All right. Not the strongest start in reviews considering the number of readers, but I guess the first chapter wasn't much to go on. Thanks to cursedgirl for her review. I hope this was fast enough for you. ;)

Quite a short chapter this time, but there's more where this came from. So . . . on to the chapter. Please review. :)


Chapter 2: Not Again


Dean staggered along the roadside, one hand held over his chest, though logically he figured it didn't make one hell of a difference considering the good it did. He felt odd—disconnected. Probably the blood loss. Had to get to a phone, call an ambulance. . . .

Where was Sam? His grave'd been grown over. With his experience of digging up as many graves as he had to in this business, he figured he'd been buried a couple months at least, given how the earth had sunk and the grass had grown over it. The air still felt like the summer, and he'd say his grave hadn't seen a good winter since he'd been buried.

A couple months? Only?

If Sam'd been planning a resurrection or whatever-the-hell, he should have at least pulled him up first, even if he couldn't be there to drive him to the hospital himself.

God, Sammy. Where was he? What the hell'd he been doing all these months?

The street was empty, but despite his injuries he moved quickly. The pain was reasonable, though. He could deal with it. Nothing like he'd become used to.

Kept hazing out, though. He'd let his mind drift and suddenly he'd be on another fifty yards along. Pain or no pain, he needed blood to keep his heart pumping.

That was fine. As long as he kept walking, kept breathing, he'd be fine.

He wasn't dying already and going back there. He wasn't ever going back.

He didn't remember seeing the service station from a distance—it snuck up on him, with him not even noticing it until he'd stepped right into the parking lot.

He stopped, wavering slightly on his feet as he saw the battered payphone booth not ten feet away.

Call Sammy.

No ambulance—not yet. Had to find out what shit he'd pulled.

He staggered towards it, but the next thing he knew he was already holding the phone. It felt cold in his hand—like it was about to slip right out of his grip.

Black-outs getting worse. Didn't even remember opening the booth door.

At least he hadn't fallen down yet.

Call Sammy.

He dialed collect. There was no answer; phone said it'd been disconnected.

Undeterred, Dean dialed in Bobby's number. It took him four tries to get the number right—kept skipping digits on accident. He had to focus and dial each number at a time before it finally rang.

"Yeah?"

The connection was bad. He could hardly make out Bobby's voice over the static.

Hopefully it was just the connection, not anything else around. He wasn't in a state to take down anything right now.

"Bobby?"

There was a pause.

"Hello?"

Damn. He couldn't seem to hear him.

"Bobby—"

"Hello?"

"Bobby, can't you—"

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . . . . the line went dead.

"Damn it, Bobby," Dean muttered. He dialed the number again. It took him three times this time, and he leaned against the side of the phone booth, feeling faint and cold. Couldn't even feel the pain in his chest anymore. That couldn't be good.

Riiiing. Riing.

"Hello?"

"Bobby. Can you hear me?" Dean demanded, wiping his face with a hand that shook no matter how still he tried to keep it. "I-it's me."

Silence.

"Bobby?"

"Who's 'me'?" His voice was guarded.

"Dean."

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. . . . . . The line went dead again.

"Shit," Dean swore weakly. The phone slipped from his hand as he tried to adjust his grip. He fumbled for it, but it slammed against the booth, dangling limply from its cord.

He bent over, but the world keeled under him and he grabbed the wall to keep from falling on his face.

Call Sam.

Can't. Phone disconnected; hell knows where he is.

The inner voice was persistent. His little brother needed him.

Call Sam.

The world had slowed in its rotation again, and Dean reached for the phone.

His hand passed right through it.

He froze, still leaning against the glass half-bent over to reach it. He tried again, closing his fist around the phone. His fingers passed through it and gripped nothing.

He stared, pulling back slowly as he stared at his hand. He looked solid enough, felt solid enough. He felt his face, his arms. Dammit, he felt real enough. Even still had the marks from being sliced up—

His arms reached his chest and he froze.

The blood was gone. The marks gone. His shirt was untorn and clean. Even the blood and dirt on his hands from digging out of his own grave were gone.

He reached for the phone again, passing right through the cord.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed.

Not again.

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TBC . . . .

/gets down on knees to beg/ Reviews please?