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Sam looked down at the worn, ancient paper—so aged, he wouldn’t be surprised if it were made out of human skin—and began chanting the words in Latin, “Vacuis loquor, lucem pellite, tenebrae absorbeant…”
“…Revelare portas ad supermundanae dimensionis!” A black blob begins to form in the air, swirling around in a circle, becoming wider and wider. There are sloshing and gurgling sounds coming from it, black goo dripping off onto the wood flooring with a splat. It grows and grows until it’s big enough to fit someone as gigantic as his brother.
Dean didn’t have a plan—not really. The moment he found a way to break into The Empty, he took it. The only thing on his mind was: bring back Cas, no matter what it takes. But now, as he steps through the portal, he wishes he had taken the time to actually think. He’s not at all prepared. He had kept telling himself over and over: think of a plan, man. Think. You can’t just run headfirst into an unknown realm. But, of course, he didn’t listen. He just kept on pacing in circles, anxiously waiting for his brother to gather up the ingredients needed for the spell.
He barely even had a viable weapon on him. Sam insisted he bring a gun and an angel blade, but Dean highly doubted either could even scratch a cosmic entity. But it made Sam happy—as happy as you could be in this situation, one where you’re sending your older brother off on a suicide mission who may or may not have a had a death wish these past few months—but, Sam being content enough to actually let him go out on this rescue mission, was enough.
As he takes the first few steps into The Empty, he’s immediately hit with the freezing temperature.
It’s cold, so cold. It’s completely black, a sea of thick black nothingness stretching on for miles. A darkness so deep it swallows the echoes of every scream. The light shining through the door to the bunker is absorbed by the pitch black, devouring the light so no one else can have it, see it, or feel it. What he assumes is the ground, is a void, a black hole. One that will swallow him whole. There’s no air, but his lungs still try to inhale, constricting with the effort. His chest feels heavy, tight, like something's crushing him. He takes in useless, shallow breaths.
Despite the horrible weight of this place, he can’t help but grin at the thought of being the first man to ever set foot onto this ground—can he even call it a ground? It’s more like a blank slate, painted with the darkest black that exists. If he had one, he’d stab an American flag into the ground, like The Apollo 11, the first men to walk on the moon.
Dean hears a swishing sound and he whips around—only to find the last vestiges of the portal closing. He stares unblinkingly at the now-empty space.
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
He starts pacing in a circle.
What the actual hell am I gonna do now? Okay. Calm down. Breathe. Breathe. You’re breathing. You’re fine. No—nope. I’m not fine. Fuck, I can’t fucking breathe. I CAN’T BREATHE. Oh, god.
Dean starts smacking his head with his closed fists and inhaling ragged breaths while still pacing—but faster.
Alright.
He inhales sharply, trying not to think about how and why he can still breathe.
Think.
He hopes Sammy isn’t freaking out too much. He hopes Sammy finds a way to reopen the portal. He begs whatever god willing to listen, that he’ll find Cas, find a way out, and get the hell out of this pit. With determination, Dean turns back around and takes a step forward.
The feeling of bone-chilling dread fills his entire being, and the always—present guilt sinks deeper into his stomach, feeling heavier—like stone dropped into water. He feels like he’s being watched, like there are eyes everywhere, watching his every move. A chill goes down his spin, making him shiver. All his hunter instincts are going off, telling him to get the hell out of here or prepare for a fight, but every time he turns around, there’s nothing there. Just an endless void of nothing.
Dean feels like he’s been walking for ages.
Along with the eyes watching him, he keeps hearing things that he hopes aren’t there—but also needs something there for his sanity. He’ll hear his name being called, but it’s always distant and sometimes muffled. However, it’s close enough for him to recognize that it’s his name. That always gets him to bawl his hands into tight fists. He’ll also hear footsteps—some far away and some closer. Ones that pad off into the distance, and others that get closer and closer until they are right behind him. Those, he absolutely hates. It sends a chill down his spine, and his entire body goes stiff. He never stops walking, not even once when it’s that close. He’s a skilled hunter—he’s been doing it for years—and this is what terrifies him.
God.
