Mame pushed the heavy steel door of the interrogation bunker open, stepping out into the dim, concrete hallway. He immediately looked toward the rusted metal table where Future Dean had dumped his walking armory just a few hours prior.
The table was completely empty. No AR-15. No dual drum-mag Glocks. No Desert Eagles.
Mame stopped, staring at the empty table with a profound, terrifyingly calm annoyance. He still had his massive stockpile of ammunition and backup weapons safely stored inside his digitized System inventory, but Future Dean had taken his primary, custom-etched loadout.
"Son of a bitch," Mame muttered, crossing his arms over his tactical vest. "He confiscated the hardware."
Dean stepped out of the bunker behind him, rubbing his raw wrists. He looked at the empty table and let out a harsh scoff. "Of course he did. The guy's a paranoid dictator running a military camp. He's not gonna leave an arsenal sitting in the hallway. Come on. He's distracted getting ready for the raid. Let's get out of here and figure out our next move."
They moved down the corridor and pushed open the heavy blast doors, stepping out into the bleak, ash-choked daylight of Camp Chitaqua.
The camp was bustling with twitchy, heavily armed trauma survivors. People were moving crates, cleaning weapons, and keeping their heads down.
Dean glanced around the camp, taking in the sheer misery of his own future, when a familiar, nervous voice called out.
"Hey, Dean. You got a second?"
They turned to see Chuck Shurley jogging up to them, clutching a clipboard and a roll of toilet paper. Chuck's eyes darted nervously to Mame for a fraction of a second—still entirely unsettled by the presence of the Anomaly—before focusing entirely on Dean.
"No—yes. Uh, I—I guess," Dean stammered, trying to play it cool. "Hi, Chuck."
"Hi," Chuck breathed out, looking stressed. "So, uh, listen, we're pretty good on canned goods for now, but we're down to next to nothing on perishables and—and hygiene supplies. People are not gonna be happy about this. So, what do you think we should do?"
Dean stared at the Prophet, entirely out of his depth. He was used to hustling pool and hunting monsters, not running apocalyptic supply logistics.
"I—I don't know," Dean offered lamely. "Maybe, uh, share? You know, like at a kibbutz."
Chuck blinked, thoroughly confused by the uncharacteristically soft answer. He looked at the clipboard, and then back at Dean. "Wait a minute. Aren't you supposed to be out on a mission right now?"
"Absolutely," Dean bluffed smoothly. "And I will be."
"Uh-oh," Chuck muttered suddenly, his eyes widening as he looked over Dean's shoulder.
Before Dean could turn around, a woman in scavenged combat gear came storming up behind him. Without a word of warning, she wound up and threw a vicious right hook squarely at Dean's jaw.
"Whoa! Jeez! Easy, lady!" Dean yelled, ducking the punch with his hunter reflexes.
He scrambled backward, practically hiding behind Chuck, while Mame simply took a casual step to the side, watching the domestic dispute with immense entertainment.
"Risa," Chuck said, holding his hands up defensively.
"Risa?" Dean echoed, having absolutely no idea who this woman was.
Risa glared at Dean with absolute fury. "You spent the night in Jane's cabin last night, didn't you?"
"Uh, what?" Dean stammered, his eyes wide. "I—I don't—did I?"
Mame looked over at Chuck. Chuck, looking deeply uncomfortable, gave a slow, confirming nod.
"I thought we had a connection," Risa spat, violently air-quoting the word 'connection' with her fingers.
Dean, realizing his future self was apparently running a very messy personal life amidst the end of the world, offered a weak, placating smile. "Well, I'm sure that we do."
"Yeah?" Risa sneered.
"Hi, Risa," Chuck tried again, offering a weak wave.
"Screw you," Risa snapped at Chuck, before turning on her heel and storming away.
Dean let out a long, exhausted breath, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh, jeez. I'm getting busted for stuff I haven't even done yet."
Mame let out a quiet snicker, adjusting the collar of the oversized canvas duster he was wearing. "Looks like Commander Winchester has a busy schedule. I'm surprised he has time to hunt the Devil."
"Uh, never mind," Dean said, shaking off the bizarre encounter. He looked at Chuck, needing an actual ally. "Hey, Chuck, is... Cas still here?"
"Yeah," Chuck sighed, pointing toward a ramshackle wooden cabin near the edge of the camp. "I don't think Cas is going anywhere."
Dean nodded his thanks and started toward the cabin, with Mame following closely behind.
They pushed open the creaking wooden door and stepped inside. The air in the cabin was thick with the pungent, hazy smoke of incense and marijuana.
