Not Until We Are Lost

A day or two after arriving in the world of black and white, Dean still hadn't found Jo. Or Mary.

Or Ellen.

It wasn't that he hadn't tried.

It was that almost everywhere he went, he would run into people that wanted to thank him for serving his country. Or, if he had the Impala with him, people wanted to know all about her. Between that and mentally angsting over Annabelle's powers and wondering exactly when she was going to Chernobyl on everybody, Dean hadn't had a spec of luck finding people he cared about.

After the third hand-shake of thanks and round of questions about his medals and if he'd killed any Japs and Nazis, Dean saw a bar.

It renewed his faith in God, just for a splitsecond.

The sign on the place said THE DUCHESS. Dean didn't care what the hell it said as long as it had some whiskey in it.

"Yep," he said, walking through the door. He was silently telling himself that it was okay to have a drink before continuing the search for Jo and Mary. Shit, he didn't think that Jo would blame him this time. At all. He'd hardly had a moment's peace.

He hadn't slept for more than a few hours. He wanted to hear from Annabelle that she'd learned something, something to keep herself in check. That the Doctor had some kind of answer.

That she'd turned Cavan into a llama.

Something. And he hadn't.

He'd found that his usual clothing bag in the car was full of more military crap, too, so that didn't help anything. Everything had a nametag or a medal on it. He couldn't fucking win.

He sat down at the bar, arched an eyebrow, and without looking at the bartender, asked for a double of the strongest whiskey they had.