Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. If I did, the show would have very little plot and a great deal of chick-flickiness.

Dean hates himself sometimes.

As he drives away from the motel, abandoning Bobby to the broken snack machine and the pissed off manager, he thinks that he's achieved a new low. One that, though maybe not the lowest he's ever gone, is a particular variety of low bad enough to get him sent to a special circle of Hell.

Does Hell have special circles? He doesn't think there were any circles at all. Aside from the cage - not the cage not the cage - everyone seemed to be on the same level. Just a whole lot of racks and a whole lot of screaming. A whole lot of people who did things that they wish they hadn't and a whole lot of people who wish they did more things they wish they hadn't.

But regardless, he's going to special Hell for abandoning Bobby, even if special Hell doesn't fully exist. Because Bobby's just trying to help. Dean gets that. He really does. But Bobby's help is becoming less helpful and more difficult to handle with every passing second, and as they don't have a lot of those left, getting out of there was the best option. For all of them.

He shoves the orange bottle further down into his jacket pocket. It rattles with the bumping road. Too much empty space.

Fingers twitching against the wheel, he tries not to look down. He tries not to stare at his hands anymore because no matter what he does, it doesn't change. That's the only thing. Everything else around him fades away, gets snatched away, vanishes, but not this. This stays the same. And what's sick is that he thinks he's glad. He's glad they're like this, that he has something. Because this way, it's impossible for him to forget.

He glances into the rearview mirror, but instead of staring at the empty highway that stretches on for miles behind him, he stares at himself. He sees the emptiness in his eyes, the dark circles that make him look like he's been punched. Repeatedly. Just in the eyes. And that's despite the fact he's been sleeping. He's been sleeping a lot. He's made sure of that.

And what sucks is that taking care of himself is what tipped Bobby off.

There goes his phone again. Shrill and obnoxious, so loud it could wake up the dead.

Ha.

A part of him wonders why he hasn't just turned it off. Why he hasn't blocked Bobby's number or set the phone to silent. And he isn't completely sure, but he figures it's for the same reason he hasn't dared close the Voicemail screen. Like changing the phone in any way will destroy it, will destroy everything it's supposed to be keeping safe for him.

And he really can't have that.

It's a few hours later that he drags the Impala off the highway, wheels spinning in dirt and dust, and into a motel parking lot. He isn't planning to stay the whole night. That's too much time wasted. Too much time for Bobby to catch up to him. And as much as he wishes it were different, Bobby can't come with him anymore. Because as willing as he is to trudge through the destruction of his own soul, he can't force that on anyone else.

The desk manager, a kid with a lazy eye and an even lazier personality, tosses what seems to be a random key at him and sends him to the farthest room from the office possible. He isn't sure if that's personal or not but given the way the kid stares him up and down, disgust curling over his face, he figures it is.

He tells himself that shoving a gun in the jerk's face is not an appropriate reaction. Though "himself" doesn't seem convinced.

He manages to get out of the office without doing any more damage than can be done with a glare - which he wishes was a lot more than it is - and crawls into the driver's side of the Impala. Really, the desk guy was just being rude. He doesn't smell that bad. Or look that bad. But he guesses that the mud on his lower legs from when he threw himself onto the shoulder of the road this morning must be the turn off. Though again, it's not that bad, could be a hell of a lot worse. The guy should be grateful he didn't show up coated in monster blood. Or other bodily fluids. A little dirt never killed anyone.

At least not violently.

Sighing, he shoves himself into his room, tossing his duffle bag against the wall. It collapses in a heap. And he feels that it has the right idea as he throws himself face first on top of the first bed. Always the one closest to the door.

It stinks. The bed stinks worse than he does.

Managers are weird.

Rolling his eyes, he knows he needs to get up. He needs to get up and get a shower and get food before he goes to sleep again because going to sleep on an empty stomach is a bad thing. Causes internal bleeding. Not happy. Can't kill things very well with internal bleeding. Or stomach ulcers.

