SPN fic: Fire in the Hole 9/9
Chapter Nine/ The Deer Hunter
Finish the following sentences:
If I were a SPN fic, I’d be….COMPLETE! Not a WIP! I'd be a Generrific pre-series fic, somewhat angsty, featuring a loopy narrative that you'll need drugs to understand. And I'd be rated PG-13 for crazyass bad language.
SPN fics don’t survive without…Coffee! No, really, thanks to Kripke for giving me such a nice bunch of pretty boys to work with. Thanks also to the readers and reviewers who keep me motivated, for the amazing smilla02 for the icons, and of course and always, the betas Lemmypie and Sasquashme, without whom none of this happens.
Dean’s thighs taste just like…chicken, of course. Or maybe bacon. Or chicken wrapped in bacon. No wait. Pie.
Read previous chapters
--
You are such a freak, man. But everything’s okay here. Really. I think you know that.
I’m going to be moving around the next little while. Summer and all. Demolition derbies and overcompensating blondes and partying all night. You know me. So it might be hard to get hold of me.
You know. If that’s something you needed to do.
It’s been a long year, hasn’t it? You wouldn’t believe it. Hell, maybe you would. I never gave you enough credit. But I think I’m finally okay.
--
He didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t hear, either.
Hard calloused hands lifted his head, shoved something soft under it, and John heard, muffled like he was wearing ear protectors, “Goddamn jellybrained Winchesters, crustygusset dickstupid fucking slowchild shitaddled fuckforbrains idiot Winchesters,” and a splash of water sluiced across John’s face followed by a wet cloth and then, more clearly, “Don’t open your eyes if you know what’s good for you.”
Then John was given over to the business of coughing for a good few minutes, lungs creaking uncomfortably with mine sludge.
Behind his closed eyelids, the sun bathed his face, bloodred and warm. This light was unforgiving, elemental, like they were closer to heaven here than they were most places on this earth, and he felt his flesh open to it, lizardlike.
A bottle was pressed into his fingers, and John drank gratefully, then poured it over his face, blinking cautiously. It was like coming out of a movie theater after a matinee: John had forgotten it was still daylight outside. They’d been down below for quite some time, but nothing outside had changed.
The scene came into watery focus: Bobby, covered in dust, like a Mount St. Helen’s survivor, beard shedding detritus as he patted it. John thought the beard looked like a small disheveled dog. Then John didn’t think, heart coming right into his mouth, stomach twisting, swiveled his head frantically, but there was no need for worry, not this time.
Dean was sitting up not two yards away, arms draped across bent knees, eyes radiant green rimmed with bloodshot red, the rest of him all one color of beige. A bottle of water dangled loosely from one hand and he took a long slug of it while John watched.
On a mountainside, god sky above.
Slowly, his son lowered the bottle and met John’s open stare, smiled against the dust, showed a row of white teeth, and it was the best thing John had ever seen in his life.
Bobby crouched on the rock-strewn ground between them, eyes in shadow beneath his cap’s bill. “You leave me up top with a fire down below ever - ever - again, and I’m going to kill you with my bare hands,” he said, and he might have been talking to John, or maybe to Dean, but it really didn’t matter.
--
Dean sat up in bed, used the buffalo horns for leverage, and swung his legs over, testing a little weight on his bare feet. Felt just fine. A few bruises, minor lightweight stuff, and he was getting antsy.
Take it easy, he told himself, but the words just made him unaccountably sad, so he grimaced, got to his feet. Bounced a little, testing. Solid, stronger than he’d felt in a long time. Whole.
Don’t push it.
God, now he was lecturing himself, which was just somewhat more pathetic than his father doing it. Funny, though, it was Sam’s voice that sounded in his head. You draw another Get Out of Traction Free card and you’re going to blow it? I don’t think so, jerk.
He pulled the curtain back with one hand, kept to the side so that if John looked over, he wouldn’t see Dean upright. Wouldn’t see him spying.
