Here is something we will have to get used to: all of us carry around in our minds something akin to a software “operating system” installed without our consent by our parents and others in our societies. It defines who we are and is our internal voice. It frames our social and cultural identities, and fundamentally influences the course of our lives. No other species has such a system. Only when we understand this, and understand how the traits we acquired in response to this new way of life serve our interests, can we begin to grasp what it means to be human.
Wired for Culture: Origins of the Human Social Mind (Mark Pagel)
It is deathly silent, featureless, completely absent of any sensory input. You search desperately for a way out, but the void goes on forever in all directions. Your screams never leave your throat, or if they do, you can’t hear them. You try to kick your legs, but find that you don’t even know if you have legs. You try to look down to check, but the movement is agonizingly slow, and even when you have tilted your head far enough, you see nothing.
I’m dead. The thought runs through your mind, but you can’t remember dying. One moment you were sitting at your computer, going through emails, and the next you found yourself in this place.
You force yourself to move, bringing your hand up before you, and find that a knife is suddenly clutched in your fist. You don’t know how you know it’s a knife, but you get such an overwhelming feeling that you know it must be true.
The only way to get out is to kill yourself. The voice of the entity that you had hallucinated about possessing your cat echoes in your head. The call had initially sent you to a string of therapists, but now, trapped in this senseless place, the thought seems welcome.
Either I’m dead, I’m asleep, or what Cas said is true. No matter what, it can’t do any harm. You try to steady your nerves, forcing your muscles to turn the blade so it is angled against your neck. You can barely feel the metal against your skin, and you take heart in the fact that this probably means dying won’t hurt much.
One… Two… Three! You press as hard as you can against your neck, gasping slightly at the feeling of your esophagus and arteries and veins disconnecting. It is not painful, but the sensation is an unpleasant one.
You suddenly become aware of a cacophony of input from your eyes, your skin, your ears. Though they would normally have been well below normal, the sensations are positively overwhelming compared to your previous isolation. Dim shapes move before you, and you can feel soft sheets lying on top of you. Harsh beeping sounds come from all around you, and many garbled voices are conversing.
Suddenly, the voices stop. Then a gentle hand comes up to your face, brushing an eyelid all the way open, leaving the other one half-closed, and you see a blurry figure dressed in white. You try to say something, to ask where you are, but all that comes out is a strangled sort of groan.
“She’s awake,” you hear a voice say, and you hear the words repeated by the others surrounding you, until a door is banged open and running footsteps come towards you. Three new people lean over you, their faces blurred beyond recognition.
But the mystery of the three people standing above you is eclipsed by the simple question posed to you. “Do you remember your name?” The voice is the same as the one who first said that you were awake. You think, your mind moving sluggishly, and remember your name. You speak it, and after another prompt and some more thought, produce your last name.
The people in the room begin to filter out, leaving you with the three late-comers. You examine their faces as your vision begins to clear, searching your mind for some recollection of them, for they seem to know who you are.
“What happened?” you finally ask.
The tall one with the long hair exchanges a look with the other two, then takes a deep breath before explaining, “You were in a car crash. You swerved and were hit by another car, and then got knocked off the road.”
You spend some time mulling over his words, processing them, making sure your sluggish brain understands. “How did I wake up?”
“You must have killed yourself in your dream,” the one in the trenchcoat says. “I entered your mind and told you how, but you took a long time to heed my advice. Almost too long. Your brain was shutting down. Any longer and you would have died.” He turns to look at the final one, who had let out a noise of protest at his words.
“Don’t say that,” he orders. “Y/N didn’t die, and that’s what’s important.” He stiffly stands up and comes to the side of the hospital bed. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he mutters, bending down to brush a light kiss against your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” you say slowly, frowning slightly. “But who are you?”
You watch Cas as he takes dainty bites of his food. Dean soon leaps up next to him and shovs him out of the way to gobble up the remaining portion, Cas making a noise of protest but otherwise allowing the intrusion. Sam ambles up towards you, casting a longing look at your salad with his piercing hazel eyes, trying to persuade you to share. You shake your head at him and laugh, gesturing towards Cas and Dean, who are now licking the remains of their meal from their bowl.
