It was shaping up to be a weird ass day.

First off, it was way too hot to be September. Illinois rarely got hotter than eighty degrees, especially in the fall, but the way the sun was shining down made it feel well over a hundred.

Then there was this dumpy roadside gas and go. The owners clearly had their priorities way out of whack. Newspapers were up to date, but the food on the shelf hadn't been checked for weeks—just a fridge of lukewarm water bottles, and a few shelves of expired granola bars. The stacks of skin mags were glossy and new, but the place didn't have a single road map. What self-respecting pit stop didn't have a damn road map?

And then, as luck would have it, there wasn't a car in sight. Not on the road, not in the parking lot, not even a half-rusted junk out back he could have fixed up before jumping. No, of course there wasn't. That was probably snatched up by the last sorry bastard who'd gotten his ass dragged out of Hell.

Dean wiped a hand over his forehead—not that it did him much good. His hands were just as sweaty as the rest of him, and every single muscle in his body ached. It felt like he'd been walking for miles and miles, but he wasn't dumb enough to believe it. All it took was one look at the sky to figure that he'd barely made it one.

Well, he thought bitterly. Sitting in a grave for four months probably didn't do much for his endurance.

The roaring sound of an engine made his head pop up. A bright blue car was speeding toward him, racing down the opposite side of the road. Dean paused mid-step, changing his gait so that he was strolling backward down the shoulder, his left hand out with a thumb.

The engine surged, and the car sped right past him.

In the brief glance he'd gotten through the window, he'd caught the woman looking the opposite direction. But if her sudden burst of speed was anything to go by, she'd definitely seen him. It was all about pretending she hadn't seen him—just an honest mistake so she didn't have to stop and ask if he was alright. Then she didn't have to feel guilty.

Dean didn't blame her. The dangerous stupidity of picking up hitchhikers these days really outweighed the benefit of helping strangers. And he was willing to bet he didn't look like the most welcoming damsel on the side of the road. He'd just climbed out of his own grave, after all, and he was covered head to toe in dirt and sweat. His hands were bloody from clawing his way through the soil, and he had more than a few scratches from the shattered glass at the gas station. Good looking as he may be, he wasn't the ideal pick up.

He didn't even make it another mile. Exhausted, bruised, and furious with himself, Dean trudged to a stop and sat on the side of the highway. He pushed himself into a slim patch of shade, and rummaged through the shopping bag he'd pilfered from the rest stop. His supplies were dwindling—four protein bars, one pack of mini donuts, one magazine, and he was already down to his last water bottle.

He knew he should save it, but even after downing the other three, his throat still felt raw and sandy. He thought of all the dirt that must have collected there while he was lying in his pine box. Then, he thought of all the times his throat had been flayed and sliced and twisted and burned before he'd woken up…

The thought was gone in an instant, and he cracked open the water bottle. Screw it. He'd figure out a way to avoid dehydration later.

His eyes lingered on the latest issue of Busty Asian Beauties. But he decided against it. Not like he had any energy to spare beating his meat on the side of the road. Not when he still had a few miles' walk ahead of him.

Frustration nipped at his knuckles again, and Dean gripped the water bottle a little tighter. He'd called Sam, but the number had been disconnected. That wasn't exactly a surprise. He and Sam always cycled through burner phones on the job. Best way to avoid the bills was to ditch the name and number. Then he'd called Bobby, and the old man hadn't even let him get a word in edgewise.

But that was all part of the job. If it had been Bobby calling him after four months downstairs, Dean probably wouldn't answer the phone either. Especially when he didn't have a decent explanation for how he'd gotten out. And Dean didn't have a clue what he was doing alive and breathing in Pontiac, Illinois.

That was exactly why he needed to haul ass to Bobby's. Nothing he'd ever heard of had the power to bust a soul out of hell. Wriggling out of a deal, sure. He and Sam had helped a few poor bastards weasel their way out of a bargain, but once the Hellhounds got you, there was no coming back. There was no waking up a few months later without a scratch on you. Even a demon couldn't do that. Not unless someone let them out.

