2008's Dean POV

I want to tell Bobby to can it with the whistling, but then I remember that this was the man who scared John Winchester away with a shotgun and decide against it.

You would think that, after Hell, regular old Earth—with its too greasy burgers and its slightly-gasoline scented air, and its decently small demon-to-human ratio—would seem like Heaven. But it's not sitting right. There's no way I was broken out of jail for nothing and whatever this Castiel wants with me, it can't be good.

So no matter how reckless summoning the damn thing is, I figured it would be better than waiting around for the next time it tried to tune my brain to a radio station whose only two songs are glass breaking and electronic feedback. And yet…that sort of feels exactly what I'm doing. "You sure you did the ritual right?" I can't help but ask the older hunter, spinning the point of Ruby's demon-killing knife into the tabletop I'm using as a seat.

Bobby gives me a look.

"Sorry." I tuck the knife into my jacket. "Touchy, touchy, huh?"

It's famous last words apparently. Because no sooner are they out of my mouth than something crashes into the barn roof over our heads, causing a few of the loose shingles above us to crunch dangerously. I grab a gun pre-loaded with salt rounds, but by the time it is in my hand, the whole roof is shaking, a cool breeze settling into my bones through my three layers. "Wishful thinking, but maybe, it's just the wind," I murmur over my shoulder to Bobby—just in time to see a lightbulb in the background explode.

I'm on high-alert—adrenaline pumping through my veins—my attention just turning towards the barred barn door when…

I barely manage to keep to my feet when the ground beneath me suddenly turns spongy. Beside me, Bobby isn't so lucky, sprawled out on the grass with his gun pointed at a moon that is a quarter fuller than it was the last time I looked outside.

It should freak me out that we're suddenly in a park I don't recognize. But I'm too busy focusing on what is familiar. Which is my own face. Just a few feet away. In a different T-shirt-plaid combo than what I'm wearing. But the same gorgeous mug. "Who are you?" I ask, gritting my teeth. But then I remember Pamela already told me its name. "What are you?" I revise. And then, without waiting for an answer, I shoot.

It would have been a clean shot if Bobby hadn't knocked the gun sideways at the last moment. "What the heck?" I ask the other hunter, readying up another round.

"Sorry, boy. But you just got outta Hell and I ain't kept my eye on you every minute since then. I'm not sure if you're you or he's you."

"Bobby?" The doppelganger croaks, green eyes wide, and even I'm impressed with that Oscar-worthy performance.

"Don't listen to him, Bobby. I'm Dean. You played catch with me when you should've been giving me hunting lessons. And once, when I was sixteen, I got drunk and jumped off one of the cars in the salvage yard right onto a twisted piece of metal. Sliced my leg through the muscle and you—you remember, you yelled at me the whole ride to the hospital. But you also snuck me in a burger when all they wanted to give me was mystery meat and didn't say a word to Dad. And when Sammy went to Stanford…"

"You called and told me you needed my help with some witches that were cursing $5 bills in bumfuck, Maine—when really, you coulda handled it by yourself. You just didn't want me to be alone," the other me finishes.

"Get outta my head," I growl, firing again. But he seemed to anticipate my move and jumped to the side, causing my shot to bury itself in tree bark.

"I'm not-" he yells back, eyes squared in my direction. "I'm—I'm you. An older you. I think…you both time traveled."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Marty McFly."

"I'm serious," he says, palms spread to show us he's not holding a weapon. "I've done it a few times now, so it's less of a shock to me. But time travel is definitely real and you are definitely from 2008."

That does give me a moment of pause. For sure, the dude seems crazy—but not actively trying-to-kill-us crazy—and I'm sorta interested in what else he's planning to pull out of his ass.

"If we're from your past, shouldn't you remember this moment? What comes next?" Bobby asks, adjusting the brim of his hat to get a better look at the other guy. And as I look, too, I realize we aren't identical. He's a bit bulkier than me—whether that's from added muscle or too much diner food, I can't really tell. His hair has become even less distinct of a color than my own sorta-blonde sorta-brown. There are tiny wrinkles around his eyes—as if this impersonator thought there was any chance I'd grow up with laugh lines 'cause my life is such a barrel of giggles.

"I don't remember this. Which means this little meeting either gets wiped from his memory," he jerks his thumb at me. "Or Amara just arranged it now and it didn't happen this way before."

"And who the hell is Amara?" Bobby's tone borders on exasperation.

The doppelganger grimaces. "Kinda a long story. Maybe we'll just hold off on that one until I get you guys home. Sammy probably thinks I'm dead right now—and the sooner he knows I'm still kickin', the less chance of him making a demon deal to get me back... Or going off to find a new live-in girlfriend," he adds, with an eyeroll.

I think of that brunette chick who thought I was the pizza delivery man and can't help but snort in agreement.

"Look, there's no way we're going anywhere with you," I tell him honestly, remembering the table full of supplies we'd left behind in the barn with regret. "We don't even have silver on us to test-"

He reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a very familiar knife, though it's got a few more knicks in it than I remember. He slices his own palm carefully, then tosses it to me. Next, he splashes himself with a flask—containing what I presume is salted holy water. Lastly, he points out where I'm keeping every lockpicking tool I have on me. And even though what he said about being from the future is completely unbelievable, I look at Bobby and can see that he's starting to believe it.

"It's two against one," the other Dean argues. "And I don't even have a car with me. We'll have to jack one. I'll even-" he rolls his shoulders. "I'll even let you drive. That's as non-trappy as I can make it. But I really need to get back to the bunker and you guys are coming with."