Dean had been following a trail of someone, a hunter, possibly. They didn’t really act that way though since apparently they were killing innocent people too. Dean furrowed his brows, looking at his notes as he sat in the back of a mostly empty cafe in Mounds, Illinois. He was tired and the coffee wasn’t even helping.
Tracking this is a bitch, there isn’t even a pattern. Wait. Dean pulled out his red pen and circled another town that’d been hit. He furrowed his brows. “Looks like that’s the next one. Hopefully I’m not too late.” He got up out of the booth, slapping a five dollar bill onto the table and burst out of the side door, heading towards the Impala. As he got there he swung the door open and settled in, staring at the map again. “Straight shot up 57.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel before starting the car up with a purr.
Without Sam it was a little more difficult that Dean would want to acknowledge, but he wasn’t stopping just because he was on his own. He’d been on his own before, he could work it out just fine. He sped onto 57 and continued to ignore the speed limit signs telling him that 70 was the limit, he was pushing 85 by the time he got to Marion, or the outskirts of it.
Once Dean got into town he spotted smoke, “Dammit!” He hit the steering wheel and hightailed it towards the smoke that curled up into the evening sky. He was already too late. He pulled over and checked his map. “Where are you leading me now, jackass?” He growled and traced the highways of the possibilities. He got out and interviewed a few towns people, asking if they’d seen anything suspicious. Only one thing added up, older guy in his 60’s, beat up car, hanging around for a couple of days. “Bobby.” Was Dean’s first reaction, but it couldn’t be. Could it?
Dean whipped out his cell phone and dialed Bobby’s number. He’s dead, Dean, he ain’t gonna answer the damn phone. He sighed when the phone went to voicemail. But he’s been dead for how long? How was the number still in service? Track it.
Once Dean was done tracking, the GPS told him exactly where the person who had Bobby’s phone was. Thanks, Sam. He remembered when Sam had run away, of walked away and he used that tracker. Man, he was good.
It only took him a couple of hours to catch up to where it’d told him they would be. “Of course, small town, not many places to hide.” A smirk appeared on his lips. He pulled the Impala up outside of a bar, figuring what the hell, maybe they were an old drunk too.
Maybe Dean just wanted a drink though, as he waltz in the door he went straight for the bar. It probably wasn’t even him. it could have been fifty other hunters… Suddenly he caught a glimpse of a beat up old baseball cap. Son of a bitch. Dean stalked, not so quietly, towards the man in the cap, the build was similar if not the same to Bobby. The hair, the hat, he swore that was one of his hats. “Bobby?” Dean mumbled, his eyebrows furrowing as he stopped a couple of feet away, staring, shocked. “Bobby?” He asked louder, hoping this time it would catch his attention. If it is him.
