, I’m—I’m sorry. Look. I can see that they’re here, but I can’t see where...

DEATH: ...And it isn’t all of them. We’re still missing two. The angel and the nephilim.

REAPER: It shouldn’t even be possible in the first place. They should never have been able to leave like that. It’s a violation of the laws of nature.

DEATH: Nonetheless, there it is. Or rather, there they aren’t. They’re still off the map. And God only knows when they’ll be back.

REAPER: Does He, sir?

DEATH: Figure of speech, Jessica.

(...)

DEATH: I don’t like this.

REAPER: No sir.

(...)

DEATH: Find them. The ones who came back. Go, now.

*

*

*

00:00

In the dream, Dean is in the bunker.

The alarm clock on his bedside table is flashing 00:00. He rolls over to look at the alarm clock, and he wonders what time it is, while also aware that it is no-time-o’clock because it’s just now. He’s propped up on his elbow, squinting at the clock.

This, of course, is not the real bunker, and he knows that. Right? Right. He knows he’s in his own head. Not a dream. His subconscious.

The brain box. This was the plan. They agreed on this.

Dean lies here on his side, staring at his bedside table with the 00:00 clock and the framed photo. He stares at the photo for a while, trying to get his priorities in order. The room is subtly different from his room in reality, and he recognizes this, but simultaneously, in the dream, it seems normal. It’s more cluttered—there’s a rack of vinyl records, cardboard boxes on the floor, and odds and ends on the shelves. Standing over one of the boxes (he’s standing now), he pokes the cardboard with his foot, shifting the lid. Inside, he sees flannel.

He’s missing something, something he should be looking for. He can feel its absence like a hole in his chest.

Now he’s standing on the other side of the bed, wrapped in his bathrobe, looking through the stack of photos on the left-hand nightstand.

On top is a brightly colored photo of him, in the Impala, smiling fondly at the camera. Underneath, there’s a photo of him and Sam in Bobby’s living room, and below that, one of Jack grinning in front of an unknown restaurant. Half of the photo from Bobby’s is damaged, faded by the sun.

Dean sets the photos back down. Other items on the bedside table: a radio, a notepad with a note on it, an analog alarm clock. Unlike his alarm clock, this one’s working. It’s 10:13. Dean picks it up and frowns at it. The minute hand is moving fast. It’s at 10:20 already, now approaching 10:25.

He sets it down.

He tries to read the note. He recognizes the handwriting, but not the words.

He doesn’t have a nightstand on this side of his bed.

Under his feet, the floor feels un-solid, like he’s standing on a thick cushion. It makes him unsteady, giving him a sense that he wouldn’t be able to move very quickly if he needed to. And he has a feeling he might. There’s an urgency in the air and in the rapidly moving hand of the analog clock.

Dean knows they agreed on this, he knows how he got here, but what he doesn’t know is when, and for a moment, the surface of the water stops rippling and he can see the bottom clearly, and there’s the question, lying like a big round rock at his feet: How long have I been in here?

With quickening determination, Dean wades to his desk—much messier in his mind than in reality—and finds a pen. He draws an X on his forearm. Let’s Memento this sucker, he thinks.

Something slips under his hand, braced against his desk chair. It’s a blue tie, hanging over the back of the chair. Dean frowns at it.

He really needs to get looking.

In the hall of the bunker, he walks past Sam’s door, then Jack’s, then the room where Mom stays, then his door, then the kitchen, then Sam’s door, then Jack’s, then the room where Mom stays, then his own door, then the kitchen. He passes Sam’s door, and then Jack’s, then Mom’s door, closed. The kitchen door, open, Mom’s door, closed, and then his door again. He doesn’t know what his destination is, but he feels some urgency about getting there.

*

*

*

When Dean woke up in the motel room, he was alone. A heavy beam of late afternoon sunlight fell across the middle of the floor, landing on the foot of his bed, heating the air like a campfire.

The room was contemporary drab, with brown curtains and a cardboard-colored carpet, and a stubbled plaster ceiling. A framed picture hung on the wall.

Dean squinted at it, and recognized it as a print of Washington Crossing the Delaware. He made a face.

On the nightstand, Sam had left a phone number scrawled on the notepad. Above the phone number was the stars-and-stripes logo of the “AmericInn.” Monmouth, IL. The note also said Drink this! with an arrow pointing a bottle of green Gatorade.

Rolling his eyes, Dean unscrewed the cap and drank.

“Gross,” he whispered, setting it down.

“I’d drink the rest of that, if I were you,” said an unfamiliar female voice behind him.

ACT TWO

INT. AMERICINN. DAY.

Dean sits up on the edge of his bed, facing away from the window, holding a bottle of green Gatorade. Castiel’s coat is still lying at the foot of the bed.

FEMALE VOICE

I’d drink the rest of that, if I were you.

Dean jumps, and twists around on the bed.

A crisply-dressed woman is standing in the corner of his room near the window, in the shadow of the half-open curtain. We recognize her--JESSICA, THE REAPER. She observes him through the beam of sunlight.

DEAN

(calmer, but still on guard)

I remember you. You’re the reaper from the... from the crazy doctor’s office.

JESSICA

The Meadows Estate. Yes. Jessica.

DEAN

Jessica. What are you doing here? I hate to ask, but...

(Dean jerks his head meaningfully.)

I’m not dead, am I?

Jessica smiles, somewhat tensely.

JESSICA

No. You’re not.

Dean nods, and turns away again, still sitting on the edge of the bed. He picks up the Gatorade and rolls it between his hands.

DEAN

Your boss send you? How is Billie the Kid doin’?

JESSICA

She’s fine. I was hoping you could tell me where you’ve been.

DEAN

Where I’ve “been”?

JESSICA

You and your flock. Death lost track of you for a couple of days.

DEAN

And?

JESSICA

You were out. Outside our universe. We were hoping you could tell us where.

Dean nods to himself, then stands up.

He turns to face the reaper.

DEAN

How about you tell me something first.

(unscrewing the cap on his bottle)

Why exactly are you guys keeping tabs on us?

Jessica pauses, folding her hands in front of herself. She looks around the hotel room.

JESSICA

This isn’t your usual kind of place, is it?

Dean, about to drink, pauses, frowning.

DEAN

What do you mean?

JESSICA

This motel. It’s not your usual picturesque little boutique place. It’s drab. It’s part of a chain, isn’t it?

Dean looks down at the notepad on his bedside table.

Tight on the table: The AmericInn, Monmouth, IL.

He picks up the notepad, opening his mouth to make some reply--but when he looks up, Jessica is gone.

Dean blinks.

DEAN

Jessica? Hello?

(...)

Billie?

No reply. Dean SIGHS, deflated.

His eyes fall on the coat at the foot of his bed. He looks at it for a moment.

