It had been easier this time. He knew what to expect, and the landscape had become far less chaotic after the hours working the puzzle in a tangible, hands on format. Trouble was, it had been too successful. Dean had been pleased that not even ten minutes in he had ferreted out a number. He was less pleased that it hadn't stopped there. By the time the food arrived he had two complete numbers, and three fragments that may have been pieces of different numbers or, for all he knew, fit together in some unknown order.

He took a much needed meal break while his mind absorbed the fact that "Bobby Singer" and "one phone number" were not compatible concepts.

Once he'd opened the door, the information had come easily. It flowed in and took easy root, not with the nasty shock of remembering something as if he were learning it for the first time, aware that he had not known it, or at least been aware of it the moment before. Memories of Bobby slipped easily in and made themselves at home as if they had been there all along.

Again, Dean didn't know the cause of that, if there was something different about these particular memories, or if he was just getting better, shaking off whatever number death and resurrection had done on his head. Whichever it was, it was a mixed blessing. It was awesome to have such a substantial chunk of himself back so quickly, so seamlessly, but damn if it wasn't such an awful lot to wade through in the quest for small details.

Dean picked at the tail end of a carton of sweet and sour as he considered the new information and reflected that he had never fully appreciated having a brother who was a research junkie. Sam had been not just willing, but eager to wade through the boring stuff and find the shortest path to something Dean could just shoot, or stab, kill until it didn't need killing anymore.

But Sam wasn't here, and even if he had been, he couldn't help because this research was all in Dean's head, all his to deal with. He sighed pushing back from the table. No sense putting it off. This was the only lead he had and he was going to follow it because he didn't know any other way to get Sam back, and he was going to get Sam back. He'd do anything to get Sam back, even... research. So yeah, he was going to sit there all night, examining everything he knew about Bobby Singer, looking for clues that would lead to numbers for, what was it, six or seven phones in the hub, who knew how many cells, probably in the dozens just in burners alone, and knowing Bobby, quite possibly a crystal ball or magic mirror buried somewhere in his self assembled library of the weird.

XXXXX

Dean groaned. He had a headache. His hand was cramping, and the fresh wounds from his nails kept breaking open from movement. His ass had passed sore heading for numb an hour ago. His pleasant buzz and good mood were long gone. Outside, the sky was just beginning to pink with the sunrise. He'd blown through the last of the room's complimentary coffee somewhere around three. Adrenaline had carried him another couple of hours. Now he was going on sheer stubbornness and dogged determination.

He looked at the product of the night's labors through blurred, bloodshot eyes, a long list of number sequences, some only two or three digets in length, others frustratingly coming in one number shy of usefulness. On the next page. Dean had jotted a handful of completed numbers that he had managed to cobble together through a combination of hazy memories, logical deduction, and flat out guesswork that he liked to think was gut instinct. There were three others that were questionable, but worth a shot anyway. The first five however, these he was reasonably sure were correct.

He hadn't anticipated the project stretching into the wee hours of the morning, but the work, while nerve wracking, had proven somewhat addictive. Somewhere around the time the coffee had run out he had begun promising to go to bed in ten more minutes, or after trying just one more thing. After an hour or so of that, he had simply said "screw it" and resolved to stay at it until exhaustion forced him to stop. As he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to force the blur from his vision he had to admit that it seemed like that point had arrived.

He couldn't help it. For two days he had felt like he was spinning his wheels, drifting in and out of himself, dealing with regular person crap like finances and laundry. Practically none of that time had been spent on anything that was going to get him any closer to finding Sam. This, while not what Dean would call a solid lead, was at least promising enough for him to grab onto it with both hands. It was a lifeline that was going to keep him from charging off in some random direction in a motivated, but pointless effort that would do nothing but burn off some of the energy. Once he had started, he had been unable to stop himself, despite having hated every single second of it.

Now he had eight possible contact numbers, and likely one of the first five would work. He was tempted to start making calls right then, but he was too worn, too blurred to trust that he could dial correctly. Even if he could, there'd be no guarantees of the ring waking Bobby, who was likely still asleep at this hour, like any halfway sane person would be. He'd just end up having to make every call again to double check.

He was right back to the nothing-you-can-do-right-now point, but instead of it eating a hole in his gut, he was actually grateful that he could give himself permission to grab a couple of hours rack time. He staggered across the floor, swaying heavily, not sure whether to laugh or grumble at the fact that he hadn't even been able to indulge in the good time that usually put him in this condition, and fell face first onto the bed. His head was nowhere near the pillow. One leg hung gracelessly over the side. He was asleep before the mattress had settled from the impact.