Dean had grown up in motel rooms, all different, and yet, all exactly the same in all the ways that mattered. Entering this one and flicking on the lights he let the feeling of coming home wash over him the same way the light suddenly bathed the room. He stepped in, moving on reflex to toss his bag on the bed, coming up short because, just like the tape deck that had not been there, he had no bag to toss.

For the first time, he considered that the only clothes he had in his possession were soiled with ground in dirt and soaked in sweat. He was going to have to address that.

If he couldn't change, at least he could shower. Even with the crap water pressure and lukewarm water the Sweet Dreams Traveler's Rest had to offer, Dean felt like it was damn near the best thing he ever felt. He stayed in until the water became too cool for continued enjoyment.

He had nothing clean to change into, and couldn't bring himself to drag the filthy clothes back over his freshly cleaned skin. He'd have to dress again eventually, but there was no immediate need to go out. He could just stay wrapped in the towel, for now. The T-shirt and boxers, he reasoned, could be washed out in the sink. He'd just have to shake as much of the grime as he could out of the jeans. It would have to do until he could expand his wardrobe.

For now, he decided, the first thing he needed was some more substantial food than the candy bars and snack cakes he'd liberated from the in-and-out he'd busted into. Not able to go out, he consulted the local listing that was usually a staple in most motel rooms for a take out place to bring food to him.

Pizza ordered, he allowed himslef to relax, reclining on the bed, eyes closed, head cradled in his hands. He finally had a calm moment in which to consider the tangled mess he had been pushing to the back of his mind all day. Cautiously he cracked the door, taking care that it didn't all tumble out on him at once. Treading lightly, he picked his way through, as if traversing a minefield, trying to home in on the things that had the biggest impacts. Those incites, he reasoned, must be the most important.

Sam was right there at the forefront, and of course, Dean remembered Sam. From that first moment in the field, when the bright memory of his little brother had come bursting through all the pain, and terror, and crap that seemed to be Dean's only current memories of himself, it had all flooded back, all in one piece. It was the one thing that stayed, and stayed strong, not flickering and shifting like everything else did. Right now, Dean remembered Sam better than he remembered himself.

He made that his anchor, clutched onto his memory of Sam, clung to it like a life preserver. He let it keep him buoyed up amidst the debris that drifted about him like the remnants of a shattered vessel, only this vessel had been his life. Those pieces of flotsam were him, and he had to find a way to piece himself back together.

If it had just been for himself, he might not have bothered. He hadn't seen a lot so far of Dean Winchester that seemed much worth worrying about. He might have just said, "screw it" and found himself a new life to live, but there was that one, strong, steady pull towards the thing that made him who he really was, what he knew in his gut, in a place beyond mind, and memory, and reasoning that he had always been. He had one primary function, look after Sammy.

He let himself meander contentedly through the memories in search of something he could use. There were pleasant ones, shared moments ranging from the moody kid Sammy had been to the moody adult Sam had become. There were far more unpleasant ones, hurts, fears, losses, but even these were a comfort, simply in that they existed. Sam, right now, was the only really real thing in Dean's world, and in a way, it felt like maybe that was nothing new. Maybe to Dean, Sam was all that had ever been truly real.

He sifted through it all, like paging through a photo album, or unpacking dust coated boxes after years in the attic, taking time to examine each item, relishing in the details, savoring the feelings. But as comforting and enjoyable as it was to revel in, skinned knees and carved initials weren't getting him any closer to anything that would tell him where Sam was now.

Gradually, achingly slowly, just out of reach, something, something that felt important began to surface. Dean grabbed at it, only have it skitter away, as if he'd frightened it by moving too quickly. He scrambled after it as it retreated, and then forced himself to calm. He tried to just let himself drift naturally towards the important thing. Eventually, it peeked out from its hiding place. Dean dared not even let himself breathe as he watched it emerge. It was a number. It was a long number. It was, OH MY GOD, it was a phone number!

Bolting up, he fumbled to grab at the message pad that was thankfully on the night table. Chanting the number over and over under his breathe he scribbled it down before it could slip through one of the cracks in his shattered mind and disappear again.

He held up the resulting masterpiece, beaming at it as if it was the most wonderful thing ever. He could call Sam. He would find Sam. He and Sam would be together, soon, and then everything else would fall into place.