"What in the hell is going on? What the hell are you two doing here? Sam, why the hell are you half naked in my kitchen? Dean, what happened to your arm?"
The boys stirred awake at the yelling. Dean opened his eyes and took in his surrounding, starting with the ceiling. He was in Bobby's kitchen. He was lying down in Bobby's kitchen. He could feel the cold floor seeping into his back and causing goose bumps upon his skin. Clenching his abdominal muscles, he sat up and breathed in a gulp of air.
"The hell?" He squint his eyes and gave a 'what the hell, dude' face at Bobby who was standing bewildered at the kitchen entrance. "This is not where I went to sleep last night? Sam?"
Expectedly he called out for his brother and let out a sigh when he saw him lying next to him.
In the fetal position.
"Sam?" Dean shook his brother's naked shoulder in order to rouse him. "Sammy? Wake up, dude. We are in Bobby's kitchen, and I don't know how we got here."
Groan! Sam felt his brother's hand jostle him awake. He smacked his lips tiredly and sighed. His tummy hurt, and he felt clammy. Ruby had only satisfied his manly needs when Dean went out the night before. She did not give him the 'other' goods. Tease!
Sam's eyes fluttered open and saw that he was looking at a kitchen floor. He also noticed that he was freezing. His heart and stomach dropped, and he flew up into sitting position, ready to fight off the captors that stripped him of his night shirt and dropped him off on a cold kitchen floor. Much to his relief, he saw only Bobby and his brother. And of course Bobby's kitchen. Naturally.
"Dude." Sam whispered to his brother, eyeing Bobby wearily, who stood tiredly at the kitchen entrance with blood all over his flannel and a red-purplish goose egg on his forehead. "What's going on?"
"I don't know." Dean whispered back, he was also eyeing the bloodied up and beaten Bobby. "This isn't where we went to bed last night." He said firmly, completely sure of himself, but then turned to his brother with worry and doubt etched in the crease of his brows. "Right?"
"Right." Sam nodded slowly. "We were in a motel."
"You were in Shallow River, I believe." Bobby added and stepped cautiously into the kitchen. He fished out a flask from a pocket and held it towards the boys. They eyed the flask offensively and both pouted at Bobby.
"We're fine, Bobby. Our tattoos are still keeping us…us." Dean stated but looked at Sam's chest anyway and then down the collar of his own shirt.
"But that doesn't answer the question of how you two got here." Bobby scratched his scruff, boggled completely. "And it doesn't explain why I woke up next to an open front door with a dead woman on top of me and two dead men in my basement." He shook his head and let out a shaky breath.
Bobby sighed and shook his, taking his ball cap off to smooth over his hair beneath to only place the hat back.
"What?" Sam and Dean questioned in unison.
"There was rock salt in their chests and abdomens. And uh...I think I found your shirt, Sam. It was in the panic room.I didn't know what else to do with the bodies but bury them in the yard. When I came back inside the house to grab a cup of coffee, you two boys were laying here."
There was a long draft of silence, the two younger hunters attempting to wrap their heads around Bobby's words before Sam spoke.
"What time is it?" He whispered hoarsley, hoping that talking quietly would calm his and his brother's nerves. He felt Dean's vibrations of horror and shock beside him. This was bad, loosing time.
The corners of Bobby's mouth turned down as he looked at his watch. When he'd been outside burying the woman's body, he never thought to look at his wrist. He'd figured it was sometime during the day. Snow was falling, clouding up the sky making it near impossible to tell.
"Say's here it's three in afternoon."
"How did we get here?" Sam asked, more to himself than to the others.
"I don't know." Dean answered and touched his neck gingerly. It felt sore. There were tender spots all over the skin. "Do you see any bruises?"
"A little bit." Sam answered, vaguely tossing a glance at his brother's neck. "What happened to your arm?"
"I don't know." Dean murmured while checking out his cast. It was plain white with some definite usage. The plaster had been on his arm for a while. Sam followed his brother's gaze and eyed the cast. Though still mostly white, the cast was not new. Dean awkwardly flexed his fingers and tried to shift his arm cocooned tightly within the plaster walls. Sore? Yes. Nauseatingly painful? No. He shifted slightly and felt some twinges and pinches underneath his shirt. Regardless of modesty and more about curiosity, he lifted the material and was greeted with deep yellow and light blue bruises across his stomach and ribcage. These were healing bruises. Bruises that had been much worse and much larger, Dean was sure. He had broken ribs before, and he knew the feeling and the appearance of recovery.
"Well, this just keeps getting stranger and stranger." Bobby gently rubbed his own wound on his forehead.
"Umm…" Dean began with hesitancy, letting go of the hem of shirt. "What day is it?"
Bobby's frown deepened and left the room. Sam and Dean heard the sound of a television being turned on and some muffled talking. A few seconds later, Bobby was back with a face as pale as the snow outside.