Tim stood by the black truck, Oklahoma plates on the thing, and he was moving his arms as he talked. Pointing north. Describing an arch, maybe a bridge. Pulling the imaginary handle of a slot machine. So animated it was like a long-distance game of charades.
Second word sounds like let’s get the fuck out of here, John.
His father stood, hands in the pockets of his jeans, eyes slits against the sunlight, a patient expression on his face. His mouth moved, explaining something.
Dean tried not to care if his dad went with Tim or not. Easy job, John had said that morning as he watched Dean do the physio repetitions. Might give me something to do while you rest up. Dean had agreed, had said he could hang with Bobby, use the time to build up some muscle tone.
He should do it; it’ll give him something to do. I’ll be fine.
Then John clapped Tim on the back, and Dean closed his eyes because saying that he was okay with it and actually being okay with it were two different things. He opened them just as John looked over, met Dean’s stare through the window and across the parking lot. One second and John nodded to him, raised a hand as far as his waist like he was going to wave.
Some kind of decision made.
Tim leaned against the truck, waiting while John ambled back to the motel room door. Dean didn’t use the time to get back on the bed, to fake rest. He wanted to face this standing, no matter what.
“Hey,” John greeted him, uncertainty coloring his words and Dean took a breath, didn’t know what he was going to say.
“So?” he asked, asking for it.
John shrugged. “So.” One hand fluttered a little, fell to his side. “I have to give Tim a ride.”
“A ride,” Dean repeated, needing to understand. “How long will you be gone?” If Dad was leaving, if he wasn’t coming back, Dean deserved to hear it said straight out.
“Not long,” John said, a smile curving one corner of his mouth. “What? I told him he could either go back to Vegas, or take care of the bridge in Reno by himself. He says he’s got a friend in town that might be interested in the Reno thing. I told him to knock himself out. Probably will, too, inept bastard. Still, good ammo and the truck’s running like a top.” Switched gears faultlessly. “Why aren’t you resting?”
“Getting right on that,” Dean assured him, because his insides were suddenly all askew, just a wet handful of squid, and he knew that sitting down would be a good thing.
John was back inside a half hour, and when he reentered the room, sun lower in the sky now and slanting through the curtains at a steep angle, Dean was lying down, watching a cable show that would apparently make him a better bass fisherman. His father clattered around in the bathroom for a bit, came out rubbing his clean-shaven face like it was a new weapon, opened the bar fridge, searching.
“Dean?” It was almost dinner hour and the kitchen wasn’t exactly stocked, and so Dean was expecting an invitation to decide between pepperoni and green olives, because John couldn’t stand both on a pizza, but instead he got, “I know you didn’t help Sam leave.”
John straightened, a bottle of Gatorade in his hand, leaned against the counter, face serious. Trying so hard, and Dean didn’t think he could bear it.
Maybe if he held very still, this would just pass, because Dean had said all he wanted to down there, in front of a demon and Christ, he was tired. But John was looking right at him, so Dean shifted on the bed and turned off his opportunity to become a Bass Master, because you gave a conversation with John Winchester the attention it demanded. “I didn’t stop him.”
John nodded, then pressed on. “Must have been just as much a shock to you as it was to me. Worse, even.”
What did his dad want him to say? What was he asking?
But Dean knew. “I suspected. I didn’t want to believe it, though. So yeah, surprised the shit out of me.” He stared back at his dad. “He would have left anyway, you know. The whole Niagara Falls thing? Just made it happen faster.”
“He asked you to go with him.” A question, disguised as a statement.
Dean took a minute, wanted to be sure, didn’t want to jump into confession without being totally aware of what building he was falling from.
“Not in so many words, but yeah. He did.”
“Must have been scared.” John wasn’t getting angry; Dean could see the effort it took.
Dean shrugged. “Yeah. Blubbered like a baby. But I knew he’d be okay, once he got there.”
