Chapter Text
The Impala rattles along the road, kicking up dust behind her as Dean guns down the pedal, fighting to get a few more miles out of her, doing his best to speed her up. She roars, sputters, stalls - and all but bucks beneath him and races past the highway sign bidding him farewell from Chloride, Nevada, pop. 352 (est. 1863).
Breathing hard, he glances into the rearview mirror, feeling his gut drop in fear. He can’t go back in there, he can’t go back for Sam or Cas or… The speedometer crawls down to 80, 72, 69, and he swears, knuckles blanching against the steering wheel, right calf cramping with the effort of pressing the gas, until, all of a sudden, Baby stalls again. He glances at the dashboard, half-afraid to do so, and his fear is confirmed when the gas tank is stuck on E, the oil light blinks for his attention, and… A faint hiss draws his attention. The tires. He’s a sitting duck.
Dean huffs a breath, does his best to stay calm before growling loudly into the crook of his elbow (he can’t scream or he won't be able to stop). He’s a good six miles from the closest water source, eight from the grocery store, if you can call it that… he doesn’t know if the cacti out here are edible, much less nutritious, and going back into town is not an option. He’ll be torn to pieces the moment he sets foot inside, and God help him, he won’t be much help to Sam and Cas dead, if they’re even alive anymore.
He catches his breath, stares out over the horizon. Nothing but desert for miles around, and he’s just getting into it. “Fuck,” he whispers, and again, louder this time, “Fuck!” He reaches for his phone, flips it open. Miraculously, he’s got signal out here, and he sends a quick prayer to every deity he knows before keying in Bobby’s number. He waits. A low, oscillating tone greets him, followed by “This is Bobby Singer. If you’re calling about a case, text me. You know what to say. If not, you can leave me a message after the tone.” Then, the tone. Dean drops his phone onto the passenger seat, mind going slowly, tortuously blank. He’s beginning to panic and he knows it, but there’s not much he can do at this point. Hands shaking, he picks up the phone, shoots Bobby a text: We’re in Chloride, Arizona. Cas said he’ll keep Sammy safe, but I’m not so sure anymore. We need your help, Bobby. He doesn’t need to add I left them behind. Guilt roiling in his gut, Dean turns to the backseat to look for food. Water is something he needs to preserve, so he decides to forgo that for now, and he does end up finding a box of granola bars, four bags of trail mix, at least ten bags of beef jerky and some canned fruit. Nothing that would make a doctor praise him, and not a whole lot of food, but if he makes it last, along with the two Culligan tanks in the trunk, he should be good for a week.
Water and food accounted for, Dean locks the Impala up, double-checks every hatch, and sinks down into his seat, utterly exhausted. He’s stuck out here, may as well sleep. He’s out within moments, snoring softly, unaware of the pickup roaring closer to Baby.
He wakes to dusk, and a pair of hands steadying him. “Easy there, buddy,” the person holding him warns, and Dean buckles at the knees, sinking against something black and shiny and hard. He groans as pain lances through his head. Then, everything rushes to a point, and he collapses.