Chapter Two

The next few chapters will be Supernatural-centric to give enough time for Buffy to be dead before she comes back, but don't worry. Buffy and the Scooby Gang will join us later! (How could I not let them discover a male Slayer?)

Dean walked along an empty road, his jacket tied around his waist in the heat. He had been walking for two miles at least, and he knew he should be tired from the heat and lack of water, but he still felt strong enough to walk another ten miles. He didn't understand it. After having just come back from the dead, he shouldn't be feeling this good. He just wanted to get to Sam or Bobby for answers.

Dean looked up and spotted a gas station just around a clump of trees. He headed towards it, hoping to find a phone and—hopefully—some water. Unfortunately, it looked as though it was deserted. He walked up to the door, peering through the glass.

"Hello?" he called hoarsely.

God, I need some water, he thought.

Seeing no one inside and getting no response, Dean took the jacket from around his waist and wrapped it around his hand. He braced himself and then swung at the glass by the doorknob to break it.

With a bang, the door flew off its hinges and slammed into the shelving unit inside, collapsing to the floor. Dean stared wide-eyed at the door, his hand still raised in front of him.

"What the…" Dean muttered, looking down in apprehension at his hand.

No, no, no… he thought in fear. No, it's not possible…I came back a demon, no…

Dean's eyes swept the inside of the abandoned, run-down gas station.

Oh, my God…I was down there so long…This place is abandoned…No, no, no…

As he looked around the store, he spotted the fridge in the corner with bottles of water inside of it. Forgetting his predicament in the face of his thirst, he headed straight for the cooler and opened it, pulling a bottle of water out and chugging it. The cold water felt so good on his parched throat. He took several deep breaths as he leaned against the cooler.

It seemed to come to him as he rested there that this place couldn't have been run down; they obviously stocked the cooler and paid the electric bill regularly. Maybe this place was just cheap. He looked down next to the cooler and spotted a stack of newspapers.

Perfect, Dean thought. A date…

Dean grabbed the paper off the top and read the date under the title: Thursday, September 18, 2008.

"September?" Dean mumbled in confusion.

September…2008? How is that possible? I was only down there four months? Then where did this strength come from?

Dean glanced down at the door next to his feet.

Maybe the door's just old. Yeah. Probably rusted hinges.

Dean glanced up at the doorframe, his frown deepening. He walked over to the frame, peering closely at the hinges on it. The hinges looked practically brand new, and they were broken off. It wasn't that the hinges had been torn out of the wood; the metal where the hinges on the frame connected to the hinges on the door had been torn off, bent and twisted.

Dean had literally torn the door off its hinges.

"What the hell is happening to me?" said Dean, running his hand along the hinges.

Dean stepped away from the door and walked to the back of the store, finding a sink on the wall in front of a mirror. He glanced at his reflection, staring closely at his eyes. He clenched his eyes shut, straining as hard as he could. He snapped them open again, but didn't see any soulless black; just his usual vibrant green. He wasn't really sure how to make his eyes change to black, but demons seemed to be able to do it easily enough. Surely, if he was a demon, that would come easily to him.

Well, that's something, I guess.

Dean put his jacket on the side of the sink, turning the water on and splashing it on his face a few times. He turned the faucet off and used his jacket to dry his face off. He looked up at his reflection, looking down at his chest. He grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulled it up, seeing that his chest was completely whole. It didn't look like the hellhounds had even touched him.

Not even a scar… Dean thought as he dropped his shirt back down.

He shifted a little in front of the mirror and winced as his shirt rubbed against his left shoulder. There was a stinging burn there that had been bugging him since he crawled out of that grave. He turned his left side towards the mirror as he grasped the sleeve and pulled it up, gasping as he found a handprint burned into his shoulder.

Dean's eyes widened.

The blinding figure drew closer to him, reaching a hand out for him. The hand latched onto his left shoulder fimly, dragging him upwards as everything grew lighter and less oppressive.

Dean stared at the handprint on his shoulder uncertainly, wondering just what the hell had pulled him out. Because that's the only explanation left to Dean now. He obviously wasn't a full-fledged demon. He could still feel his humanity keeping him from zapping to the nearest town and going on a killing spree. Not to mention the eye thing—that had to be one of the first things a demon figured out how to do. So, if he wasn't a real demon, then he couldn't have gotten himself out. Something had to have pulled him out.

Deciding to give his brain a rest from trying to figure it out, Dean headed to the counter and grabbed a plastic bag, making his way through the aisles and filling the bag with candy bars, snacks and water bottles. He opened one of the candy bars as he went, taking a bite out of it.

