He hadn't been too disappointed when the first call didn't go through. Three hours of sleep had only done so much to repair the damage he had done to himself the night before. He was still largely unfocused. Honestly, he wasn't sure he had the energy for emotion right now.

He repeated the procedure he had used with Sam's number, dialing carefully, and then again with a ludicrous level of excessive attention, twice, before exploding. "Son of a bitch!" he flung the notebook across the room. He had been so sure!

Angrily he paced for a bit, burning off the frustration until he felt ready to retrieve the book. He glared at the page, as if demanding the number explain itself. That was Bobby's landline number. He wouldn't have known it yesterday, but now, that piece of himself back in place, as complete and solid as the memory of Sam had been from the get go, he knew that he knew. He had dialed it enough times. The others were a little iffy, numbers that he had selected off of cell menus, or that appeared on cards that he flashed to make problems go away. He'd never really paid that much attention to them, but this one he knew.

He jerked the receiver off the cradle and stabbed the number from memory, a memory he'd had, a brief recent vacation aside, since he'd been twelve freakin' years old, as if he could force the call through with brute force. He slammed the phone back down at the first sound of the annoying high pitched tone, not bothering to wait for the message.

Frustrated, he let his gaze travel across the other numbers, wondering if there was any point in trying them. Yes, he decided. He'd just lost a night's sleep harvesting the damned things. He didn't have a lot of hope that any of them was worth the page he'd wasted on them, and definitely not the sleep he'd lost, but he might as well know for sure.

Even though he hadn't hoped for much success the tight icy grip on his gut got a little stronger with each failed attempt. He worked his way through the list, trying each multiple times and finally only admitted defeat after going back to the main landline number for another three attempts that he couldn't stop himself from making, even though the outcome was painfully obvious at this point.

Giving up he glanced at his watch. He could conceivably grab a couple more hours of sleep before check out, but he was too wired on the cocktail of emotions surging through him to think there was any chance of that.

There was the normal, regular person stuff to address. It had been two days and he was still wearing the same clothes that he had dragged himself up out of the ground in. He was still walking around unarmed except for his hand to hand skills. He snorted when he thought of a phone because apparently everyone he might want to call had stopped using them after he died.

At any rate, he had money in his pocket now, thanks to last night's foray into Pontiac's seedier nightlife. Dealing with some of the needs of basic survival was at least something he could accomplish. It didn't count for much, but it was something that he could do without some bull crap sabotaging him. After two days of running into walls that did feel kind of good.

He rose to gather his things, a familiar routine clicked play in his head, and then snagged when he remembered that his "things" currently consisted of a spiral notebook turned hunter's journal, a couple of pens emblazoned with the Sweet Dreams Traveler's Rest logo, a porno mag, and the last remnants of some illegal junk food.

God, he wanted so badly to just pop Baby's trunk and...see...BABY! The memory rushed back with a force that made him stagger. He could almost hear the creak of her door, like a greeting she always had for him, no matter the hour, no matter how long he's been away, every time the reassuring, "welcome home, Dean" creak of the driver's side door.

He closed his eyes and felt the comfortable set of her wheel under his hand, his body slotted into the seat just right, like lovers that had long since learned to fit together an did so without awkward tangles and clumsy fumbling, He heard the sweet growl of her engine, a challenge to any road to outlast her.

How could he have forgotten Baby? "I'm so sorry, sweetheart." he found himself whispering. Where ever Sam was, whatever he was doing, he had better be taking good care of her.

He felt somehow renewed, revitalized after the draining night and disappointing morning. Baby had always been a source of comfort for him, since the vibration of her carriage had rocked him to sleep, slouched up against Sammy's car seat, the heavy beat of classic rock for a lullaby. Even just the memory, even though she wasn't here, just the memory meant so much. Maybe because there was no way he was going to call her only to find the number non-functional he thought disdainfully.

He looked at the door, and part of him could almost believe that when he stepped through she would be there, faithfully waiting, just like she always was, but another knew she wouldn't be. Suddenly, he wasn't sure if he could do it, open the door, only for her to be conspicuous in her absence. It felt like more than he could face up to.

The familiar altered state, not quite reality feeling was pressing in him hard, with an almost suffocating pressure. Like when he'd reached for the tape player, or heard John speaking, he slipped into a memory that had nothing to do with stored information, but more to do with habit, the everyday routine of just being Dean Winchester. He knew how this one went.

He'd played this scene thousands of times before. He'd open the door, and there she would be right where he always parked her, in the nearest space to the room door.

Shakily he stepped towards the door. It loomed in front of him, seeming impossibly large, and oddly distorted. A white noise sound filled his ears as he approached. Almost without knowing what he was doing, he reached for the knob.

She would always be there

It tuned in his hand, achingly slowly.

...right where he'd parked her

The tumbler clicked.

...faithfully waiting for him

He pulled the door open a crack

...just like a loyal steed

The door cleared his field of vision.

She was always there.

He raised his eyes.

The empty parking space mocked him with its exsistence.

Robotically he turned back into the room, shut the door, and had his one allowed meltdown for the day.

He missed his checkout.