Sam picked irritably at the crust that had formed over the wound on his arm.
Three days.
And he couldn't find Dean. Not with his usual methods anyway.
Before he knew it, he'd picked the crust off.
Surveying the puckered, pink new skin, he knew there'd be a scar. Dean would say "chicks dig scars."
Old Dean that is.
New Dean he wasn't so sure about.
New Dean was scaring the crap out of him.
No matter though. Old or new; Sam needed his brother.
So he repeated old history and made a plan:
1. Steal car
2. Find Dean