Then Dean sets down the Gatorade and picks up the landline receiver. He dials a number, reading off the notepad.

MARY (O.S.)

(on phone)

Yeah.

DEAN

Mom. It’s me.

INT. DINER - UNKNOWN. DAY.

Mary, sitting across from Sam in a bright white booth in front of a wide window, holds a cellphone to her ear. Sam looks up, and sits forward.

MARY

(to phone)

You’re awake.

SAM

Is that Dean?

Mary holds up a finger, and nods to him.

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

Yeah. Where are you guys?

MARY

We’re at the diner down the block. The IHOP.

Cut to wide shot of mostly deserted IHOP interior.

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

...IHOP?

SAM

Did he get enough sleep?

MARY

(to Dean)

Yeah, it was the closest place.

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

We hear from Cas yet?

BACK TO:

INT. AMERICINN. DAY.

Dean faces away from the camera, still looking at the coat.

MARY (O.S.)

(on phone)

No, not yet. You want someone to come get you?

DEAN

Uh, no thanks. I think I can handle the walk.

MARY (O.S.)

(on phone)

Is everything okay, Dean?

DEAN

I’m fine.

(looking around the room)

I just had a visitor.

INT. IHOP. DAY.

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

I’ll tell you guys about it when I see you. Where are you?

MARY

We’re down the block. At the IHOP. I just said that.

DEAN (O.S.)

Right. Yeah. I’ll be right down.

*

After the short walk in the blinding sun along a four-lane farmland thoroughfare, congested with tractor trailers and pickups, the restaurant was a relief—shaded, quiet, and blissfully air-conditioned. White tabletops gleamed blue in the half-light, and the teal booths were mostly empty. The air smelled like fryer oil and coffee. Briefly dazed by the transition, it took Dean a moment to identify Sam and Mary, in a booth by the windows. Sam waved as soon as he saw Dean.

“Hey,” Sam said as Dean slid into the booth beside Mary. “How you feeling?”

“Peachy,” said Dean. “How long was I out?”

“You slept for 18 hours,” Mary said. “Do you remember the trip to the motel?”

“A little bit,” Dean said. “So we haven’t heard from Cas?”

“No, he hasn’t called,” Sam said.

“Did you try calling him?”

Sam waved his phone. “This is my spare—I don’t have his new number in here.”

Dean beckoned with two fingers and held out his hand. With a frown, Sam unlocked the phone and handed it over.

Dean dialed Cas’s cell number and held it up to his ear.

“Straight to voicemail,” he muttered, hanging up and sliding it back to Sam. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, glancing at Mary. “We left him and Jack on the other side of the rift, in Apocalypse World, but they were supposed to follow soon after us. We should have heard from them by now.”

The sleepy haze in Dean’s head was rapidly dispersing, curdling into a churning, anxious empty stomach. “Yeah. You should have,” he said. “What happened?”

“Well—” Sam glanced at Mary. “It’s kind of a long story, but, Jack wanted to help Cas try and get his vessel back from Michael.”

Dean frowned. “And if he can’t?”

“I—I don’t know, he finds a new one, I guess,” Sam said, raising his eyebrows. He saw Dean’s expression at that. “Yeah, I don’t really like the idea either. But angels do it all the time.”

“Not Cas,” Dean said, grimacing. His mind conjured an image of Cas flying around the other world, choosing between the available humans. He didn’t like the idea at all. “No way.”

Dean drummed his fingers on his thighs, looking at the white tabletop. It was dawning on him that he had a lot fewer details about their recent past than he would like. He stopped drumming, and plucked a plastic menu from the rack. “You’re gonna give me the full debrief,” Dean said, pointing at Sam as he opened the menu. “As soon as I order.”

He looked down at at the high-contrast photos of breakfast food. Mary was talking to him: “We’re going to head back to Kansas,” she said. “Tonight, if you’re up for it.”

“I’m up for it.”

“You sure?” said Sam. “Did you get enough sleep?”

Dean’s eyes moved down the page, then back up again. He couldn’t seem to retain what he was seeing—he would read an item, move to the next one, and then get a feeling like he’d lost time, like he couldn’t remember the last few seconds. Then, his brain would catch up, and he’d remember what he’d just read. It was disconcerting, like his short-term memory was a skipping record on a turntable.

Dean looked up. “How long was that, 16 friggin’ hours?” said Dean, snapping the menu closed. “I think I’m good.” He looked around and raised an arm to get the waitress’s attention.

“It was 18. Dean, just take it easy, okay? You just spent three days in...”

Sam trailed off.

Dean looked at his brother, and lowered his hand.

“What, Sam?”

Sam looked at Mary. She looked at Sam.

Dean set the menu down. “Is there something going on that I should know about?” he said, in a don’t-make-me-angry voice.

Sam cleared his throat. “Dean,” he said, looking like he was about to tell him his pet bunny was going to the big carrot in the sky, “Do you know... what happened to you? For the last three days?”

Dean frowned uncomprehendingly at Sam. “Do you mean—do you mean do I remember that I was possessed? Possessed by Cas?”

“Yes. You know about that?”

Dean made a face. “Of course I know about it. I had to say yes, didn’t I?”

“Oh—yeah.” Sam unfolded his hands and scratched at his eyebrow. “Okay. I just wasn’t sure whether or not it was a team decision.”

“Of course it was,” Dean said, offended on unidentified grounds. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. You and Cas haven’t been as...” He gestured, hooking his two index fingers together. “Haven’t been as in-sync lately.”

Dean squinted. “Okay, well, first of all, Cas and I are totally normal. And second of all, Cas and I are not—” He imitated Sam’s hooked finger gesture exaggeratedly. “—this, ever.”

Sam opened his hands, shrugging. “If you say so, man, I was just worried. I just—” He shook his head. “Whatever.”

He looked at Mary, who was hunched over her phone. She’d stopped typing, and was just listening, without looking up. Foreboding filled Dean like a lengthening shadow.

He looked around again. “Where’s the waitress? I need some pancakes.”

She was on the other side of the restaurant with her back to them, chatting with a cook behind the bar. Dean tried to get the attention of the guy instead.

“I’m looking for a car rental place in the area,” Mary said to Sam.

“Okay, good,” Sam said. “We still need to check out of the motel too.”

The cook caught sight of Dean. He tapped the waitress’s arm and she turned.

“Nothing from Ketch either, right?” Sam added.

“No,” said Mary. She didn’t sound worried.

The waitress arrived, and Dean ordered a stack of pancakes and a brunch burger, and a coffee. As soon as she left, Dean plucked a sugar packet out of the bowl and started flicking it between his thumb and forefinger. “All right. Last three days, instant replay.”

“Okay. Let’s start with the last thing you remember,” Sam said.

Dean shook his head. “I got nothing.” He flicked the sugar packet between his fingers, fast. “I remember saying yes, in the church...”

