Don't

clueless

Through the haze of summer not quite ending, Dean walked aimlessly down an empty road, hoping to find answers, or his car, or better yet, his brother. But against his luck, all he found was an abandoned gas station, looking like no one had been alive in it for at least a year.

"H-hello?" Dean called out hesitantly, coughing the hoarseness from his voice. When there was no reply he sighed, rolling his shirt up over his hand and reluctantly punching through the glass door before sliding his way through. His throat still burned like hell, and with a wince, he grabbed a now lukewarm bottle of water from a fridge beside him and drank hungrily, gasping for air. From what he knew, he could have been miles away from Sam, or Bobby. He sure as hell didn't recognise where he was. although maybe this place could help him out a little...

Grabbing a newspaper from a nearby stand, he flicked his eyes over the front page. It was Thursday, September 18th. Almost exactly a year after he'd been sent to Hell. Dean momentarily shuddered at the memory, and moved on.

After slashing some rusty and foul-tasting water over his face, Dean decided to check his injuries. From what he could remember, the hell hounds had torn up his chest and stomach pretty good, so technically he should have been feeling almost dead. But the mirror showed no gashes, not even the memory of a scar, and Dean frowned at the mirror in puzzlement. Something, or someone, had healed him. With a scowl, he wondered to himself if Sam had sold his soul for him again. He'd better not have done.

As he pulled his shirt back down, it rubbed painfully over his left shoulder, and he winced in pain. Gulping, he pulled up his sleeve to reveal a raw and throbbing handprint, and his eyes widened at the sight of it. Why would a demon, any demon, brand him like that? Unless...no, that was impossible. Clearly the battle out of his coffin had made Dean delirious, and he frowned at himself.

After he'd gathered everything he needed- money, food, porn magazine- Dean reminded himself that no one he cared about had any idea he was alive. Not Bobby, not Sam...he should call them. As he was looting, the TV seemed to flick on by itself, and he stared as it began to show static, the white noise making his ears burn. Wasting no time, he grabbed a bag of salt from the fridge, beginning to pour it over the windowsill.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a high-pitched single tone began, and he clutched his ear in pain as it rang through the gas station, and he dropped to the floor, the salt pouring out of his hand as the window above his head shattered into thousands of pieces. Leaping to his feet, he looked around cautiously, narrowly avoiding two more Windows as they shattered beside him. "What the hell..."

After promptly leaving the gas station, Dean swallowed hard as he slipped into a phone booth, planning on at least trying to call Sam. As he'd expected, the line had been disconnected, and he sighed as he slotted another coin into the machine. Dialling a different number, he clenched his jaw as it started to dial, ringing once before the line was picked up.

A gruff voice answered, sounding hazy from sleep, and Dean realised quickly that he must have called fairly early in the morning. "Yeah?"

"Bobby..." Dean swallowed, unsure of what to say.

"Yeah?" Come on, recognise me, Dean thought to himself.

"It's me." Dean hoped that was clear enough.

"Who's me?" Dean inwardly sighed and swallowed hard, trying not to get frustrated.

"Dean." He paused for a moment, allowing Bobby to gather his thoughts before he replied, but only a dial tone sounded. Crap. Refusing to give up, Dean dialled again, annoyed now.