Dean examined every inch of himself as he dried off from his morning shower. If any more mysterious cuts, or bruise, or hickies had developed in the night he wanted to be aware of them. It was getting tiring, living this odd, involuntary double life, two sets of memories crowding into his head, both demanding to be validated. He sighed as he completed his fruitless inspection, two lives and he didn't seem to be getting any action in either of them.

"Dean, your chest was ribbons. Your insides were slop, and you'd been buried for four months.

He winced, it hurt. It hurt to think that Bobby was there somehow, just out of reach. Dean could remember, he could remember with vivid, crystal clarity, but he could never be there in the moment. He almost allowed himself to bolt from the room and go racing off to Bobby's/not Bobby's again but stopped himself. That hadn't accomplished anything yesterday.

If he had been out there yesterday. His brain began to chase its own tail and he dropped down on the bed, head in his hands, half groaning, half whining in frustration. He tried to clear his head and start fresh.

He had been at Bobby's. That much had to be right because both versions agreed on that point at least. OK, good, he could be reasonably sure that he had been there. What he didn't know was, what had happened there.

He glanced over at the phone. He was going to regret this. He knew he was going to regret this, and yet he couldn't stop himself from reaching over to lift the receiver from its cradle. He dialed, his gut tightening.

Just let it ring, he thought. Even if Bobby doesn't answer, just let it ring. Hell, even a message that the number was out of service, disconnected would be better than hearing "no such number" again.

"We're sorry your number can not be completed as dialed. No such number…"

He hung up.

He'd just go forward with what he did have, little as it was. He was making progress, infuriating, agonizingly slow progress, but progress. He just had to keep shaking the trees until something fell.

"I know, I should look like a Thriller video reject"

"Oh shut up," he said irritably, "not helping, so just shut up." He dug out a fresh shirt.

"I remember I was a hell hound's chew toy."

He watched his reflection as he brushed his teeth.

"Bobby, you should have been looking after him."

He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing out the bed head,

"I wanted you salted and burned, but Sam wouldn't have it."

He shoved his feet into his boots.

"...this force, this presence, it just blew past me at a fill up joint."

He started lacing up.

Wait, no, that wasn't right. That had happened at the hospital, only it hadn't really happened.

Or had it?

He took a deep breath. "OK, focus, Dean," he closed his eyes and tried to dissect the image.

He'd been standing at the cash register. There was a TV on the counter. It had turned itself on. He had turned it off.

No, wait, there had been a TV, but it never turned on. He had sat down to think.

The TV definitely turned on, he'd been in the bed, working on his journal and the TV turned on.

He had turned it off.

No, damn it, it hadn't been on! We just established that!

It had turned back on, the radio too. He'd made a beeline for the shelf with the salt.

He'd jumped out of the bed. The window had exploded.

He had sat down to think, trying to sort it all out.

He was too slow with the salt. The window had exploded. He'd fallen to the floor in the broken glass.

He'd punched the wall, then broke down and cried.

He'd fallen to the floor in the broken glass. A nurse had helped him back to bed.

"Damn it!" he yelled, "What the hell?" His fingers gripped tightly at the bedspread, twisting at it, venting the frustrating urge to just rip something apart. "Two wasn't enough?" he yelled at the ceiling, "We're going to go three?" Three different versions of the same event, which may or may not have even happened at all, and he had no idea what to do with that. The images warred in his head, shoving one another aside, clamoring like puppies to be the one that got the attention.

Dean really wished he'd gotten around to picking up that bottle. God could he use a drink.

"OK," he told himself, "That one's too complicated. Start simpler. Just calm down and get a handle on this." There had to be a way to tell what's real, and if he could figure it out, he could maybe find a way to block out all the other noise.

He tried again.

"Your chest was ribbons. Your insides were slop, and you were buried four months."

"… you were buried for four months."

"four months"

"four months"

"No, that can't be right." he hastily finished with his boots, left the room, and crossed the parking lot at a determined pace. He had to double check. He had to be sure. No way he was trusting his memory for anything right now.

The girl at the counter looked up from reading the morning paper and smiled at him when he walked in the office, a bell jangling to announce his entrance. "Good morning," she greeted him, "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, freakin' awesome, like a baby. Do you have" he caught sight of the paper, "that? Is that today's?"

The girl nodded.

"Do you mind," he approached the desk, "can I get a quick look?"

"Sure," she slid it towards him.

He snatched it up and rifled it until he found what he was looking for. There it was, top of the page, black and white, Sept. 23, 2010.

continuity error

Dean's face broke into a satisfied smirk, "Gotchya," he whispered triumphantly.

XXXXX

Whatever else was going wrong, Dean mused as he dug into his second plate of waffles, his pre-mortem memories were intact. Whatever had scrambled his brain had only effected the events after his resurrection, or at least, there hadn't been the same effect. While missing at first, his past was now right back where it belonged. It was still stark, fresh like recent memories should be, but even that was starting to fade. His long term recollection may have hit a bit of a snag, but it was normalizing. He could trust it.

He had died May 2nd, 2008. That was definite, indisputable. There was no way Bobby had told him he'd been buried four months. There was no way because he'd been gone for over two years. He stabbed a chunk of waffle and shoved it into his mouth, which was drawn up in a giddy, accomplished smile.

As he chewed his face fell. Of course, that meant that all those memories, pseudo-memories of seeing Bobby recently had been just imaginings, delusions, whatever. The empty field where Singer Salvage should have been was just that, empty.

How? And where the hell was Bobby? Maybe, he thought, if he'd been imagining Bobby recently, then maybe all his memories of Bobby…

No! he told himself firmly. Do not go there. Anything pre-Hell is solid. You know that. Bobby is real. Sam is real. You most certainly are real, and you are going to find them. He shoved the plate away, suddenly not hungry any longer.

"Scuse me, sweetheart,' he called to the waitress, "Can I get the check?"

Enough was enough. He was going to get, well, more accurately, make himself a driver's license, go back to the library, and put this whole existence issue to bed once and for all, period, done.

XXXXX

Dean looked approvingly at the South Dakota and Nebraska licenses, judging his handiwork of high quality, before stashing them in his shirt pocket. He wondered passingly if the sense of pride and accomplishment was anything akin to what normal teens felt when passing their driver's test. He knew one thing for an absolute certainty. Normal people stuff sucked, and they were welcome to it.