My random bits for Bigbang
"You heading clear through?" she asked.
(I'll either tie this up with him maybe flirting a little with the girl, maybe something creepy happens. Then we can either move right on to the next part here or you can do another Dean parallel scene.)
----
His need to finish this hunt had grown like a festering wound, pungent and putrid in a way it consumed every virile part of him. The only cure, only reprieve was a head on, guns blazing fight till the end. A Kamikaze attack? Hell yeah, this had suicide mission all over it and he had no one to answer to or apologise for that matter.
No one but himself.
He swivelled his thoughts in his head for a few silent minutes, savoured the moment, the time had finally come to put things right. End the battle. He started the engine, took a long toke on his cig till he felt the burn on his finger tips. He flicked the butt, released the clutch and put peddle to metal.
---
He needed fuel.
The gage teased and danced above the red line, played that game for five miles. Dean knew he only had another seven possibly eight miles out of her before she ran dry. He hated leaving it to the last minute, knew it was bad for the engine but he wasn’t in the mood for stopping. Had to keep moving, searching, needed to keep warm tires on the road, let them eat up the distance between him and the end goal.
When the gas station came into view, he sighed and begrudgingly pulled the car in to fill her up.
He juiced the Impala then made his way into the tiny shop. It took him under a minute to zigzag through the aisles, pick up several items and dump the six pack, beef jerk and M&Ms onto the counter.
His head jerked towards the general direct before the words came out, “pack of Marlboro.”
“Ten or twenty?” The lady asked, braced one hand on the counter.
“Twenty.” Dean replied voice gruff and throat raw.
The buzzing light and bleep of the till was giving him a headache.
He sniffed, wiped a lazy hand over his nose while he watched and waited for the girl to finish scanning the goods. She looked up at him after bagging each item. And each time Dean turned away, gazed out the shop window, looked to the floor, did every move he could to avoided eye contact.
“That’ll be thirty seven, fifty five.”
He cleared his throat and opened his wallet. “Throw in a pack of painkillers, wouldja.” He dropped two twenties to the counter.
She smiled and went to get them. “Bad day, huh?”
That made him chuckle on the inside, he shook his head, sighed. “Sweetheart, try, bad life.” He answered, impassively.
---
After three hundred miles of radio silence, he started to wonder if the Doc was asleep, which wasn't that unreasonable a notion, except for, well, it was the Doc. He was pretty sure Doc didn't ever sleep. That was half the fun of keeping him... on retainer.