A long silence followed, and the obvious corollary to that confession was somehow already there, hanging: John had needed Dean more. Moving into the silence like a big ship, an elusive whale curving broad back to surface before diving again, John sighed, took some plastic plates out of the cupboard, examined them for bits of dried food.
Dean stayed put in every sense, didn’t move, couldn’t move. He’s trying to meet me halfway, but it’s a hell of a distance.
He could try, though. “So, you didn’t like the Reno job?” Small talk, come at it from a different angle.
John continued to scrape one fingernail on the plate, finally put it down and ran some water in the tiny sink, squirted in diluted dishsoap from a beat up bottle. “Nah.” He paused, waggled his hand in the water to kick up some desultory suds. “Didn’t like the company.”
Had company he preferred, was the insinuation.
“Tim’s okay,” Dean argued, found himself arguing for chrissakes. “If he goes at it the right way. I mean, what kind of ghost do you…”
Stopped, because his father was just staring at him, full in the face, no pretence of washing anything anymore. “You want this? Really? This life?”
Because somehow, he thought there were alternatives still left. And he wants me to say yes, wants it so badly.
Dean nodded, eyes on his father.
John kept his stare, acknowledging what was said with a small bob of his head. “The stuff we hunt is evil, Dean. You don’t trust it, not even the tommyknockers. It just gets too gray too fast.”
More to come. It was banging around in him, Dean could see, thrashing.
“But son, those kids in the parking garage? They might have been trouble, and they may have been murderers, and that skinny fuck may have been getting ready to kill you-” and he collected himself, because his voice had become strained. “Given the exact same circumstances again, someone with a gun to your head? No question. But everything leading up to it was one big fubar. You understand?”
Dean nodded, felt awash in the unfamiliar. It wasn’t precisely bad, but it was unusual, which was almost the same thing. Most of all, he wished his dad would shut the hell up because he was hungry and this was enough of this kind of talk for one fucking day. One fucking year, as a matter of fact.
There was a knock at the door, and John looked over at Dean, a smile crossing his face. “You up for company? Bobby said that he’d bring by some Tex-Mex.”
Bobby had brought enough food to feed a truckload of migrant workers, but surprisingly little was left after the three men had given it a once-over. They sat outside, enjoying the last of the sunshine, cold beers on the plastic patio table, trucks rushing by on the 50 like there was someplace good to go to in that direction, exhaust and exhaustion and sharp sun and chipotle sauce so toxic Dean thought that his stomach lining might need replacing.
He only allowed himself one beer, because it was easier saying no to a second than to hear the lecture his father would give him about mixing meds and alcohol. When it was gone, he needed water and when that was gone, he switched to Mountain Dew, which burst in his mouth like a sugar piñata. Bobby eyed the both of them, and Dean knew he was assessing what had changed between them, saw that John was different.
Was smiling and joking and telling one tall tale after another.
When John went inside to fetch Dean another soft drink, Dean didn’t miss how Bobby’s eyes followed his back before coming to rest on Dean.
“I was up at the rathole today, making sure it’s good and demolished.” An introduction to something difficult. Or personal. Which amounted to the same thing.
“Yeah?” Dean murmured, wondered if his horoscope today actually read, Everyone’s gonna go emo on your ass. Suck it back, princess. “Whaddya find?”
And Bobby held up Dean’s phone. One quick look, then he passed it over to Dean’s cold fingers. It had fucking nine lives, this thing. Damn. Automatically, Dean flipped it open. A signal.
More importantly, a message.
Well, fuck me.
He looked up, met Bobby’s steady stare and remembered how it had been in the ER, screaming with pain and Bobby just there, solid.
“Could be a trick,” Bobby warned, but not unkindly.
Dean nodded, dumbstruck. “Hell, could be someone about a job.”
John came back out, two cans of soda in his hands, dropped them on the table. Stared at the phone in Dean’s hands. “What the fuck is that, Bobby?”
