*Dean's Perspective*

It was about a year ago when the precious Impala needed a jump start to its battery as Dean and Sam were leaving the Twilight Motel after rendezvousing with some malicious, mysterious, demon. The car sputtered and putted its way onto the side of the highway, its radio and lights flickering on and off, indicative of a battery going bad. Exhausted and fatigued as they both were, both sustaining a few bumps and bruises, and with Dean's concussed head throbbing like a vein that can't sustain too much blood, it was understandable that this was neither the time, nor the place. Dean slammed his hands on the steering wheel, quickly caressing it and apologizing to his girl; he couldn't help but curse her as well.

"After all the work and love I've put into you," he grumbled as he pushed open the driver's side door, "you'd think just once, you'd repay me with a night of smooth riding."

"Dean," Sam shook his head, wincing at the pain in his neck, "it's just a car."

Sam, too late to rescind his misspoken words, grimaced at his older brother's scornful face. Dean raised his head, slowly, almost dramatically, his left eye swollen half shut, and glared over the hood of said car.

"Just a car, Sam?" he growled, his voice raising bar, "Just a car!"

"You know how many times we'd be humpin' it through God knows where, if it weren't for this car," he pointed to it, roughly.

"I know, Dean," Sam attempted to apologize, but Dean cut him off.

"You know nothing about her, nothing about the mechanics to a lasting relationship, you know nothing."

"Dean, really?" Sam couldn't help but curl his lip into a small smile.

"You know nothing," Dean nodded, "therefore you shut your cake hole or I'll do it for you."

Sam mimicked sliding a zipper across his lips, turning an imaginary key, and tossed the proverbial key, at Dean's chest. Dean pocketed the key and ambled his way to the trunk. Taking out the jumper cables, he walked to the front end of his car, and opened the hood.

"Now Sammy, do me a favor, walk to that light over there and show them passing cars a little leg, would you?"

"You have got to be kidding me!" Sam threw up his hands.

Dean stoically looked over towards his brother and circled a finger round his face, "Does this look like my jokey face?"

Huffing and humping it like Dean said to do, Sam detoured to the intersection, and hailed an oncoming car. It was as if fate had stepped in and staring Sam down with its high beams was a musty, beat up, local town towing truck. It pulled to an unsteady halt along side the edge of the road. The driver reached over and manually rolled down the window of the passenger's side and called out,

"Car trouble?" his grisly voice echoed into the dead night air.

"Um, yeah," Sam rustled his hair at the pure luck of it all and pointed to the Impala a few feet ahead, "think you could give us a jump?"

"Sure thing," the tow truck operator smiled, his front teeth were cracked and yellowed. Sam tried hard to look past them. The tow truck eased up along side the stationary car and the man jumped out and grabbed the jumper cables from his flatbed. The man chuckled and tsked the two men as he slowly dragged his left foot, limping towards Dean who still had half his body leant over into the hood of his precious car.

"You two boys sure are lucky I showed up when I did," he released the hatch of his truck and hooked up the jumper cables and traced the counterparts to the battery of the Impala.

Dean looked at the man suspiciously, never trusting of anyone until he got a good look in their eyes, but this man, unfortunately, had only one good eye spare. His right one was glazed over from cataracts, while his left one, twitched back and forth as he worked at the scene.

"Lucky?" Dean made his way over to the driver's seat, ready to start up the car as their mysterious savior did the same.

"Yeah," the man started up his engine and hollered out to Dean, "been stories of hijackings along this here highway. Happen every other night, I suppose."

Dean gave Sam a look that could only have said, is this guy for real, and Sam just shrugged as he watched Dean crank the key and turn the engine over. Not once, but twice, until loud, rock, music blasted out the stereo. Dean kissed the steering wheel and hooted. His baby was alive. Dean jumped out of the car to thank the driver of the tow truck, but was taken by surprise when the man pulled out a taser and shot Dean straight in the chest. The voltage alone would have woken the dead, one of Dean's last thoughts as he watched the man, turn his body towards an oncoming Sam, who was wielding a shotgun. A blast went off, but Sam missed, the man hid behind the tow truck. Sam hunched over Dean's body and attempted to remove the metal spikes that lodged themselves into his chest. Another current of electricity raced through Dean's chest, bringing the unsuspecting Sam down with him. The rest of Dean's memory was a blur.

Then he woke up.

His breath, ragged, his heart, jumpstarted, thumped loudly in his chest, but he was blind. No, no, he couldn't have been blind, he was encased in something. He clawed his fingers along the narrow sides of his surroundings and splinters dug into his raw tipped fingers. Cursing, he reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a Zippo lighter, flicked it, not once, but twice, and held it up. He was buried, in a pine, box, nonetheless. Dean's heart rate became erratic, as he clawed at the ceiling of the box, punching it, kicking at the wooden casket, slowly smiling as he thanked whoever the idiot was for burying him in something easily destructible. The wooden casket began to splinter apart, dirt fell into Dean's eyes, and he got a mouthful of earth and fresh air. He clawed his way out, of the box, first, then the unimaginable six feet of dirt that was caked on top of the casket. His hands, raw, bloodied, and dirty, pushed through the top layer of sod and with all the strength he could muster, he pulled himself out. He crawled to his knees and caught his breath, slowing his heart down, he looked at his surroundings. An ordinary cross was staring at him and he immediately looked to the right of it; no cross. He then looked to the left; no cross there, either. He was alone. Where was his brother? What did that crazed sonofabitch tow truck driver do with his brother?

