"Come down off your throne and leave your body alone.
Somebody must change.
You are the reason I've been waiting so long.
Somebody holds the key.
But I'm near the end and I just ain't got the time
And I'm wasted and I can't find my way home."
Blind Faith
Charlie Bradbury moved the front seat of the Impala almost as far forward as it would go when she got behind the wheel, making it even more awkward for the de-powered angel beside her to check on the tall man stretched across the back seat. Castiel, Charlie, and Dean had been in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, taking down what they thought was a werewolf when Dean got whammied by the coven of witches that had cursed a man to become a Loup Garou. The older Winchester had thought it would be a routine training mission for the two new hunters, based on the information from the team's researchers, Sam Winchester and Kevin Tran.
The Loup Garou was responsible for four deaths in the community before the Winchesters caught wind of what was happening. The team hurried the thousand miles there and managed to save a fifth victim before taking the monster down. Dean had made the actual kill with a blessed silver bullet, and he had immediately been hit by a spell which appeared to have knocked him unconscious. It was the sizzling air around him before he fell that tipped Charlie and Cas that something weird was happening. Their explanation triggered Sam's memory of a similar account he had read recently. He was pretty sure about what must have happened when Charlie had called him asking what they should do. Loup Garou's aren't like regular werewolves; instead, it is a curse put on them by a magic user, and it usually has a specific timeframe and retaliatory spells if someone kills the Loup Garou.
Back at the Men of Letters bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, Sam was still recuperating from trials meant to close Hell's gates, and Kevin, the prophet of the lord, seemed determined to never become a full-fledged supernatural hunter. They were guarding the group's prisoner, the former king of hell, Crowley, too. With the sudden turn of events leaving the away team leaderless, Sam suggested they get back ASAP while they figured out how to undo the curse.
As Cas loaded the stricken hunter into the big black car at 6 a.m., Charlie insisted on driving the Chevy because she said the former angel was the world's worst driver. Hours later, Charlie and Cas had left the windows rolled down for the man stretched out in the back while they went into a diner to eat lunch after gassing up. They were both amazed to find Dean gone when they came back out, and they spent a couple hours scouring the small Texas town looking for him before calling Sam again.
"What do you mean, missing?" Sam's voice grows louder as the former angel explains the situation. Sam runs his hands through his hair and rubs the back of his neck.
Castiel's words become deeper and more graveled as he answers the younger Winchester. "What of this do you need me to explain to you again, Sam? We gassed up, used the restrooms, and grabbed burgers after driving from Baton Rouge to north of Dallas. When we got back to the car, Dean was gone. We have interviewed as many people as we dared without involving the authorities. We have searched in every direction. There is no sign of him." Cas's mouth snaps shut audibly.
"I'm still trying to get over you two leaving him in the car with the windows down like a pet dog!" Sam answers frantically. "Did you try calling his cell?" Sam is struggling to make sense of the situation. As the younger brother, he's not used to being the undisputed leader with hunters relying on him. Dean does that; he's the reliable one who's nurturing to the new hunters.
Cas gnashes his teeth in frustration. "What did you expect us to do? Carry him with us, Sam?" The former angel takes a calming breath. "We have tried all ordinary methods of searching for your brother. We are calling to determine whether you have extraordinary measures to suggest."
Charlie, pacing near Cas, snatches the phone from his hand and says hurriedly, "GPS! Try his cell's GPS."
Sam opens the program and enters his password. "Okay. The map shows the signal at these coordinates, just a few meters away from where your phone is showing active."
Following Sam's instructions, Cas and Charlie move along the road. Their eyes move constantly, checking in windows and along the street. Charlie finds Dean's cell near a trashcan in a small deserted playground, and the both seach under bushes and in nearby ditches, finding his wallet, too.
"Now what?" Cas asks Sam.
"Now you go see if that town has any kind of cameras to hack while I go talk to Crowley and find out how he's been locating us all these years," Sam says over the phone. "Then you two get a motel room and stay put. I'll call you back."