Thunder crashing outside, wind howling. The air cold and humid in his lungs. Lightning illuminating the dark interior of the ruined church, lighting the shards of glass on the floor like sparks. Two dark figures at the stone altar. One standing, one on his knees.

“You know what you have to say, Dean...”

Another flash of lightning from beyond the busted-out window behind him. His shadow slicing up the aisle like a blade.

His last moments in his body. It already felt like a memory from years ago—like it belonged to someone else.

Sam was looking at him expectantly.

“...And then I woke up in the woods yesterday. That’s it.”

“I found a car rental place close by,” Mary interrupted, still looking at her phone. “It’s right around the corner. I’ll go.”

“You sure?” said Sam. “I can go.”

Mary looked up. She looked at Dean, who raised his eyebrows expectantly. “No, I’ll go,” she said. She bumped Dean with her hip. “Scooch.”

He let her out of the booth and sat back down, watching her leave. The door jingled after her. Outside their window, two grackles pecked away in the grass, hopping further and further from the diner.

“All right. So fill me in,” Dean said to Sam, putting his sugar packet back into the little tray and starting to rearrange the packets into a pattern by color. “What did I miss?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Not much. We—got away from Michael and the church. Me and Cas. And you. We trekked out of the woods, circled back to the main road, and found Ketch and the rebels. They had some new intel on the demon army’s movement—they told us Jack was with them, and that they were going after one of the angel bases—this compound out in the prairie. Same place Michael was holding Mom.”

“Convenient,” Dean said, alternating the yellow Splenda packets with the white sugar packets.

On the table, Sam’s phone buzzed, and he looked down to read the text. “Mom found the rental place,” he said.

While Sam texted, the waitress arrived with Dean’s food. She put one plate down in front of Sam and one in front of Dean. Sam thanked her politely. As soon as she turned around, Dean claimed his second plate from Sam.

With a seasick, exaggerated look, Sam watched Dean pour a generous amount of artificial maple syrup onto his pancakes.

“How was it? Talking to Cas-me?” Dean asked, still pouring. “Did he do a good impression?”

“Uh...No. It sounded more like you doing a bad impression of Cas, to be honest.”

Dean made a face, cutting a bite. “So I did the voice?”

“Not really,” said Sam. “It was sort of... sort of like...” He twitched his face, trying to find the words. “It was like talking to Cas,” he said. “It wasn’t that different. I don’t know.”

Dean gave up. He took a bite. “All right. Day two. What happened?”

“Day two, we drove up north across the prairie. It was a couple hundred miles. Rough roads. Not a lot of people or houses. Pretty much... pretty much nobody.” Dean, chewing on his pancake, watched Sam look out the window. Sam shook his head minutely. “Pretty much no towns. No buildings, no nothing.”

Dean pictured it. “That’s the Apocalypse for you.”

“Guess so.”

Dean waited for Sam to add more, but he didn’t.

So Dean took another bite. “Then?”

“We got to the compound around nightfall. It was an old army field hospital, the angels had fortified it. Rebels dropped us off a mile away and took off. Ketch and Cas—you—and I, we could see the demons hadn’t made their move yet. We wanted to wait, see if we could see Jack. We figured the demons were gonna try and use him as some kind of weapon, or maybe make some kind of trade.” Sam raised his eyebrows. “Well, we were half right. Only we never saw them sneak in. Unfortunately...” Sam made a face.

“What?”

“Unfortunately, an angel patrol got the drop on us. I had to sigil blast them. That meant—I blasted Cas too.”

Dean winced. “Woof.”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “So, we lost track of him—you guys after that."

Dean swallowed the last bite of pancake and swapped the empty plate for the burger plate.

"So, sun came up, day three. Ketch and I snuck into the compound, and that’s when we realized the demons had already made their attack. And the seal started glowing. Which meant Jack was close by.”

Dean nodded. “Any idea what happened to me?” he said. “Uh—me and Cas?”

“Sort of,” said Sam. “You found Mom and Jack sometime that night. I think Mom was in pretty bad shape, but Cas healed her. By that point, Ketch and I were being held prisoner...”

“Of course,” said Dean, around his burger. “So we had to come rescue you.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes. You busted us out. Then we gave Jack the Seal of Solomon so he could open the rift.”

“So then—Jack and Cas stayed behind,” Dean said, setting his burger down. Then he picked it up again. “To look for Cas’s—Cas?”

“Well, that’s the weird thing,” said Sam. “We were in the compound, so we were about to cut our losses and go through the rift—”

“You guys were going to go through without him?” Dean interjected.

“Yeah—” Sam made his stressed sigh-noise. “I didn’t like it either, but yeah, Cas said we could figure something out on the other side. He wasn’t going to like—keep riding you.”

Dean closed his eyes, signaling with his hand for Sam to stop. “Never—” He swallowed his food— “say that again. I mean, you guys were going to leave Bizarro World without his body? What the hell kind of plan is that?”

“Well, Jack thought he could help Cas find it. So Cas smoked out of you, and we went through without them. And we popped out in Illinois.” Sam checked his phone again. “Ketch went through first, so he must have come out someplace else. And Jack and Cas are... somewhere.”

Dean finished the last of his burger and pushed the plate away. He’d thought that eating would improve his mood, but it hadn’t. Now instead of being nauseous on an empty stomach, he was just nauseous on a full one. His hand moved to fiddle with the sugar packets, but he changed course and took up the menu again.

“We shouldn’t have split up,” he said to Sam. “That was a dumbass plan.”

His brother sighed. “I don’t disagree,” Sam said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking vexed—this issue had plainly been bothering him. “It wasn’t a good idea. None of it was. I didn’t think it was a good plan, but Cas was being very—adamant.”

The unease stirred in Dean’s chest again. “What do you mean?”

“He just wasn’t listening,” Sam said, lowering his hand. He sighed, annoyed. “The whole time that he was—whatever, piloting you. And hell, even before that. The whole mission. You saw the way he barged into the church to face Michael, alone. Like an idiot.”

Yeah, Dean had seen that. Still, he felt defensive, and he didn’t know why. “He’s a bullheaded son of a bitch. But his plan worked.”

“Well, no, it didn’t,” Sam said. “He got captured, and then you had to—” He gestured at Dean. “Then the only way to escape was for him to possess you. That’s not a, a sustainable defense tactic.”

Dean opened his hands, then let them fall on the table with a thump. “And? What’s the problem? Did anything go wrong?”

“No, nothing went wrong. It was just another one of our poorly thought-out, flying-by-the-seat-of-our-pants plans. I just think you guys should have been more careful.”

Sam seemed more exasperated than angry, but Dean ignored that and escalated, answering sharply: “Oh, more ‘careful’? You mean of the Archangel Michael? You want me to be more careful of him?”

