dean felt helpless. it had been two weeks since he’d woken up in the bunker – mouth dry, head woozy, and most alarming, completely, totally alone – and he felt like he had begun to exhaust any options he could think of to find sam. he needed to find sam. if he found sam, they could make sense of whatever the hell it was that was going on – no matter how complicated – together, like they always did. however, when he’d originally woken up, he’d called sam’s phone numbers – the ones he could remember, at least – over and over, to no avail. he’d prayed to castiel but got no response. he’d hoped for jack, even though it was pointless. what more could he do when he couldn’t remember everything he could do?
even though he felt helpless, dean didn’t give up. he wouldn’t. he couldn’t.
he’d spent the first week on the island investigating the bunker, looking through everything it had to offer him, from things that could help piece together his memories – photographs, journals – to things that could help him find sam – volumes of lore, books detailing magic. but when he came up empty handed, he’d decided to expand outside of the bunker for help. day after day, he scoured the island, chasing any strange occurrence, desperate for a lead. after a week of doing nothing but that, with very few hours of sleep in-between ventures, he had nothing to show for it.
yet again, he found himself in his closet. after going through it, dean retrieved the best black suit and tie that he could find in attempt to pass himself off as a respectable fbi agent and dressed himself accordingly. after completing the look by accenting it with a black trench coat, he tucked the most convincing, fake fbi badge he could find into one of its pockets near his chest, secured his gun in its holster at his side, and got into the impala. it wasn’t much of a drive before he reached the first neighborhood, his emerald eyes scanning the many houses it occupied. maybe it was a long shot to drive from neighborhood to neighborhood, interviewing random people at their homes, but at least it was better than sitting on his ass or giving up. it was something and what he had been doing, clearly, wasn’t working.
“somebody has to know something, right?” dean muttered to himself as he pulled in front of a random house, the roaring of the impala’s engine halting as he pulled the key from the ignition.
once he got out, he made his way to the porch, and knocked on the door. when it began to open, he pulled the fbi badge from his pocket and flashed it, “i’m agent shaw with the fbi. i am investigating something going on in the area and i’d like to ask you some questions.”
