Back In Black
Who: Dean Winchester, Nobody Owens, and anyone else up late
What: Dean and Bod find themselves in Canada
When: now
Where: Pancake House
Rating: T for Trouble and it ain't pool
There was a roar of a finely tuned engine, the kind of engine that can only belong to a muscle car lovingly kept up by a man who considered his car worth more than his home, wife, or next paycheck. Which was definitely true of the man driving it, except for the pesky fact that he didn't have a home, or a wife, or even a regular paycheck. The only thing on this god-given Earth that this man held above his car was--
“Dammit, Sammy, where the hell did you go?” He threw down his cell phone for the tenth time since finding himself on a fog covered road in the middle of BuFuBia. No bars on his cell phone, no way to get in touch with his missing brother, and no way of knowing where he was since there didn't even seem to be any signs of life.
No signs of life... saving the figure that seemed to appear out of the swirling mists at the side of the road. He didn't flail or fly into the road in front of the car, but simply lifted his hand, in the manner of a man nonchalantly hailing a taxi-- and also, simply, expecting the car to stop.
“Shit!” Tires squealed on the asphalt as the Impala came to a rather abrupt stop, at least more abrupt than the car would like. Dean peered at the figure beside the road. Indiscriminate brown hair that flopped into direct eyes, non-descript clothes that blended almost perfectly with the surrounding fog.
“Okay, buddy, you're either lost or asking for a face-full of salt,” he said as he reached for the sawed-off nestled in the hidden hostler behind the passenger seat. The familiar mix of excitement and fear rose in him, the one that most classified as adrenaline, but he always thought of as the hunt.
He rolled down the window and leaned over, keeping one hand on the gun in a nonchalant manner. “Not a nice night out, huh?”
In the darkness, Bod's eyes sharpened. He'd been relieved to hear the sound of the engine on the empty road-- not that he minded walking, but walking an unfamiliar road on a dark night where visibility was almost nil bordered on madness. Then again, so did the eyes of this stranger in the car. “No, it is not a nice night,” he said warily. “Not for walking, or for driving. I was surprised to hear the motor coming up the road.” He studied the sharp, intense expression on the other man's face. “But if I am inconveniencing you, I apologize. There is no pressing need for you to stop on my account.”
There was no panic in the youth's voice, no mention of any accident, no fear. More telling, he seemed very coherent for a ghost. Not that it stopped that one woman forced to reenact her death once a year. She was hot too. “No, it's fine!” He surreptitiously moved the shotgun from behind the passenger seat to the hidden pocket by his door. “I was starting to wonder if this was the Twilight Zone!” He smiled, his typical good-ol-boy, ain't-I-a-nice-guy smile that really only fooled those people too focused on themselves to pay attention to the people around them. “Need a lift into town?”
“If it isn't any trouble,” Bod said, relieved but slightly skeptical by his change in demeanor. Whatever was bothering this man, it wasn't Bod; at least, not anymore. And he supposed it was none of his business. “I have no idea how far it is to the next town. The map I have is rather vague as to the area out here.”
“Can't be too far,” Dean said with much more optimism than he actually felt as he opened the passenger door with his right hand. “So where are you heading?” It'd be nice just to know where in the US he fucking was; for that matter, it'd be nice to know how he got “here” in the first place. The last thing he remembered was Sammy rescuing him from the too-easy-to-stay dream-filled world of the djinn.
At least, he really God damned HOPED he remembered that, otherwise he might be in deeper shit than he thought.
“Mm...” Bod said, sliding into the seat on the far side of the car and closing the door behind him. “Nowhere in particular.” Settling the old-fashioned suitcase he carries at his feet, he remarked, “this is my first time in Canada, so anything will be a new experience.”
“CANADA?” How in the hell had he ended up in CANADA? The last place he remembered was-
...the smiling face of his mother, alive and older and so damn beautiful, begging him not to go, begging him to stay...
He shook his head hard, reminding himself of the strange boy sitting next to him (where his brother should be) and forced a small smile and started the Impala. “Guess I've been driving a bit further than I thought.” Yeah, that was totally lame, he thought as the tires gripped the road and propelled them forward into the fog. This kid is gonna think he's some crazy, psycho killer stalker... much like the rest of the US.
Maybe Canada isn't such a bad idea after all.