Bobby went through it again. Left out that there was a message, Dean noticed. While John asked questions about the state of the rathole, Dean carefully put away the phone, tucked it into the pocket of his button up, dipped a chip into the nearly inedible salsa.
Could stand it for approximately ten seconds. “I gotta go to the can,” he excused himself, not caring if either one of them tried to stop him.
As he shut the motel room’s door, he heard Bobby calmly explain about the collapsed tunnels. He got to the bathroom and locked the door. The message had been sent the day before, and he recognized the number, would know it anywhere, and as he pressed for play, a lightheadedness came over him and he had to sit. Replayed it three times as he sat on the closed toilet bowl lid, finally just leaned forward and pressed the phone to his forehead, overwhelmed.
He thought about his imaginary horoscope again and laughed, jerky and soft.
Too long and there would be questions and he’d had enough questions to last a lifetime. He washed his face, rubbed his scalp with his fingertips, didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do now. In a dingy bathroom on the edge of nowhere, all roads open to him.
There was a sweating Mountain Dew waiting for him when he sat back down again.
“What did the demon say about the phone, Dean?” John asked as though Dean had never left the table. It wasn’t an inquisitor’s voice, not really. More like he was curious and being careful, and Dean was feeling all hot and cold and testy.
“It tried to make like it could call Sam. It couldn’t. It could make me think it was ringing, but it can’t invent satellite signals, not through all that silver.” The sun slipped further, and everything was gold and glowing and pink, even John.
“How’d Bobby find it, then? Is this thing really sealed up?”
Bobby nodded. “I’m sure of it.”
“The tommyknockers must have left it,” Dean said, positive. “I owe them. We all owe them. This is just a reminder, I think.”
Piss on them bastards what put us here.
He told them what the spirits had said, what held them there in that terrible tomb. Something soft came into Bobby’s small eyes, followed very quickly by something very, very hard, reminding Dean that this was a hunter to be reckoned with.
“I think I know just what to do,” Bobby said, crumpling a paper napkin over his mesa red sauce and chips.
--
The whole place was one big graveyard. A city of the dead, and if a hunter couldn’t catch a break here, well, time to pack up the salt and go home.
Singer took off his cap and he didn’t do that often or lightly, but Colma had a way of making you awful respectful about the dead.
Mostly because there were so damn many of them.
San Francisco didn’t have enough room to bury those that dropped dead within city limits; hence, Colma, suburb of the dead and the damned. Row upon row of tombstones and mausoleums, undulating landscape of manicured lawn and marble, blue sky hanging above. The San Francisco Bay was a shimmer in the distance, sun California mild, different from the Nevada anvil. The dead outnumbered the living in this town, and it behooved a man not to forget it.
Fewer than two thousand aboveground residents; more than 1.5 million below.
Singer had been here a few times, of course; it was a good place to bring new guys, got real loud sometimes, a party atmosphere upon occasion. But a great testing ground, something to be taken seriously. Really, with this many bones, you had to.
The three of them wandered between the headstones at Cypress Lawn Cemetery, Singer looking down at his map from time to time. Eventually, he folded it in half and jammed it into his back pocket, the sea breeze buffeting his hair into what Cathy had once referred to as ‘a graying Easter basket’, and stood quite still.
George Hearst hadn’t been the worst of them. He was only one of them. But the Ophir mine connected with the Kentuck that connected with the Yellow Jacket and so on, and these giants had made millions of dollars, pulled all that protection from the earth. Hearst had a feel for the color, and it sent him from Nevada to South Dakota to Peru, sucking the ground dry, heedless of the human cost.
There were miners trapped below and releasing them was justice, really, because Singer summered in Nevada, but he lived in South Dakota, and you knew about George fucking Hearst if you came from there.
A pleasure, which he thought would probably matter to those poor Cornishmen.
“Guys,” he said, pointing with his nose to a large marble structure outfitted with angels and birds and other assorted doo-dads that didn’t actually matter, except as a hindrance to entry. Dean and Winchester turned in unison, their body language almost exactly similar: watchful, curious. Reliant on the other, and Singer noted it.
