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It was already jarring enough crawling out of your own grave, let alone finding no sign of life anywhere around. But Dean, ever the problem-solver, is willing to push past that to focus on the issue at hand. All he knows is that he just rose from hell, sunlight is way fucking brighter than he remembered, and he needs to get to Bobby and Sam. So Dean suppresses his urge to scream what the fuck at the heavens and instead breaks into a gas station to stock up while he figures shit out. He manages to grab just about everything he needs, and that’s when the TVs flick on.
Demons, Dean thinks. They must have realized he’s flown the coop and come for him.
He’s rushing to dump salt along a windowsill when the earsplitting noise first hits. Dean tries to keep moving, despite the screeching stealing every conscious thought.
But the noise rises to a rapid crescendo, and Dean falls to his knees. As tightly as he tries to clamp his hands over his ears, it doesn't seem to help. He can still hear the high-pitched screeching - hell, he can feel it echoing in his bones at this point. He’s practically curling into a ball, trying to make himself small against this unknown threat. Dean can't hear his heart pounding over the cacophony, but he can feel it galloping in his chest as tries to take a moment to breathe, to reassess the situation.
Then every window shatters.
Glass blows in from every direction, as if Dean is ground zero for some sort of cosmic shrapnel bomb. He cries out, he thinks, as he feels his skin slice open in several places.
In an instant, all is silent.
Or rather, everything except Dean is silent; everything except his panting breaths and that sharp ringing in his ears. He slowly uncurls, glancing at the many small wounds covering his arms. He can feel a trail of blood slowly winding down his neck, and he winces at the spike of pain when he moves his head. Belatedly, he realizes that there's a piece of glass in the neck wound. Without thinking, he grabs and pulls. Dean grits his teeth against the pain, but if he’s honest, part of him is relieved.
He's not entirely sure he's human, but at least he bleeds like one.
The pain is an old friend, a sharp twinge that directs him to focus on the task at hand. It helps ground him in the moment, helps him remember that he’s real when nothing else feels it.
Dean takes quick stock of the injuries; none of them are dangerous, but damn do they hurt. He can see he has a few on his arms and hands that have tiny pieces of glass embedded, but he doubts there's any tweezers around here to go fishing with. Not that he wants to take the time anyways.
No, Plan A is get to Sam ASAP and figure this entire thing out.
Minutes later and unable to reach his brother, Dean is on Plan B, unease swirling in his gut. He dials Bobby's number, the number he's pretty sure he'll remember in the next life and all the ones after.
Bobby tells him to fuck off.
So, Plan C. Hot-wiring a car and taking a joy ride to South Dakota.
He lets his wounds bleed for nine hours because he needs answers more than this car needs clean upholstery. Exhaustion is creeping into his bones, but the need to see someone he loves, someone real, rules over all else.
Dean’s ready to drop by the time he rolls into Sioux Falls and knocks on Bobby's door. But he can't let his guard down, because he knows Bobby is about to try to kill him.
He does, and Dean wants to cry, even though he would do the same in Bobby’s shoes. Even though Bobby has every right to suspect him. To fear him. But even though it’s senseless, something in Dean had held out this stupid hope that Bobby would just know by looking him in the eyes.
But he pushes the thought down, and goes through the tests. Bobby even looks apologetic at Dean having to slice into his already-bloodied skin. But he doesn't stop him.
When he's been bled, salted, and splashed with holy water, that's when Dean sees the emotion start to well up in Bobby's eyes. And when Bobby grabs him in a hug, holding on for dear life, Dean finally lets himself collapse.
"What happened, son?" Bobby asks, pulling back and taking stock of Dean. He must see the exhaustion pulling at his features, because he guides him to a chair and sits him down.
"I don't know," Dean mutters. It's only then that he hears the rasp in his voice. Well, that's one souvenir from the trip down under.
Bobby looks like he doesn't want to leave Dean, but he takes the few steps away to the kitchen and grabs his med kit and a glass of water. When he comes back, he immediately kneels in front of Dean and starts in on the glass wounds. He's laser-focused, picking out tiny shards and making sure every little cut is clean.
Dean is a grown man, just back from hell; they both know that he could, and normally would, do this for himself. But Dean knows Bobby needs to care for him as much as Bobby knows Dean needs to be cared for right now, so neither objects.
"Where's Sam?" Dean asks, wincing at the twinge in his throat. Bobby looks up at him, nodding towards the water in his hand. Dean can tell he's suppressing the urge to call him an idjit, and the sense of fondness that washes over him is suddenly overwhelming. Bobby must see something on his face, because he stops what he's doing and claps Dean gently on the shoulder. It's the smallest gesture, but it's one of the first kindnesses Dean has had in god knows how long.
Then Bobby tells him that Sam's been avoiding his calls, and he doesn't know where he is. The sense of comfort is immediately dwarfed by worry and foreboding. Dean immediately tries to stand, tries to go track Sam's phone. But Bobby pushes him back down, grumbling about needing to finish up first. He doesn’t, not really. None of the wounds truly need stitching or bandaging. But Bobby does it anyways. He’s so gentle, and it almost breaks Dean.
“I’m grabbing supplies. You sit there.” Bobby’s voice is stern, paternal. For once, Dean obeys. It only takes Bobby a few minutes to gather what he needs. He reappears, backpack slung over his shoulder, and gestures for Dean to rise. “Get to tracking.”
Bobby loads the car while Dean pulls up Sam’s location. Pontiac, Illinois. A nine-hour drive he’s just made and is apparently about to make again.
This time, Bobby’s at least here to make the trip with him. Dean starts to offer to drive, but Bobby gives him another look and the matter is settled. “You’re resting on the way,” Bobby informs him matter-of-factly. “Get to it.”
Dean tries Sam’s cell once more. With no luck and nothing else to do, he places his head against the window and finally rests, safe in the knowledge that he’s no longer alone.