A/N: This is a long one-shot. In fact, it's my one of my longest. I wondered if I should have put this into a multi-chapter. I definitely could have. Each chapter being 3-5 pages. But I decided not to. I have my reasons. And, as always, I'm horrible with endings and tying things up.

Also, I just read an atrocious short story online, and I'm now paranoid that I write like the author. (The story was written in 1970, so it has nothing to do with Supernatural.) Especially since I'm deliberately… well, I'll explain it later.

Disclaimer: Disclaimed. Also, I want to invoke the MST3K motto for you. (If you know what I mean…)

Mind Games

"Witches, man. So skeevy." Dean parked the Impala in front of the house and looked over at it. "Why do the rabbits always have to be the ones to bite it?"

As he got out of the Impala and felt for his lighter, he caught Sam's quick smile. It was nice. It was much better than all the arguing. And Dean was grateful for a straight forward, simple hunt. Just burning witches. It was better than searching to bring down Lucifer.

"So, are you ready to meet the Halliwell sisters?" Dean continued.

"You watched Charmed?" Sam chuckled as he followed Dean up the dark driveway.

"I'm not apologizing for that. Alyssa Milano, man. Of course, she was fine as a teenager as well."

"Dean…" Sam began in that voice.

Dean chuckled, but his attention started focusing on the job at hand. These witches were, well, bitches. He had nothing against Wiccans, because they weren't practicing real magic. These witches were practicing some major black magic. Hex bags weren't really hurting men physically. Instead, their vics died gradually, their own minds attacking them.

Dean wanted these witches dead.

He turned the doorknob, and the door easily opened, which made his spidey senses perk up. Unlocked doors always meant some sort of trap. He signed to Sam to keep his eyes peeled for anything and motioned him to go towards the kitchen. He took the rear, keeping his eyes on anything behind him.

Nothing was in the kitchen except the ingredients to make up more hex bags.

A shadow moving against the hallway wall caught Dean's eye, and he trained his gun on the shadow. As he crept forward, he nodded to Sam to burn the hex bags.

He slowly and quietly moved to the shadow, which was moving on the wall. The form making the shadow was in the room opposite it. Dean glanced in to see an old woman sitting in a rocking chair. He knew instinctively that this was one of the witches, although he had never seen her before. Most witches favored the sexy young woman look. This crone was obviously doing something different.

He backed away from the door, all instincts were tingling. Sam, let's go. Burn witch burn. Let's do this and get out of here.

As if the crone heard him, she looked up. Dean's eyes met hers briefly before he backed into a shadow. After an initial wave of panic that white eyes meant Lilith, Dean realized that the old woman was blind. Suddenly, her eyes glowed emerald green.

Dean turned away. "Let's burn this sucker, Sammy," he called.

The woman's eyes glowed green. Dean couldn't get the woman's eyes out of his head. He fingered his copy of the Book of Revelations and tried to research the job at hand, which was another go-around with Lucifer. Last time they met, Lucifer pretty much defeated them using just his little finger.

He wondered once again how they were supposed to stop a former angel. Cas didn't exactly know either, even though he gave Dean his sword. The same kind of sword Uriel had used to kill those angels. Although Dean felt it was ironic that he had an angel's sword when he was supposed to be an angel's sword.

Whatever that meant.

He looked over at Sam, who was looking up information on the laptop. Dean knew that Sam still felt bad about what happened, but he didn't know how to make him feel better. Or if he should even try to make Sam feel better.

Dean rubbed his eyes. As he did it, he got a flash of a bright, white-hot light shining in his eyes. Suddenly, he had an intense headache from it.

"Dean?" He could faintly hear Sam's voice over him as the white-hot light went out. His headache intensified.

"C'mon, Dean. Open your eyes." He heard Sam's voice again, this time sounding more concerned. "Cas…?"

Dean struggled to open his eyes. Each eyelid felt like it weighed a ton. He felt sick to his stomach. He found himself laying on the cold ground as Sam blurrily came into view.