Now there was a nasty thought. If one of the big wig demons had let him escape, then there had to be something in it for them, something big. And he damn well wanted to know what it was before it was too late.

So—no car, no map, no phone, and a few hours' worth of walking between him and his next water bottle. No problem.

Dean crushed the empty bottle in his hand, tossing it back into the bag. It couldn't be that far to the edge of town. He was still in Pontiac as far as he could tell. It was just a matter of getting to the part of Pontiac that actually had people, or at least a car he could hot wire.

Five minutes later, he was back to hiking. He kept his ears sharp, waiting for another car to drive by. This time, he wasn't going to take no for an answer. Hell, he'd jump in front of the damn car if that's what it took to get a ride.

Whether or not he would have survived a minor collision, hitchhiking just didn't seem to be in the cards for him. The road was quiet. He tried not to let it get to him, because the more he thought about it, the more he worried. Pontiac wasn't exactly a backroads town. If there weren't any cars on the road, just how far from the city was he?

And then he stopped.

Up ahead, there was a car parked on the shoulder—black, dusty, and almost certainly empty. There wasn't anyone around for a few miles. Someone had probably broken down on the drive and called for a ride. Of course, it could have been something a lot worse, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. There was a car, and that meant he didn't have to walk.

Dean approached carefully, waiting for some homeless dude to come out swinging and scratching—but the car was definitely abandoned. The backseat had a few slashes in the upholstery, and the body wasn't in mint condition, but it could still run for sure. He only needed it to carry him a few miles before he upgraded.

Laughing at his luck, he threw his shopping bag in the passenger seat. He wiped his hands on the shirt around his waist, and popped the hood so he could get to work. And then his smile dropped like a rock.

There was no fucking engine.

"Friggen scavengers," he grumbled, along with a few choice curse words. He kicked the fender for good measure.

Another car sped down the road, flying past him before he could even lift his head. Dean groaned and wiped a hand down his face again. Time to call it. He had officially used up all of his luck.

Just as he was starting to think about how desperately he didn't want to go back to walking—he'd take a nap in the wreck if he weren't so anxious to talk to Bobby—the silver car slowed down. It rolled along the side of the road, and after an agonizing moment of hesitation, pulled a U-turn and headed back toward him. It coasted to a stop, still a couple hundred feet away, and then the door swung open.

Dean smirked. He'd take it all back. He was one lucky son of a bitch.

She was blonde, trim, about half a foot shorter than he was. Most of her body stayed behind the car door, one foot still inside the vehicle. She looked ready to bolt the second he made the wrong move. Still, she'd stopped.

"Car trouble?" she called.

"Uh, yeah," said Dean, giving the wreck a disparaging look. "You could say that. Don't suppose you're a mechanic?"

"Nope. Sorry."

"Eh, it was worth asking."

He quickly closed the hood again. You didn't have to be a mechanic to notice when the engine was missing from a car. It left a pretty big gap to the untrained eye.

Dean walked around to the side of the car, and the woman tensed ever so slightly. He could see her hand white-knuckling the door. Not wanting to spook her, he stopped and took a casual step back. He smiled and leaned back on the hood to show he had no plans on approaching her.

He wasn't entirely sure that it had worked. She kept her face passive as her eyes slid over him. She could have been checking him out or sizing him up as a threat and he wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

"Should I call you a tow truck?"

"Nah, I'm fine," he said with a shrug. Lying was still natural for him, even if he was a bit out of practice. "I called my brother a few times, so I'm just waiting for him to call me back."

The blonde nodded, her eyes still narrow. Her right arm dropped to the inside of her door. If Dean hadn't been trained to look for it, he probably wouldn't have noticed. But he was sure she'd just picked something up.

"What happened to you?" she asked abruptly.

"Sorry?"

"I mean the dirt, the cuts." Her free hand gestured to his torso. "What happened?"