“No, Dean—”

“I didn’t have any other choice,” Dean said, his voice ringing in the empty diner. Other voices quieted. “It was one angel or the other. And it worked out, didn’t it? Kept Cas alive, kept Michael outta me.”

“Yeah,” said Sam, looking around. “Fine! I guess. It worked.”

Dean slouched back in the booth, the menu forgotten in front of him, and looked out the window again.

“Cas was just... I don’t know,” Sam said. “Maybe it’s nothing. I mean, he died, and came back to life, and then his kid got kidnapped. It’s been a weird couple of months.”

Dean folded his arms. “Sounds like a pretty normal couple of months to me.”

Sam snorted quietly.

The sun was sinking out of sight, pushing the shadow of the diner back towards them. The grackles were still pecking in the grass, one in the shadow, one in the light. A gust of wind ruffled the grass, and one bird hopped over, back into the shadow.

“You worrying about Cas?” Sam asked.

“No,” he said, trying to settle.

“I’m sure they’ll find his vessel,” Sam said. “And as long as he’s with Jack, he’s okay. Jack has the seal, and he won’t let anything bad happen to Cas. And I don’t see Cas leaving Jack for anything.”

“Right,” Dean grunted. “Jack. ‘Cause he’s so good at solving problems, and not creating more of them.”

Sam gave him a tired look.

Dean reopened his menu. “Well, who knows. Maybe Cas’ll come back as a hot chick,” he said. He raised his eyebrows suggestively at Sam, who just gave him a What the hell? look. “What? Could be a nice change of scene,” Dean said.

He flipped to the desserts.

Sam shook his head and went back to looking out the window.

“So” said Dean after a moment. “...Apocalypse World. A world where you and I said ‘yes’ to Zachariah and the mooks.”

Sam’s eyes stayed fixed on something outside. “Yep,” he said. “Pretty grim stuff.”

Dean glanced up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Sam, in a quieter voice.

Dean looked back down at the desserts. “I wonder why. Wonder what would have made us go for it.”

Sam was quiet for a moment.

“But it wasn’t us,” he finally said. “We said no. The guys who said yes, in that world... they’re not us.”

“Right,” said Dean. “So how come I feel guilty anyway?”

He looked up, and Sam met his gaze. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

Dean shut his menu.

“I’m gonna get a milkshake,” he said. He waved at the waitress again. Before Sam could ask Dean if he was serious, his phone began to buzz on the table.

“Who is it?” Dean asked quickly.

“Mom,” said Sam, unlocking the phone. The waitress arrived at their table. “Hey, Mom...” he said.

“Could I get a chocolate milkshake?” Dean said to the waitress. “Large. To go.”

“And the check, please,” Sam added, moving his mouth away from the phone.

“You got it,” she said, and left.

“Yeah,” said Sam back to the phone. “Yeah. Okay. Sounds good. See you.” He hung up. “She’s on her way. Checking out of the motel first.”

“Did she get all our stuff out of the room?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Sam said.

Silence fell, and Dean spent a few minutes rearranging the sugar and Splenda packets in a new pattern. He tried to make a symmetrical, radial pattern, but it didn’t work out mathematically—there was an even number of white packets and an even number of yellow ones.

“One chocolate milkshake,” said the waitress a few minutes later, setting it down by Dean’s elbow, “and the check. You fellas have a good night.”

“Thanks,” said Sam, taking the check while Dean took his milkshake. Dean experienced and then stifled the urge to rip open the extra packet of Splenda and pour it into his milkshake just so that the radial yellow-white pattern would work.

“So you really don’t remember any of it?” Sam said, as he signed the check.

Dean paused. “The place where Jack opened the portal...” He framed a rectangle in the air with his hands. “Was it kind of like a metal balcony? Over a, like a dead grass courtyard?”

“Yeah,” said Sam, looking up. “That was the compound, where they were holding Mom. You remember that?”

Dean frowned. “I think so. It’s kinda like a dream.”

“Maybe some memories will start coming back,” Sam said.

“Maybe.” He remembered standing in front of the portal, a golden tear in the air, hot wind at their backs. Armed figures ran through the courtyard below. Demons, or angels?

“Dean.”

Dean snapped out of it. Sam was trying to get his attention. “Yeah.”

“Did you hear me? Mom’s here.” Dean looked out the window. Mary was idling in the parking lot in a little blue Nissan, talking on her phone.

Looking at the car, Dean made a face. “We have to ride in that?”

“It’s fuel-efficient,” said Sam, scooting out of the booth. Dean rolled his eyes and followed.

Outside in the parking lot, the sun was setting over Monmouth’s two-story skyline. They waited on the sidewalk for Mary to finish her phone call. The light was ploughing right into Dean’s optical nerve. He bridged his forehead to shade his eyes, rubbing his temples with his thumb and middle finger.

“How’s your head?” Sam asked.

“It’s fine,” said Dean. The short-term memory patching had stopped, mostly, so he didn’t mention it.

“Dean, you sure you’re okay?” Sam asked.

“How many times I gotta say ‘yes’ before you stop asking?”

Mary hung up her call and started backing the car up.

“I’m fine. I mean it.”

“Okay,” said Sam. They watched Mary do a three-point turn. “Then—Good. Listen, like I said to Cas. I didn’t think it was a good plan. But I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Yeah, well, I won’t do it again if I can help it,” said Dean.

“Right,” said Sam as Mary pulled up.

She rolled down the passenger side window. “You kids getting in?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. He reached for the passenger door, but Sam blocked him with his arm.

“Sam, come on.”

“Dude. You’re running on a three-day sleep deficit and you just ate a stack of pancakes. You’re gonna pass out.”

Grimacing, Dean surrendered the door handle and climbed in the back. With dismay, he realized he’d forgotten his milkshake inside the diner.

“That was Ketch on the phone,” Mary was saying to Sam. “He came through in Florida.”

“He all right?”

“He was annoyed, but alive,” said Mary.

“You get everything out of our rooms?” Dean asked.

“Yup. It’s all in the trunk,” Mary said. She handed Sam a folded map. “It’s about eight hours to home. Are you good to navigate?”

“Yep,” said Sam. “I’ll take over driving halfway, though?”

“It’s only eight hours,” said Mary. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it.

They drove out of town, straight into the setting sun. Pungent farmland smells wafted in through the cracked windows. Once they hit the highway, Mary rolled them up and turned on the A/C. Open fields stretched into the distance all around them, heat turning them hazy at the horizon. For some reason, all that open space made Dean feel nervous.

*

He walks around and around the loop in the bunker hallway: bedroom door, Sam’s door, Jack’s door, Mom's door, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom door, Sam’s door, Jack’s door, Mom's door, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom door, Sam’s door, Jack’s door, Mom's door, stairs, kitchen...

