( He wakes on the ground, pushing away the more unpleasant memories. He's not dead. Or, he is and he's back in Purgatory. That's what the towering trees and fog remind him of. Of course he wasn't good enough for Heaven, everything he and his brother did, years of trying to fight the good fight landed him back here.

Maybe Purgatory just missed him.

First thing's first. Arm himself.

All he can find is a jagged enough stick he breaks off, keeping it close and at the ready.

He doesn't go in the right direction first. (When does he ever.) Instead, he pushes through the fog and the trees to reach the ravine. He squints, approaching the edge. Peering downward, he quickly hops back. No, he will not be doing that.

Backing away, he faces the chasm. Something about it, if he turns, he's deathly afraid he'll lose his footing. Once he's gotten far enough, he turns tail and runs back the way he came. He feels with every bone in his body that something is after him, that he could fall, that he could lose his soul along with his life. If he's even dead. )

( Still armed with a sharp stick, Dean comes upon the town. It reminds him of a certain town his brother was left in, with all of Yellow Eyes' kids left to battle to the death. It's an unwanted memory, getting there at the very last minute, just in time to see Jake stab his brother.

It was the first time he lost Sam. Maybe this isn't Purgatory.

Passing the bookstore, he thinks he sees the a light in the corner of his eye. Was it the beam from a flashlight? Approaching, carefully, the windows are too dirty and smudged to make out who's inside. But there are people inside.

He doesn't know what to make of it. If wherever he is has lost souls, trapped people, demons. Take your pick on the hunter roulette wheel. The only thing he can do is go inside. What he finds is nothing. Nobody. No flashlights. No people. )

Friggin' haunted bookstore.

( He checks the counter, tries to find a phone in case he's not dead, not in Purgatory, not separated from his brother, from anything he knows. Everything is covered in dirty and dust. Using two fingers, he tries opening a drawer, checking for anything else, a flashlight, another kind of weapon. Something iron, perhaps. Maybe this bookstore has a fireplace for burning books.

Just a giant portrait.

And, what looks like a back office.

How big was this store again? What feels like a journey to the door he has to force his way into, isn't when he looks back. He knows things aren't right.

The safe is his next bet. Setting the stick down on the ground, he crouches by the safe. He runs fingers along the scratches. Leaning forward, he attempts to break into the safe, listening closely for clicks. Clicks ... that never come. He's all too focused on this to hear anybody else. )

( Everything, everything Dean finds is covered in dirt and grime.

At least the bulletin board's intact. He pulls his phone out, ready to call a John Constantine, but keeps walking along. Getting close, there's no mistaking what some of the words are written in.

Blood.

He knows a Daisy Johnson is missing. Or, was missing at one time.

There's a community here - currently, or there was. He's not Sam, he can't make out how old writing is. Good luck understanding some of the scrawled notes, though, he thinks.

Taking a piece of paper and a pen, because what could it hurt, he himself uses the wall. Pen to paper, he leaves his name, Chris Campbell, a member of the Silver Bullet band in case Winchesters carry a heavy price here, and the number to the phone he has on him. He tacks it up, something that isn't covered in dust and disuse.

Stepping back, he contemplates Constantine's number again. What are the chances this guy brings answers.

What are the chances this guy is alive? )