“Sam, you should’ve eaten when you had the chance,” you gently scold. He mews pitifully, and you relent, lifting up the enormous cat so he can snag a few bites of salmon from the top of your salad. “Happy?”
He purrs and rubs his cheek against your hand, making you chuckle as you set him down. “Don’t get used to it,” you warn. “That was a one-time deal.” That’s what you say every time you let him steal some of your food, rather than going for the regular canned stuff the other two went for.
Cas leaps from the floor to the table in a single bound. “Hey, off the table!” You try to nudge him off and back onto the floor, but he digs his claws into the tablecloth and refuses to let go.
“Y/N,” he says in a deep, gravelly voice. You screech loudly, and push back from the table, knocking your chair over backwards. You frantically scrabble backwards, trying to get away from what was quite clearly a hallucination.
“Stop screaming,” the cat orders impatiently, his grey fur bristling in annoyance.
“You- you’re a cat- a talking cat- I’ve gone crazy, it’s official-” you stammer, stopping your retreat as your back bangs into the cabinet.
“No, Y/N, I am not a cat. I’m Castiel,” he states coldly.
“Oh, I know you’re Cas, but not a cat? Of course not, you’re obviously the product of me going senile before the age of thirty!” you exclaim.
“Shut up and listen, I don’t have much time,” he orders gruffly. “Now, you’re in a coma and we need you back.” You open your mouth to interject, but he cuts you off. “But the only way to get you out is if you kill yourself.”
“What?” you yell, but Cas doesn’t answer you. He merely blinks at you, then begins to groom himself, Dean soon joining him to run his own pink tongue over Cas’s long fur. Apparently, Cas, or whoever it was, is gone.
You stand up shakily, clutching the counter for support, and stumble down the hallway into the bathroom. You stare into the mirror, examining yourself for any signs of unrealness. You pinch yourself. It hurts. You shake your head, thinking that maybe it’s time for you to see a psychiatrist. Clearly something is wrong with you, if you’re imagining your cats are telling you that this entire world is in your mind.
Sighing, you go to your computer to look up local mental health professionals.
Imagine an ex flirting with you and Dean becomes protective.
Author: Bayli
Word count: 412
Warnings: violence, language (basically all of mine are like this)
Request
“I’m gonna hit the can. I’ll be back.” Dean said as he got off his stool.
You nodded to acknowledge him, then pulled out a cigarette from its package. As you were lighting it, another man took Dean’s place.
“Hey, sweetheart. Miss me?” The man’s voice was rugged and deep.
You took a long drag and exhaled the smoke before turning towards the voice’s owner. You kept your cool on the surface, but your head was buzzing. It was your ex boyfriend from roughly three and a half years ago. You met him in a bar on the other side of the town after a Wendigo hunt. Of course that was way before you met Dean.
“Fuck off,” you said dryly before pressing the cigarette butt you your lips again.
“But, babe, I couldn’t help but notice you were all alone. And a pretty girl like you, Y/N, can’t be alone at a place like this.” He slid his hand just above your knee until you slapped it off.
Before you could say anything else, Dean was towering behind him with a grimacing look. “If she wanted to come alone, she woulda. Now get out of my seat, asshat.”
You blew the smoke into his face, causing him to cough. “And I’m not your babe.”
The bastard didn’t move an inch. “Uh, no. This isn’t your seat, pal. It doesn’t got your name on it,” he said cockily. Oh, how you so desperately wanted to smack the hell outta that dick.
“Oh,” Dean said in a fake shocked tone. “Y/N, we have ourselves a smartass.” Dean pulled him off the stool by the crook of his arm. “Stay away from my girlfriend, you little bitch, or I will shoot you.”
“Hey. Hey. Hey now,” your ex warned with an unsteady voice. “I don’t think Y/N would want you do get violent and cause a scene.”
“You’re right. I don’t,” you replied innocently. You got up and walked towards him. “But who cares?” With that, you gave him a hard uppercut to the stomach.
He fell to the floor gasping for air. You squished what was left of your cigarette into the ashtray, then knelt beside him and whispered, “Don’t worry, my boyfriend hits a lot harder.” Then, you and Dean both both ran out to the car before anyone could confront you.
“God, that was so hot,” Dean told you as he gave you a kiss.