"Oh I, uh…fell…"

Even Dean winced at that. There was no way he'd get off with a lie that bad.

The woman raised an eyebrow, and her arm tensed behind the door. "You fell?"

"Hey, don't laugh," he said, trying to sound defensive. The chick was clearly not laughing, but he knew he had to backpedal somehow. "I was trying to walk into town, and I tripped over my own feet. Went rolling down the shoulder into the bushes, so…I figured I'd be better off waiting with the car. It's—It's not exactly the most badass way to get a few bruises, but I'm not exactly in the best shape of my life here."

He watched her closely this time, looking up from under his lashes. That usually earned him a few bonus points with girls—the whole bashful, nervous thing. He wasn't exactly betting on it this time, but the girl seemed to think about it at the very least. After a few seconds, she offered him a tight smile. Her arm did not relax.

"Well, heat exhaustion can be a real bitch."

"You're telling me," he chuckled. Dean sent her his best charming smile, and shrugged again. "But I think I'll stick with the car this time. Sammy will get one of my voicemails eventually."

"Sammy's your brother?"

"Yeah, yeah. He's probably holed up with a book somewhere with his phone on silent. But he's gotta come get me one of these days, right?"

"So you're just gonna wait on the side of the highway in a broken down car until your brother happens to check his messages?" She indulgently tried to restrain a snort. "That's…either really sweet or really, really dumb."

"Probably both," he agreed. It looked like she was smiling for real now, so he decided to test the waters. "I'm Dean, by the way."

Her eyes quickly flicked around her surroundings. Apparently seeing no polite way out of the conversation, she sighed. "Katherine."

"Katherine," he repeated, nodding to himself. "Cute name."

"It's fine."

His window was closing, and he knew it. He'd lied his ass off about being fine in hopes that she'd offer him a lift anyway, but she was probably too cautious for that to work. Asking for a lift would show his cards, and she was definitely too cautious for that to work. Any second now, she'd climb back in her car and drive off without him, and he'd have another few hours to contemplate how shitty he'd gotten at being persuasive.

Throwing caution to the wind, Dean cleared his throat.

"Look, Katherine, I'm gonna be honest with you. I don't really want to stay here with my car. It's hot, I'm starving, and uh…all I've got out here is a package of mini donuts. Now, you seem like a smart girl. You don't know me. I'm just some rough looking dude on the side of the highway. So if you want to keep driving, I won't blame you. But I'd really appreciate a lift to the next town. I—I'll keep my hands in view the whole time, best behavior. And if I'm not then you can go ahead and use that pepper spray you're hiding behind your door."

It was a gamble—a huge one. How was he supposed to recognize that she was feeling vulnerable without pointing out that she really was vulnerable? But he figured the worst she could do was spray him or leave him on the side of the highway. Or she could always hit him with her car.

Well, he'd already decided he was desperate enough to risk a car accident.

Katherine stared at him, her whole body poised to strike. But she didn't move to attack. Instead, she pursed her lips, and tersely replied, "It's actually a billy club."

Dean raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Old school. Nice."

"Well, I guess the element of surprise is out," she sighed, tossing the club onto the driver's seat. "Thanks a lot, Dean."

"Hey, don't feel bad. I'm a hard guy to surprise."

He could barely believe it, but the next time she looked over at him, she almost looked like she was blushing. She was biting her bottom lip, but the smile there still shone through. Running a hand through her hair, she glanced around at the empty road one more time before she relented.

"Where did you say you were headed?"

"Just to the next town. Anywhere with a diner."

"No, I mean…where are you really headed? Long term?"

She was smirking now, and though he took a few casual steps forward, the expression never faltered. Dean licked his chapped lips, and offered her a lopsided grin.

"Sioux Falls, South Dakota. On your way?"

"I could make a pit stop."

"Well alright then."

Dean walked the rest of the way to her car, trying to keep his pace calm but not wanting to give her time to change her mind. Katherine cleared her throat.