The boy in the seat beside him gave Dean a measuring look for several moments before he said, “I’ve done that before.” Quickly he amended the statement. “Not driven further than I thought-I don’t have a car, can’t even drive, but… sometimes, when I’m lost in thought, I’ll walk for miles and miles. Once, I looked up, and the people around me didn’t even speak the same language they had the last time I’d paid attention. ‘Course, I’d just walked from Metz to Saarbrücken so I shouldn’t have been so surprised…” He trailed off.
“I’m rambling. I’m sorry. Thank you very much for giving me a ride.”
Who's name's on my passport? Beaterman? What the hell kind of name is Beaterman anyway? And why don't I remember passing any toll booths, or whatever the hell they're called on the borders. The unfamiliar names the boy next to him rattled off brought his attention back. “Sounds like you've been traveling all over. Parents moved you around?”
Mentally he cursed himself for asking personal questions. This wasn't a job, wasn't a ghost needed to be put down or laid to rest. It was just some kid hitchhiking on a dark, foggy road to Nowheresville... in Canada... bringing his thoughts back full circle to how the hell he ended up here. More importantly, how he ended up here without Sam.
His parents… Bod smiled, and said easily, “Nah, my parents are pretty stationary. They don’t get out much, and while I was with them, neither did I. So once I had the means, I set out to see the world.”
Keeping his eyes on the road before them, not ready to see any judgment in the eyes of his companion, he said, “Most people I say this to seem to think that I’m an ungrateful son who couldn’t wait to get away from them, and it wasn’t like that. They wanted this for me. So the least I can do, when I finally reach my journey’s end and return home to them, is have some pretty remarkable stories to tell. You know what I mean?”
His eyes travel over the dashboard, lighting on the odometer. “You seem to have done some traveling yourself.”
“Yeah, you can say that. Traveling with my dad and kid brother, mostly. Been just about everywhere in the US,” Dean said casually, making small talk. Now was not the time for contemplation of families and sharing stories with loved ones. That was for later when the hotel room was dark and his mind refused to let him sleep, worrying about Sam and the job. Maybe tonight he might worry about himself and his fragmented memory.
For now, he concentrated on the road before him and the kid sitting next to him. Though he was fairly certain he wasn't a spirit, it was a little too pat that he just happened to drive by when this kid needed a lift, in an area neither of them knew.
“So where did you come from, if you don't mind my asking?”
“What, the accent didn’t give it away?” As he turned to look at Dean, a rare smile flashed across the young man’s face, lighting up his usual grave expression as effectively as the Impala’s high beams lit up the mist around them. A dimple winked in his left cheek. “Most places I go, I’ve scarcely opened my mouth and they’re saying, 'Oh, you’re British.' And so I am, born and raised in North England, not a hundred miles away from the border of Scotland. But I suspect that isn’t what you’re asking.” He turned his attention to the road again.
“I don’t expect you to believe me, but… a month ago, a man I’d been staying with, and working for, suddenly died. He was not young, but still it was unexpected. It was also the first time I had been in a graveyard since… since I left home, and, well…” He cleared his throat. “I received a message. It wasn’t specific-it just recommended I leave the continent as quickly as possible. It even recommended Canada. I don’t know why, but since I have no definite plans, and I have never been to this side of the world…” He spread his hands, rubbing his palms against the knees of his colorless jeans. “I came.”
“Blimey, you're a limey!” Dean said with a terrible English accent and a grin that faded when the joke fell flat on it's face. He coughed and turned on his I'm-totally-concerned-and-feeling-for-you-man voice. “Yeah, sucks about your boss.”
The kid was odd, no mistaking that, but Dean kinda liked him. He was a little grubby from being on the road, but not in a homeless tramp way. The seats wouldn't have to be cleaned at least. Also, he didn't touch the radio, big plus in Dean's “People Who Might be Allowed Back in My Car” book. It wasn't very thick. More of a leaflet than a book. Flyer, really.
Right, the conversation with the kid. Something finally poked it's way past the overwhelming need to find Sam and get the hell off this potentially dangerous road (dangerous in a creepy spirit-hitchhiker-who-might-yet-eat-his-face way. Not driving. This was cake to drive in.). “You got a message in a graveyard telling you to get out of the country? Who are you, James Bond or something?”
