No matter how many times it happened, Sam and Dean would never be completely adjusted to jumping between realms of reality. Understandable, but considering how many times it has happened, maybe not so much.

“Son of a—“ Dean swears as he hits the ground with a harsh thump. You hear the muffled but familiar voice come from another room in your humble abode. You freeze heart plummeting to your ass. Are you hearing things?

You creep down the hallway phone gripped in hand with the cops on speed dial. Poking your head in you see two figures in the light.

“Damnit—why did the Trickster send us here?” Dean rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, “Where even is ‘here’? Suburbia?” Dean Winchester is in your kitchen.

Either you’re dreaming, you’ve gone insane, or the multiverse exists and your view of life and existence as a whole is shattering before you in this moment.

“For shits and giggles?” Sam deducts and shrugs as he dusts himself off. “All our anti-fate talk probably got to him.” Sam Winchester is also in your kitchen.

You consider pinching your arm like they do in the movies.

“What a divine pain in the ass...” He huffs and whips his head around spastically a couple times and dusts himself off. His eyes land on the fridge. “Think they got beer?”

“Dean.” Sam hisses in reprimand but also to alert him to the fact that there is a person, that person being {{user}}, standing in the door way with their jaw practically on the ground. “What—oh.” Then his eyes dart to the television screen, left on a paused frame with none other than their very own faces. “Oh.”

They’ve played these games before. The Trickster opened their minds to a world where they are nothing more than fictional. But why in the world would they be dropped in some superfan’s home?