Where is it?

Where is it?

When Dean woke from a doze, it was pitch-dark and eerily quiet in the car. He was in the back seat, driver’s side, behind Mary. The Nissan’s modern engine was only a low hum, nearly drowned out by the prairie wind buffeting the car. Sam was snoring in the passenger seat. The radio murmured up front.

“Mom,” he whispered. “You good?”

She glanced at him. “Hey. Yeah, I’m fine. We’ve got about six hours to go.”

“Cas call yet?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Dean sat back. He leaned against the door, forehead against the cool glass, and looked out into the night. For several minutes, no cars passed them. Fields and farmland rolled past, flat and depthless in the dark, like scenery paintings. Rows of soybeans unfolded and columns of corn flashed up, divided by dark windbreaks.

His eyes fell on the back of his mother’s head. He could see her hands on the steering wheel, steady and still at 8 and 4 o’clock. He wondered what she was thinking about. A 90s pop song played quietly on the radio—was she listening to it, or was it just white noise to her?

She’d been gone for almost four months, but she hadn’t said a word about it yet.

“Mom,” he said in a low voice. “Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m fine,” she said. He couldn’t see her eyes in the mirror, only the top of her head. “Just glad to be back.”

“Glad to have you back,” said Dean. He made himself add: “We missed you.”

“How’s your head?” she asked.

Dean’s eyes moved out the window again. “It’s weird. I didn’t remember anything at first. But some stuff’s starting to come back to me.”

There was a pause. The song ended.

“What kind of stuff?”

“I don’t know,” said Dean. “But it’s in there. I can feel it. I remember the portal... when I woke up. I think I remember when Sam sigil-blasted me.”

“Hm,” said Mary.

Dean watched a field of soybeans roll by in the dark.

“It wasn’t you,” Mary said, after a moment. “It was Castiel.”

“Well—yeah. I know.”

“I didn’t.”

Dean lifted his head off the glass. “What?”

“At first, I—didn’t know it wasn’t you. You found me and Jack in the woods. I wasn’t—well. I was a little out of it.”

Yeah, Dean had definitely inherited his gift for eloquence from her.

“Cas didn’t explain?” said Dean.

“Not right away,” she said. “I asked. Because I thought you were... acting strange.”

“You mean, he was trying to... what, pass himself off as me?”

“I don’t know. No,” said Mary. She paused again. “I think I just... I felt stupid for not noticing faster.”

Dean frowned at the back of her head.

“It’s silly. It made me feel like I didn’t know you,” she said, exhaling. She paused again, shifting her hands on the steering wheel. “Because, well, the thing that made me finally ask, it was that you—you were being very frank.”

“Frank? What do you mean, frank?” Dean asked in the dark.

“Forthcoming,” she said. “Affectionate. I don’t know. You told me how glad you were that you found me, after searching for so long. That you loved me. Even though things were ‘complicated.’”

Dean frowned at the back of her head again. “Okay. Well... all of that’s true,” he said, slowly.

“I know,” she said. “But it just wasn't like you to say it. It didn’t sound like you.”

Up ahead in the dark, a railroad crossing bell began to ring. The red signal light started flashing.

“I guess I should have known. From the coat,” Mary said. Unaccountably, Dean felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “It was just strange. That’s all.”

She sped up.

ACT THREE

The shower is running. He’s passed the bathroom door how many times without a sign of life, and now he passes it and hears water. Splashing as the person inside wrings out their hair. It’s not just running—someone’s in there. Hello? Dean calls out, relieved. He raises a hand to knock on the door. On his forearm there are two Xs.

He’s in the shower, hot water drumming against his scalp and running down his back. A long lock of hair slips into his eyes and he combs it back onto his head with his fingernails. It feels good, soothing. He wipes a hand down his face, drying it for a second before a renewed stream pours over his forehead. He closes his eyes and it runs over his eyelids, down his cheeks, the two streams meeting again to trickle off his chin.

His broad hand rests on his chest, and he focuses, trying to feel the heartbeat. He presses down into the flesh, but still feels nothing, so instead he presses two fingers under his chin. Under the stubble, the pulse beats strong and clear against his fingertips. Steady, but oddly slow.

He’s still waiting for something, but when he cracks an eye to check his watch, the wrist, of course, is bare. The Xs are gone too. He flexes this hand, and the movement is slightly delayed.

Water runs down the arm, off the elbow and onto the tile. Droplets fleck the dark arm hair.

Something is off.

He touches the chest again.

The bathroom door opens.

Quickly, he cracks the curtain and looks out—but there’s nobody there. The room is full of steam and the sound of running water, and the mirrors are fogged, and he’s alone. All the other showers are running too, and the water is pooling into the center of the floor. He tries to make out his reflection in a mirror. All he can see is a blurred, dark-haired figure.

The puddle in the center of the floor trembles slightly, rhythmically, like something huge is walking closer. He watches the ripples around his feet, a towel wrapped around his waist. The lights in the bathroom dim, then brighten again.

Something’s coming.

The light over the bathroom mirror flickers. He approaches the mirror, one hand holding the towel, the other hand reaching out to wipe the glass.

He stares at his reflection, hand falling away to his side, and the reflection stares back at him. A strange feeling of reassurance and recognition fills him. Relief.

Something else chases after the relief, an unfolding inside his chest where something had been balled up tightly.

Above him, the lights flicker again.

Still watching the reflection, he wipes the condensation from his hand onto the towel on his hip, then lifts his hand again towards the glass. The reflection does the same, reaching for him. Dean’s eyes rove across the expanse of bare chest, the cut-off edge of the frame below the hips. The puddle below their feet trembles and the lights dim, and then brighten.

Their hands meet against the glass.

Then the light overhead explodes. He shields his eyes, and then he’s falling—falling and falling, he’s being sucked downward like he’s going over a waterfall, noise roaring in his ears, light pounding into his closed eyes,

light

light

light

light

light

.

white light

.

Treetops.

Air on his face.

Ground against his back.

Against his will, his hand moves.

White

cold

.

warm

.

light

light

light

.

white

.

hot

.

cold

blue

gray

stone

fear

.

fabric, green

safe

red light

00:00

Then light enfolds him and, as quick as the flip of a switch, Dean is back in the bunker bathroom. His hair is damp and he’s fully clothed, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The floor is dry. The glass is clean. The lights are bright. Green eyes, sharp with confusion, stare back at him. The memories of what just happened are already slipping away, like his brain isn’t built to keep them; the only evidence left is the long crack in the mirror, splitting it neatly in two.

He’s out of breath. He doesn’t know what just happened, but it’s left him with a—something. He lifts both hands and presses his fingertips together. They’re trembling.

He checks his arm for Xs. Two again.

