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┏━━━━━━𖤐━━━━━━┓ chapter sixteen: the good, the bad and the ugly ┗━━━━━━𖤐━━━━━━┛
"And I will tread down the people in mine anger, and make them drunk in my fury, and I will bring down their strength to the earth"
— Isaiah 63:6
Dean couldn't believe he'd just seen himself shoot a guy point-blank. Mercilessly, without a second thought. And no one'd done anything to stop him — hell, they hadn't even batted an eye. What kind of messed up world was that?
Dean's future self shoved him inside a shed an shut the door. His glare was murderous. That was kind of badass, actually, if he could say so himself.
"What the hell was that?" future Dean grumbled.
"What the hell was that? You just shot a guy in cold blood."
"We were in an open quarantine zone. Got ambushed by some Croats on the way out." Dean quirked a brow, asking to elaborate, "Croats. Croatoans. One of them infected Yeager."
"How do you know?"
"'Cause after a few years of this, I know. I started seeing symptoms about a half an hour ago. Wasn't gonna be long before he flipped. I didn't see the point in troubling a good man with bad news."
Dean scoffed, "'Troubling a good man'? You just blew him away in front of your own people. Don't you think that freaked them out a little bit?"
"It's 2014," future Dean told him, his face unsettlingly impassive, "Plugging some Croat, it's called commonplace. Trading words with my friggin' clone — that might have freaked them out a little."
Dean sighed and walked to the window, "All right, look—"
"No, you look." He turned back, throwing a glare at this future self, "This isn't your time. It's mine. You don't make the decisions. I do. So, when I say stay in, you stay in."
In any other situation Dean might've thrown fists with any bastard who told him what to do, even if it was him. But he was right — it wasn't Dean's world, he didn't call the shots. He'd probably do the same if some prick from the past came pissing in his sandbox.
Dean watched his future self walk to the kitchen counter and open a bottle of whiskey.
"All right, man. I'm sorry," he admitted, "Look, I — I'm not trying to mess you — me...us up here," God, that was freaking weird.
"I know," future Dean poured two glasses of whiskey.
"It's just been a really wacky weekend."
He put the drinks on the table, "Tell me about it."