“Ah, no,” Bod replied, with that little quirk of a grin. “I’m afraid I’m nowhere near as smooth as he is, nor as remarkably… glib.” He sobered, wondering how much it was wise to say to the man seated beside him. He seemed affable enough, but so far, their conversation had been remarkably guarded-on both sides. Bod had mastered the art of carefully constructing sentences to conceal the grimmer facts of his upbringing, and he could tell when someone else was doing the same thing. Besides, this man was a coiled spring. He’d been studying people long enough to tell if people were, by nature, predator or prey, and he would not want to be this man’s prey. Underneath that relaxed exterior, his eyes were sharpened daggers, desperately seeking a target.
That didn’t mean he felt threatened. He felt as safe here, in this rather terrifying car, on a dark night, with a perfect stranger, as he’d ever felt with Silas. Only with Silas, he’d known he was in no danger; there was little that could ruffle his guardian, and he knew Silas would never do anything to bring him to harm. This man… he’d spoken of his family, a father and a brother. Bod was curious about that, but he had no desire to become the target of this man’s displeasure.
There still were things, though, he could find out without too much worry. “No, not Bond,” he said. “Bod. My name is Nobody Owens. Bod for short.”
Without any pause, Dean turned his head toward the young man and smiled as he answered, “Dean. Dean Mahogoff. And Bond isn't glib, he's awesome. He's what every man everywhere wants to be, living the life we only dream of; hot girls, cool gadgets, license to do whatever the hell he wants. Man, that guy's cool!”
Actually, Dean considered himself rather like James Bond, living a life of danger, moving from one place to another without setting down roots, hooking up with hot chicks, loving them and leaving them. He even had a car that was easily the equal to any snooty Aston Martin Bond drove. The only thing he was really missing was an ejector seat. Hmmm....
“Did your parents really name you Nobody? What were they, English professors or something?” Yeah, he knew the Odyssey, which probably would have shocked the hell out of his booksmart little brother. In the dark of the night after a grueling night hunting, wounds aching, with a spring from the well-used mattress under him digging into his back, he'd empathize with Odysseus and his never-ending trip back to his loved ones. That's usually why he tried to stay nicely buzzed or hot and sweaty with some young, hot thing. Hard to do with your kid brother sleeping in the bed next to you, but he could admit to himself that while lots of sucktacular things had happened these past two years, they were more bearable with Sam.
“Professors? Not… exactly.” That was an understatement. The Owenses barely read at all, let alone fine works of literature. He was tickled by the idea that Mrs. Owens had somehow gotten his name out of a book, but only for a moment.
The questions were entering the realm of the uncomfortable for Bod. In a world he hungered to be a part of, having parents who weren’t… conventional… didn’t do much to help him fit in. He wasn’t sure what would hurt worse, being thrown out of the car for “being a vicious liar” or enduring the remainder of the car ride while Dean looked at him as though he were some sort of sideshow freak. But he hated to lie, especially to this man. He was-well, Dean had made the assertion that he thought James Bond was ‘cool’. But Dean himself had this air about him, this-what would you call it? Aura? Charisma?-that made him, in Bod’s estimation, so much more interesting than Bond. More raw, certainly, and maybe more dangerous… and even a little bit… more cool.
Was that why he was being so careful with what he said? Did what Dean thought matter so much to him?
He did his best. “When I was… when I was little, and they were deciding on a name for me, I was passed around from person to person, and each one said that I reminded him, or her, of someone they knew. ‘He looks like so-and-so,’ they said, until my mother got frustrated and said, ‘He looks like nobody but himself!’ So they named me Nobody.” He shrugged. “I never thought about it until I left home. I’ve even had people ask me if I wanted to change it, but I never would. It may be a strange name, but it my name, and it is who I am.”
Suddenly feeling self-conscious, he said, “I’ve been asked that question before. About my parents being English professors, I mean. Was there really a book with a character called Nobody in it?”
It wasn't often that Dean was asked to expound on literary works and he found himself rather warming to the idea as he regaled his passenger with a very detailed account of Odysseus' battle with the cyclops. At least, detailed as far as Dean remembered it, which wasn't letter perfect, but whatever he didn't remember he made up.
He reached the end of his odd tale as the first lights of the town came into view. “So, the other one-eyes are like, 'Dude be crazy, he even says nobody did this' and left the blind big guy all alone. It's classic. Oh, hey, civilization at last.”
Cruising down the street found them in front of a cheerful looking pancake house with Dean's third favorite sign glowing in warm, red neon. 24 hours. “You hungry, Bod? Wanna grab a bite?”