"Uh, don't you wanna get your stuff?"

"Hm?"

He glanced back at the empty car, thinking of the shopping bag in the passenger seat. Somehow, he didn't think Busty Asian Beauties was going to help him win Katherine's trust. So he just waved a hand and shook his head.

"Oh, nah. Like I said. All I've got in there is some donuts."

"Right." She smiled again, walking around to the front of her car to meet him. Her eyes gave him another once over, looser this time than it had been before. She seemed amused, but still a little hesitant, as she offered him a hand. "I'm not gonna regret this, am I?"

"God, I hope not."

Dean couldn't help it. His tongue snuck out over his lips, and he eyed her short frame with rapidly climbing interest. It had been months since he'd gotten laid, and it felt like it had been decades. But judging by the way Katherine was blushing under those beachy blonde waves, he wouldn't have to wait much longer.

Yup, he thought to himself. Still got it.

Katherine's hand tightened around his, and tugged his body closer to hers. Then, before he could even blink, her left fist smashed into his windpipe. His face slammed into the hood of the car, and he fell like a rock—his head cracking none-too-gently on the asphalt below.

Dean's body crumpled to the pavement, and Kat gaped down at him, hands flying to cover her mouth. She had not meant to do that. Alright, well she had meant to punch him, but she had no idea that he was gonna go down that easy. What kind of dude got knocked out after one bump on the head?

"Shit," she grumbled, resting a hand on her hip.

She hadn't really thought this through. She didn't even know where he was going really, besides a town name a few states away. And the drive was going to take hours. She doubted he'd stay unconscious for all of it, and now that she'd kind of attacked him, he was more than likely to retaliate. So what was she supposed to do? Let him take a nap in the back seat of her Prius and hope that he didn't remember what happened when he woke up? Right. Cause he was real likely to let her explain herself when he woke up bleeding in the back of a stranger's car.

There was really only one thing to do.

Kat sighed, popping her trunk and grabbing a roll of duct tape. She wasn't spectacular at restraining people, but she figured if she just kept layering the tape on then it would do the job. It would at least buy her some time if he woke up and tried to fight back. She rolled it up and down his forearms, and then up and down his shins. She thought about taping his mouth closed, but he did seem to be in pretty rough shape. A gag wasn't a lot kinder, but at least it would allow him some air to breathe…she hoped…

Once he was all taped up, she began dragging him around to the back of the car. He was a heavy guy, packed with bone and muscle, but she managed to get him into the trunk without too much of a problem. Laying on his side with his knees tucked up, he fit just about perfectly.

Kat stood back to admire her handiwork, and passed the back of her hand over her forehead. She had a sneaking suspicion that this was going to blow up in her face. But there was no going back now. Besides, an unconscious Dean Winchester was better than no Dean Winchester at all.

She threw a quilt over his body and closed the trunk, climbing back into the front seat and trying to act as though nothing had happened. It still took a few seconds to collect herself. She was in her Prius, with a body in the trunk, and now she was going to drive to South Dakota. No problem.

The glove compartment popped open, and she shuffled through a few CDs before plucking out some Alanis Morissette. As the first notes of "All I Really Want" began to play, Kat allowed herself a smile. Humming along, she turned to her GPS, typing out her brand new direction.

S-I-O-U-X F-A-L-L-S, S-O-U-T-H D-A-K-O-T-A

The journey was surprisingly normal, all things considered. The only change was her direction, and two text messages she sent from her phone. The first was a brief message to her mother explaining that she was taking a short detour on her way home to California. "Short" wasn't an accurate word for an impromptu trip to South Dakota, but she didn't want anyone to worry. She promised to call at the next rest stop to check in, and then clicked on another name—Marcus.

"Done. Thanks for the heads up. I'll call you with the details later."

She tossed her phone into the passenger seat, knowing there wouldn't be a reply, and then turned her attention back to the road.

