Whoops. That was a long hiatus. Sorry. I was busy working on other Poor Life Decisions (a.k.a Supernatural fanfics).
- OK -
When Dean woke up, he was in the Impala, his head throbbing. It was dark outside the car and the roads were lit up by flickering street lamps. His phone was vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it. It was probably just Sam, or maybe Lisa wondering why he hadn't called recently. He remembered the graveyard and the bartender and then the flash of light, but nothing beyond that. He seemed safe for the time being, so he decided to answer his phone.
As it turned out, it wasn't actually ringing. Sam had sent him a few text messages, and the phone was continuously reminding him that they were there. The texts were all from earlier that day, informing him that Sam was going to go to the bar after he was finished researching and that if he wanted to meet him there, he could.
So Sam hadn't missed him, despite the fact that it was now well past eight o'clock and their day had started at around nine in the morning. He had been in that graveyard for hours, and Sam was out barhopping.
He would have directed more energy to sulking about it if the more pressing matter wasn't how he had ended up in his car and who had saved him back in the graveyard. The flash of light could have had a hundred causes, but Dean knew there was really only one thing it could have been to make a demon haul ass like that: an angel.
"What is this place, freaking angel city?" he muttered angrily under his breath. He knew he should have been grateful, but he had put up a block against those kinds of emotions long ego. Besides, angels had agendas. They didn't just save anyone. Even when Castiel had pulled his ass out of hell, there had been a plan for him. Fresh waves of irritation coursed through him.
He typed a quick, backhanded response to Sam- something about blood and loyalty and could have been dead- before opening the door and stepping out of the car. He figured he might as well see if the graveyard had any clues as to his mysterious rescue, and if the bartender was dead or gone.
It was dark, so he grabbed a flash light from the trunk and headed for the gates. It was as creepy and dead as it had been that morning, only now there was a mosquito epidemic coupled with the distinct stench of sulfur. He didn't recognize anything out of the ordinary immediately, except that the bartender was nowhere to be seen. He made a mental note to ask for her at the bar and tried to remember what her name tag had said. These things were usually so easy to remember, since name tags generally hung over one of Dean's favourite places, but whatever the name had been, it was escaping him.
Shrugging, he continued scanning the graveyard, looking for clues as to what had happened there. He found the place where he had been thrown against the railing and made his way back to Elvis' grave, and even backtracked to the place where the cat had jumped out of the bushes, but there was nothing - not even any footprints.
Eventually, he gave up and headed back into the car, grabbing his keys and turning them in the ignition. He pulled back onto the road, pulling up a mental map of the town and trying to figure out the shortest route to the bar. He didn't even notice the pothole until he drove straight through it, the car jerking violently.
Something hard and small flew off of the seat next to him, glinting silver, and bounced off of his chest. He stopped the car, curses on his tongue, and picked up the offending item- a weathered Zippo lighter. He frowned. He owned more than one Zippo, but not any this old, nor with engravings like these. Initials were displayed on one side, RAK, and a quote on the other: 'When you're going through hell, keep going.' It must have been quite old, because it didn't have any date markings on the bottom, and it was in fairly good condition. Dean didn't know much about the history of lighters, but he knew enough to know that whoever had lost this (in his car?) had lost something very valuable.
"R-A-K?" he spelled out. He did a quick run through of all the people he had ever met whose names started with R, but he didn't know any RAKs, or even RKs.
Of course, the more urgent matter was why RAK, whoever he or she (or it) was, had been in his car long enough to lose the Zippo. Especially someone as meticulous as RAK must have been to keep the lighter in the shape it was in for how old it was.
Frowning harder, he stuffed the lighter into his pocket for safekeeping and kept driving. He'd bring his findings back to the bar, where he'd see if he could find the bartender, and hopefully find Sam as well.