Sorry for looting your place, buddy, but I haven't eaten in four months.

As Dean stuffed a few more snacks into the bag, he reached a magazine stand, smiling as he spotted a Busty Asian Beauties. He grabbed it and flipped through it before stuffing it inside his bag. He walked over to the counter, setting his bag down. His eyes flew over all the buttons on the register before spotting a big green one near the bottom on the right. He hit the button, and the register dinged as it popped open. Dean snapped his fingers in satisfaction as he pulled it the rest of the way open and began grabbing bills.

Suddenly, Dean froze as he felt some sixth sense begin to nudge at him.

Something's off… Dean thought as he looked up at the store, searching it for anything unusual. He couldn't explain it, but he just felt like…something was coming…

The television behind the counter flicked on, static and white noise emitting from it. Dean glanced over at it, slowly reaching over and shutting it off.

That can't be a coincidence…

The radio on the other side of the counter flicked on, playing some easy listening music while picking up some static.

Dean glanced up at the store, hunter's mask sliding familiarly into place. He darted out from behind the counter, stuffing the register cash into his jeans pocket as the television flicked back on to static and white noise. He grabbed a container of salt from the shelf and headed to a window, pouring salt onto the sill. He used his hand to keep the salt on the sill.

Well, that's a good sign, Dean thought as his hand made contact with the salt with no burn.

Something began humming all around him. It seemed to come from everywhere; there didn't seem to be any source for the noise. The hum grew in pitch and volume, and Dean put his hand to his ear, still trying to pour the salt. His hunter's instinct was telling him to hole up, protect the place from whatever is gonna come in. But another instinct was screaming at him to RUN!

Dean abandoned the salt and darted for the front door as the window he'd been working on shattered, blowing inwards. He covered his ears as he grabbed the doorknob, flinging the door open. As the high-pitched hum grew unbearable, Dean threw himself out of the door as he heard a loud shatter. Dean landed on the pavement of the station, his arms still over his ears as he rolled to a stop.

As the high-pitched hum vanished, Dean went with his momentum, getting his feet under him and pulling himself to a squatting position, his hands in front of him to fight back. He stared in shock at the gas station, whose windows had all blown out. He waited expectantly, braced for the fight. After a few moments and nothing attacking, Dean straightened himself little by little as he made his way back to the station, looking in at the store filled with glass all over the floor.

"What the hell…" muttered Dean.

Every bit of glass in the place had imploded; even the light bulbs on the ceiling had shattered. Dean looked down at his hands, seeing that there was blood on them.

He brought his hands back up to his ears, wiping his fingers on them and bringing them away to find blood there. He grabbed the edge of his jacket and brought it up to his ears, wiping the blood away from them.

Dean carefully made his way back into the store, not wanting to slip and fall on the numerous glass shards. He grabbed the plastic bag from the counter, shaking the glass from it and heading back out to the pavement. He glanced around the station, spotting a telephone booth at the corner of it. Dean headed back inside, leaning over the counter and grabbing a handful of quarters. He headed back outside and set the bag on the ground outside the phone booth, stepping inside of it.

Dean grabbed the receiver and cradled it between his ear and shoulder, slipping a quarter into the money slot.

Sammy… Dean thought as he dialed his number.

He waited a moment before the phone beeped at him.

"We're sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected."

Dammit! Dean thought as he hung up, grabbing another quarter and putting it in the slot. He picked up the receiver again.

Bobby, then.

He dialed the number and waited a moment. The phone rang once before someone picked up.

"Yeah?" asked a gruff voice.

"Bobby?" asked Dean, relief flooding through him that he had picked up. It meant he was still alive. Dean didn't want to think about what that meant for Sam.

"Yeah?" said Bobby again.

"It's me," said Dean.

"Who's me?"

"Dean!" he said impatiently. How do you not recognize your surrogate son's voice?

The dial tone sounded, and Dean looked at the receiver in shock.

He hung up on me?

Dean sighed, putting in another quarter and dialing the number again. He decided to cut Bobby some slack. After all, he thought Dean was still dead. Dean would probably react the same way.

"Who is this?" Bobby asked angrily when he answered.

"Bobby, listen to me—" began Dean, not really sure what he was gonna tell Bobby.

"This ain't funny," growled Bobby. "Call again, I'll kill ya."

And with that, he promptly hung up again. Dean irritatingly put the receiver back on the phone, turning as he thought about what he was gonna do next. He spotted a beat-up white car in the lot and shrugged.

Well, Bobby doesn't wanna talk, I'll just take the party to him.

As Dean headed over to the old classic, he sent a silent prayer out.

Please don't let him kill me…