In the bedroom, Dean is looking for something. He digs through the bureau, pushing Cas’s clothes aside, trying to find something. Finally he feels a weight in one of his shirt pockets. His phone.

He opens his texting app. Strangely, his thread with Cas isn’t near the top. He scrolls down. Names pass by. Names of people he hasn’t been in touch with for months.

No Cas.

Dean has been trying to keep his cool, he really has. He scrolls all the way back up. Nothing. Where is he?

How long has he been gone?

He goes back in the hall and starts opening doors. None of them are Cas’s door but he’ll just try them all until he finds it. He opens Sam’s door—normal. Laptop open on the desk. Wikipedia page. He opens Mom’s door—normal. Sparse. Pistol disassembled on the desk for cleaning. Jack’s door—normal. Bed neatly made, hoodie draped over the desk chair. He opens another door. An open field, tall grass trembling gently under the summer sun. Swallows dip, catching bugs. In the distance, blackberry brambles. There’s no wind, and it’s so quiet he can hear the brook nearby. A feeling of desolation spreads through Dean like water from a spilled glass.

He’s still standing in the doorway, but he can’t get the door closed. The warm smell of summer fills his nose, dirt and grass and sweat, and it’s suffocating, choking, all the wrong associations. He smells smoke and it prickles his eyes.

Not again.

He has to get this door shut.

Please, not again.

He pulls and pulls.

Please, please, please, not again.

*

*

*

EXT. STATE HIGHWAY. NIGHT.

The blue Nissan drives through farmland highway under a full moon. There are no other cars on the road.

We follow the car as it passes a farmhouse with all the lights off. The car passes below an underpass. We continue over the underpass. On the other side, no car emerges.

The road is empty.

TRANSITION TO:

INT. RENTAL CAR. NIGHT.

Asleep in the passenger seat, Sam feels a jolt and wakes up. THUNK, THUNK... He looks out the window. The car is bumping down an unpaved access road.

Sam looks back. Dean is still asleep against the window, mouth open. Tall prairie grass passes by the driver's side windows, a dirt embankment on the passenger side.

Sam turns to Mary in the driver's seat.

SAM

Uh... Mom?

Mary glances at him, then back at the road.

MARY

Oh good. You're awake.

SAM

Where are we?

MARY

Northern Kansas.

SAM

O... kay. I mean where are we, right now? Where are we going?

Mary checks the rearview.

MARY

We're just taking a shortcut.

Tight on Mary's hands, at 11 and 2 o'clock on the steering wheel. She clasps and unclasps the wheel, then lifts one hand to itch a spot on the back of her scalp.

Sam watches her with concern.

SAM

Mom, are we being followed?

Mary glances at him without making eye contact.

SAM

(after a pause)

Uh...

THUNK. The car hits a deep pothole. Sam and Mary jolt.

DEAN

(waking up)

Whoa.

He blinks awake in the backseat.

DEAN

...Hey.

Mary looks at him in the rearview mirror.

MARY

Hey.

Sam still looks uneasy.

Dean rubs his eyes with the back of his knuckles.

DEAN

Cas call yet?

SAM

Uh. No. Not yet.

EXT. UNMARKED COUNTRY ROAD. NIGHT.

A cloud of dust is rolling behind the car as it approaches an intersection. It's moving a little fast for the dirt road.

Without slowing down, the Nissan blows past the stop sign in a cloud of dust.

INT. RENTAL CAR. NIGHT.

Dean looks around, frowning.

DEAN

Where are we?

Sam looks back at him without turning his head very far.

Dean catches his look.

He sits up straight, on alert.

MARY

Kansas.

DEAN

Something going on, Mom?

Mary looks in the rearview again. Up ahead, another stop sign is approaching.

MARY

(after a beat)

I think someone might be following us.

Dean turns around to look out the back window. The road behind them is still empty. Just the dust cloud.

As he turns back, Mary swerves sharply to the left. Dean tumbles to the right.

EXT. UNMARKED COUNTRY ROAD. NIGHT.

RUMBLE, the Nissan takes a HARD right at the intersection, sending up a cloud of dust.

INT. RENTAL CAR. NIGHT.

Sam grabs the grip handle to steady himself.

DEAN

Whoa, whoa!

Mary steps on the gas, eyes fixed straight ahead, hands tight on the wheel.

EXT. UNMARKED COUNTRY ROAD. NIGHT.

They speed down the gravel road and then, THUMP, SCREECH, swerve onto a paved road, spitting gravel.

INT. RENTAL CAR. NIGHT.

DEAN

Mom, hey, hey. Take it easy on the gas!

Dean is leaning forward, gripping the driver's seat. Sam is twisted around, scanning behind them and out the back window, hand near his waist--preparing to draw, if necessary.

MARY

See those lights behind us, Sam?

Sam squints.

SAM

...No.

Dean throws a perfunctory glance over his shoulder then reaches up to nudge her arm.

DEAN

Mom, why don't you let me drive--

SAM

Dean! Put your seatbelt on!

MARY

(shortly)

I'm fine.--Sam! Keep a lookout.

BZZ, CLICK. Dean buckles his seatbelt.

EXT. STATE HIGHWAY. NIGHT.

They barrel down a two-lane highway, passing houses and a brightly-lit supermarket. The road is busier--cars pass on the other side--but Mary keeps the gas on, flying past a "SPEED LIMIT: 30 MPH" sign doing well over 60.

INT. RENTAL CAR. NIGHT.

Mary checks the rearview. A pair of headlights appear in the mirror.

MARY

I knew it.

She accelerates. They pull around a curve at a dangerous speed.

SCREECH--the tires skid around the corner.

FWOOM--BLINDING WHITE LIGHT--an eighteen-wheeler barrels towards them.

HOOOONK. SCREECH--

Mary wrenches the wheel right--they skid away. Dean and Sam both duck down in their seats.

EXT. STATE HIGHWAY. NIGHT.

The Nissan slides to safety on the shoulder as the 18-wheeler ROARS PAST.

INT. RENTAL CAR. NIGHT.

The Nissan rolls to a stop.

Mary is still holding the wheel and still holding in her breath. She turns to look at the car behind them--it passes them by, going a normal speed. It's a minivan with a kid's bike on the rear rack.

She watches it go on past them as Sam and Dean sit up, dazed.

SAM

Everybody good?

DEAN

Yeah. Mom?

Mary EXHALES.

MARY

...Yeah. Sorry.

DEAN

(tight)

What was that about?

MARY

It was nothing. I... I thought I saw someone following the car.

SAM

What did you see?

MARY

Nothing. I was wrong.

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

SAM

(deliberately calm)

Okay... So, you maybe wanna take a break from driving?

She brushes her hair back behind her ear.

MARY

I’m fine. I just overreacted.