Dean's head ached, his body, throbbed, his lungs filled with clean air with each gulping breath he took. The pulsing in his veins grew louder as he brought his hands to his ears, hoping to drown out the sound. What was the earth piercing sound? Flashes of memories singed his brain and he jumped to his feet. Sam wasn't anywhere to be found; not because of the serial tow trucker, but because Dean had died. Dean had been in Hell. It was all coming back to him; Ruby being possessed by Lilith, ordering the Hell hounds to get him, his chest being ripped to shreds. Calling out for Sam as he was skewered amid barbed wires, hanging aloft the burning embers of Hell itself.

He had to find Sam. He was alive; he had no reason why; but he knew Sam would. But before he could take another step forward, he was standing outside a familiar site, Bobby's old place. He tried to call out, but he had no voice. The older man, drew his rifle out, and chased Dean, cursing the devil himself for torturing an old man with an apparition of Dean. Bobby turned a corner and Dean was gone.

Dean was running but it was now night and he was standing in front of an old abandoned building, flames flickered in the windows, shrill shrieks could be heard, as well as gun shots. He crouched down, behind a car, and leant against its cool exterior; it was his car. He stood up, waiting for Sam, and he saw his brother, bloodied and beaten, but alive. Sam stood motionless as he rubbed at his eyes; that couldn't have been Dean. Dean just nodded, thinking, That'a'boy, Sam, and vanished.

He was alive, wasn't he? Or was he ripped from Hell and given one last chance to see those he loved, before he was sent on another journey, to, God knows where? Dean laughed to himself; God? Who was he kidding? There wasn't a God. But if there wasn't a God, why was Dean back in front of his own grave, making his way to an abandoned gas station, where he found his mouth and throat so dry, he pillaged the refrigerated coolers of a water bottle and crammed down some chocolate snacks? Dean found a bathroom, turned on the faucet and washed his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. He examined his cheekbones; he dragged a hand down his face; no scars, no wounds. His mind flashed back to the night he died, and he lifted his t-shirt, revealing a well-chiseled, yet unblemished chest. How could that be?

"I gotta call Sam," Dean had found his voice. He ransacked the cash register, pocketed the cash, and found a payphone. Sam's number was no longer in service. Slamming the phone back onto its cradle, Dean fished in his pocket for more change and called Bobby. He was so relieved to hear the man's voice, but was shocked when Bobby didn't sound as thrilled as he was.

"Call me again and I'll hunt you down and kill you ma'self, you sick sonofabitch."

"Huh," Dean scoffed, "well okay then."

He heard a car pulling up and he just shook his head in awe. From what he could tell, it was a '76 Camaro, orange racing stripes down it's sleek, yet, aged, white exterior. He was pretty sure he could hear a faint hum of some Bob Dylan classic, but what mesmerized him more, was the fact that the petite driver had pulled out a camera and was taking his photo. He watched, as the young woman got out of her car, its door creaked and sent a flock of crows flying into the west, and she began to run towards him, the camera in one hand, the other waving him down. She shouted his name, over, and over, but he was unsure of whom she was; she looked familiar, then again, he was supposed to be burning away eternally in Hell. She could have been a Trickster, or some delusion. Dean did the only thing he could think of; which was out of character for a Winchester; he ran. He ran until he cleared the store and her trailing footsteps disappeared. That wasn't the only time she appeared, Dean remembered. She had shown up again, only days before, this time, driving his car, AC/DC blaring, 'If you want blood'…

Dean tapped his foot into the dirt, singing along, "You got it." Anger was brewing in his veins.

She sat in his driver's seat, with the same goddamn camera.

"Of all the things he could have done with my car," Dean mumbled, "he sold it to a chick?"

"The ungrateful sonofabitch." Dean grumbled, watching as the young woman argued on a cell phone, switching between taking his photo, to yelling into her phone. Dean's ears picked up on one single word and it brought tears to his eyes; she had just yelled out his brother's name. Sam.

Present Day.

Dean hung around the abandoned lot, unsure of the things he had been seeing. With no way of reaching out, he hung around the abandoned store, read some of the smut magazines, filled up on snack cakes and caffeine, and organized the shelves in alphabetical order. Yeah, he thought to himself, I must still be in Hell. There was an abandoned car outside in the deserted lot, but he couldn't hotwire it. There wasn't a car on earth that he couldn't get running, yet here he was, on 'earth', and the poor excuse of a car wouldn't turn over. He nodded again, looking out towards the highway,

"Definitely Hell." He was smug. "Or something like it."

He made his way back to the lonely cross and stood sentry at it, wondering what exactly was going on. Flashes of memories poured into his head, some ungodly, disharmonious, ear bleeding howl invaded his ears, every now and then, but nothing made sense. Nothing. If none of that made sense, then what he was seeing now, in front of his very own eyes, were three vehicles, coming in from three different directions. His brother, Sam, was driving the Impala, slowly, coming in from the North. Bobby's rickety old car was kicking up dust from the East, and that chick, in that amazing Camaro was slowly idling from the West. Dean wasn't sure if he was imagining things or not, but there was only one way to find out. He walked towards his car, his brother, and all three vehicles began to encircle the surrounding area, pouring what appeared to be large grade bags of salt as they sealed in the area.