What: Dean and Bod find themselves in Canada
When: now
Where: Pancake House
Rating: T for Trouble and it ain't pool
There was a roar of a finely tuned engine, the kind of engine that can only belong to a muscle car lovingly kept up by a man who considered his car worth more than his home, wife, or next paycheck. Which was definitely true of the man driving it, except for the pesky fact that he didn't have a home, or a wife, or even a regular paycheck. The only thing on this god-given Earth that this man held above his car was--
“Dammit, Sammy, where the hell did you go?” He threw down his cell phone for the tenth time since finding himself on a fog covered road in the middle of BuFuBia. No bars on his cell phone, no way to get in touch with his missing brother, and no way of knowing where he was since there didn't even seem to be any signs of life.
No signs of life... saving the figure that seemed to appear out of the swirling mists at the side of the road. He didn't flail or fly into the road in front of the car, but simply lifted his hand, in the manner of a man nonchalantly hailing a taxi-- and also, simply, expecting the car to stop.
“Shit!” Tires squealed on the asphalt as the Impala came to a rather abrupt stop, at least more abrupt than the car would like. Dean peered at the figure beside the road. Indiscriminate brown hair that flopped into direct eyes, non-descript clothes that blended almost perfectly with the surrounding fog.
“Okay, buddy, you're either lost or asking for a face-full of salt,” he said as he reached for the sawed-off nestled in the hidden hostler behind the passenger seat. The familiar mix of excitement and fear rose in him, the one that most classified as adrenaline, but he always thought of as the hunt.
He rolled down the window and leaned over, keeping one hand on the gun in a nonchalant manner. “Not a nice night out, huh?”
In the darkness, Bod's eyes sharpened. He'd been relieved to hear the sound of the engine on the empty road-- not that he minded walking, but walking an unfamiliar road on a dark night where visibility was almost nil bordered on madness. Then again, so did the eyes of this stranger in the car. “No, it is not a nice night,” he said warily. “Not for walking, or for driving. I was surprised to hear the motor coming up the road.” He studied the sharp, intense expression on the other man's face. “But if I am inconveniencing you, I apologize. There is no pressing need for you to stop on my account.”
There was no panic in the youth's voice, no mention of any accident, no fear. More telling, he seemed very coherent for a ghost. Not that it stopped that one woman forced to reenact her death once a year. She was hot too. “No, it's fine!” He surreptitiously moved the shotgun from behind the passenger seat to the hidden pocket by his door. “I was starting to wonder if this was the Twilight Zone!” He smiled, his typical good-ol-boy, ain't-I-a-nice-guy smile that really only fooled those people too focused on themselves to pay attention to the people around them. “Need a lift into town?”
“If it isn't any trouble,” Bod said, relieved but slightly skeptical by his change in demeanor. Whatever was bothering this man, it wasn't Bod; at least, not anymore. And he supposed it was none of his business. “I have no idea how far it is to the next town. The map I have is rather vague as to the area out here.”
“Can't be too far,” Dean said with much more optimism than he actually felt as he opened the passenger door with his right hand. “So where are you heading?” It'd be nice just to know where in the US he fucking was; for that matter, it'd be nice to know how he got “here” in the first place. The last thing he remembered was Sammy rescuing him from the too-easy-to-stay dream-filled world of the djinn.
At least, he really God damned HOPED he remembered that, otherwise he might be in deeper shit than he thought.
“Mm...” Bod said, sliding into the seat on the far side of the car and closing the door behind him. “Nowhere in particular.” Settling the old-fashioned suitcase he carries at his feet, he remarked, “this is my first time in Canada, so anything will be a new experience.”
“CANADA?” How in the hell had he ended up in CANADA? The last place he remembered was-
...the smiling face of his mother, alive and older and so damn beautiful, begging him not to go, begging him to stay...
He shook his head hard, reminding himself of the strange boy sitting next to him (where his brother should be) and forced a small smile and started the Impala. “Guess I've been driving a bit further than I thought.” Yeah, that was totally lame, he thought as the tires gripped the road and propelled them forward into the fog. This kid is gonna think he's some crazy, psycho killer stalker... much like the rest of the US.
Maybe Canada isn't such a bad idea after all.
