𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐀𝐍

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐒𝐈𝐗

An old horror flick is playing on the television mounted to the wall.

Dean Winchester glances from the black and white grainy picture to the nude woman in the bed beside him, bed sheet strategically pulled over her body. She's face-down in the pillows, arms tucked underneath, long dark hair flowing down her shoulders as shiny as an oil slick. 

Everything is unfamiliar. The desk, the sheets...they feel way better than the stuff in the motel room. Maybe it isn't my motel room...did I go home with someone? How did Kat get home?

Why don't I remember anything?

Jesus. Was I drugged?

Groggily, Dean pulls the clothes that must be men's off of the floor and onto him before beginning to wander down the hallway, still vigilant.

Nothing looks familiar. Nothing is jogging his memory.

The last thing he remembers, he and Katherine were hunting the djinn. It had her pinned up against the wall by her throat...and then everything is dark for Dean.

Maybe it was a quick one and we hit the bar...I met the broad...KD took Baby. That's gotta be it.

According to the clock in the kitchen, it's one in the morning. He's missing five hours and a spunky blonde.

Dean wrestles his cell phone from his pocket and dials Sam. Maybe Katherine's with him. Maybe everything is fine, despite the pit in his stomach that seems to grow larger and larger with every passing second.

Nothing seems right.

"Dean?" Sam answers.

"Sam," he grunts in response, pacing in the living room.

"What's goin' on?"

"I don't know. I don't know where I am," Dean murmurs, glancing around the small living space.

"What happened?"

"Katherine—is she with you?"

There's a long pause. So long that he raises his eyebrows. "Dean, what's going on?"

Dean lets out a heavy sigh and runs his hand down his face. "The djinn—I think it attacked me, but it had Katherine—"

"The...gin," Sam says. "You're drinking gin?"

"No, asshat," Dean grumbles. "The djinn—scary creature, remember? Genie? It threw me across the room and when I woke up, I was next to some chick—"

"Who, Carmen?"

Dean grimaces. "Dude," he sighs, shaking his head. "This is so not the time for practical jokes. Have you heard from KD? Where is she, is she all right?"

"Dean, I think you mean Carmen. Are you drunk?" He laughs.

"No, Katherine. Louise. Donovan." Each of her names comes after a pause, almost like an afterthought to highly specify a highly specific woman, to jog Sam's memory. Maybe he got drugged. "5'8", blonde, could kick your ass before you blinked."

"You're drunk-dialing me," Sam accuses.

"I am not drunk," Dean insists, his voice cold and firm.

"Look, it's late," Sam says. "Why don't you get some sleep, and I'll call you tomorrow, all right?"

"Wait, Sam! Sam!" Dean glances to his phone screen as the line goes dead. "Bastard," he mutters, navigating back to his contacts. Katherine's got to be orchestrating something, right? Payback for targeting her with the baby powder or the flour and the hairdryer—whatever the hell it was. It was quite possible Dean was drunk when he thought that grand idea.