Sitting cross-legged in a circle on the floor, surrounded by several doting women, was Castiel. He was wearing loose, unbuttoned clothes, sporting dreadlocks, and looking profoundly, spectacularly high.
"So, in this way," Castiel was slurring smoothly, gesturing with his hands. "We're each a fragment of total perception—just, uh, one compartment in that dragonfly eye of group mind. Now, the key to this total, shared perception—it's, um, it's surprisingly physical."
Dean stared at the fallen angel, his jaw practically hitting the floor. Mame leaned against the doorframe, a highly amused smirk on his face as he remembered Castiel offering him a spot in this exact circle the night before.
Castiel finally stopped talking, his glazed, bloodshot eyes drifting over to the doorway. He spotted Dean, and then the heavily armored teenager leaning next to him.
"Oh. Excuse me, ladies," Castiel said, offering the women a serene smile. "I think I need to confer with our fearless leader for a minute. Why not go get washed up for the orgy?"
The women giggled softly, standing up and filing out of the cabin, squeezing past Dean and Mame.
"You're all so beautiful," Castiel called after them. He grunted, standing up slowly and stretching his back until it popped.
Dean finally found his voice. "What are you, a hippie?"
"I thought you'd gotten over trying to label me," Castiel replied smoothly, his words slightly slurred.
"Cas, we got to talk," Dean said, stepping fully into the smoky room.
Castiel tilted his head, his hazy eyes narrowing slightly as he peered closely at Dean's unscarred face and lack of a beard. He blinked slowly.
"Whoa," Castiel murmured. "Strange."
"What?" Dean asked impatiently.
"You..." Castiel pointed a sluggish finger at him. "...are not you. Not now you, anyway."
"No!" Dean said, relieved the angel still had some perception left. "Yeah. Yes, exactly."
"What year are you from?" Castiel asked.
"2009."
"Who did this to you?" Castiel asked, his voice entirely devoid of the righteous fury he used to possess. "Is it Zachariah?"
"Yes," Dean confirmed quickly.
"Interesting," Castiel mused, looking incredibly unbothered by the temporal paradox.
"Oh, yeah, it's friggin' fascinating," Dean snapped, his patience wearing razor-thin. "Now. Why don't you strap on your angel wings and fly me back to my page on the calendar?"
Castiel let out a raspy, deeply stoned chuckle, shaking his head. "I wish I could just, uh, strap on my wings. But I'm sorry... no dice."
Dean stared at his best friend, the powerful warrior of Heaven reduced to a barefoot burnout. "What, are you stoned?"
"Uh, generally, yeah," Castiel admitted with a shrug.
Dean's shoulders slumped, the reality of the situation finally crashing over him. The angels were gone. The magic was gone. "What happened to you?"
Castiel looked around the smoky, rundown cabin, his eyes lingering on the heavy tactical armor Mame was wearing, before shifting back to Dean. A deep, profound sadness flickered beneath the haze in his eyes.
"Life," Castiel answered simply.
Mame leaned against the wooden doorframe of the smoky cabin, watching the stoned, barefoot angel with a mixture of amusement and pity.
"I'm Mame, by the way," he said, offering a small nod to the fallen warrior of Heaven.
Castiel tilted his head, his hazy, bloodshot eyes drifting away from Dean and focusing entirely on Mame. For a brief second, the drug-induced fog seemed to part. Castiel's eyes widened, seeing not just the heavy tactical armor, but the fundamental, impossible nature of Mame's soul. He saw the digitized anchor of the System clinging to a boy from a different multiverse.
"Whoa," Castiel breathed out, leaning back on his cushions. "You... you are not supposed to be here. Not in this universe. Not anywhere."
Mame let out a dry, humorless snort. "Tell me something I don't know, Cas." Mame gestured vaguely around the room. "Listen, since we're apparently stuck here for the time being, does the Angel of Trench Coats happen to have a spare one I can borrow? Future Dean confiscated my heavy gear."
Castiel blinked, the hazy, stoned smile returning to his face. "Material possessions are just tethers to the physical plane, man. Take the olive one on the chair."
Mame grabbed the heavy, dust-covered canvas duster from the corner and threw it on over his tactical vest.
Outside, the sudden, heavy rumble of combustion engines tore through the quiet murmur of the camp. Dean and Mame exchanged a quick look and stepped out of the cabin, heading toward the main courtyard.
A rusted jeep and a heavily armored muscle car rolled through the front gates, kicking up clouds of grey ash. Future Dean climbed out of the driver's side of the car, looking exhausted and covered in dark, viscous Croatoan blood. A handful of hardened soldiers piled out of the jeep behind him.
