Fractured

Roosevelt Asylum

It's been about a week since we left Lawrence. Dean had shoved all his feelings about the situation away and is his normal sarcastic self again, and Sam and I havent uttered a word to each other since. Dean was growing rather irritated with our childish antics, but Sam hasn't made an effort to even apologize about it yet.

Even better, my wound in my shoulder was reopened thanks to the evil spirit that was living rent free in their old house, and to make it better the wound was deeper than last time. Thank god I'm right handed, and rarely use my left arm for anything. These two things have left me in a sour mood, and no matter how hard Dean has tried, nothing has changed the way I was feeling.

Currently, Dean was reading a book at the small table in our motel room, I was watching the Golden Girls on the cheap tv, and Sam was on the phone talking to one of John's old hunting buddies. I can't get over the conversation I had with Missour, which I haven't told Dean about yet, and I couldn't help but think John didn't want us to find him. John obviously knew we were back home, so why didn't he come help us with the situation at his old home. I just wish I knew where he was, and what he was up too.

Sam finished up his conversation on the phone and Dean asked, "Caleb hasn't heard from him?"

"Nope," Sam replied from his spot at the end of his bed, "Niether has Jefferson or Pastor Jim."

"Well, there are no leads in the journal either. I love the guy, but I swear he writes like freaking Yoda," Dean said back.

"Maybe he doesn't want to be found," I voiced my thoughts, keeping my eyes on the television.

Sam glared my way, then brought his gaze to Dean, "Maybe we should call the feds, file a missing persons report."

I rolled my eyes at the suggestion. What are we gonna tell them? Oh John went missing about five months ago trying to track down some supernatural creature, and now we can't find him? I don't understan how stupid Sam could be, when he is suppose to be the smart one.

Sam kept arguing with Dean about involving the feds, as Dean's phone started to ring. He got up and made his way to our bed and started to rummage through his pile of stuff.

"Where the hell is my phone," he mumbled to himself.

"He could be dead for all we know," Sam pushed.

Dean stopped his search for his phone, and turned to his brother, "Don't say that! You know he's - he's..."

"He's what," Sam shot back as Dean's phone kept ringing.

All this arguing and phone ringing was distracting me from my show, so I decided to find the phone myself. I quickly found it and handed it to Dean, and he answered it ending the incessant ringing, Thank God.

Dean's face relaxed a bit as he said, "I don't believe it."

"What," I asked him as he sat down next to me. I placed a hand around to the front of his shoulder, and rested my chin on the other side trying to get a good look at his phone.

He turned slightly to look at me, "It's coordinates."

"What," I asked again, my eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

I released my grip around Dean's neck as he got up and made his way back to where he was sitting before. He whipped out the computer and immediately started to look up where these coordinates lead to.

"Do you think dad is texting us," Sam thought out loud.

"It wouldn't be the first time he has sent us coordinates," Dean said, typing quickly on his computer.