Dean sat slumped against the hollow of an old redwood, his jagged blade resting lightly on his thigh. The last of the night’s shadows dulled as the sunlight filtered through the trees. Dean rolled his shoulders as he rubbed his eyes. He could feel the grime and dirt on his face and hands, but it wasn’t abnormal, not surprising in the least.
It wasn’t his first week in purgatory. He’d gotten used to the sparse showers and sparser food. He’d been in purgatory for close to four months, though he’d never bothered to count the days. At first, it hadn’t even occurred to him that knowing the length of time passed would be beneficial, by the time it did occur to him, he’d pulled too many all nighters and had passed out too many times to have an accurate gage on what day it was.
The time didn’t really matter though, not really. It wasn’t like he had any plan on how to get out. He didn't have a countdown clock to tell him when Sam was