Future Dean reached into the backseat of his car, grabbing two scavenged bottles of beer. He popped the caps off with the edge of the door and tossed one to a soldier named Yeager.
They both raised their bottles in a silent toast and took a long drink.
Without a single word of warning, Future Dean dropped his beer, smoothly drew his gun from his shoulder holster, and leveled it directly at Yeager's chest.
BANG.
The gunshot echoed like a cannon in the courtyard. Yeager's chest exploded in a spray of red, and he collapsed backward into the dirt, dead before he even hit the ground.
The other soldiers froze, their hands flying to their weapons, looking in absolute shock between Future Dean's smoking gun and the dead man.
From the porch of the cabin, Past Dean's eyes widened in horror. "Hey! Hey! Watch out!" he yelled, stepping out into the open.
Mame stared at the bleeding corpse, his jaw dropping slightly. "WTF, man!"
Future Dean lowered his pistol, looking over at his younger self and the heavily armored teenager. His jaw tightened in intense irritation. "Damn it."
The soldiers looked back and forth between the two Deans, their minds entirely incapable of processing the identical, impossible faces. Whispers began to break out across the courtyard.
Future Dean holstered his gun and turned to his men, his voice carrying the absolute, uncompromising authority of a dictator.
"I'm not gonna lie to you," Future Dean shouted over the murmurs. "Me and him—it's a pretty messed-up situation we got going. But believe me, when you need to know something, you will know it. Until then, we all have work to do. Now get back to your posts!"
The soldiers, too terrified of their commander to argue, slowly dispersed. Future Dean marched across the dirt, grabbed Past Dean by the canvas jacket, and forcefully shoved him toward the command headquarters. He shot a dark glare at Mame, jerking his head for the teenager to follow.
Future Dean shoved them both into the rusted, dimly lit headquarters and slammed the heavy metal door shut behind them, throwing the deadbolt.
"What the hell was that?" Future Dean barked, glaring at his younger self.
"What the hell was that?" Past Dean roared right back, completely disgusted. "You just shot a guy in cold blood! One of your own men!"
Future Dean walked over to a metal desk, his movements stiff and angry. "We were in an open quarantine zone. Got ambushed by some Croats on the way out."
Mame, leaning against the concrete wall, immediately connected the tactical dots. "Did he get infected?"
Past Dean looked back and forth between them, demanding an explanation.
"Yeah, the Croats. Croatoans," Future Dean confirmed, his voice hard and unapologetic. "One of them infected Yeager in the scuffle."
"How do you know?" Past Dean demanded.
"'Cause after a few years of this, I know," Future Dean snapped. "I started seeing symptoms about a half an hour ago. The twitching. The sweat. Wasn't gonna be long before he flipped. I didn't see the point in troubling a good man with bad news."
Past Dean stared at his future self, entirely sick to his stomach. "'Troubling a good man'? You just blew him away in front of your own people! Don't you think that freaked them out a little bit?"
"It's 2014," Future Dean countered coldly. "Plugging some Croat, it's called commonplace. Trading words with my friggin' clone—that might have freaked them out a little."
"All right, look—" Past Dean started, stepping forward.
"No, you look," Future Dean interrupted, stepping right into his younger self's personal space, radiating pure menace. "This isn't your time. It's mine. You don't make the decisions. I do. So, when I say stay in, you stay in."
Mame raised a hand, entirely unimpressed by the alpha-male posturing.
"What about me, Commander?" Mame asked smoothly. "I mean, I get that this is not my world. But sitting in a cabin playing kumbaya with Cas doesn't help me. I need to kill more infected if I wanna go back home."
Future Dean shifted his cold glare to Mame. "You'll get your targets, kid. Soon."
Past Dean let out a long, heavy sigh, the fight draining out of him. He ran a hand through his hair. "All right, man. I'm sorry. Look, I—I'm not trying to mess you—me—us up here."
Future Dean stared at him for a moment before the rigid, dictatorial tension finally eased from his shoulders. "I know."
He turned around, walking over to a dusty shelf. He pulled down a half-empty bottle of amber whiskey and three dirty tumblers. He poured three generous measures of the harsh liquor and slid them across the rusted desk.
He picked up his glass, and Past Dean picked up his.
Mame looked at the third glass of whiskey sitting on the desk. He looked up at the two hardened, apocalyptic killers.
"I'm still a minor," Mame deadpans.
Both Deans stopped with their glasses halfway to their mouths. They slowly turned their heads, staring at Mame with identical expressions of pure, unadulterated "WTF."
