It was a taller piece than you were looking for. At almost six feet, it was made of pure cherry wood. The wardrobe had seen better days, with the stain peeling off in multiple places, scratches, and dents along the sides. But you didn't care. You were more interested in the symbols carved on the door handles.

Symbols you had seen before, but only on your favorite TV show. It intrigued you, and you knew you had to have this piece of furniture, even if it didn't match the rest of your furniture. It had been cheap, which helped make your decision.

Your brother and his friend helped carry the heavy piece up to your apartment with the promise of beer and those chocolate chip cookies you made. "What the hell do you want a piece of shit like this for?" Brady had asked, pushing it against the wall.

"I like it," you insisted, handing them the plate of cookies along with a six-pack. "It's got character."

Rolling his eyes, your brother left. You stared at the wardrobe, and you had to agree with your brother. It was a different piece, beaten and battered. But it was yours now, and when you had time you would return it to its former glory.

The cabinet was on your mind as you cooked dinner. Mashing the potatoes, you wondered about the history of the cabinet. Where it had come from, or even when it had been made. It was an older piece, you knew that for certain, but so far you hadn't seen any marks or stamps giving you any information.

But it wasn't only that. It was the symbols on the handles. Marks that you hadn't expected to see on anything but a Supernatural t-shirt or book. Not a cabinet. They were faded and run smooth like they had been carved a long time ago.

Sitting at your kitchen counter, you had just taken a bite of food when you swore you heard someone talking. It was low and mumbled, but it had definitely been a male's voice. "Hello?" You called out, but no one answered.

"It had to be the neighbor," you muttered to yourself, taking a bite of chicken, but then you heard it again. This time it was the sound of someone arguing before glass shattered. "What the hell?" You called out, leaving your plate on the counter. Heading to your front door, you threw it open, expecting to see your neighbor coming home drunk once again. But the hallway was empty.

A little creeped out, you started to shut the door when a gunshot echoed through your apartment, although somewhat muted. Your heart racing, you slid against the wall, wondering what the hell was going on.

"I'm going to call the cops!" You called out, rounding the corner to see your bedroom completely empty. The light was off, your curtains closed. Your bed was still made, your dirty clothes dumped on the floor by your hamper. You were about ready to head back to your dinner when you noticed a thin light emitting from your new wardrobe.

Confused, you stepped over, grabbing the steel handle, feeling it warm against your skin. Struggling to pull it open, you could hear voices coming from inside. You thought about leaving it alone, but you wanted to know what was going on.

Opening the heavy wooden doors, you felt blinded by the bright yellow light. Shielding your eyes against the brightness, you let out a squeal when a hand reached out, grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you through the cabinet.

"Who the hell are you?" A deep voice, rumbling and smooth, very familiar growled low in his throat. You had landed on your hands and knees on a hard tiled floor. Your eyes finally used to the light, you gazed up. Past faded denim jeans that led to a tapered waist. A black shirt wore snug under a grey and black flannel shirt. To a face you had only seen on your TV, or on your computer screen.

"Dean?" You whispered, noticing the tight set of his jaw, the angry way his eyes searched you over, trying to figure out who you were.

"How the hell do you know my name?" He asked while you finally looked past him to realize you were in the bunker. But this was no TV set. There were no cameras hanging around, no lighting to make everything just right. This tile was cold against your knees, the ceiling towering over Dean's head.

"Dean, what's going on?" You heard Dean's brother Sam call out, and too overwhelmed, you fainted.