There was always that small fragment of panic in the back of her mind. What the hell was she going to do when this guy woke up? Every few minutes Kat would turn down the music, checking to make sure he wasn't trying to make a quiet escape. She took back roads and pulled over from time to time, just to make sure she wasn't surrounded by too many cars. She drove safely as she could, keeping up with traffic but not daring to speed too much. The last thing she needed right now was a cop to pull her over.

More than anything, Kat wanted to keep driving until she hit South Dakota. But five hours down route 80, her stomach was starting to growl, and her head was beginning to ache. She'd already skipped the last few meals because she'd been working. She'd have to stop for food at some point if she wanted to make it to Sioux Falls without passing out behind the wheel.

That was going to be a challenge. She didn't want to leave the car unattended in a parking lot, but at the same time, she couldn't risk going through a drive thru. It would be all too easy for Dean to break one of her taillights to catch another car's attention, or even just to bang on the trunk until someone heard him. Then the cops would be down on her ass and she'd have two huge problems to deal with.

Kat pulled over just outside of Des Moines, trying to find a wide enough path between the trees where she could park her car. Timing was tough too—she couldn't exactly let someone see her driving off the road and into the woods in a silver Prius. But after about ten minutes of slowing down, pulling over, and waiting for a gap in traffic, she managed to drive through a patch of forest into the trees.

Grabbing her backpack, she stepped out of the car, only to stop and stare warily at her trunk. She really didn't want to leave him here. He might already be awake, lying in wait. She knew she should check before she walked off, but she wasn't fully prepared to do that with the slight headache she was nursing. If he was awake, he'd be swinging and flailing the moment she opened the trunk. And if he wasn't, her opening the trunk to check on him might wake him up anyway, and then she'd have to knock him out again. It would probably be harder this time, no matter how weak he was. Dean wasn't going to let her get the jump on him again.

Her stomach growled, making Kat sigh and turn on her heel. Screw this. She'd decide what to do after she'd eaten.

It wasn't far to the last gas station she'd passed, just a little under two miles. She picked up a few small things she could carry in her bag—water bottles, some Gatorade, chips and a bag of cookies. Those were for the road, and the severely hydrated guy in her trunk. But it wasn't enough for a decent lunch.

She hopped across the street, where there was a small barbecue joint that looked pretty decent. Her take out order came faster than she could have expected, but to Kat it felt like hours. Her stomach felt about ready to start digesting itself, and her eyes stayed glued on her watch. Nearly an hour since she'd left, and it would still take her about half an hour to get back…

The second the food came out, she was out the door. Clouds were rolling in, the temperature dropping in the shade, which made it easier to move quickly. She kept to the shadows along the edge of the highway, doing her best to stay out of sight of the road. She weaved through tall grass, ducked between trees, and then finally, she'd made it back to the Prius.

"I hope you like barbecue," she said conversationally to herself as she walked. "Kinda had to guess, hope you don't mind. You seem like a heavy meat guy, so I got you some sandwich called the Man Handler. Sounded like it'd be right…up your…alley…"

Kat stopped in the middle of the clearing. Her shoulders sagged, and her eyes fluttered closed.

"Great. Just perfect."

The trunk was already open.

She'd been expecting it, but she still wasn't prepared. He didn't even give her a chance to put her bags down.

Before Kat could even open her eyes, there was an arm around her throat. She dropped her bags, trying to kick her legs out in front of her, behind her, anywhere they might meet something solid. But Dean knew what he was doing. He dragged her off her feet, not letting her find her footing, and maintaining pressure on her neck the whole time.

"Yeah, payback's a bitch, ain't it, Tinkerbell?"

And the next moment, she passed out.

Dean was tempted—oh so tempted—to let her collapse onto the forest floor. Maybe she'd landon a rock so she could split her head open like he had. Fair was fair, right?

