Prologue

Sam felt like he had been pulled out of deep water. A huge weight seemed to come off his chest and he breathed in deeply. He realized that was a bad idea as he inhaled a mouthful of dust. Coughing, he sat up, his whole body feeling stiff and slow.

He had been laying in what looked to be a cheap motel room, not unlike the countless others he had stayed in over his time. Only this one was past cheap. It was falling apart. As he looked around, trying to make out details through the darkness, he realized it looked like it had been abandoned for years.

A strong scent of mildew was mixed in with the usual funky motel odors, making him gag. The wall paper, undoubtedly hideous at some point in time, was faded and peeling off the walls in strips. Part of the ceiling was sagging from what look to be serious water damage. And a layer of dirt and grime coated all of the furniture and beds.

With growing apprehension, Sam realized that his clothes and hair were also covered in a healthy amount of dust, like he had been with this place as it had decayed. Sam bolted up, ignoring the wave of dizziness that rose up with him, and frantically dusted himself off.

He racked his brains, trying to recall how he had gotten there. Last he could remember, he had been at the Men of Letters bunker with Dean and Cas.

Dean and Cas.

He looked around, but found no sign of either of them. The other queen bed lay untouched. There were no beer bottles, old food wrappers, or dirty clothes laying around that usually signified Dean's presence. Besides the slightly rumpled bed spread where Sam had been laying, there was no evidence that anyone had been in this room for a long time.

Sam pushed down his rising sense of panic. He hated losing time. It usually meant possession, which he was all too familiar with. He focused on taking deep breaths, calming down. He remembered what Crowley had told him when he had been unknowingly sharing a body with Gadreel. Vessels could remember everything while possessed. That means if he was or had been possessed, he should be able to remember.

He sat down on the dusty bed, concentrating. But no matter how hard he thought, he could remember nothing.

Sam wasn't sure how long he sat there in the darkness, trying to recall what happened. But sitting here and stewing wouldn't do him any good. He had to figure out what was going on, fast.

His hands moved to his jacket and he breathed a sigh of relief as he found that he still had his personal effects on him. Though there was no immediate danger, he pulled the demon slaying knife out of his pocket, comforted by the familiar feel of it in his hand. He also had his handgun, thankfully with a full magazine, which he kept it tucked in his belt. If whatever was happening was supernatural, which he had no doubt it was, the knife would probably be more useful.

His phone still had full batteries, but unfortunately no service. Part of him wasn't suprised. What was more surprising was that it had no date or time. He used the screen's light to check his watch. It read 9:06, but the second hand wasn't moving. Who knew how long it had been 9:06 for.

He took stock of the room. The windows had been blacked out for some reason, explaining the darkness. He tried flipping a light switch, but as he expected, no power. He looked through cabinets and drawers, checked under the bed, peeked in the bathroom, and even undid the beds and flipped the mattresses. Nothing. No weapons, no duffel bags, no evidence he or anyone else had ever stayed in this room.

Hoping against hope, he checked the fridge, not realizing until that moment how hungry and he was. Unfortunately, his phone revealed nothing but mold and fungus. Nothing came out of the sink but a small, weak stream of dark water.

Realizing there was nothing here for him, Sam headed to the door, determined to find out what was going on. As he started to turn the handle, an idea occurred to him. He walked back to the bed stand and opened the drawer. Underneath an old Holy Bible, was a phone book.

It was falling apart and fading, but still legible. Using the light from his phone again, he looked up the first motel in the book. The listing matched the name of on pad of paper that was sitting on top of the stand. Sam felt a slight twinge of disappointment. He had been hoping he wasn't at the first motel. That would have given him some direction to go.

Whenever he and Dean were separated they would always meet at the first motel in the phone book.

Although he knew it was a long shot, Sam grabbed the pad of paper and the cheap motel pen. He quickly scribbled a note to Dean. He set it on the bed to the right, the one Dean usually slept on and turned towards the door. Somehow Sam knew he wouldn't be coming back here.