DEAN

(interrupting)

Mom, let me drive, it was stupid to let you drive in the first place, you just got back from four months in the--

MARY

(escalating)

No, really. I--

BZZ. BZZ. A vibrating phone interrupts them, making Mary and Sam both jump.

UNKNOWN NUMBER. Sam picks up.

SAM

Yeah? ... Cas--thank God.

Dean sits forward again.

DEAN

Cas? Is that him?

MARY

Where are they?

Sam holds his hand up at the other two, listening to the phone. Dean tries to take the phone from him, but he leans away.

SAM

Is Jack with you?--Is he--? Okay, good.

(with a glance back at Dean)

Yeah, he's fine. We're all fine. Dean slept for about 18 hours when we got in. Yesterday. Yeah.

(beat)

Yeah.

DEAN

Is he--good? Back to normal?

SAM

(to phone)

We're heading back home now. Yeah, we should get in early in the morning. ... No. No.

DEAN

No what?

(hitting Sam's shoulder gently)

Dude. Pass me the phone.

SAM

(to phone)

Uh. He wants to talk to you.

(then)

Oh--oh, okay. All right, Cas, we'll see you--oh.

DEAN

What the hell?

Sam looks at his phone. Cas hung up.

SAM

He had to go. I guess.

Dean slouches back in his seat, annoyed.

DEAN

Typical.

MARY

Where'd they land?

SAM

Alaska. Jack's gonna zap them back home, after Cas gets him a "square meal." He says opening the rift took a lot outta him.

DEAN

And Cas is--still Cas?

SAM

I think so. Sounded like.

CRUNCH. Mary puts the car in gear and pulls away from the shoulder.

MARY

We need gas.

SAM

All right. I think we passed a gas station about a mile back.

In the backseat, Dean looks out the window, preoccupied.

EXT. GAS STATION. NIGHT.

Harsh white lights above the empty pumps. The Nissan pulls up to one. Mary POPS the gas cap and climbs out.

The passenger side door opens, and Sam climbs out.

Tight on Mary, taking the pump out of the holder, CLUNK. SLAM, Sam closes his door, and then THUMP--something SLAMS him into the car.

Mary looks up sharply.

WOOSH--A dark figure tackles her from the side.

BANG--she's pinned against the pump.

The demon looks like a SOCCER MOM. Her puffy vest has a tear in it--a little gob of white fluff bulges out.

SOCCER MOM DEMON

Asmodeus sends his regards.

She socks Mary, SMACK--

BLACKOUT.

COMMERCIAL BREAK.

ACT FOUR

When Sam woke a few minutes later, he was lying on his side in the back of a parked truck, looking at a half-rusted metal floor scattered with straw. It smelled like a barnyard. His hands were tied behind his back. Great. Mary was close by, wrists also tied. She had her eyes towards the back of the truck and was moving her shoulders subtly.

I don’t know where we are, but if she’s trying to untie herself, she’s okay.

Sam coughed. She looked over at him.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” said Sam, wincing as he hoisted himself upright. “How long was I out?”

“Not very long. They just threw us back here and drove us a couple miles. We’re parked on an abandoned farm.”

“Where's Dean?”

“He hid. They didn't get him.”

“What do they want?”

“I have no idea.” She jerked her head. “They just left. I saw some headlights drive past on the road. I think it was Dean.”

Sam nodded, processing. He was still a little dazed, but the clouds were clearing. Mary’s calm put him more at ease. She went back to trying to untie herself.

“Who do they work for?” Sam said. “Did they say something about Asmodeus to you back there? Who is that?”

Mary’s movements slowed. “He’s a Prince of Hell,” she said, looking back again.

“Oh,” said Sam. “Like Ramiel. And Dagon.”

“Yeah,” said Mary.

He expected her to elaborate, but she didn’t. Then he thought to himself, Why did you expect that? This is Mom. You have to be direct.

“How do you know that? Have you met him before?”

“Not really,” she said. “But Jack has.”

That surprised Sam. “Jack?”

“Yeah,” said Mary. “Well, not this one. He met the other Asmodeus, in the other world. He captured Jack. He wanted to use him, or something. Jack didn’t have time to tell me the details.”

“Oh,” said Sam. That sounded grim. “But not you?”

“No,” said Mary. “No, the angels got me.”

He couldn’t see her face, but her voice sounded blank and empty. Like she was trying not to give her words any affect that would make Sam inquire any deeper—but not quite succeeding.

“How long did he have Jack for?” Sam asked.

Mary shook her head. “I don’t know. A while, I think.”

Be direct. Sam hesitated, then ventured— “And what about you?”

But he hardly finished the question when the back gate of the truck fell open with a clang. Their captors looked in, backed by the light of the starry sky.

* * *

Dean pulled the rented Nissan off the road a little ways past the farm, parking it at the edge of the woods. It was a moonless night; the sky was so clear that it seemed to glow. In the distance, through the dark pillars of the trees, he could see the farm—a long sloping field up to an abandoned house and a burnt-out barn.

He’d woken up in Illinois unarmed, with nothing on him—no gun, no blade, no keys, no phone, no wallet. As he unlocked the trunk, he muttered, “I could run in unarmed, but I don’t think Mom or Sam’d like that much,” to no one in particular. The cramped little trunk held Mary’s jacket and several plastic bags. Inside of one was Cas’s coat, folded into a bundle. He patted Mary’s jacket and felt—“Jackpot—” a pistol. A little one, her spare, but better than nothing. He checked the chamber to make sure it was loaded.

A stick snapped in the woods behind him. Dean pivoted, gun pointing.

With another snap, a doe bounded off, followed by two smaller deer, disappearing out of sight. Dean lowered his gun, panting.

Dizzy, he caught himself on the lip of the trunk. For a stair-stumbling second he was disconnected, cut off from the thread of memory that had brought him to this place—he didn’t know where he was or why he was there. He only remembered that he really, really needed to go forward, the way that a goal in a dream is clear even though the reasons for it aren’t.

He tipped his head down, staring at Cas’s coat, but that made it worse, so he shut his eyes.

“Get it together,” he muttered to himself. “Come on. Almost there.”

This was the way Dean saw it: when he had everyone, together—Sam, Cas, and Mom—that was real life, and everything else was the in-between, the filler. That was the way he used to feel about Bobby’s place. Not that it was a refuge from the real world, but that it was the real world; the road, the little towns along it, the cities they sometimes passed through, they weren’t quite real. They were moving images on a glass screen, in the steel frame of the Impala’s window; the hunts were roles they were playing, lines he was reading. And all that time, in the back of his mind, Dean was wandering back there, to Bobby’s kitchen, recalling whatever conversation they’d shared over beers the last time they visited. Nothing out there in that violent, unstable world had anything to do with Bobby’s kitchen, and no matter what horrible things they saw or endured or did out on the road, none of it could tarnish or taint or cast a shadow on life in there.

