The sun was long gone by the time Dean decided it was time to find a place to sleep for the night. But considering he was covered in blood and gore from his most recent demon slaughter, he didn't think it would be wise to go to a motel until he had a chance to clean up.

Sometimes, he really missed his room at the Men of Letters bunker. Now, he could never go back there. There were so many devil's traps and spellwork etched into every stairway, he would get trapped the moment he stepped through the door. Then, it would only be a matter of time before his brother tried to exorcise him. Again.

Poor Sam. It was bad enough seeing the kid bawl on Castiel's shoulder, sobbing like Dean had never seen. But worse than his agony at Dean's death was Sam's horror when he realized that his big brother wasn't dead. Wasn't human anymore.

Dean had wanted Sam to shout at him, call him a freak, call him a monster. Say all the things that Dean had said to him back when he was on Ruby's hook. Instead, Sam's eyes filled with wretched tears as he started to recite the verse of Exorcism. He hadn't even tried to trap Dean first, which Dean took as a sign he didn't really have his heart in it.

But damn it hurt. Physically, emotionally. All Dean wanted was to protect his brother. And now, he was everything he never wanted to be.

Stretching out with his mind, Dean found an abandoned house not too far from his current position, and in a blink he was standing in a living room, surrounded by the remanants of somebody's failed American Dream. The walls were unfinished, and on the front door hung a sign that said, "Forclosure." There was no electricity, but still water in the faucet.

Dean stripped and used the sprayer at the sink to hand wash the blood out of his clothes, but his main priority was the Blade. He meticulously cleaned the blood from between the teeth, polishing the ancient bone to a shine before bothering with his clothes.

It was a cold night in the early spring, and the house would have felt cold to anyone whose blood wasn't heated by the fire of Hell. Dean didn't feel temperature anymore. Didn't feel the sun or rain. Didn't feel anything except for an unending, unquenchable hate that fueled his movements.

A couple months after not-dying, Dean tried to call Sam. He dialed the number several times, only to hang up before it started ringing. Now, sitting naked in the dark on a tarp waiting for his clothes to dry, Dean wished he could talk to his brother. Just once. Just for a while. Even if the only thing that came out of his mouth was disappointment.

Castiel was out of the question. Dean could not face the angel now, maybe never again. Cas had risked his life to pull Dean out of Hell. With his Grace, the angel put the former hunter's body back together. Made him pure again, after being so destroyed by the evil he perpetrated on Alistair's rack. How could he ever again look at the angel, despite Cas' flaws, and not feel like he had let him down?

A sudden burst of rage sent Dean's fist through the sheetrock, letting out a bellow of agony that had nothing to do with his cracked knuckles.

"Keep it down!"

Dean shot up to his feet, all of his senses tuned to hear the slightest sound. When he arrived, he was certain the place was empty, but then again, his Demon Senses weren't always perfect. Most of the time, they were pretty lacking unless there was something pretty wicked involved.

There was a voice coming from the back room.

"Stupid people never know how to be quiet."

Another voice added, "This is why we hate roommates."

Followed by a third, "You picked the place, Yellow."

With the First Blade in his hand, Dean started down the hallway, not making a sound. There was a squeak of mattress springs, and a man stood and stretched dramatically, going up to his tip toes. Even in the dim light filtering through the windows, Dean could see the guns on his hips and katanas on his back.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked, his voice rough.

"I was sleeping," the well-armed man answered, taking a step towards him. "Then some naked jackass decided to start smashing the place. I worked really hard to find this spot to squat. Respect my man zone, or I'll have to evict you, Sir."

Dean's brow creased. "Are you fuckin' crazy?"

The guy shrugged. "It's been said, but that's kind of a kettle-pot statement coming from a nude guy with a bone in his head."

"Nude dude with a boner!"

Dean tensed hearing the second voice. "How many is in there with you?"

"Just White and Yellow. And me. So far, no one else, but the night's young." The guy paused a moment, cocking his head to the side like a dog listening to a high pitched sound. "You can hear them?"

"Who are you?" Dean demanded, not answering the question.

"They call me Deadpool."

The name struck a memory. "The Merc? With a Mouth?"

"You've heard of me!" Deadpool blurted, his voice full of childish excitement as he bounced on the balls of his feet. "Always great to meet a fan."

His hand shot out to shake Dean's hand, and Dean sliced the offered hand from Deadpool's arm. The appendage flopped to the ground with a wet slap. Dean expected the swords to come out. Expected a fight. Hell, he wanted a fight.

Instead, Deadpool sighed like he was heavily put upon, picked up the hand and said, "This is what I get for sharing my home with naked weirdos."

"This is your house?" Dean almost growled.

"Not really. Just where I'm laying low for a couple days." He put the hand back on the end of his arm and let go. Much to Dean's surprise, it didn't fall off. Deadpool wiggled his fingers.

"We should kill him,"Yellow said with a growl.

Dean tensed. "Where is that coming from?"

Deadpool pointed to his head. "My brain. It's kind of a mess up there, sweet cheeks."

White piped up with his big, full voice, and said, "His brain isn't much better if he's hearing the voices in yourhead."

"Yeah," Deadpool said suspiciously. "How are you hearing the voices in my head?"

"I can hear people's thought sometimes," Dean said, his body starting to relax. "It's sort of a new thing."

"That tight ass says he's a mutant. Or our imagination."

Dean was suddenly self-conscious about his nudity, and took a deep breath as he ran a hand back through his hair. "I think I need pants for this conversation."

Deadpool shrugged. "Suit yourself, sweet cheeks."