One minute, John Winchester had been certain he knew his own heart. In the minutes that followed, he was shown that certainty had been entirely a lie. Sinking to his knees, his human mind struggling to cope as a switch was essentially flipped in his brain, he grabbed his head with both hands and waited for the rush to stop. What took seconds felt like hours, but as the change in his mind became manageable, the rest of his senses were allowed to offer input again.
The feel the the floor against his knees. The faint taste of blood because he'd bitten his cheek. The smell of that popcorn. The sound... the sound of the all too familiar female voice.
It was a rush of emotions at the sound, remembered hate scrambling over false love with the eagerness of an animal going in for the kill. He hated her. IT. It was an it. But that distinction, between her and it, between love and hate, was blurred and twisted and unstable, shifting in the ever-changing landscape of his mind and heart. His rightful memories were struggling back to the surface, of his sons, of the wife he loved more than life, of his whole family, but the other memories, the ones he'd believed real moments ago, just didn't vanish in the blink of an eye.
When he looked up, it was with hate in his eyes. When he struggled to his feet, it was with a body once more impossibly tense, as if bracing for an attack, and the futile motions of a man used to carrying weapons only to find he now had none.
"There's not a damn thing I'm looking to work out with you," he growled, but it was an impotent sound, as what advantage did he have here? He had no weapons, no protections, no backup beyond that angel.