Here was a teenager wearing tactical body armor, carrying enough ammunition to supply a small militia, who had just snapped solid steel handcuffs with his bare hands and calmly discussed executing infected humans... and he was drawing the moral line at underage drinking.
"You're kidding, right?" Past Dean asked, genuinely baffled.
"My Dad the chief of police," Mame lied smoothly with a slight shrug. "I'll stick to water."
Past Dean just shook his head, clinking his glass against his older self's. "It's just been a really wacky weekend."
"Tell me about it," Future Dean grunted, throwing the whiskey back in one smooth gulp.
Past Dean swallowed the burn of the liquor and set the glass down. "What was the mission out in the quarantine zone, anyway?"
Future Dean didn't answer immediately. He set his empty glass down, reached into the deep inside pocket of his dust-covered trench coat, and pulled out a heavy, antique revolver. He set it on the table with a heavy, metallic thud.
Past Dean's breath hitched. He stared at the intricately carved barrel and the pentagram etched into the grip. "The Colt?"
"The Colt," Future Dean confirmed, a dark, dangerous light returning to his dead eyes.
"Where was it?" Past Dean asked in awe.
"Everywhere," Future Dean said softly. "The demons, they've been moving it around. Took me five years, but... I finally got it."
Future Dean looked up, his gaze sweeping from his younger self to the heavily armored teenager who needed a war.
"And tonight," Future Dean declared, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "Tonight, I'm gonna kill the Devil."
Later that night, the atmosphere inside the dimly lit headquarters was suffocatingly tense. The heavy, intricately carved barrel of the Colt rested on the rusted metal desk, drawing everyone's gaze like a magnet.
Risa, wearing her scavenged combat gear, crossed her arms and stared down at the legendary weapon. "So, that's it? That's the Colt?"
"If anything can kill Lucifer," Future Dean said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, "this is it."
"Great," Risa retorted skeptically. "Have we got anything that can find Lucifer?"
Future Dean narrowed his eyes, noticing the deeply uncomfortable way his younger self was avoiding eye contact with the woman. "Are you okay?"
Past Dean shifted awkwardly on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, we were in, uh, Jane's cabin last night. And, apparently, we and... Risa have a 'connection'."
Future Dean's jaw clenched. "You want to shut up?"
Past Dean immediately raised his hands in surrender, taking a step back.
Leaning against the concrete wall nearby, Mame tilted his head toward Past Dean and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "Must be weird, getting scolded by yourself."
Past Dean shot the teenager a dark look, but didn't argue.
Future Dean turned his attention back to the map on the table. "We don't have to find Lucifer. We know where he is. The demon that we caught last week, he was one of the big guy's entourage. He knew."
Risa scoffed in disbelief. "So, a demon tells you where Satan's gonna be, and you just believe it?"
"Oh, trust me," Future Dean said, his dead eyes flashing with a cold, ruthless certainty. "He wasn't lying."
"And you know this how?" Risa challenged.
Castiel, still barefoot and looking profoundly spaced out, offered a hazy smile from the corner of the room. "Our fearless leader, I'm afraid, is all too well schooled in the art of getting to the truth."
Past Dean's face fell, the implication hitting him like a punch to the gut. "Torture? Oh, so, we're—we're torturing again."
Mame didn't say a word. He simply leveled a long, calculating look at Future Dean. Mame understood the brutal calculus of war, and seeing how far Dean Winchester had fallen to survive this apocalypse told him everything he needed to know about the enemy they were facing tomorrow.
Future Dean slowly turned his head, locking his cold green eyes onto his younger, unscarred self. He didn't offer a single word of apology.
Past Dean shook his head in disgust. "No, that's—that's good. Classy."
Castiel suddenly let out a raspy, stoned laugh, the sound echoing strangely in the tense room. Future Dean glared at the fallen angel.
"What?" Castiel shrugged defensively. "I like past you."
"Yeah, me too," Mame chimed in smoothly, pushing himself off the wall. "I like the past Dean too. Much less brooding."
Future Dean ignored the Anomaly and slammed a finger onto the tactical map. "Lucifer is here. Now. I know the block and I know the building."
Castiel peered closely at the map, squinting. "Oh, good—it's right in the middle of a hot zone."
"Crawling with Croats, yeah," Future Dean confirmed. "You saying my plan is reckless?"
"Are you saying we, uh, walk in straight up the driveway, past all the demons and the Croats, and we shoot the Devil?" Castiel asked.
"Yes."
Castiel thought about it for a second, nodding slowly. "Okay. If you don't like, uh, 'reckless', I could use 'insouciant', maybe."
Future Dean stared at his old friend. "Are you coming?"
