After clawing his way out of a hastily-dug grave, Dean Winchester figured he could use a break. After all, he'd just returned from hell itself, a feat not easily accomplished. He trekked over the roads to a small gas station, raiding it for food and water. He didn't know how long it would be before he could find his brother and Bobby.

After calling all of Sam's phones, he realized he wasn't going to be able to reach him as easily as he thought. The payphone he was using was old and sputtered and crackled when the voicemail message played. Dean's agitation played on his face, his eyebrows furrowing and his jaw set firmly.

If they weren't coming to him, he would go to them.

Sioux Falls was a couple days away, and after hotwiring a car (a handy skill, though Dean missed the sleek black Impala he called home more often than not) he was able to make his way to Bobby's home. He stomped up the creaky wooden stairs to the front door, staring fondly at the old lawn chairs on the porch. He vaguely recalled sunny afternoons spent drinking beers with Bobby and Sam on said porch, watching the sun set over the wide expanses of land surrounding Bobby's house.

He stepped up to the door, ignoring the niggling doubt that had taken root in his gut. It's Bobby, he thought, and I have nothing to worry about.

After three firm knocks, Bobby Singer opened the front door, looking as gruff as ever.

"Yes?"

Dean grinned widely, holding out his arms.

"Bobby, it's me. I'm… out of hell."

Bobby leaned against the door frame, a guarded expression on his face.

"Who the hell are you, boy? I don't have the slightest clue who you are."

Dean's smile faltered, but he plastered it back on.

"Bobby, what do you mean? It's me, Dean. You've known me for years, me and my brother. Stop playing around."

Bobby stepped back a short distance, moving to close the door.

"Boy, I don't know anyone named Dean or anyone with a brother named Dean. You've got the wrong person. I'm sorry."

Dean slammed his palm flat against the door, desperately trying to keep it open.

"If you're thinking I'm a demon or something, you're wrong, Bobby, I swear."

Bobby laughed harshly.

"Demons? What in the hell are you on? There's no such thing. I suggest you get yourself checked out, boy. Now get off my property before I call the cops."

With that, Bobby slammed the door in Dean's face, which had changed expression from glee to horror.

Bobby didn't remember him.

Dean grabbed the car keys miraculously still in his pocket, sliding into his car. His real car.

The Impala still smelled of leather and salt, faded but still detectable. He inhaled deeply, his eyes pricking with tears that he quickly blinked away.

"Hey, Baby. I'm home," he murmured. "Let's go find Sammy."

Finding Sam proved to be harder than expected, but after spending years hunting his abilities to find people were honed to a sharp point. After a few more days, he stood outside a motel room marked by only the number 22. He raised his fist to knock, but a high pitched giggle made him falter.

Was Sam…?

The idea was too horrendous for Dean to entertain, and he knocked on the door. He heard a mattress creak and heavy footsteps pad toward him.

The door creaked open, showing a dark room behind it and Sam; drunk, shirtless, and tousled. His head drooped but his eyes glared from under his thick lashes, his mouth set in a stern frown.

"Sam…"

Sam stumbled forward, catching himself on the door frame.

"Who are you? How do you know my name?"

Dean suddenly realized that the scene was all too familiar, like he'd been there just days before.

"It's… me. Your brother? Dean?"

Sam laughed harshly.

"I may be drunk, but I'm not that drunk. I don't have a brother."

Dean recoiled, stepping back in shock.

"But Sam, you don't remember? You sure it's not just the booze? I just crawled out of hell. If this is some sick joke with Bobby, I'm getting damn tired of it. Snap out of it!"

He backhanded Sam firmly across the face, watching his long hair whip across his cheeks. When he righted himself, his left cheek was an angry red and Sam's face held simmering rage.

"You should not have done that."

Dean saw the fist coming but made no move to stop it. He crumpled to the ground as he heard the dial tone on Sam's phone.

At least he could still throw the hook.

Dean awoke handcuffed to an uncomfortable chair in a blank room, light shining in his tired eyes. An old man- a police officer- sat across from him, his expression unreadable.

"Welcome back, sonny."

Dean groaned, shifting in the chair. He hated cops.

"I hear from the young man who called you in that you spouted some wacky crap and then backhanded him. That sound right?"

He sat bolt upright, straining against the cuffs.

"He's my brother! And I…"

The cop leaned forward.

"And you..?"

He slumped again.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered. "My brother doesn't know me. Bobby doesn't know me. I must still be in hell."

A strange look flicked across the old officer's face, before his placid expression returned.

"Boy, what do you mean still in hell?"

Dean laughed mirthlessly.

"What've I got to lose? I just dragged myself out of my own grave. I was dead. I was killed by hellhounds, and my soul was damned to hell. I was tortured by demons until I took up the instruments myself. I tortured innocent souls. And you know the worst part?"

The officer's face was pale, and he trembled in the seat.

"I liked it."

It happened fairly quickly after that. The officer escorted Dean to a cell, locking him in with a what the fuck is wrong with you face.

He slept somewhat easily on the hard, uncomfortable mattress. Motels, he recalled, usually didn't have five-star accommodations either.

He briefly awoke to a rocking motion and a slightly better bed before succumbing to sleep again.

Dean finally awoke fully to sunlight streaming onto his face in a stark-white room, wearing white clothes that didn't properly fit and restrained to the mattress he'd been sleeping on.

His worst nightmare had come to life.

He was in an institution.