It had been a nerve wracking day, even the part he'd spent spun out on too much whiskey. Coming out of the waking dream, or whatever it was, with his arms wrapped around himself like a pre-teen trying to learn about making out, was, if anything, par for the course. Flushed with embarrassment, Dean babbled an excuse as the reality of being alone in the room, with no one in front of whom to be embarrassed, formed around him.

At least he'd made it back to the motel before the altered state had taken him. He didn't know what would happen if he slipped into one in public, or worse, while driving, but he couldn't imagine that it would be good.

With a burdened sigh, he collapsed onto the bed, two separate versions of the past five minutes both clear in his head. Currently, the physical evidence supported the one in which he'd arrived back at his room, let himself in, and then, for some unknown reason, had a gushy, chick flick moment with himself. He much preferred the other one, the one with the nice piece of eye candy, in her underwear, expecting a pizza. She, while a pleasant surprise, had been far from the best part, however.

Reluctant to let the moment end, real or imagined, or who cared what, Dean latched onto the feeling, trying to keep it alive in his mind, in his senses. Sam had been, or so it had seemed, solid and real in his arms. Locked in a tight embrace of reunion, Dean had been able to feel the beat of his brother's heart, the heave of his breathes, and then, it had just been gone.

He dwelt in the memory, reliving it in exacting detail. He pretended to be searching it for clues, and maybe he was, a little, but mainly, he was just reveling in it. He refused to let the sensations fade, trying fruitlessly to claw his way back into the memory, a doomed attempt to force his way back into that other world, where things were OK. Sam had been there in that world, safe and sound, Bobby too, standing respectfully aside, letting them have their moment.

It hadn't worked. The crappy motel room remained stubbornly occupied by only himself.

Then had come the frantic search, driven more by manic determination than rational logic. Jerking open the closet door and ripping aside the shower curtain, however, revealed no sign of his behemoth of a brother, their surly father figure, or the dark haired mystery woman. Some remaining vestige of sanity stopped him short of slicing open and gutting the mattress.

He was going on fumes. It had been a long day in both the literal and metaphorical sense. The outburst that had cast the room into disarray around him had burned off most of the little remaining energy he had. The pummeling of the emotions eased up some, if only because he didn't have much left in the way of resources with which to continue fueling them. He was just empty, which forced him to be, if not calm, at least still.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. Now stripped bare of sheets and blankets. The scene played again in his memory, this time, not forced by the desperate hunger to continue indulgence in the enticing details, but more naturally, more organically. Things he'd glossed over in his fervor to focus in on the parts with Sam started to take shape.

"Sam's in Pontiac."

The thought of it wrenched in his gut like a bad burger. He'd just left Pontiac. If he'd gone off in exactly the wrong direction because he'd been too screwed in the head, but no, he wasn't going to let himself go there. He barely had a grasp on what was happening around him without chasing down "what if" scenarios, that for all he knew, might have set off a whole different series of pseudo-memories. He'd just deal with what was in front of him, like he always did. That was how he did things.

What was in front of him was a lead, a lead to grab onto and focus on and follow. That was Dean's element, and despite everything, it was a comfortable place to be in.

An image fixed itself in his mind, burning red against the night sky from where it hung off the side of a weather worn brick wall, announcing to anyone interested that The Astoria Hotel had vacancies. Sam was there. Somehow, he knew. They'd meet up, and together, they would figure this all out, just like they always did. Hell, there was nothing keeping him from calling information right now. Dean leaned over, reaching for the room's phone with all the enthusiasm his flagging energy could muster.

He didn't know much about computers. That was something he had relied on Sam to be on top of. One thing he did know, he did not trust the one that told him that there was no listing for The Astoria in Pontiac. Irritably, he'd pressed the buttons necessary to navigate the maze of the automated system to the prize of being allowed to speak to an actual live person.

All that had gotten him was repeated insistences that there was no such listing, with decreasing levels of polite professionalism each time. Eventually, he'd been unceremoniously disconnected after a profanity laced outburst about what the operator could do with the computer.

He slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, taking his angry frustration out on the phone. A detached, sick feeling seized onto him. No matter what he tried, he just kept ending up adrift in a world that he had no real connection to, with nothing he could grab onto to try and stay afloat.

There was nothing to do but try to go to bed, and even if there were, his exhaustion was making sleep the only realistic option for his immediate future. Sleep, however, as much as it seemed to be forcing itself upon him, did not come easily. Unanswered questions kept asking themselves. Fresh memories of Sam's face, his voice, his damned scent, stark in Dean's recollection caused a dull ache in his chest.

Wrapped loosely in a blanket salvaged from the floor, Dean peered into the darkness with eyes he couldn't seem to keep closed. Morosely he muttered, "Where the hell are you, man?"