"It's…" Bobby shook his head, disbelief etched into the lines of his aging face. "It's Christmas Eve."
Bobby, Dean, and Sam sat around the kitchen table with coffee, toast, and bacon keeping them company. None of them really had much of an appetite at the moment, but the coffee was more than welcome. Bobby had thought about getting some books out and doing research on lost time but stopped his tracks when he noticed open books already on the table regarding that subject.
"Dude," Dean managed out, studying the texts on the table, "this is motherfreakin weird. And I have this feeling of-"
"Dread," Sam finished who was now with a shirt and socks. Much to his and Dean's shock, all their belongings were inside the house. Their clothes were residing in drawers and a snow covered Impala was parked next to Bobby's, no visible snow tracks from the tires. It had been there awhile and apparently so had the Winchester boys. "that something bad happened. Really bad. Like...I don't know. Like...we almost died and were...helpless?" Pause. Sam wasn't sure where that last word came from, but it felt right to say, very complimentary to lead weight in his stomach. "I also feel like…" Sam cast his gaze off towards one of the ceiling corners and shook his head with a shrug, "that I should be apologizing."
"Yeah, well…" Dean muttered and took a sip of his orange juice. Bobby had found some pain medications prescribed for Dean and forbade him to drink coffee. "You're not the only one."
"And I feel like I'm the one you should be apologizing to." Bobby pointed it with a curious expression. "I'd like to know why…Maybe."
A moment of silence washed over them. Their quizzical thoughts were interrupted when Castiel appeared next to them.
"Cas?" Dean said hopefully.
"I am deeply relieved that all three of you are well. I feared the worse."
"Cas," Sam spoke this time, his eyes wide and serious. "What happened? Why were you afraid?"
Castiel's blue eyes widened as he tilted his head to the side and then squinted.
"You do not remember. None of you do." His eyes drifted to Dean and Bobby.
"Tell us what happened, Cas." Dean pleaded.
"Yeah, tell us." Bobby said.
Castiel opened his mouth and was about to speak when his head jerked upward. He stood that way for several moments before Dean could speak.
"Cas?" Dean questioned. "What's going on?"
"I must leave."
"Wait!" Sam shouted. "Please tell us what happened."
"Another time," Castiel promised with a slight nod and with flutter of invisible wings, he disappeared.
Sam, Bobby, and Dean stared blankly at the space Castiel had occupied, dumbfounded and completely lost.
"What are we gonna do?" Dean whispered.
"Carry on like we didn't just loose three weeks of our lives, maybe?" Sam rubbed the tender space between his brows.
"I guess we have no other choice, boys." Bobby sighed. "I mean…we can ask around town and stuff about our whereabouts, but…" His voice trailed on.
"Yeah." Dean nodded gently, only half listening, too busy with his own imagination going wild on him.
"Yeah." Sam nodded, too, his eyes glazed over, not really there with the other men. He cocked his head to the side and painted a pouting grimace on his face. "You know what?"
"What?" Dean and Bobby grumbled out.
"I had a really weird dream before waking up."
Oooh, oooh she looked at me with big brown eyes
You ain't seen nothin' yet,
B-B-B-Baby, you just ain't seen nothin' yet,
Here's something that you never gonna forget,
B-B-B-Baby, you just ain't seen nothin' yet.
Sam groaned at hearing the blaringly loud music projected from the alarm clock. He opened his eye, his lids feeling like they weighed as much as the Impala. He groaned once more and shifted in his bed. Oh, man. He was so tired. He felt like he'd just fought a battle all night long. And in his nightmare, he had. Before reaching over to the nightstand to flick off the alarm clock, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he stumbled his way out of bed and into the bathroom, passing an out cold Dean on the way there. He used the toilet, washed his hands and face, and then walked out. He sat wearily on his bed and breathed in a deep sigh. His dream had been vivid and scarily so. Every emotion and physical feeling had felt in depth: hunger, need, and fear.
He was an adult in his dream, a man, and had not been what he had imagined or hoped.
Sam heard his brothere shift underneath his covers, tearing him out of his reeling thoughts.
"S'mmy." Dean muffled sleepily, his older brother still in bed laid motionless and comfortably cocooned in his blankets. "H'ppy thrt'nth birthday, dude."
"Thanks, Dean," Sam yawned, a chubby palm covering his mouth.
The End. (Yeah, I know it's abrupt)
A/N: So yeah, I totally wrote that past Sam never lost any time unlike his future self, brother, and Bobby. Tis why— I felt it'd be more acceptable for Season 4 Winchester to lose time than a 1996 Sam. It's just cleaner that way. If my readers hate it, tough. It's how I wrote it; it's how I like it. Now I must bid adieu to this story…but not my readers. *Goes off to write sequel*
And also. I will have the first chapter of the sequel up quickly after the New Year.