Chapter One - Weird dreams and even weirder realities
Dean wakes up sweating, legs and arms twisted in his sheets, face pressed deep into the thin pillow. The remaining flashes of a particularly bizarre nightmare still departing from his mind. As he carefully lowers his feet to the floor, his head begins to pound badly and he feels his vision swim. He puts a clumsy hand to his face, only his co-ordination is out so he ends up swatting air instead. Jeez, must have had one heck of a bender last night. However Dean had experienced some pretty awesome benders in his time and this time, he rolls his thick heavy tongue around the inside of his dry mouth, this time there's no whisky aftertaste. No aftertaste of any alcohol whatsoever. In fact he'd sat up without puking too, which is strange because Dean and really heavy benders usually involve vomiting all over himself at some stage.
He stands up, swaying slightly, trying to concentrate on a spot on the floor when he realises he's wearing sweat pants. Sam's sweat pants to be more precise from the look of things, which is just plain wrong because Dean is more of a boxers type of guy when it comes to sleeping and shit, these are Sam's pants. Must have been so wasted. Dean rubs a hand down his face groggily. Looking over at the other bed, he can just distinguish the outline of his brother's sleeping form half hidden by blankets. Dean looks at the digital alarm clock, the red flashing 11:48am. Wow, Sam must have been seriously wasted too cos there is no way the kid oversleeps like this unless he's hung-over or injured...oh crap. Dean moves around Sam's bed suddenly very keen to get a decent look at his brother, check him over, you know, just in case. Only as he walks to the other side of the bed he realises with mouth dropping open and chin crashing to the floor clarity that it's not Sam laying there fast asleep. It's him. Dean Winchester, completely crashed out in the bed. Snoring lightly, a thin trail of drool running from the corner of his mouth down his chin. Dean freaks out. He's dead, he's gotta be having some sort of out of body experience, although if he's dead why is he laid out in bed snoring? The Dean in the bed wakes up with a jolt, spotting him straight away and freaks out too. Starts panicking, flapping arms, as he tries to get out of the bed but ends up getting his legs caught in the blankets. He rolls off the bed in a twisted heap of limbs, crashing face first onto the carpet, cursing loudly as he struggles to stand. "Dean, where are you?" Dean on the floor shouts and Dean freezes because whilst that was unmistakably his voice, he'd recognise his little brother's whiny pitch anywhere.
Dean dashes to the motel bathroom. Sam was the one who went to university and Dean likes to think he's the beauty and Sam's the brains, but Dean's got more than a few brain cells himself rolling around in that fine-looking head of his and by now, he's starting to figure things out. He leans over the sink and slowly raises his head until he's staring straight into the bathroom mirror. Sam's pale sweat drenched face staring right back at him. He raises a hand to touch his, Sam's, face. Fingers probing his forehead as his eyebrows arch and his brow furrows deeply in the same way he's seen his brother do a million times. Then he hears the Dean who was tangled in blankets moving around in the bedroom and suddenly Dean's face appears at the bathroom door, looking at him, wide eyed and pretty clearly crapping himself. Because Dean is Sam and Sam is Dean and shit...that can't be good.
Dean's sat on his bed, looking at Sam pacing the room, only seeing himself pacing...boy it's just too damn weird. Dean reaches up and flicks another strand of chestnut hair from his eyes, wondering for the millionth time this morning how in hell Sam manages to see a goddamn thing through his mop. Sam finally stops pacing and takes a seat on the bed next to Dean. His nostrils are flaring, in that some-bad-shits-going-down way which totally works on Sam's face but looks more than a little comical on Dean's. "That restaurant, last night, remember the old Chinese lady watching us the whole time we were eating?"
"Oh yeah" Dean replies thinking back with a smirk, "she was like a hundred. Man, even her wrinkles had wrinkles and dude, she clearly had the hots for you because she couldn't stop gawping".
"Well as we left, she grabbed my arm and said something"
"She did? Was it her cell phone number?" Dean says with a chuckle.
Sam pouts and Dean makes a mental note never to pout again when he's back in his own body because pouting – so not a good look for him. "She mumbled something, something about walking in my brother's shoes and I thought she was crazy but maybe...maybe she was a witch."
"Huh, you think, well congratulations Sherlock" Dean says sarcastically, finding himself strangely irritated by the sound of Sam's voice carrying a sarcastic tone. He lifts his hands in exasperation, and now he's taking the time to notice, boy Sam's hands are huge. Freaky huge, like the kid should be playing basketball or something because the dinner plates he calls hands could wrap the whole way around a basketball.
"Well lets go see her then" Sam mumbles trying to pull on his jacket and groaning loudly when the tan jacket sleeves slip right down burying his hands. Dean picks up his leather jacket, holding it to his chest for a moment longingly, before shoving it at Sam.
This is just a little something I woke up thinking about and decided to write down super quickly, please let me know what you think. Looking likes it's going to be 2 chapters.