Something about this place just doesn’t sit right with him, and it’s not just the fact that it’s another world. Dean can’t put his finger on it exactly—but everything about this place creeps him out. He hopes for the love of G—well, he hopes Cas isn’t awake. He can’t imagine what that would be like, alone for who knows how long and hearing and seeing all these things. It would be torture, far worse than any regretful dream could muster up. Although, he’d like it a lot more if Cas didn’t have to go through either one of those. And even though Dean himself is experiencing the first one right now, that’s ok. Because as long as Cas isn’t, then everything’s fine. It doesn’t matter if the person he swears is right in his peripheral is trying to coax him over to them, or if someone else is whispering in the distance. At the very least, Cas isn’t going through this, that’s all that matters.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking for, His fingers and toes feel numb as he walks through the dimension. His legs feel like thousands of tiny needles and pins are prickling them, like he’s been sitting on them for too long and they’ve fallen asleep and won’t wake up. It feels like he’s wading through thick water; his feet drag as he walks. His whole body feels heavy. His eyelids feel weighted, drooping closed every few seconds. His brain feels like mush, it’s too tiring to form a coherent thought.
All that plays through his mind is: I have to find Cas. Over and over until eventually it breaks apart:
I have to— I have— Cas. Find Cas. Find Cas.
Then, like a mantra: Cas Cas Cas Cas Cascascascascascascascas—
Time moves differently here—it could’ve been hours or years. I really should know. What if it’s been years and I’ve just been walking this whole time? Sammy’s probably worried sick. Hell, if time even matters in this place. It’s all too damn confusing.
He feels a tingling sensation in his arm—no, his shoulder. But, it’s faint and barely noticeable, so he pays it no mind and keeps walking.
The tingling has turned into needles, prickling his skin. He ignores it and keeps walking.
Now, it feels like he’s rubbed stinging needles all over his shoulder. It burns. But he needs to stick to the mission at hand, so he ignores it again—although, it’s much harder this time.
Dean frantically rubs his hand up and down his shoulder, trying to subdue the pain. It isn’t helping, but the moving fabric creates rough friction against his skin, causing it to become hot. The heat from it distracts him from the pain. It’s also something to do with his fidgeting hands, so he continues doing it. He keeps rubbing as he walks, even though his hand is becoming tired and cramping.
He knows he has to keep going, he can’t stop—not for something as small as his arm just having an annoying buzzing feeling in it. He needs to keep going. To find Cas. And besides, if he were to stop, even for a second, the persistent feeling of being watched by sets of eyes would get even worse. Because what if—what if—it’s actually eyes and not just his mind playing tricks on him? And the second he stops they’ll—
Dean.
A loud voice booms right next to his ear. Dean yelps and jumps to the side, his eyes darting wildly across the space in front of him. He spins around in a circle, looking for what the actual fuck that was. Only to find the same view as before: nothing. His heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his damn chest, and his breaths are coming in quick and short. His eyes are wider than ever, looking like a crazed man. He feels like one, too.
Is he getting that bad?
His vision feels hazy, like heat waves are rippling across the dark around him, or maybe it’s just his adrenaline frying his brain.
Dean forces himself to breathe. In, out. He clutches his knees and bends over, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to blink away the haze. Sweat drips down from his forehead to his nose, falling to the ground and disappearing into the immense darkness.
“Get a grip, Winchester,” he mutters hoarsely. His voice sounds wrong in here—too loud and too quiet at the same time. Like the darkness is swallowing it whole.
Another breath. Then another. His heart is still hammering like a damn jackhammer, but at least he’s not about to pass out anymore.
He straightens up slowly, scanning the darkness again. It still stretches on endlessly. Silent. Heavy. Mocking.
“Cas?” he calls out, this time more controlled. “That you?”
He knows before he even says it that asking is pointless and stupid. Of course, that wasn’t Cas. It couldn’t be. It didn’t sound like him. But some part of him hopes, wishes, it was.
Only sickening silence responds.
As expected, he tells himself. But his stomach still twists in unease.
His arm feels like it’s burning—like someone has stuck a blazing hot iron onto his skin. He jumps at the sudden heat, still unsteady after what had just happened.
Dean can’t ignore it anymore.
Hissing in pain, he yanks his sleeve up, revealing his shoulder, which has a burning bright handprint on it—the same handprint Cas gave him all those years ago. But now, instead of a faded, raised pink scar with white undertones, it’s bright red, ferociously blazing hot—it feels as if it’s as hot as the sun.
Gasping, he stumbles back. “What the hell,” he says out loud.
The burning decreases—slightly.
Confused, he steps forward, and the pain increases.
“What the hell,” he repeats. But what could that mean?
