JUST CLOTHES

"I've got nothing to wear."

It wasn't a teenager's rebellious outburst. It wasn't even a whining complaint.

It came off as a statement, but the look on Dean's face was one of pure and utterly confusion. Lost.

To his credit, it was the first time the concept presented itself to him and, like so many other things that Dean was rediscovering about himself, the fact that he didn't have a single item of clothing to call his own, struck him now as deeply disconcerting.

To be fair, he did had isome/i clothing. He'd woken up inside a wooden box, dressed in an old pair of jeans and a black tee-shirt, just a couple of hours before. It wasn't a fashion statement or matter of pride, but Dean refused to wear the same clothes he'd been buried with. It was just one of those things that a guy simply didn't do.

"Sam kept some of yer stuff," Bobby's voice finally answers. "Kept it in some storage place or the trunk of the car... not really sure which."

Bobby's finally stopped trying to cut, exorcise, bathe in holy water, salt, burn or shove Dean in front of mirrors a while back, at last convinced that Dean wasn't any sort of supernatural creature trying to prank him. Or kill him.

Dean still had his doubts. About the not being something else than human part. He had no intention or desire to kill the older man. Especially not after the shower that he'd just taken.

Bobby's shower head was... god-sent. It was the only way to describe it in a close to somewhat just form.

Or maybe it was the fact that Dean had been dead for four months and the steady water pressure had managed to wash away more than grave dirt.

"I could lend you some of mine," Bobby offers. "Not sure it'll fit, but—"

He finished that with a shoulder shrug, critically eyeing Dean's body, wrapped in one of his towels, a ratty brown thing. It's not like Dean gained or lost any weight while being dead –while he as in Hell-, it's just that Winchester boys were always big.

In fact, as far as Dean was able to tell from his shower inspection, he kind of looks exactly the same, save for the weird handprint on his shoulder and the buzz inside his head that he can't decide if it's the sound of a thousand screaming voices or the memory of being inside a beehive. Dean's pretty sure that Hell was nothing like a beehive.

"Thanks. I..." Dean stuttered ahead.

There are a thousand thoughts running through Dean's mind, swirling around along with the buzz and the voices. He died, and now he's back. He was in Hell, and now he's not and Dean has no clue how that happened. And Sam's around somewhere, but he has cut contact with anyone who knows him. And the way the place he was frigging buried looked, like a nuke had gone off or something, had every alarm bell inside his chest ringing. And there was some sort of energy, massive energy, chasing him around, Dean could feel that much. He just had no idea what to call it.

But it had been the fact that he'd stepped out of that shower and registered that he had no clothes to change into that gave him pause. Of all the weird ass stuff that was happening to him.

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean said, ducking his head to hide the amount of gratitude that he was feeling towards that man right then. After all, it was just a shirt and a pair of jeans. And if knew Bobby well, holey ones at that.

The end