But he doesn't move. Even as his stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn't eaten in... uh- awhile. No, he can't move. Because his eyes are fixed on his hand, on the cellphone he didn't realize he was holding. How long? How long has it been clutched in his hand? Has he had it the whole time? Has he-

His fingers trip over the buttons as he presses it to his ear—

"You have six new messages—" All from Bobby. He deletes them. Each and every one, all in a single swipe. "You have no new messages. Press one—"

He slaps it closed, shoving himself up onto his elbows as he drops it against the mattress. Can't do it. Can't even press the button this time.

Jesus Christ—His head falls into his palms and he can't even look at the damn thing. He can't. Because he can't hear it again. Even though a part of him wants to, wants to search it for clues he knows he has to have missed. Because he has to have missed something. There has to be something left to find. There has to be something more to this than the never-ending stream of completely useless information he keeps getting, bouncing him back and forth across the entire country.

Just under five days. That's all he has left.

But he committed it to memory days ago. He knows every chosen word, every inflection. And he knows that there's nothing more to it than the reminder it was meant to be. Just a normal phone call.

He can't do this much longer.

Biting his lip, he pushes himself out of the bed, heading for the shower. He figures he should do that, have a shower before he leaves. Because apparently he's repulsive. Even to desk clerks working at motels in the middle of nowhere.

Grabbing his knife out of his bag (shouldn't even shower unarmed), he heads for the bathroom.

The water pressure sucks and the temperature drops every thirty seconds. Like clockwork. But if he turns the temperature up so hot that his skin burns pink and red when he steps out, he ignores it.

Because it's fine.

The diner he finds himself in is gross. More so than most diners which is impressive. And if not for the promise of stomach bleeding and puking and comas, he wouldn't eat at all. Because he isn't all that hungry, despite what the angry sound coming out of his stomach seems to suggest.

But he chokes down the rabbit food that Sam always has at these places and bolts for the door before the sight of a charred hamburger can make him throw up all the gross healthiness he's just consumed. And it sucks. It sucks so bad that he can't even smell the stuff anymore.

God, he's worse than a pregnant woman.

But all of his effort to not puke goes to waste when he stumbles back through the door to his motel room.

The smell hits him first. Worse than scorched hamburgers and burning flesh. The stench of a hundred pennies left out on a summer's day. Copper. Thick, cloying. It sticks to the inside of his throat, coating his nose as he gags. He knows what that is, that smell. Has become way too closely acquainted with it over his time as a hunter.

He flips the light on—

And his muscle lock in place.

Blood. Blood everywhere. Coating the floor and the walls, matting down already stained carpet, dripping from cracks in the ceiling he doesn't remember existing. The television is smashed through the middle. Gutted. The ceiling light swings low, hanging from a threat as it throws light back and forth. A spotlight.

He chokes. He can't help it. No matter how much horror he's seen, he still gags, still finds himself staggering backwards—

His heels hit something, just outside the door. And he doesn't want to turn around. He doesn't want to because he'll look down and something horrible and terrible will be below him because there was a distinctive squish to whatever he just kicked and he doesn't want to know—

Face twisting up, arm held over his nose, he tries not to sob. He's a hunter. He's better than that, stronger. He deals with this stuff all the time. It's his job. But this time, it's different. This time he's gagging and choking and he's going to puke across the floor. His hands are shaking, the trembling settling low in his gut, because he knows that when he turns around- He knows-

He turns around.

And there's the sob.

It bursts from his chest as he falls against the doorframe, fingers driving into his bicep. Water fills his eyes and he wants to claim that it's just from the smell. That it's burning his nose so badly that his eyes are watering and that's why. That's why liquid carves paths down his cheeks. But as bad as the smell is, as much as he can feel it clogging up his throat, he knows he's lying. A liar. That's what he is.

"No," he chokes, arm wrapping around his stomach. "No—" And this time, staggering backwards forces him into the room. Forces his shoes to squelch in blood and who the hell knows what else because he can't stay that close to a dead body. Because he can't be in the same space it is when his breath is stuttering in and out too quickly. When the world is spinning, twisting on its head. He can't stay standing there. Not when—Not when—"Sammy."

