okay as I have stated numerous times before this an extremely long story. That being said, this chapter is the beginning of a new arc in the story. In the last chapter Dean took off on his own, hellbent on hunting down Dominic's men. This arc in the story picks up after considerable time has passed. I am actually quite nervous about posting it like this, but I think there are some really cool twists coming up in future chappies, so I am hoping everyone sticks it out to the end...bambers;)

Missing Presumed Dead

Chapter Forty-Five

"Need a room," Dean mumbled to the motel clerk, leaning hard against the counter to keep himself upright. A wave of dizziness nearly overwhelmed him, forcing him to press his injured torso closer to the wooden surface as he rested his forearms on the counter.

"Sure thing, Buddy," an older gentleman with salt-pepper hair said as he looked over his registration book. He looked up, and his sights were immediately drawn to the blood trailing down Dean's forehead from the deep gash just below his hairline. "You okay, son?" he asked concernedly as he gestured toward the wound on Dean's head.

"Yeah, I jus' . . . ." Dean touched his fingers to gash on his forehead and grimaced. "I jus' hit my head on the trunk when I was getting my bag out."

"You're sure you're okay?" His gaze lingered on Dean briefly, before lowering his head as if embarrassed.

"Yeah. M'okay."

The older man gave a subtle nod, seemingly believing Dean. "You alone or are you gonna need a spare key?"

"Jus' me." Dean swallowed hard, against the bile rising in his throat. His vision blurred, and he felt himself waver on shaky legs, but somehow managed to keep a firm hold on the desk so as not to fall.

"How long ya stayin'?" the short, bespectacled man asked, turning the register for Dean to write his signature.

"Couple of days." Careful to keep his leather jacket pulled tight over his bloodied flannel shirt, Dean took hold of the pen the man handed him, and signed his name. Then he reached into his pocket, yanked out his money, and tossed a small pile of crumpled bills on the counter. "Tha' should cover it."

Without waiting for any change, he trudged out the door, and headed to his room. Once inside, he dropped his duffel bag on the floor, collapsed on the bed, and yanked out his cell phone. Once again, as he had done so many times in the past few months, he replayed the messages on his voicemail, needing to hear the sound of a familiar voice.

"Dean, it's Dad, where the hell are you? It's been over a week, an' I've been looking everywhere for you. Give up the search for them, an' come back. Sam needs you." His father paused as if waiting for Dean to pick up the phone, but after a few moments, he continued onward, "When you get this message, call me back."

"End message one," the voice recorder announced, and within a moment the next one began.

"Dean, it's been three weeks now. You need to come back." His father sounded a little more desperate now, but as always, Dean could detect the order in what he had said. "Sam's staying at Bobby's while I'm out lookin' for you. Your little brother needs you, so stop runnin' an' find your way back home."

Tears filled Dean's eyes, and he hastily brushed them aside, knowing he had no right to cry. He was the one who had hurt Sam. If it hadn't been for him, his little brother never would have been taken prisoner by Dominic. Sam had every reason to hate him, and every reason to push him away, and no matter how much it hurt like hell, he would respect his brother's wishes.

"End message two," the voice recorder sounded.

"Damn it Dean, it's been well over a month now." Concern was now definitely evident in the older hunter's tone as went on to say, "I know if you don't wanna be found, then I'm not gonna find you, but I really need to know if you're okay. So when you get this message call me back."

Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, and shrugged off his jacket as he waited for the next message to play. Wincing, he pulled off his tattered flannel, and groaned when he saw the deep gash in his side. Cradling the phone to his ear, he grabbed for his duffel to get out the first aid kit.

"Dean, it's Bobby. You're Father's told me he hasn't heard from you in almost a month an' a half. Where the hell are you, boy?" Behind the gruffness of his tone, Dean could hear the sadness in his friend's voice, and consciously tried to block it out. "Sam's here, an' I know he's worried sick about you." Bobby drew in a staggered breath, and if Dean didn't know better, he could've sworn the older hunter was on the verge of tears. "Can't get him to say more than a word or two, here an' there, an' I'm really getting worried about him. He needs you to come home, Dean. We all need you to come home . . . Anyway, when you get this message call me back."

Dean's gaze slid to the empty bed beside his own, and for a moment envisioned Sam sound asleep underneath the covers. Blinking hard as tears blurred his vision, he rubbed the moisture from his eyes and refocused all his attention on cleaning and stitching his wound. A low hiss escaped him as he dabbed a gauze pad against the gash in his side to clean away the dirt and debris that had gotten into the wound. Dousing another gauze with saline, he carefully cleansed the injury more throughly, and grabbed another pad to press against the still bleeding gash.

"Dean, this is Dad. It's been over two months now, an' I still haven't heard from you." There was something different about his father's voice now as spoke. Deep, heartbroken sadness filled his tone, making it hard to listen to without breaking down. "I need to know that you're still alive, so please call me back as soon as you get this message."

