Like a town crier was the sound of Dean returning. Every sound had Roger on edge, and when he looked out of his open door this time and saw the outline of his best friend, he tore off in that direction, guitar discarded onto his bed.

"Dean!" He called, unable to keep some of the relief from his voice. He was ripping into the sand in a way that was eerie, like bare hands into flesh, and Roger's brows met in the center of his forehead. "Dean, what are you doing?" His determination was the scrabble of the damned, and his mind went back to the conversation about being hellbound, ticking clocks. Robert Johnson. He still didn't piece it together.

"Hey!" He bellowed in a ditch effort to grab his attention.