"Wha ha'ened?" Dean slurred out, trying to sit up. His hand hit a stone tombstone, scraping his knuckles on it.

"Don't move, all right?" Sam held Dean down with his left hand. Dean blurrily noticed that Sam was cradling his right arm against him. "Lucifer threw you hard into that tombstone. You've been out for over an hour. We know you have a concussion. You need to get checked out, but I can't exactly carry you. Cas can, and he thought maybe he could zap you to a hospital. Unfortunately, standing up to Zachariah cost him that power."

Dean's addled brain couldn't keep up with Sam's chatter. "You OK?"

"I think I broke my wrist, but I'm fine."

Dean closed his eyes again. The light hurt his eyes. Even through his closed eyes, he could see the light, burning into his brain.

He tried to turn away from the glare of the light and opened his eyes, only to see a flood of white-hot light shining down on him so closely he could feel the heat of the bulb. Is this a 1000 watt bulb or something? He wondered as he tried to turn away from it again. The light was everywhere. However, he could just make out walls surrounding him. All four walls were so close he could touch them if he could reach out.

He shifted his weight, trying to get his hands in front of him. He was stuck kneeling on the ground. His hands and feet seemed to be tied together behind him, and the bonds were attached to something on the ground. He couldn't shift around to relieve the pressure off his legs. He couldn't move away from the light beating down on him.

He looked up, even though he was sure even glancing into that light would blind him in a minute. He thought he could see the figure of a woman watching him from a window high above his head.

"Where am I?" he asked the figure. Or really anyone who may be able to hear him.

In response, the light burned brighter. Dean tried to move his shoulder up to wipe the sweat from dripping into his eyes. He couldn't even move that. Whoever tied him up had done a good job. He started trying to feel around the bonds. They were metal.

He closed his eyes again, hoping that the light hadn't blinded him.

The light and the heat went away. The monotonous buzz of the electricity was replaced with beeps of machines. Dean wanted to enjoy the cool darkness.

However, it smelled like he was in a hospital. He thought it was for his concussion and wondered what painkillers he was on. Because his head didn't hurt at all.

In fact, his head felt separated from his body. And it wasn't a bad feeling. But, he could feel someone at his side, staring at him.

He rolled over and opened his eyes to see Sam watching him.

Sam smiled. "You're awake! How do you feel? You lost a lot of blood, but you made it through surgery just fine, and the doctors say you'll make a full recovery."

"Surgery?"

"Yeah. You're lucky, you know? That knife barely missed your pulmonary artery."

Dean rolled back to stare at the ceiling. "What are you talking about?" he asked hazily.

"You don't remember? No, you probably don't. That shapeshifter stabbed you. Don't worry. He's not going to hurt anyone else."

Dean looked back at Sam. "I was just in the cemetery…"

"What are you talking about?"

"We caught up with Lucifer…" Dean's voice trailed off. He wasn't sure what was going on.

Sam frowned. "Dean, that was a month ago. Are you talking about you getting a concussion from being tossed into a tombstone? Yeah, that was a month ago."

"A month ago?" Dean asked groggily.

Sam reached out with his casted left hand and hit the "Call" button. "Yeah. That's when I broke my wrist. Remember? You kept calling me 'Fragile.' Look, go back to sleep. The doctors said you'd be pretty out of it for a couple days. I'll be right here when you wake up."

Dean looked at Sam, thinking that was something was off, but his fuzzy brain couldn't figure out what was wrong.

The painkillers started kicking in. His head felt light and fuzzy again. It felt great.

Except he was incredibly thirsty and hot. And that damn light was back…

He looked down, trying to get that light out of his eyes again. His shirt stuck to him, and he would give Michael his consent to become his vessel if it would mean that he could get a drink. He wondered who he could kill to get a drink. Anything liquid and cool would work. Even water would be awesome.

He tried to work his sweaty hand out of his bonds, but they seemed to cut his wrists and ankles deeper every time he shifted.

