Chapter Text
“Dean… you gave me what I needed most… I wanna do the same for you.”
.
.
.
It was dark. Dean blinked a few times. He was panting, like he had been running or something. But why? Why would he run? The last thing he remembered was talking to Chuck and Amara. He didn’t blow off the bomb, and Chuck took all of its energy. So he should have been safe. There was no reason to run anymore. But where the hell was he now?
His hands moved around and hit something. Wood. He was in a box. It wasn’t that big; he couldn’t move much. And there was the smell of dirt. He put his hands in his pockets to find the lighter he always had. Thankfully, it was there. He brought it up so the flame could help him see his surroundings. A wooden box, with dirt filling the gaps.
I’m in a coffin.
He coughed. His throat was scratchy. He tried to scream, “Help!” but his voice sounded like he hadn’t spoken in months. Or like he had spoken too much.
I have to get out of here.
Luckily, getting out of a coffin wasn’t a hard thing for Dean Winchester. He had been in this situation too many times to be scared. The only thing on his mind was Sammy. And Cas. They needed to know he was alive and well, and that the Amara problem was solved.
I have to get out of here. Now.
The coffin broke easily… a little too easily, if he was being honest. Whoever put him in there was either an amateur or didn’t actually want to keep him inside. He wasn’t even buried that deep, because as soon as the coffin broke, he pushed away the dirt, and there he was, back on the surface.
He took a deep breath and hauled himself up. Deep breath. Good. I’m good. He felt so tired. He lay there on the ground for a second until his breathing evened out. Then he looked around.
The sun was bright above his head. Where the hell am I? He looked around, and the scene was familiar. Too familiar. His eyes widened in surprise. All around the grave he’d been buried in, the trees were destroyed in a circular shape, all fallen to the ground for at least a mile. He knew what kind of creature could do this kind of damage.
Angels. Fucking angels again. Let me find Cas and tell him one of his lunatic siblings buried me alive.
He didn’t have his phone on him (obviously), so he picked a direction and started walking. This is just like that one time I crawled out of Hell. He walked for almost an hour until he reached a gas station. An abandoned gas station with a small store next to it.
A lot like that time, actually.
He took off his shirt, and that was when he realized he wasn’t wearing the same clothes he remembered. When he went to kill Amara (and himself in the process), he’d been wearing a different shirt. And a jacket. But this? He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d worn it. He wrapped the shirt around his fist and broke the door of the little store. He was too thirsty to feel bad about breaking in.
Inside, he tossed the shirt aside and stormed toward the fridge. He grabbed a bottle of water and drank almost half of it in one gulp. He was still panting from being underground and then walking for so long. Once he had some water, his brain started to work better.
Where is this place? I have to call Sammy. And Cas. Oh, Cas.
The last time he had seen Sam and Cas, it had been a goodbye. Cas had offered to go with him. He always wanted to be Dean’s companion, especially in hard, almost-dying situations. But Dean hadn’t wanted him to come this time. He wanted Cas to stay behind and take care of his little brother. He didn’t want to leave Sammy alone, and he trusted Cas to keep him safe. Not out of trouble—because both of them were trouble magnets—but at least they would have each other. And that gave Dean the courage he needed to leave.
The truth was, he also had another reason.
Cas had a bad habit of jumping in front of the bullet for Dean. Maybe not actual bullets, but a blast from God’s sister was definitely something Cas would step in front of. And Dean didn’t want that. He never wanted Cas to be hurt in any way. Cas deserved so much better than Dean’s dangerous life, and Dean wanted to keep him away from danger in any way possible. So no, of course he liked having Cas by his side—but if it meant putting the angel in danger, Dean wouldn’t let him follow.
But really… where was he?
He turned around. Maybe a map could help. He searched the shelves. There was no map, but there were newspapers. Good enough. He grabbed one and looked at the front page—and froze. Instead of the location, his eyes locked on the date.
September 18, 2008.
What?? 2008??
He looked around again. It wasn’t similar to that old shop he’d found when he got back from Hell. It was the same place. And the same date.
He was just back from Hell.
How is that even possible?
He rushed to the mirror for proof. He rolled up the left sleeve of his T-shirt and gasped. There it was—the handprint. Castiel’s handprint. The mark of an angel touching a soul. Dean traced it with his fingertips. In his own time, over the years, the handprint had healed, leaving only a faint red mark on his shoulder. And even when it had been visible, Dean used to hide it. Not because he was ashamed of it. No. Because it reminded him of Hell.
At least, that’s what he told everyone.
The truth was that every time he saw it, he thought of Cas. Especially when Cas was gone. Dean couldn’t bring himself to look at the mark, remembering the angel who wasn’t around anymore. The angel who was his best friend.
But standing here now, looking at it, he smiled. It felt like he had Cas with him. The first time he’d stood in front of a mirror and seen the burned mark, he’d been horrified. I didn’t know Cas yet. And later, when Castiel became just Cas —Dean’s best friend—the handprint took on a completely different meaning.