The boy in the seat beside him gave Dean a measuring look for several moments before he said, “I’ve done that before.” Quickly he amended the statement. “Not driven further than I thought-I don’t have a car, can’t even drive, but… sometimes, when I’m lost in thought, I’ll walk for miles and miles. Once, I looked up, and the people around me didn’t even speak the same language they had the last time I’d paid attention. ‘Course, I’d just walked from Metz to Saarbrücken so I shouldn’t have been so surprised…” He trailed off.
“I’m rambling. I’m sorry. Thank you very much for giving me a ride.”
Who's name's on my passport? Beaterman? What the hell kind of name is Beaterman anyway? And why don't I remember passing any toll booths, or whatever the hell they're called on the borders. The unfamiliar names the boy next to him rattled off brought his attention back. “Sounds like you've been traveling all over. Parents moved you around?”
Mentally he cursed himself for asking personal questions. This wasn't a job, wasn't a ghost needed to be put down or laid to rest. It was just some kid hitchhiking on a dark, foggy road to Nowheresville... in Canada... bringing his thoughts back full circle to how the hell he ended up here. More importantly, how he ended up here without Sam.
His parents… Bod smiled, and said easily, “Nah, my parents are pretty stationary. They don’t get out much, and while I was with them, neither did I. So once I had the means, I set out to see the world.”
Keeping his eyes on the road before them, not ready to see any judgment in the eyes of his companion, he said, “Most people I say this to seem to think that I’m an ungrateful son who couldn’t wait to get away from them, and it wasn’t like that. They wanted this for me. So the least I can do, when I finally reach my journey’s end and return home to them, is have some pretty remarkable stories to tell. You know what I mean?”
His eyes travel over the dashboard, lighting on the odometer. “You seem to have done some traveling yourself.”
“Yeah, you can say that. Traveling with my dad and kid brother, mostly. Been just about everywhere in the US,” Dean said casually, making small talk. Now was not the time for contemplation of families and sharing stories with loved ones. That was for later when the hotel room was dark and his mind refused to let him sleep, worrying about Sam and the job. Maybe tonight he might worry about himself and his fragmented memory.
For now, he concentrated on the road before him and the kid sitting next to him. Though he was fairly certain he wasn't a spirit, it was a little too pat that he just happened to drive by when this kid needed a lift, in an area neither of them knew.
“So where did you come from, if you don't mind my asking?”
“What, the accent didn’t give it away?” As he turned to look at Dean, a rare smile flashed across the young man’s face, lighting up his usual grave expression as effectively as the Impala’s high beams lit up the mist around them. A dimple winked in his left cheek. “Most places I go, I’ve scarcely opened my mouth and they’re saying, 'Oh, you’re British.' And so I am, born and raised in North England, not a hundred miles away from the border of Scotland. But I suspect that isn’t what you’re asking.” He turned his attention to the road again.
“I don’t expect you to believe me, but… a month ago, a man I’d been staying with, and working for, suddenly died. He was not young, but still it was unexpected. It was also the first time I had been in a graveyard since… since I left home, and, well…” He cleared his throat. “I received a message. It wasn’t specific-it just recommended I leave the continent as quickly as possible. It even recommended Canada. I don’t know why, but since I have no definite plans, and I have never been to this side of the world…” He spread his hands, rubbing his palms against the knees of his colorless jeans. “I came.”
“Blimey, you're a limey!” Dean said with a terrible English accent and a grin that faded when the joke fell flat on it's face. He coughed and turned on his I'm-totally-concerned-and-feeling-for-you-man voice. “Yeah, sucks about your boss.”
The kid was odd, no mistaking that, but Dean kinda liked him. He was a little grubby from being on the road, but not in a homeless tramp way. The seats wouldn't have to be cleaned at least. Also, he didn't touch the radio, big plus in Dean's “People Who Might be Allowed Back in My Car” book. It wasn't very thick. More of a leaflet than a book. Flyer, really.
Right, the conversation with the kid. Something finally poked it's way past the overwhelming need to find Sam and get the hell off this potentially dangerous road (dangerous in a creepy spirit-hitchhiker-who-might-yet-eat-his-face way. Not driving. This was cake to drive in.). “You got a message in a graveyard telling you to get out of the country? Who are you, James Bond or something?”