He tried to ignore the light again as he peered up the walls. Once again, a figure was watching him. "Who are you?" he croaked out.

He heard some whispering Latin in response. He couldn't make out the individual words, but the rhythm of the words were Latin. He couldn't tell how many voices were speaking or what gender the voices were.

"What do you want?"

The Latin stopped. The light burned brighter and hotter.

"You know, you're going to have some major electric bills if you don't cut it out." He swallowed, hoping to get rid of the knives in his throat, briefly wondering if there were actually knives in his throat. After all, he had seen weirder things happen. And that was one of the tortures Alistair found particularly amusing.

The voices stopped. The only sounds were the buzzing of the electricity and Dean's breathing. His legs and arms hurt. He tried to turn away from the light again.

"Dean, wake up!" Sam voice shouted over the buzzing of the electricity. Dean could feel Sam shaking him. "Dean!"

"I'm up, I'm up," Dean muttered sleepily. He looked around the motel room. "Where are we?"

Sam looked at him with a puzzled look on his face. "Cleveland," he said slowly. "Are you all right?"

Dean sat up in bed. He felt fine. "I think so…"

"Were you dreaming about Hell again?"

Dean stared up at Sam. "No. I don't think so. Why?"

"You were definitely having a nightmare. You kept yelling 'Water,' and muttering something about turning the light off. Although it wasn't like your normal nightmares." He walked into the bathroom. "How does anyone brush their teeth left handed? You know how hard it is to do anything when your right hand is in a cast?"

"You're trying too hard," Dean muttered to himself, while looking around the motel room. Nothing was familiar. He wondered if he was losing his mind.

"Hey, Bobby called while you were having that nightmare. He has a lead on Meg. Obviously, he'd like to get that bitch. So, we've got to get to Bobby's."

"Yeah…" Dean got out of bed. "Hey, Sam, do you remember that witch hunt we did?"

Sam poked his head out of the bathroom. "Which one?"

"We've had more than one recently?"

"What about it?"

"Did we get all the witches involved?"

"Why?"

"No hex bags around?"

"No. Why? Are you sure that you're all right? You've been zoning out a lot since that concussion a few months back."

Dean grabbed his duffle bag and started piling in his clothes. "I'm fine! So, let's get going."

He walked out to the Impala and threw his bag in the backseat. He banged his head against the steering wheel, frustrated. He didn't know what was going on. There was no way he could be zoning out enough to lose huge chunks of time.

It was obviously affecting their hunts. If he kept zoning out, he was going to get Sam and Cas killed. He could get even get Bobby, Ellen, Rufus killed as well. Depending on the hunt.

He knew Bobby wanted revenge against Meg. He wanted to get the bitch as well. But, maybe taking a break would be a good idea. Regroup. Get his bearings.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe his concussion was causing all of this. But, he couldn't remember how that damn witches hunt finished.

"Witches. So skeevy," he muttered.

Sam slid in the car beside him. "You ready?"

Dean started the car. "Yep."

They drove for a couple hours in relative silence. Dean glanced over at Sam, who was reading from a huge volume of folklore. He was holding a pen light with his right hand, his casted left hand was supporting the book.

"I thought you broke your right hand," Dean muttered.

Sam looked up. "What?"

Dean shook his head.

Sam looked out of the window. "Are you taking the scenic route or something?"

"This is the way to Bobby's from Cleveland."

"Huh?" Sam closed his book. "Dean, pull over."

"Why?"

"Look, I'm sorry about everything I did, all right? I shouldn't have lied to you. I really shouldn't have listened to Ruby. But, we are in this together, right?"

"Yeah."

"I thought we were going after Lucifer. Didn't Cas give you a lead?"

Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "You said Bobby called."

"When?"

"A couple hours ago!"

"Dean, last time we talked to Bobby was three weeks ago. He hasn't called. He's still… down in the dumps."

"He had a lead on Meg… right?"