Dean put the newspaper back on the shelf. He had to find a way back to his own time. He started to think. There weren’t many angels left who could do something like this. They had no wings, and time travel required wings. The only one who might be able to do it was Lucifer. But Amara had thrown him away, and if he was angry at anyone, it shouldn’t have been Dean.
He stood there for a moment.
What should I do? Should I call Cas? No, that was stupid. Cas might have pulled him out of Hell, but in 2008, they were strangers. He wouldn’t believe me.
Maybe I should find Sam. But Sammy thought he was dead. I can’t go to him now.
What other options did he have?
Bobby. I have to find Bobby.
Until he figured out what the hell had happened and how he’d ended up in this year, he couldn’t mess with the timeline. Which meant doing everything exactly the way it had happened before.
It shouldn’t be that hard. Right?
+++++
He wasn’t that far from the store when he remembered—not everything was going the same way it had before. He was supposed to hear Cas in that store for the first time. Well, not that it mattered. He couldn’t understand Cas’s real voice anyway. But what if that changed the story?
He glanced at the time on the car dashboard. Should he go back and wait for CAS to shatter the windows with his angelic voice? No. He needed to be at Bobby’s before nightfall. And he hadn’t even called him yet. He knew he should call, because that’s what he did last time, but maybe that small detail wouldn’t change anything.
So much for doing everything exactly the same, Dean.
When he knocked on Bobby’s door, he knew what was coming. When Bobby opened it, Dean smiled. In the past four years, he’d forgotten how much he cared about Bobby. He was a father to Dean and Sam. But the shock and horror on Bobby’s face reminded him where he was.
“Surprise,” Dean said, his voice still hoarse as he tried to sound normal.
Bobby took a step back. “I don’t understand…”
Dean stepped inside the house. “Yeah, me neither… but here I am.”
This conversation was too easy. He remembered every second of this day. Every word, every move. So when Bobby grabbed a silver knife and attacked him, Dean wasn’t surprised.
“Bobby! It’s me!” He grabbed Bobby’s arm to stop the knife and twisted away from him. He pulled a chair from the middle of the room and held it between them, trying to keep some distance.
“Yeah, my ass!” Bobby lunged forward again, and Dean raised his hands.
“Wait! Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed… You’re about the closest thing I have to a father!”
Bobby hesitated. Dean slowly lowered his hands. “Bobby. It’s me.”
Bobby stepped closer, pushed the chair aside, and carefully placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, like he was trying to figure out if he was real. But his knife still hovered inches from Dean’s face. God, he’d forgotten how stubborn Bobby could be.
Dean kept a hand on Bobby’s wrist. “I’m not a shapeshifter or a revenant. God, give me that knife!” He took it from Bobby and stepped back. Slowly, he pressed the blade to his arm, took a deep breath, and cut himself—just enough for Bobby to see the blood and believe him.
“Dean?” Bobby’s face softened, worry replacing fear, like he couldn’t trust his own eyes.
“Yes. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Then, remembering something, he added, “And I’m not a demon either. If you get me some holy water, I’ll prove that too.”
But Bobby wasn’t listening anymore. He stepped forward and pulled Dean into a tight hug. Dean closed his eyes and breathed slowly. He’d missed Bobby so much he would’ve done anything to have him back, even for a moment.
Bobby finally let go and stepped back. “It’s good to see you, boy.”
“Yeah… you too.” Dean felt tears sting his eyes and blinked them away. He didn’t want to cry here. No. If this was the last time he’d see Bobby, he refused to let tears blur his vision.
“But… how did you bust out?” Bobby still sounded uneasy.
Dean shrugged—and right then remembered he couldn’t say, Oh, an angel brought me back. His name is Castiel, and he’ll be my best friend years from now.
So he did what he knew was right. “I don’t know. I just woke up in that coffin. But Bobby, you should’ve seen my gravesite. It looked like a nuke went off. And there was…” He stopped himself, remembering he shouldn’t explain too much. “Where’s Sammy? I tried calling him, but none of his numbers work.”
Bobby explained that all Sam had done in the months since Dean died was keep his head down and search through books, hoping to find a way to bring Dean back from Hell. Dean said all the things he remembered saying before, even agreeing with the idea of Sam making a demon deal to save him.
We thought a demon brought me back. So different from the truth.
He told Bobby he didn’t remember much from Hell. It was a lie. He remembered everything—the torture, the fear, the pain. All of it. But he also remembered the light. The moment he was freed.
He’d never told anyone that part. Not even Cas.
He remembered seeing him just before waking up in the coffin. The blue light—blinding, beautiful. The screaming. Everyone in Hell was terrified of that power. But Dean felt safe. The moment he saw him—Castiel, the angel sent to save Dean Winchester—he knew everything was going to change.
And it did.
He never told Cas because he wanted to know him as the simple, awkward angel he’d met. Thinking of Cas as the leader of an army storming Hell to save one human soul was scarier than Dean could handle. He didn’t want to be afraid of Cas. Never.
“We should find Sam,” Bobby said. “He needs to know you’re back.”
Dean snapped back to the present, slipping easily into the role of protective older brother. “Yeah. If he did anything stupid to bring me back, we need to find him.”