The day was ordinary.

Craig woke at 7:20 to his bleeping alarm, slapped it, dressed, and told his wife goodbye. He was out the door for work by 7:30.

Just another friday morning.

Traffic was fairly standard, and he made it to the office without having to exert much thought. He pulled into the parking garage, bypassing the first two levels, making it to the third and, finally, some free spaces.

One on the right, two on the left, another on the left. Left it is, then, and he pulled his car into the spot, put it in park, put down the e-break, and pulled his keys out. It took him almost a full two seconds to realize the radio hadn't shut off with the car.

Craig blinked, looking at the radio, puzzled. "The hell..." he muttered as he tapped it, putting his key back in the ignition, starting the car again, and then turning it off. The radio shut off normally this time, and Craig stared for a second.

"O...kay," he shook his head and reached for his brief case.

Before he had wrapped his hand around the handle fully, the radio came on again, and he jumped, and whipped his gaze back at his radio, somewhat freaked.

"Okay, seriously what-" he let himself be cut off as the station changed, and then changed again, and suddenly the numbers on the dial were rushing and switching and he couldn't tell what station it was, but he was ready to get out of the schizo car now.

He turned and gripped the door handle, but the door wouldn't budge. He immediately went to flip the lock but it was like it had been welded down, and he cussed, what is going on?, and turned to face front again, unsure what he should do next; but then the radio froze on nothing but static.

Breathing a bit heavily, Craig swallowed once, staring at the radio dial.

Suddenly, what felt like a muscled arm came from behind him and wrapped itself swiftly and tightly around his neck, pulling him back against the seat, and he didn't even have time to scream, and the air was suddenly cold, and he tried to see who it was in the rearview and there was no one in the reflection, but there was hot breath at his left ear, and a thoroughly chilling voice whispered roughly to him in a way that would have stopped his breath if he hadn't already been choking.

"Who are you?"

Craig couldn't see who was doing this, his eyes were rolling madly, his knees were banging against the steering wheel a he panicked, and his hands were flailing, trying to hit whoever was behind him, but he wasn't hitting anything, he couldn't reach, or the angle was wrong, and he couldn't breathe, his vision was spotting, and his jaw was going slack...

"What have you done? Where is he?" the voice growled, demanding. Craig tried to speak, tried to beg, but he couldn't.

"It's not yours," the voice spat, vicious and furious, "you can't have it, it's not yours!"

Craig dimly thought of his wife, Angela, and how the last thing he'd ever told her was a routine goodbye, a simple kiss on the cheek when he could have kissed her like he meant it. Angie... he drifted, his heart beats fading, his struggles stopped, and he didn't even really hear the voice's last inquiry, not that it would've mattered.

"What did you do to him," the voice kept on madly, rambling on even as it skittered out of audibility, faded out as the static on the radio dissipated, "where is he? It's not yours...what did you do...I'll kill you...it's not yours..."

Craig's wide-eyed body lay lifeless on the third level of the parking garage with the keys still in the ignition, and his cell phone charged, and everything fell to silence as the voice bit out a final echoing phrase into the chilled air.

"What have you done with my brother?"

Ebay was a wonderful thing.

Actually, Dean couldn't find in himself to like or dislike it one way or another, but he was sure someone somewhere thought it was great and everything, so it was probably a wonderful thing in that someone's mind. Sam would probably like it at least... he thought dully as he finally clicked the send button for the last email confirmation.

The last part of his once precious Impala. Sold, to a guy named Gary in Shullsburg, Wisconsin; the proud owner of his very own vintage rims and not-exactly-cherry-but-close-enough engine components.

Gary was also married, with four kids, 5 foot 10 inches tall, 286 pounds, and responsible for three unpaid parking tickets. Dean had taken the liberty of background checking his buyers - just because he hadn't want her anymore didn't mean she didn't deserve a good home.

He sighed at the computer screen, shutting the machine down and casting his eyes about the room, bored.

Bobby's house never seemed to change. Books were tables and chairs of the place; diagrams covered other surfaces, practiced sigils and symbols on paper, and the window on the south wall had trace paper taped up on it, charcoal in lines on it where Bobby was in the process of copying some ritual template or other.

And Dean sat, in the chair in front of the now blank screened computer. His leg was out of the cast, his hair was growing out again, he'd stopped with the pain meds. Bobby had looked peeved, but hadn't bothered him about it.

The car was sold. He had plenty money as a result to be getting on with. He was fit enough to start working out again, get back into shape.

It was time to start hunting again.

Because Dean still woke up every day and panicked for a second, wondering why Sam's bed was empty and unmade. He still called out to him from time to time, from the bathroom or from outside. He still set out three plates sometimes at dinner, staring for a moment as both he and Bobby stood frozen in an awkward and distinctly painful silence. And then he'd put it back in the cupboard, and avoid the look Bobby would have on his face, the look that was like Bobby had lost a child and didn't know how to pretend it wasn't wrong wrong wrong all wrong. Dean still sat sometimes, with the tv on or with a gun and rag in his hand, and would lift his head and open his mouth to say something to his brother. He felt like he was there, like if he just looked he would laugh at his joke, or respond. But he wasn't. Every time Dean looked, or opened his mouth, he was reminded with a brutal punch that Sam wasn't there. It was like losing an arm, and still feeling phantom pains, phantom sensations; the arm is gone, you're mind just hasn't realized it yet. The phantom sensations of Sam were surrounding Dean every day...every damn day. The phantom pains, from his baby brother with the perfectly calming presence who had died almost a month ago on his watch.

Dean stood and went upstairs to pack his bags. He'd tell Bobby when the man got home from the grocery store. He'd buy a cheap car. He needed to get out of here. He needed to do something.

He pulled out the duffel bags, and tossed his on his bed, already cataloguing the list in his head, and turned to hand Sam his duff-

Dean froze, staring at the bag in his hand. The room quiet. Empty.

Yeah, it was time to start hunting again.

If only to distract himself from the phantoms.