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Title: The Other Dean
Chapter: 2/?
Words: 888
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Gabriel
Rating: M
Warnings: Swearing, slash, canon violence and adult themes.


Dean managed to find a motel nearby. From the outside the joint hadn't looked too shabby, but once Dean had signed in he realised it wasn't exactly nice either. The faded, puke green colors of the peeling wallpaper had made him think twice about eating the pizza he'd ordered, seeing as the color matched eerily well with the color of the green peppers. The room really hadn't done wonders for his appetite, but despite feeling put out by the decor and the puke colored peppers, Dean had felt ravenous, like he hadn't eaten for days.

The empty pizza box, the evidence of his hunger, was now laying on the floor.

Dean snorted from his place on the creaky bed, crossing his arms. He still had no memory of the past few days, which meant it was highly probable he hadn't eaten lately. He doubted the guy who'd kidnapped him would have fed him, only to bury him alive in a frickin' coffin.

And he hadn't been able to reach his family... The thought made him break out in cold sweat.

He just hoped his mom was okay.


Bobby arrived just after nightfall. Announcing himself by banging hard on the door.

Dean jolted up in the bed, disoriented for a few moments, before he remembered what was going on. He crossed the room and opened the door. "Bobby---" Dean started, and was greeted with a plash of water on his face.

"Don't try anything funny," Bobby Singer said, glaring at him from beneath his cap, pointing a shotgun at him. "Back away slowly and keep your hands where I can see them."

"What the hell?" Dean said, wiping the water from his face and stepping back. "Bobby, have you completely snapped? It's me, Dean. Dean Winchester!"

Bobby took a few steps around him, the gun still pointed at him, and narrowed his eyes. "I know who you look like," Bobby snarled, and took a silver knife from his pocket, "But you ain't Dean."

Dean took a step back. "Whoah," he hushed, raising his hands, "Look, Bobby, I don't know what's going on, but there's no need for that. Put the knife away."

"How stupid do you think I am?" Bobby said, still pointing both the gun and the knife at Dean. "If you think Dean Winchester asking for his mommy and daddy will make me lower my guard, you've got some lousy intel."

Dean raised his hands higher in surrender. "Your name is Robert Steven Singer. I've known you since I was knee high because dad used to go on hunting trips with you and the Harvelles, and Sammy and me used to tag along. Karen used to make us the best apple pie, I swear, I still dream about that crispy crust now and then."

Bobby lowered the shotgun in surprise. "What kind of idjit has been giving you your intel?" he wondered. "My wife never met the Winchesters."

"What?" Dean said, now even more confused.

Bobby used Dean's confusion to his and sliced Dean's arm with the silver knife, drawing blood.

"Ouch!" Dean barked, flinching away from the offending knife. "What the hell, Bobby!"

The man just narrowed his eyes, and cirled around him. "You're no shifter, either."

Dean shook his head at Bobby, still nursing his wound. "I can't believe you," he mumbled, "I never took you for the harassment type, Bobby."

Bobby just stared at him, confused. "You said you wanted to reach your brother?"

Dean brightened up at the thought of his family. "Yeah," he said, "I can't seem to be able to reach anyone. Only your landline was working. I need to tell Sammy I'm okay, I usually call him every evening so he's probably worrying his ass off."

Bobby finally lowered the shotgun. He eyed Dean with a disbelieving expression, then sighed. "Maybe you are Dean Winchester."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Well, duh."

"But there's definitely something iffy about this," Bobby said, then narrowed his eyes. "You said you woke up in a coffin?"

"Yeah," Dean said, scratching his neck. "I think some psycho must have kidnapped me and tried to bury me alive. Even the coffin looked hand made."

Bobby nodded slowly, like all of it was starting to make sense to him. "You said you woke up near Pontiac?"

"Yup," Dean said, slumping down on the bed behind him, "And get this, the bastard cut my hair and gave me a frickin' tattoo." He rolled his shirt up and showed the strange symbol to Bobby, whose eyes widened. "I bet I could make headlines if I told my story to the press. It was so weird. They eat that shit up."

Suddenly Bobby swore. "That idjit!" he seethed, and took out his phone. "When I see him, I'm going to rip him a new one."

Dean furrowed his brow. "Huh?"

Bobby just shook his head, and told him to pack up. "We're going to see your brother."

"Sammy?" Dean said, and packed up what was left of his clothes and the stuff he'd nicked from the gas station. "But he's all the way at Stanford."

Bobby took a look at Dean's earnest expression and seemed to realise something. He rubbed his face and sighed, all the while looking like someone was making him kick an innocent puppy at gunpoint. "Balls."


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