Bobby was gone, now, and so was that house; that corner of Dean’s mind wasn’t. He was in the bunker’s kitchen, the night he made pizza for Sam and Mary from scratch last year. He and Cas were drinking beer together, sitting in some imaginary place that looked like Bobby’s porch. Jack too, Dean remembered guiltily, like a forgotten item on a to-do list—he should be there.

But he wasn’t, not really. There was nowhere in this mental architecture where Dean wanted to place him.

The trunk and its contents came back into focus as the vertigo subsided. An idea occurred to Dean. He dug through the canvas folds of Cas’s coat, looking for it... “Hope you didn’t need this,” he muttered. “But you’re all right, anyway. Now,” he added. “And that’s what matters.”

Finally, he felt the weight shift and his fingers brushed metal. “Bingo.” He pulled the blade out of the coat and balanced it in his palm.

The metal was slightly warm.

“Almost there,” he repeated in a low voice.

Months since Jack popped into being. Since Mom got trapped, since Cas—but Cas was fine now. And so was Mom. And Jack, too. Things were finally going to be back the way they should be. Real life was just barely out of reach, now. And no cut-rate demon hitsquad was going to stand in his way.

Dean tucked the blade into the back of his belt, at his waist. “We’ll be back to normal before you know it,” he said to Cas’s coat.

He slammed the trunk shut and strode off into the woods, gun in hand.

* * *

“This is pointless, David,” the soccer mom demon said to her bulky companion, looking at Sam and Mary slouched in the truckbed. Sam kept his eyes on them, not looking down at Mary’s hands behind her back. He had clocked a tire iron behind the spare tire, and he was carefully keeping his eyes away from that, too. “These aren’t the right ones.”

“What do you want with us?” Sam asked.

David the demon looked at him. “You’re on your way to one of Lucifer’s Crypts,” he said. “To get more of Lucifer’s blood. We want to know where it is.”

That threw Sam for a loop. He made a face. “What?”

David frowned. “Isn’t that where y’all are going?”

Would a lie or the truth buy us more information? Or more time? Sam looked at Mary, weighing it. Mary’s eyes were fixed ahead as she concentrated on untying herself with as little movement as possible.

“Um,” said Sam. “No.”

David rolled his eyes and turned back to his companion. “You didn’t tell me they were terrible liars too.”

“Shut the hell up, David,” said the soccer mom demon. She looked at Sam. “Asmodeus didn’t want you, Winchester. He wanted information, but mostly, he wanted the angel and the freak. But they’re not with you. Where are they?”

Sam said nothing.

Soccer mom demon reached into her pocket and pulled out a heavy brass instrument. It was circular, and reminded Sam of an old-fashioned barometer. She held it out in both hands to show him. Sam, interested despite the circumstances, craned his neck to get a better look.

“What is that?” he asked.

She made a face like it would be hard to explain. “This is what we used to track you. Think of it like a grace compass. It points us in the direction of an angel’s grace.”

Sam could make out a little silver glow on the tip of the arrow, which was currently hovering at something like 5 o’clock. Next to him, Mary’s hands stilled.

Sam frowned at the barometer. “I don’t get it,” he said. “How did you track us with that? We’re humans.”

Soccer mom demon laughed a soft, humorless laugh. “That makes two of us, pal. Cause I don’t get it either,” she said. She lifted the barometer, and light glinted off the glass face. “But she’s got a reading.”

She jerked her chin towards Mary.

Surprised, and concerned, Sam looked at his mother. She was frozen.

“Just a slight one,” the demon said. “But enough to confuse our thermometer.”

Click. David unsheathed a hunting knife. “Time for a little chat about that crypt,” he said, waggling it in front of himself.

Sam turned back to them, mouth open. He looked at the compass again.

The arrow, hovering uncertainly at 5 o’clock, swung suddenly to the left.

A muffled shout came from the front of the truck. Both demons looked up. David twirled the knife and lifted it as a human shape barreled into the frame formed by the rear opening of the truck. Dean tackled David, and at the same moment, Mary, arms freed, grabbed the tire iron with both hands and leapt forward. She drove the flat bar against the soccer mom’s throat, knocking her down and knocking the compass into the grass, where, unseen by anyone, the arrow swung wildly back and forth, pointing now at Mary, now at Dean, now at Mary...

* * *

Dean had dropped both of the guard dog demons with the angel blade and the element of surprise, but this guy had a knife out already, and it was all Dean could do to keep the point away from his throat. He was on top of the demon in the grass, gripping his forearm in both hands, the hilt of the angel blade squished between his palm and the demon’s jacket sleeve. Adrenaline coursed through him, refreshing. Dean gritted his teeth and tried to arm wrestle him into submission—but with a smack, the demon caught him in the temple with his free hand, and Dean’s vision was squeezed into blackness for a second—still he clung on, inching a hand up, trying to squeeze the demon’s hand open, crush his finger bones until he let go of the knife—smack, another blow to the jaw, and this time the demon grabbed a fistful of his hair and wrenched sideways—

It disoriented Dean, the sound and the sensation and his vision blacking out, and for a second he lost track of where he was, what he was doing—only a second, but it was enough. The demon yanked him sideways by the hair, breaking Dean’s grip on his arm, and the angel blade slipped away, he was on his back, pinned by the wrist—

The demon had a hand on his throat and was pushing him into the grass, and Dean was thrashing, he couldn’t breathe, his field of vision was blacking out like a vignette closing for the credits, That’s All, Folks!—when the demon’s eyes sparked, his veins flashed red, and his grip loosened. Dean gasped for air as the tip of the angel blade disappeared from the middle of the demon’s chest and he slumped on top of Dean.

Dean shoved him off, panting. Mary stood above him, holding his lost blade in her hand.

He exhaled, a shaky grin crossing his face despite himself. “Thanks, Mom,” he said. He hiked himself up on his elbows and looked around. Sam was crouched a yard away, picking something up off the ground behind the truck. He frowned, examining whatever it was.

“Dunno why I thought you needed me to come rescue you,” he said to Mary. “You had it under control the whole time, didn’t you?”

“That’s right,” she said, smiling in her tense, tired way. “Sweet of you to try anyway.”

Dean gave her his most roguish grin, in the hopes of reassuring her that he saw no chinks in the armor—but also because at that moment, lying in the grass, he felt such a rush of affection for her that he couldn’t help it.

She held out a hand and he grabbed it, arm-wrestle style, and pulled himself up.

Sam was getting to his feet too. He was uninjured, and by the look on his face, unharmed. Dean only read a thoughtful confusion—he was trying to figure something out, an unsolved problem. Well, that could wait.

Dean nodded to him. “All set?” he said.

“Yeah,” said Sam.

Dean looked at their mother one more time. “Then let’s go home.”