But he didn't. As soon as Katherine's body gave out, he scooped her up and carried her back to the car. He dropped her roughly into her own trunk, and was smart enough to frisk her before he tried restraining her. But Katherine wasn't packing—no guns, no knives, not even a lockpick or a box cutter. He allowed himself a satisfied smirk as he wound the duct tape around her arms. He'd have to thank Sammy once he found him. Burying him with a switchblade in his pocket hadn't been such a dumbass idea after all.

Satisfied that the chick wouldn't be waking up any time soon, he closed the trunk and went to inspect the bags. He didn't know what he was expecting—baby bones, jars of blood, something a little bit more nefarious than a bag of spicy chili Doritos. He helped himself to a bottle of Gatorade, and then peeked inside the containers of barbecue. He didn't have any plans on eating it, of course. He wasn't dumb enough to eat food offered by the bad guys. But that sandwich did look damn good, and he hadn't eaten anything decent in decades…

Dean forced himself to snap out of it. There would be time for food later. His top priorities now were getting to Bobby, finding Sam, and figuring out just what in the hell had pulled him out of Hell. And now, he had a car that would get him there.

He jumped in the driver's seat and immediately scrunched up his nose. It took him a few seconds to find the seat adjustments and figure out how to move the seat back enough that steering wheel wasn't riding his junk. He started the car, and immediately groaned again. Some whiny chick rocker was wailing over the speakers, backed by an unnecessary amount of harmonica.

"Yeah, no," he said firmly, turning the CD off. "Well one thing's for sure. Your taste in music is about as bad as your taste in cars. I can't believe I'm about to drive a goddamn Prius."

Dean threw a nasty look at the dashboard. There were far too many buttons for his liking, and a shiny screen where his classic radio needle should be. He almost didn't dare touch it, but the temptation outweighed his prejudice.

Five minutes later, he'd figured out the radio, and managed to find a classic rock station on the air. Metallica greeted him with low, angry voices and heavy guitar, and even though his head was still killing him, Dean let out a loud laugh.

"Now we're talking, sweetheart."

Humming along, it was still another ten minutes before he figured out how to work the GPS. He preferred paper to the stupid screen. He could barely get the thing to cooperate, let along figure out what the hell it was trying to show him. He just needed to know what fucking direction to drive to get to Bobby's.

He clicked on a button that said destination, and then paused. The tiny red line followed the rest of I-80, where they were currently parked, then veered north, up, up, up I-29 and into South Dakota. A checkered flag waved at the end, right over the words Sioux Falls.

Dean sat back in his seat. What the fuck was going on here? His soul was damned to hell, and four months later, he pops up topside in the middle of a levelled forest. He tries to hitchhike a ride off a hot blonde, only for her to knock him out, buy him lunch, and then actually drive him where he wanted to go.

He reached over to the passenger seat, hands diving into the bags and pulling out the warm barbecue sandwich that was calling his name. He was so done with thinking today. The world was all kinds of fuck ass backwards, and he was gonna eat a damn sandwich. He literally moaned at the taste—it was really fucking good. Granted, it could have been a month old and molding and it still would have been the most delicious thing he'd tasted in his life. But the soft bread and barbecue sauce did the trick.

Less tired and more determined than ever, Dean threw the car into drive and peeled out onto the interstate, radio pumping and sandwich in hand. He had work to do.

A/N: Contrary to popular belief, I am not dead. Just working in the shadows. I'm going to try and avoid author's notes where I can, but I wanted to clear up a few housekeeping things first.

Gospel of the Chosen will update every Tuesday for as long as I can manage. I can't promise a specific time, but we should be alright for a few months at the very least. I'm also going to leave this story with a Mature rating for various reasons - language, violence, and extreme depictions of gore for a start. Most of this will be at the general Supernatural level, but if there is anything particularly gruesome, I will include a trigger warning at the start of the chapter. I will also do so for other sensitive themes this story deals with, such as mentions of sexual assault, physical abuse and any sexual content. Please let me know if there's anything else that you'd like tagged.

I'm both nervous and excited to be back. Thank you for reading, and I will see you all next week.

-Brittney