Gritting his teeth, he pulls his sleeve back down and steps forward, continuing his walk to find Cas—wherever the hell he might be.
As he’s walking he looks down, the ground is covered in long, dead grass.
When was grass here? Can grass even grow here?
He knelt, touching the grass. Is this even real? Is my brain finally giving up on me and making me hallucinate grass? Of all things.
But no—the grass feels real. Or it did? For a second, it did. Now it’s airy, like a cloud of fog.
I must be going insane, he thought, standing back up and looking around.
There were corpses now, sporadically splayed out around. Hundreds, thousands—millions of figures all over the place, sleeping.
What the hell! When did those corpses get there?!
He inhaled a deep breath through his nose.
I don’t think figuring that out will get me anywhere. Coming up with ideas will take too long anyway, and I can’t waste my valuable time on that when I could continue searching for Cas.
He tries to ignore it and he continues to wade through the tall grass, his feet dragging as he walks.
It’s been… who the hell knows how long, and Dean can’t think straight. He keeps forgetting what he’s doing and just stands still for a full minute, staring off into the distance. Like some maniac. Sometimes he forgets where he is and starts freaking out, losing all his nerves. It takes him longer than it should to get his bearings and remember where he is and why he’s there.
He even forgot his name once.
He really needs to hurry up and find Cas and get the hell out of here before he fully loses it.
It’s like he’s just downed a whole bottle of melatonin with a bottle of whiskey to top it off. His brain is foggy and his vision is hazy, he feels exhausted. This place is doing something to him, and it’s not something good. Dean picks up his pace, speed walking to a destination he has no clue where, housing his best friend.
Walking in an endless void full of dead people—what a great way to spend his weekend.
His arm throbs, but he ignores it and continues to walk.
He is a slug, and his brain is deep-fried.
Dean frowns. Is that really a good way to explain how he feels?
He’s about to pass out when he trips on something and comes tumbling down. His arm is scorching hot in pain, so he grips it with his hand tightly.
It doesn’t help.
So, instead, he focuses on getting back up.
Recovering, he begins to sit up. Once up, he takes in what he tripped over in a place full of nothing—or what should be nothing but is instead full of grass. And bodies…
Looking down, he finds a man. A very familiar man.
He is sleeping—but not peacefully, his brows are bunched together, and his forehead has creases.
Dean squints his eyes, racking his brain for who this all-so-familiar person is.
Ok, so, I am in The Empty, a place angels and demons go when they die, so a human shouldn’t be allowed here.
He looks around. Humans. He emphasizes.
When did so many people get here? How is this sleeping man here? How are any of these people here? Wait, how am I here? I’m a human—how am I here?
He shakes his head, focusing back on the man lying in front of him.
Cas.
How could he forget Cas?
Falling to his knees, he places both hands on Cas’s face. Tears well up in his eyes.
How long has it been? How long has his angel been gone?
It doesn’t matter, because he has him now.
Dean is so tired, he just wants to sleep. And it’s so, so cold. He just wants a warm bed.
What was he doing here again?
It doesn’t matter. He has Cas with him, that’s all that matters. Nothing is ever wrong when Cas is here.
Why is he holding his face?
Dean lets go of Cas’s face and brings his hands up to his own.
Am I crying? Why am I crying?
Scolding hot tears are running down his cheeks, dripping onto—onto Cas?
When did he get so close to him?
Dean's eyes are so heavy, and he’s so tired. But something’s keeping him from going to sleep. He wants to curl up and close his eyes, but he feels the need to keep them open.
Why?
Sleep is calling to him, begging him to fall into its open arms.
Dean feels himself tipping over, and falling to the ground. He rolls over.
There’s a body next to him, it’s warm, and he’s so cold.
He snuggles up to it, curling in on himself. Wrapping his hand around the other hand.
This person is so familiar and soothing, they’re comforting and welcoming.
His shoulder burns profusely, as if igniting into a flame at the contact of their intertwined fingers, liquid molten runs through and down his arm, connecting the two—molding them together and becoming solid.
They’re one. One with each other and this other world.
Dean falls asleep, as vines unknowingly start growing and wrapping around his arms. Small white and purple moonflowers start to bloom on the vines.
And you haven’t moved an inch
Such that I would not know if you sleep always like this
The flesh calmly going cold
We lay here for years or for hours
Your hand in my hand so still and discreet
So long, we’d become the flowers. ♪
To be continued.