“Ah, no,” Bod replied, with that little quirk of a grin. “I’m afraid I’m nowhere near as smooth as he is, nor as remarkably… glib.” He sobered, wondering how much it was wise to say to the man seated beside him. He seemed affable enough, but so far, their conversation had been remarkably guarded-on both sides. Bod had mastered the art of carefully constructing sentences to conceal the grimmer facts of his upbringing, and he could tell when someone else was doing the same thing. Besides, this man was a coiled spring. He’d been studying people long enough to tell if people were, by nature, predator or prey, and he would not want to be this man’s prey. Underneath that relaxed exterior, his eyes were sharpened daggers, desperately seeking a target.
That didn’t mean he felt threatened. He felt as safe here, in this rather terrifying car, on a dark night, with a perfect stranger, as he’d ever felt with Silas. Only with Silas, he’d known he was in no danger; there was little that could ruffle his guardian, and he knew Silas would never do anything to bring him to harm. This man… he’d spoken of his family, a father and a brother. Bod was curious about that, but he had no desire to become the target of this man’s displeasure.
There still were things, though, he could find out without too much worry. “No, not Bond,” he said. “Bod. My name is Nobody Owens. Bod for short.”
Without any pause, Dean turned his head toward the young man and smiled as he answered, “Dean. Dean Mahogoff. And Bond isn't glib, he's awesome. He's what every man everywhere wants to be, living the life we only dream of; hot girls, cool gadgets, license to do whatever the hell he wants. Man, that guy's cool!”
Actually, Dean considered himself rather like James Bond, living a life of danger, moving from one place to another without setting down roots, hooking up with hot chicks, loving them and leaving them. He even had a car that was easily the equal to any snooty Aston Martin Bond drove. The only thing he was really missing was an ejector seat. Hmmm....
“Did your parents really name you Nobody? What were they, English professors or something?” Yeah, he knew the Odyssey, which probably would have shocked the hell out of his booksmart little brother. In the dark of the night after a grueling night hunting, wounds aching, with a spring from the well-used mattress under him digging into his back, he'd empathize with Odysseus and his never-ending trip back to his loved ones. That's usually why he tried to stay nicely buzzed or hot and sweaty with some young, hot thing. Hard to do with your kid brother sleeping in the bed next to you, but he could admit to himself that while lots of sucktacular things had happened these past two years, they were more bearable with Sam.
“Professors? Not… exactly.” That was an understatement. The Owenses barely read at all, let alone fine works of literature. He was tickled by the idea that Mrs. Owens had somehow gotten his name out of a book, but only for a moment.
The questions were entering the realm of the uncomfortable for Bod. In a world he hungered to be a part of, having parents who weren’t… conventional… didn’t do much to help him fit in. He wasn’t sure what would hurt worse, being thrown out of the car for “being a vicious liar” or enduring the remainder of the car ride while Dean looked at him as though he were some sort of sideshow freak. But he hated to lie, especially to this man. He was-well, Dean had made the assertion that he thought James Bond was ‘cool’. But Dean himself had this air about him, this-what would you call it? Aura? Charisma?-that made him, in Bod’s estimation, so much more interesting than Bond. More raw, certainly, and maybe more dangerous… and even a little bit… more cool.
Was that why he was being so careful with what he said? Did what Dean thought matter so much to him?
He did his best. “When I was… when I was little, and they were deciding on a name for me, I was passed around from person to person, and each one said that I reminded him, or her, of someone they knew. ‘He looks like so-and-so,’ they said, until my mother got frustrated and said, ‘He looks like nobody but himself!’ So they named me Nobody.” He shrugged. “I never thought about it until I left home. I’ve even had people ask me if I wanted to change it, but I never would. It may be a strange name, but it my name, and it is who I am.”
Suddenly feeling self-conscious, he said, “I’ve been asked that question before. About my parents being English professors, I mean. Was there really a book with a character called Nobody in it?”
It wasn't often that Dean was asked to expound on literary works and he found himself rather warming to the idea as he regaled his passenger with a very detailed account of Odysseus' battle with the cyclops. At least, detailed as far as Dean remembered it, which wasn't letter perfect, but whatever he didn't remember he made up.
He reached the end of his odd tale as the first lights of the town came into view. “So, the other one-eyes are like, 'Dude be crazy, he even says nobody did this' and left the blind big guy all alone. It's classic. Oh, hey, civilization at last.”
Cruising down the street found them in front of a cheerful looking pancake house with Dean's third favorite sign glowing in warm, red neon. 24 hours. “You hungry, Bod? Wanna grab a bite?”