"End of messages," the recorded voice announced.

Dean tossed the phone on the bed, and prepared to stitch his wound. Drawing the needle through his flesh, he winced as he wrapped it around and tied it off. His stomach curled snakelike as he drew the needle through again, a low hiss escaping him as he continued onward with sewing up the long jagged cut. Speckled dots of black played before his eyes as he finished off the last of the stitches, and placed a wide gauze pad across the wound and taped it securely.

Slowly making his way to his feet, he trudged to the bathroom. At the sink, he flipped on the water, and cupping his hands together, he filled them with cool water to splash on his grim-covered face. The water in the sink turned from a pale brown to a rusty color as blood dripped from the jagged cut on his forehead. It probably needed stitches, but Dean just didn't think he had the strength at the moment to accomplish the task without passing out.

Once finished cleaning his face, he turned off the water and grabbed for a towel. As he wiped the droplets of water from his face, Dean caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Eyes, hollow and lifeless reflected back at him. Dark smudges circled his eyes, attesting to how hard he had pushed himself, and how little sleep he had gotten. His hair had now grown back fully, and if anything was a bit more shaggy than he would've normally worn it. Lifting back his bangs, he grimaced as he noticed a rather large bump on his head. Gently, he dabbed his finger against the cut, and cursed under his breath. "Yeah, that definitely is gonna need stitches.

He scrubbed his hand through the thick, scruffy beard that now graced his haggard features. As he did so, his thoughts turned once again to Sam. He never called . . . not once in all this time . . . he never called. If he had jus' called once . . . .

Dean looked at his reflection again, and his lips curled into a scowl, hating what he saw. His fists clenched tightly as he continued to stare at himself. Why would he call you? You were supposed to protect him. You had one job to do, an' you screwed it all to hell. He hates you, Dean.

"Damn it, Sammy, why didn't you call me?" An abrupt cry ripped from his lips as he slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering it. Blood dripped from his knuckles as he cocked back his fist and struck the glass another time. Sinking to the floor, he pushed himself up against the wall, drew up his knees and lowered his head to rest on his forearms. He sat like that for the longest time, too tired to move and too heartbroken to care.

He had tried to find the rest of Dominic's men, had searched everywhere he could think of to locate them, but no matter how hard he had tried it seemed as if they had just disappeared. And realizing that he had once again failed to protect Sam, he had thrown himself into hunting whatever evil he could find.

His father had been right when he said that if Dean didn't want to be found, they would never find him. He had stuck way below the radar, never staying in one particular town any longer than it took to kill whatever he was hunting at the time, and then he moved on to the next hunt. Not wanting to leave any sort of paper trail behind that his Dad or Bobby might be able to follow, he had stopped using fake credit cards and resorted to gambling and pool to survive. And several times when money had been scarce or he was too injured to move onward, he slept in his car. But luckily for him, this latest hunt was a paying gig. Although from the way the damn poltergeist tossed him around like a rag doll before Dean had finally sent it packing, he should have really asked for more money. But at least he had a bed to sleep in for the night, and had to be grateful for that at the moment.

As he began to nod off, the sound of his phone ringing drew him back to consciousness. He waited until the cell stopped ringing before he dragged himself to his feet. Hearing the quiet beeping tone announcing another voice mail, he plodded back to his bed, slumped onto the mattress and snatched up the phone to listen to the message.

"Dean, it's Dad," his father said in a very shaky voice. "I've tried everything I know how to do to find you, an' still haven't turned up anything. I'm not even sure you're gettin' this message as I tried tracking you through GPS, an' came up with a dead end." His father drew in a staggered breath, and continued, "Sam's not doin' good at all . . . all his injuries have healed okay, but he's not . . . I dunno, he's just not the same. He spends all his time alone, and barely speaks to anyone." John fell silent again, and Dean awaited with bated breath to hear what his father would say next. "I know Bobby called you before an' told you about Sammy, so I'm guessin' if you were alright, you would've come home by now. I don't wanna believe your dead, s-son," his voice hitched in his throat. "but it's been over two months now, so I'm kinda getting' short on hope. So if you're listenin' to this, please call me back an' let me know you're okay."

Dean rewound the message and played it again, tears slipping silently down his cheeks as he heard the hopeless resignation in his father's voice. He thinks you're dead, Dean . . . he's given up on you. It was Dominic's cold and calculating voice Dean now heard inside his head, and the bitter truth was that he was right. The message was nothing more than a goodbye. He has Sammy, why would he still need you? He's better off without you messing up everything.

Dean's hand clenched tightly around the phone as he listened to the voice inside his head. That's right, Dean. To them you're dead . . . they're not gonna be lookin' for you anymore. Cocking back his arm, Dean heaved the phone at the wall, and watched as the broken pieces fell to the floor. So now it's only a matter of time before you really do die . . . .