Castiel let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his lost grace. "Of course. But why is he?" Castiel pointed a sluggish finger at Past Dean. "I mean, he's you five years ago. If something happens to him, you're gone, right?"
"He's coming," Future Dean stated, leaving no room for debate.
"Me too," Mame interrupted, taking a step toward the commander. His dark eyes were hard and uncompromising. "Just as soon as I get my weapons back. I can give your grunts some of my spare rifles to hold the line, but those ones are mine. So give them back."
Future Dean looked at the heavily armored teenager. He needed Mame's impossible firepower to act as the ultimate distraction for the swarm. With a sharp nod, Future Dean tossed Mame a heavy iron key. "Locker three, down the hall. Everything's there."
Castiel clapped his hands together clumsily. "Okay. Well, uh. I'll get the grunts moving."
"We're loaded and on the road by midnight," Future Dean ordered.
"All righty," Castiel mumbled. He and Risa turned and filed out of the headquarters, leaving the two Winchesters and the Anomaly alone in the room.
Past Dean stepped forward, his confusion finally boiling over. "Why are you taking me?"
"Relax," Future Dean grunted, checking the cylinder of the Colt. "You'll be fine. Zach's looking after you, right?"
"No, that's not what I mean. I want to know what's going on."
Future Dean stopped moving. He set the Colt down on the table, leaning his heavy hands against the rusted metal. He looked at his younger self, the sheer, devastating weight of the apocalypse bearing down on his shoulders.
"Yeah, okay," Future Dean rasped quietly. "You're coming because I want you to see something. I want you to see our brother."
Past Dean's heart seized. "Sam? I thought he was dead."
"Sam didn't die in Detroit," Future Dean said, his voice hollow. "He said 'yes'."
Past Dean froze, the blood entirely draining from his face. "'Yes'?"
A long, suffocating silence filled the bunker. The ticking of a broken clock on the wall sounded like a sledgehammer.
"Wait," Past Dean breathed out, his eyes wide with absolute terror. "You mean—"
"That's right," Future Dean confirmed, staring right through his younger self. "The big 'yes'. To the Devil. Lucifer's wearing him to the prom."
"Why would he do that?" Past Dean asked, his voice cracking.
"Wish I knew," Future Dean replied bitterly. "But now we don't have a choice. It's in him, and it's not getting out. And we've got to kill him, Dean. And you need to see it—the whole damn thing, how bad it gets—so you can do it different."
"What do you mean?"
"Zach said he was gonna bring you back, right? To oh-nine?" Future Dean asked, stepping closer.
"Yeah."
Future Dean grabbed his younger self by the shoulders, his grip desperate and tight. "Well, when you get back home—you say 'yes'. You hear me? Say 'yes' to Michael."
"That's crazy!" Past Dean yelled, shoving his older self away. "If I let him in, then Michael fights the Devil. The battle's gonna torch half the planet!"
"Look around you, man!" Future Dean roared back, gesturing violently to the bleak, ash-covered walls of the bunker. "Half the planet's better than no planet, which is what we have now! If I could do it over again, I'd say 'yes' in a heartbeat!"
"No," a steady, gravelly voice cut through the shouting.
Both Deans turned to look at Mame. The teenager hadn't moved for the door to get his weapons yet. He was standing there, the oversized canvas duster draped over his tactical armor, looking at the two broken hunters with absolute, unyielding conviction.
"Half the planet is not better," Mame said, his dark eyes burning with the quiet intensity of someone who had rewritten his own destiny. "There is always a way to break the board. And tomorrow, if I don't see you after... Deans, know this. There is always a way. You just need to believe it."
Past Dean looked at the Anomaly, drawing a small, desperate fraction of strength from the boy's impossible certainty. He turned back to his older self.
"He's right," Past Dean said softly. "So why don't you? If you want to say yes so badly, why don't you?"
Future Dean let out a broken, miserable laugh. "I've tried! I've shouted 'yes' till I was blue in the face! The angels aren't listening! They just—left. Gave up! It's too late for me, but for you—"
"Oh, no," Past Dean shook his head furiously, backing away. "There's got to be another way."
"Yeah, that's what I thought," Future Dean said, his voice dropping into a devastatingly quiet plea. "I was cocky. Never actually thought I'd lose. But I was wrong, Dean. I was wrong. I'm begging you. Say yes."
Past Dean stared at the man he would become. He saw the coldness, the ruthlessness, and the absolute absence of hope.
Future Dean stared back, the desperate plea fading from his eyes, replaced once again by the dead, empty void of the apocalypse.
"But you won't," Future Dean whispered bitterly. "'Cause I didn't. Because that's just not us, is it?"