Chapter Three

Dean was out of toilet paper.

He had barely made a dent in the over-stocked fridge yet, and he probably had enough shampoo to last him a year, but there was no toilet paper.

A part of Dean wondered if Sam had forgotten it deliberately.

He had been living in this house for a little over a month, and Sam's weekly supply runs had meant he had no real need to venture out into the neighbourhood.

Now it seemed he had no choice.

He wasn't looking forward to it. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that the very thought of leaving the safety of these four walls caused a cold sweat to break out on his forehead and anxiety to curl in his gut.

He didn't have a logical reason for it. The street outside always looked calm and peaceful when he peered through his curtains. The people walking by looked harmless. There had been no screeching tires or wailing sirens during the night. And Sam wouldn't have set him up in a town with a bad rep.

But, irrational as it was, Dean felt that there was something dangerous out there. Something lying in wait, ready to pounce when he let his guard down.

There was nothing for it, though. He knew he couldn't hide inside forever.

He went through the motions of getting dressed, carefully averting his gaze from the mottled pock-marks and mess of white lines that littered his body. When he knelt to tie his bootlaces the blinding pain from his knees nearly caused him to pass out on the spot. He swayed alarmingly and was sure that the scrambled eggs he'd had for breakfast were about to make a very unpleasant comeback, but he managed to grasp the edge of his dresser and drag himself upright. For what felt like an eternity he just stood there panting, wondering for the hundredth time how he was supposed to do this alone.

Where the hell are you? Why aren't you here?

Dean didn't even realise that he was gripping the ring in his pocket so hard that the metal was digging into his palm until the pain in his knees abated and his hand made its protests known. He released the ring like it had burned him.

"This is fucking stupid," Dean muttered. He didn't even know the guy, but he was expecting him to turn up as his knight in shining armour? Pathetic.

Gritting his teeth, he stomped into the kitchen and snatched his keys from the bench before storming outside and slamming the door behind him.

He resolutely ignored the way his scars tingled at the cold touch of open air.

There was something calming about slipping behind the wheel of the Impala. The seat molded to him in a way that nothing in his house did, like it was welcoming him home. The purr of the engine was music to his ears, and as he pulled out onto the road his breathing slowed.

He could do this.

It wasn't a very large town and Dean found Main Street easily enough, though he almost would have preferred driving around in circles for a few hours. He parked reluctantly and popped the car door open. His knees were stiff but he tried not to let the discomfort show on his face as he locked his car and headed down the sidewalk towards the general store.

There were a lot of people in there. He froze on the threshold, staring at the narrow aisles and high shelves and women with strollers and the beeping registers and harried shop assistants and the sheer number of people in such a small space.

He couldn't breathe.

"Excuse me," a woman said.

Dean couldn't move.

She frowned and made to squeeze past him and his body jolted like he had been electrocuted; he stumbled backwards and then his knee crumpled and he almost fell.

A hand caught him.

"Hey, buddy, you okay?"

Dean's gaze flashed up, and hope flared in his gut.

But it wasn't Castiel.

It was a man, probably in his late 20s. He was looking at Dean with concern and held his elbow in a secure grip.

"What?" Dean asked stupidly.

"Are you okay?" he repeated slowly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

The word sent a funny pang through his chest. He had no idea why.

"I'm fine," he rasped. "Thank you. Sorry."

He looked dubious but let him go. "Okay man."

Dean fled into the store, hoping that he wouldn't have to talk to anyone else. He found the toilet paper as fast as he could and handed the money to the cashier without a word. She gave him a glare that clearly meant 'how rude' but he ignored her.

It wasn't until he was safely back in his car that he felt he could breathe properly again.

As his heartrate gradually settled, Dean felt a flush creep up his neck. What the hell was wrong with him? He was pretty sure that normal people didn't freak out during a simple shopping trip.

He didn't know how he was supposed to function if even the most basic tasks were insanely difficult. Surely his life hadn't been like this before. Maybe it was the whole lot of empty rattling around his brain that was turning him into a head case.

He hated it. He wanted to scream and cry and pound his fists into a wall until they bled. He wanted to turn back time and stop his memories from ever going A.W.O.L. He wanted his life back.

But what he wanted made no difference. This was his life now. He was just going to have to learn how to cope.

And that started with facing this stupid fear of public places.

He glanced out through the windshield and noticed that he was parked outside a bookstore. It looked innocuous enough; quiet, quaint, not too many people.

He mustered what little courage he had and got back out of the car. He could do this. He waited for a few people to pass him before he crossed to the store front. A bell tinkled as he entered. There was gentle music playing and a musty smell in the air that seemed familiar. He inhaled deeply.

"I love the smell of old books."

Dean spun around and just barely contained the instinct to punch out whoever it was that had snuck up on him like that. Good thing he had; it was a little old lady with a warm smile, and by her name badge he gathered that this was her bookstore.

"Is that what it is?" Dean asked. He hadn't remembered. Because apparently his mind couldn't even hold onto something as simple as that.

"Mm. Reminds me of peaceful nights sat by the fireplace with a cup of tea and a good book."

Dean didn't know what it reminded him of, but the familiarity of the scent made him think that books must have had some significance in his life before. He wished he knew what.

"Are you looking for anything in particular, dear?"

"Oh." He hadn't thought that far ahead. He looked around, searching for inspiration, and his gaze lighted on a display of yellow books with titles like 'Cooking Basics for Dummies' and 'Relationships for Dummies' and 'Home Maintenance for Dummies'. Dummy. That seemed the perfect word to describe him. He probably needed the entire set, but one in particular caught his eye: 'Auto Repair for Dummies'. He was supposed to go for a job interview in two days and he had absolutely no confidence that he would have a clue what he was doing. Even if his hands knew their job, if he didn't know the terminology he'd be rejected on the spot.

"That one," he said, pointing.

She retrieved it for him and wrapped it in brown paper. Her till made a sound like a bell when she opened it to put through his payment; it was far less jarring than the registers at the general store.

"There you are, dear," she said with a smile.

He returned one tentatively. "Thank you..." He glanced at her name-tag; he hadn't been paying attention the first time. "...Marjorie."

"Any time."

He wasn't nearly as panicked this time as he left.

Slow and steady, he thought. He could do this.

He was about to return to his car when he caught a glimpse of a tan coat out of the corner of his eye. He whirled to get a better look, his heart suddenly galloping a mile a minute again.

But there was no one there.

Dean almost ran down the street in search of his mystery man, but he tamped down on the urge. He'd done enough crazy for one day.

Disappointed, he got back in the car and drove home.

That night he studied his book and tried very hard not to think of the man in the trenchcoat.

Dreams, he had less control over.

ooOOoo