Sam shook his head. "No. She pretty much disappeared after Bobby stabbed himself. She hasn't made her presence known since then. But, I do think she is planning something. But, Bobby doesn't have any leads, and, frankly, we have bigger problems to worry about than Meg, right?"

Dean slowed down and pulled over to the shoulder. "Something's wrong."

"Yeah. Look, let's go to Bobby's. Figure out what's going on with you. Zachariah might have found you and is messing with your mind. A demon may be doing something to you. Hell, Lucifer might be manipulating you somehow. Just, let me drive, all right? I don't want anything to happen to you. You've got to believe me."

Dean hesitated. He didn't know what was real and what wasn't. Plus that damn light was starting to shine on him again.

"Dammit," Dean muttered as the light brightened in intensity. Once again, he found himself in the room. That damn light was still shining on him.

He was beyond thirsty. He couldn't think of anything liquid anymore. But, he was no longer hot. In fact, he started feeling cold.

The light itself was starting to fade out even though it was still burning as bright as ever, as the room was as well. He could no longer even feel his arms and legs.

He looked up past the light to see the figure watching him. The figure moved closer to the window, and his narrowing vision was able to finally see the person clearly.

It was the old blind witch whose eyes glowed green.

"You bitch," Dean growled through the knives in his throat.

He could hear her laughing as the room slowly faded to dark.

"I don't know, Bobby. He's been pretty out of it since he got slammed into that tombstone by Lucifer," Sam's voice woke Dean up. He rolled over to find himself sleeping on the couch in Bobby's living room.

Bobby's wheelchair squeaked. "Well, concussions tend to rattle the brain around. Maybe he has a little amnesia. Maybe he got hurt worse than we thought. Are you sure Zachariah didn't find him and make him Michael's bitch?"

"I don't think so. Cas hasn't said anything."

"Cas…" Bobby muttered as Dean swung his legs off the couch and sat up. Bobby was still mad at Cas. Dean shook his head. Bobby was mad at life right now.

"It didn't happen when I was thrown into that tombstone!" Dean called. He stood up and walked into the kitchen. "All of this started on a simple hunt involving those witches. Witches, man."

"That is something we're looking at as well," Sam said. "But, there are no hex bags around you. And you weren't zoning out until you got hurt in the cemetery. I think it's something physical. Stress. You keep running after regular hunts, plus going off with Cas trying to hunt down Lucifer. And you never talk about what you're going through."

Dean watched Sam's hands. "I think I've got this figured out. None of this is real."

"You don't think we're real?" Bobby asked, a trace of sarcasm coloring his words.

"No. Because, Sam, that cast is now on your right hand."

"Yeah. I broke my wrist in the cemetery."

"But, your cast can't decide which wrist is broken. Last night, in the car… it was last night, right? That cast was on your left hand. I'm not sure exactly what's going on, but I know this isn't real. Your broken wrist isn't real. None of this is real."

"I'm not real?" Sam asked.

"Judging by your cast, no. You also keep mentioning hunts that I don't think ever happened, and various things that also never happened. I was stabbed a few months ago? I don't have a scar. I'm trying to decide if you're something angels are doing to screw with me because I'm not going to become Michael's bitch. But, I can't remember how that witch hunt ended, and I think that's where it started. Particularly since I've seen that old crone."

"What old crone? There were three witches, and they're dead. None of them were old crones."

Dean turned away from the table. The light started burning. "You don't believe me? Figures. I can't do this anymore, Sam. I have to let go."

"Dean, I'm sorry about everything I did."

The light flooded over Dean again. He felt incredibly thirsty again. "I know you are," he mumbled. "I forgive you."

"Dean?" Sam's voice swam in Dean's ears. He slowly opened his eyes as some water was poured into his mouth. It felt and tasted so good although he could hardly swallow it. "You need to open your eyes. Cas is here. We're going to be lifting you up, OK?"

Dean tried for the water again, and a little bit was splashed into his mouth again. "I know you want more, but you can't have more. You'll get sick. Well, sicker."

