A blaring horn shattered the silence as a man jolted awake, his head throbbing.
"That was loud," he groaned, pressing his palms against his temples. His skull pounded like a drum, and squeezing his eyes shut did little to dull the pain.
"What's happening?"
Still disoriented, he glanced at the rearview mirror and froze. A stranger's face stared back at him.
"Jensen?" His voice was barely a whisper. "Am I hallucinating?"
Hesitantly, he touched his own cheek, fingers tracing unfamiliar stubble. A disbelieving laugh escaped him.
"Am I Jensen Ackles? Well, this is one hell of a dream."
His surroundings only deepened his confusion. Leather seats, polished dashboard this wasn't just any car.
"Damn, this is fancy."
Curiosity propelled him outside, and the moment his boots hit the pavement, recognition hit him like a freight train.
"Baby," he breathed, staring at the sleek black Impala.
Kneeling, he ran a reverent hand along the fender. "No wonder Dean loved this car."
A sudden, chilling thought cut through the awe. "Is this real?"
He straightened, scanning the unfamiliar streets. "I'm in the U.S.?" A sharp pinch to his arm confirmed it wasn't a dream.
"This... is... real."
His pulse spiked. He needed proof 'what world was this?'
Rushing back to the driver's side, he popped the trunk and flipped open the hidden compartment.
And there they were: guns, knives, shotgun, salt and holy water
"Son of a bitch, I am Dean Winchester"
Dean slammed the trunk shut and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his mind racing. The weight of his situation settled over him like a suffocating fog.
'What the hell am I even doing here?' The thought gnawed at him, tightening his chest with a familiar, unwelcome dread.
With a slow exhale, he climbed into the Impala, his fingers curling around the steering wheel. The leather creaked under his grip as memories flashed behind his eyes his own death, Sam's broken voice calling his name, the darkness swallowing him whole.
"Sam." The name slipped out, rough and quiet. A bitter chuckle followed. Of course his brother here was also Sam.
"Real funny," Dean muttered, jaw clenched. "Some sick bastard's idea of entertainment, huh?"
The engine roared to life beneath him, a comforting growl in the eerie silence. He stared ahead, the road stretching into the unknown.
"So what now?" he asked aloud, the words hanging in the air.
The answer came sharp and clear in his mind: Stop the Apocalypse.
His fingers tightened on the wheel. "Guess I'm killing Azazel first."
The Impala surged forward, tires kicking up gravel as Dean sped into the night, already weaving plans in his head; hunting, saving, surviving.
Same old story.
— — —
The water ran cold over his hands as he splashed it onto his face, the shock doing little to clear his disorientation. He gripped the edges of the sink, staring into the mirror at a reflection that was and yet wasn't his own.
"I can't believe this is happening to me," he muttered, voice rough with disbelief. "I just started watching the series. At least let me finish it first."
A heavy sigh escaped him as he dragged a hand down his face, the weight of realization settling in.
"I'm Sam Winchester," he said, chuckling "Fucking great."
Steeling himself, he stepped out of the bathroom only to be met by a blonde woman leaning against the doorway, dressed in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and underwear. Her blue eyes flickered with concern.
"Are you okay, Sam?" Jessica asked, her voice soft.
"I'm fine," he lied, forcing a weak smile. "Just a bit of a headache."
She frowned, unconvinced. "Let me get you some medicine."
Before he could protest, she turned and disappeared down the hall.
'His girlfriend.' The thought twisted something in his chest.
Then, without warning, pain exploded behind his eyes white-hot and searing.
He staggered, collapsing to his knees as visions tore through his mind: flashes of fire, his family, hunts, demons, a life that wasn't his...no, it was his now.
"Sam!" Jessica's voice cut through the haze as she rushed back into the room, dropping beside him. Her hands cradled his face, her touch cool against his feverish skin. "Hold on, I'm calling an ambulance"
"No!" His fingers closed around her wrist, stopping her. The pain was ebbing now, leaving him drained but lucid. "It's okay… I'm fine now."
"You are not fine," she insisted, fear sharpening her tone. "You've never had an episode like this. We need to get you checked out. Please."
Sam studied her, the worry in her eyes, the way her fingers trembled against his skin. A part of him wanted to refuse, to figure this out alone. But another part, the part that remembered her fate in another life, clenched his jaw.
"Okay," he relented, pushing himself up. "Let's go."
...
The doctor set down the file with a quiet thud. "Your boyfriend is perfectly healthy."
Jessica exhaled, her breath shaky. "Thank God."
"Still," the doctor added, "if he shows any of those symptoms, bring him straight to the emergency room. Don't wait."
Sam stood and offered his hand. "We appreciate it, Doctor."
The doctor shook it briskly. "Just doing my job."
The fluorescent hospital lights faded behind them as they stepped into the night. The parking lot was nearly empty, illuminated only by flickering streetlamps that cast long, wavering shadows. A cold wind cut through Sam's jacket as they walked, their footsteps echoing on the pavement.
Then he saw it movement at the edge of the light.
An old man stood beneath a broken lamp, his face half-lost in darkness. But his eyes yellowed, like old newspaper caught the dim glow. And he was smiling. Not warmly. Not kindly. A smile that made Sam's stomach twist.
He froze. Blinked.
The man was gone.
"Sam?" Jessica tugged his sleeve. "What's wrong?"
Sam scanned the empty lot. The wind howled through the silence. His skin prickled, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against him.
"Nothing," he lied, voice tight. "Let's just get home."
'I need to call Dean' Sam thought urgently.