His knees hit the ground and he feels the blood soak through his pants. Instantly. So much blood. And he's going to puke. He's going to throw up because Sam's eyes are wide and empty and staring at him and there's blood everywhere and Sam's skin is covered in it. Lying across the doorway, spread through the line between the safety of the outside and the death-coated inside.

Struggling backwards, feet sliding as he shoves himself against the opposite wall, Dean's hands shake, fingers twitch. His vision swirls. It goes hazy and blurry and when he looks down, all he can see is red. Crimson. Another sob tears its way out of him as he blinks away the tears.

They blend into the ground, he realizes, vision slipping away again. His hands match the carpet, stained in Sam's blood and it won't come off. Not as he scratches at them. His nails drive in, bite through his skin. Not even when he washes them a million times a day. The stain won't go away and he doesn't know what to do about that because Sam would kill him if he knew and Bobby would call him insane and there's red everywhere and Sam's eyes are dead.

Knees pulling into his chest, he mutters, "Sammy—" Over and over again. Just that word. Just that name. And he can't think beyond it. Because he found Sam. Somehow lying here in his motel room, coated in his own blood. He found Sam.

He found—

Sam's body jumps, gasps in air, and Dean lurches back, head slamming against the wall. His heart stutters in his chest because Sam's breathing. He's breathing. But Sam doesn't move other than that. His eyes don't become more alive, don't flicker, and he doesn't shift, just stays sprawled against concrete. Just breathes. Once- Twice-

"Find it—" Sam hisses. "Find it!"

And then he's gone.

Sam's gone and the blood's gone and Dean's left alone in the room, huddled against the wall.

His body shudders in time with his breath as he tries to drag in air. Air he almost wishes he couldn't process anymore because it's not fair he's still breathing. Not when Sam- Not when Dean doesn't know where he is.

Tears burn down Dean's cheeks and he swipes at them, shoving himself to his feet.

Everything's okay. No blood. No cracks in the ceiling. No dead body. It's fine, he tells himself, scrubbing harder at the tear tracks that have already replaced the old ones. Sam's not dead. It wasn't real. You knew that. You knew he couldn't be-

Everything back to normal. Exactly how it was when he left for the diner what feels like forever ago.

Except the lamp's been smashed.

Great.

He doesn't know when that happened. Was it like that when he got here? Did he do it?

Sighing, he steps forward, gathering up pieces of shattered glass as he goes. He needs to get a broom or something. He needs to—He needs a dustpan and he needs to get the glass off of his bed or he'll wake up with specks driven through his back and he doesn't want that. He doesn't want the glass and he needs to make it clean because there was blood in here a minute ago. And there was Sam's body. And now there isn't but it's burned into the back of his eyelids and it's all he can see and—

He needs to go.

He needs to go get a vacuum or a broom or—

Staggering out the door, he doesn't pause make sure it closes. Which is stupid. He's never that careless. It's dangerous. A breach of the protocols driven into him since he was too young to even know what the word protocol meant.

But he doesn't even think about it. He doesn't think about that or the red staining his hands or the body he saw too vividly, too clearly. No, he needs to clean up the glass. He can clean up the glass and despite the fact that this isn't him, that he doesn't clean motel rooms no matter how scathing the bitch-face Sam gives him, he needs to clean this up. Because that—that he can take care of.

That he can do something about.

Shaking his head, he steps into the office—

And for the second time that night, freezes.

His body sags as three people, two leaning over the desk, turn to face him. Slowly. Carefully. Gaze locking on him, expressions instantly lighting up in a disturbing amount of delight. And in unison, three sets of sharp, pointed, ridiculously unnecessary teeth pull down.

Vampires. All three of them. Even the lazy-eyed, bad attitude desk clerk.

That's just obnoxious.

He knew desk clerk hated him.

"Goddamnit,"Dean sighs, leaning down to yank his knife out of his boot. And as his body screams at him, as images he never wants to see again flicker across his vision, he steps forward.

Just one of those nights.