Dean finally felt his arms and legs again as he was cut loose, although he quickly wished that he didn't feel them. He felt two bodies pull him up, although he couldn't stand by himself.

"It's all right. That old crone is dead." Sam's voice said. "We know what happened."

"How long is it?" Dean slurred out.

"Three days. You'll be all right. Just lean on us, OK? We'll carry you."

Dean felt water splash into his mouth again, and he struggled to swallow it. It was getting easier to swallow but not much.

"C'mon, Dean. Stay with us." Sam's voice said.

Dean slipped again into a cool blackness.

Dean's head was killing him. He rolled over, wincing at the pain in his head. He still felt thirsty, like his mouth was filled with cotton, but it was better than what it had been.

"How are you feeling, Dean?" Cas' voice asked.

"Peachy," Dean said hoarsely.

"The doctors say you'll be fine," Sam said. You're severely dehydrated, and you rubbed your wrists and ankles to the point where they were bleeding. But that's superficial, and, although this is the fourth saline bag you've gone through, you'll be fine. In fact, you should be released tomorrow. And you've lost weight."

"What happened?" Dean asked.

"That witch was bad news, Dean." Cas said as he walked around the hospital bed. "I found out through the grapevine that this 'crone' you kept calling her got possessed by one of those demons who escaped through the Devil's Gate."

"'Got possessed'?" Sam asked. "She must have been exorcised by someone. And no one figured out she was a witch?"

"She was the grandmother of those witches you burned three days ago. But no one exorcised her. Apparently, the demon got into her, spent a couple days walking around in her, then smoked out of her. According to my sources, the demon got freaked out with what he discovered in her and left to find someone, well, not so evil."

"Your sources?" Dean asked.

"Yes. We still have allies with us."

"What happened?"

Sam sighed. "Well, three days ago, when we went in to burn the hex bags and the young witches, you left the kitchen while I burned the bags. Do you remember that?" At Dean's nod, he continued, "You suddenly called something like 'hurry up,' to me, which I thought was weird. Because you're normally pretty good at not attracting attention to us. When I came out to see what was going on, you were gone. I looked around for you."

"I don't remember what happened." Dean played with the bandages on his wrists. "I didn't get slammed into a tombstone recently, did I?"

"Well, do you consider the time when Pam was killed recent?"

"Not really."

"Then, no. Why?"

Dean lay back against the pillows. "No reason. So why did she target just me? You were there too."

Cas sat down. "There really doesn't seem to be a reason. It seems like it's just for, you call it 'kicks'? In one of the other cells, there was body. The body was also tied down, like you, with a floodlight less than five feet above him. He seems to have died from dehydration. He was just a random guy who got caught in her crosshairs, for some reason. I'm sorry for that."

"So, now what?"

"If you feel up to it, I do have some leads from our allies where Lucifer might be." Cas said.

"I'm up for it. Just point me the way."

Cas stood up. "Good. I'll check out the leads, and I'll be in touch." With that, he left the room.

"Dean, listen, I was worried about you," Sam said. "I didn't know if you were all right or what."

"It's OK."

"I'm just… are we OK?"

Dean sighed. "This wasn't your fault, Sam. Stop apologizing for this kind of stuff. We'll be all right."

End.

A/N: How about that premiere, huh? Confession time: back in season 1, I was going to write a multi-chapter story. But, I never did because I thought it was stupid. No… probably too fanciful may be better. Too philosophical? I wasn't getting ideas for it beyond a "prophecy." It involved a prophecy of two brothers—a sword and a shield—who would defeat evil in the world. Sam was the shield, while Dean was the sword. I got this idea in season 1 and thought it was too ridiculous. Trust me, there was no way I could have done that line Zachariah said justice.

A/N #2: I did do a lot of planning and thinking about this story, even if it's a one-shot. Yes, I'm aware of the discrepancies. They were (mostly) intentional. I'm sure there was something I forgot, though. I also hate the endings on my stories.