Sam puts his cell down, puzzled and worried over the events. Was Dean kidnapped by the witches? By demons or angels? Did he wake up and leave on purpose? This feels like losing Dean to Purgatory all over again, but worse in some way. They know he's out there, there's just no sign of him. "I can't lose him now, right when things are just starting to get back to normal." Sam mumbles as he makes his way down the steps to the old record room that contains the hidden dungeon and Crowley.
"About bloody time you came to check on me," Crowley grouses as Sam nears him. "The food's bad when your brother's not here, but it's better than nothing, which is what I've had for lunch." The king of hell is living in the dungeon, wards keeping him confined to the room that the Winchesters have furnished with a bed, table and chair. Sam had convinced Dean not to kill Crowley after the aborted mission to close Hell's gates because he thought the demon was at least partially redeemed. The situation was in flux though, and Dean sounded like he was quoting from the movie The Princess Bride – telling Crowley he would most likely kill him tomorrow almost every day.
Sam turns toward Kevin who is sitting at a desk across from the dungeon, going through old cases kept there, feet up, reading. "Kevin. Hey, Kevin? That true?" Sam realizes that Kevin has earbuds in listening to music and he taps one of Kevin's feet. "Yo, Kevin."
The young prophet lifts his gaze and pulls out an earpiece. "Huh? What's up, Sam?"
Sam sighs. Kevin gets single-minded when he researches. Usually Dean keeps them all on a regular meal schedule but with Dean missing in action, Sam will need to remember to eat himself if he is to keep Kevin and Crowley fed. "Lunch for everyone, as soon as I get upstairs to make it. And I need to talk to you, but first, though, I need to know something from you, Crowley. How'd you always manage to find us?"
. . . . . . . . . .
Heat radiates from the highway's asphalt, wafting oil and gas fumes along with underlying odors of garbage and dead animals, gagging the man standing on the shoulder. The rays from the sun directly overhead feel like an iron pressed along his skin and on his scalp through his short spiked hair. His lips are dry and cracking, his mouth too parched to make licking his lips possible. Worse, though, is that the man has no idea where he is or where he is going. Stretching away on either side of the highway, past the clumps of wildflowers tangling with guardrails over dried out drainage ditches, are miles of grass fields and brush wilting under the cloudless sky, color leaching away turning them tawny. The ground looks cracked in places, old sinkholes breaking up the expanses.
Green eyes squinting against the relentless brightness, the man scans ahead and overhead, vowing the fucking turkey buzzards can keep looking for an easy meal as the birds weave circular patterns in the sky. In the distance, he sees a highway sign and knows it will say something, give him some clue, as to where he is and where he may be heading.
The man pats the pockets of his jeans as he trudges toward the sign, but he doesn't find a wallet or a cellphone, just a Buck knife, a few bills folded in a money clip shaped like a W, a rosary, a bandana, a Zippo lighter, and a cheap flask. He unscrews the top and takes a sip, expecting whiskey only to taste water, and he gulps half the contents, pleased even if the liquid is lukewarm. Soaking the dark brown bandana, he ties it on his head, wishing he had been smart enough to wear a hat. He finds a receipt in the pocket of the dark green tee he is wearing, a hotel in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He does all this while pushing back panicked thoughts.
Has he had some sort of heatstroke? Where's his car – if he's on a highway, he should have one – shouldn't he? How did he get there? Where is he? Fuck, who is he? Has the sun baked his brain? He runs his hand carefully over his skull, finding some bumps and wondering if he was hurt badly enough to account for amnesia.
"Frikkin' stupid problem," he mutters angrily. It's disconcerting to wrack your brain trying to see if your name is rolling around inside lost. His only clue is the money clip, so he starts running through possible names as he walks just to see if anything sounds familiar. "William, Will, Willie… ugh, hope not. Warren, Wes, Wade, Wayne, Woody, Wilson, West, Wyatt…" None of them rings a bell, and he quickly runs out of ideas. "Maybe it's from my last name." He trails off as he moves close enough to read the sign. "Or, I'm in Texas…maybe I'm just called Dubya." He hears a truck coming, turns and holds out his thumb figuring he'll keep heading north.