They approached the mausoleum without hurry, because George wasn’t going anywhere, and Singer popped the lock on the wrought iron gate within ten seconds. Inside, it was much cooler, clean as a good library. They would need to be fast, as fast as this kind of thing took. Not as though hanging out in a graveyard was anyone’s idea of fun, anyway. Well, not Singer’s idea of fun, especially a mausoleum so public and visited.
“Let’s make this quick,” Winchester mirrored Singer’s thoughts, taking a crowbar from his bag and approaching the nearest niche.
“Um,” Singer cleared his throat. “It’s not gonna do the tommyknockers any good to open up William Randolph’s grave. Might do other people a favor, but…”
Winchester backed up a little, eyebrows weaving together as he strained to make out the name carved into the marble. “Who the fuck are we after?”
“His dad, George.” Singer laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You want to take the door, make sure we’re not disturbed?”
Dean shrugged, leaned against the entry, but as he looked out into the day’s sunshine, Singer heard him say, “Don’t make me wait long; I just downed a Super Gulp Slurpee.”
That was enough to make Singer bark a surprised laugh, which Dean returned without abandoning his post.
It didn’t take much; the sepulcher’s lid was heavy, but between Winchester and Singer, it wasn’t difficult. More difficult was getting a good angle, because it was at waist height. Singer realized he’d been expecting the grave to be in the ground. Still, didn’t take too much in terms of acrobatics.
As Singer unzipped, he spared a glance to Winchester, whose face said it all: Do I have to? Raising both brows, Singer grinned. The job had its perks, right enough. Then Dean was back with them and he said it for all of them.
“It’s what they asked for, Dad. I know you didn’t trust them, but we owe them. And this won’t hurt; it’s not as if they’re asking you to open up a vein and bleed on the fucker.”
They wouldn’t know the outcome, not really. The rathole was collapsed, and the Kentuck adit was flooded and destroyed. But immediately after they had all relieved themselves on George Hearst’s bones, Singer felt a weight lift, a door opening in him that had been nailed shut for some time, and everything felt like it might be okay.
They came outside and the sun was just as bright, just as high. They’d breakfasted close by and still had the better part of a day to kill. If Singer left now, he’d make it to Gold Hill by sundown. He didn’t want to go there, though. He wanted to drive all night to the salvage yard, drop by Cathy’s sometime before she left for the morning shift. Wanted a cup of her coffee and the pleasure of her company. A considerable drive, but worth it. It had been too long.
He stared sideways at the Winchesters as they walked slowly down the paved road to the parking lot, the silence companionable and easy, each immersed in their own thoughts.
A week ago, the tension between these two had been unbearable. Now, everything was different and Singer didn’t know exactly what had transpired under the mountain, but it made Winchester seem a whole lot younger. And it made that kid into a man. Comfortable in his own skin, sure, his body getting stronger every day. Not just his body, though. Everything. A grown man, except when he looked at his dad, and then a gleam came into his eyes and that was the sort of thing any father hoped to see.
Singer recognized it immediately, and for once remembering didn’t hurt.
They leaned against their respective vehicles for a bit, unsure how to end it. Hunters lives being what they were, there was always uncertainty when the next time would be. If there would be a next time. It was part of the vocation.
Singer left first, a handshake from Winchester, and Dean came around to the side of the big blue truck as Singer lifted a toolbox from the driver’s seat, threw the crowbar into the well beneath the glove compartment.
The kid wasn’t made for emotional goodbyes, which was fine by Singer. They looked at each other long and hard, then Dean smiled, gave a little shrug. “I’ll be seeing you, Bobby.”
Singer shut the door and started the engine, watching Dean walk to the Impala, and knew that would probably be the case.
--
Shit, a graveyard was as a good a place as any, and they really had no other plans for the day. Dean stretched out on the hood of the Impala, felt the heat radiate along his back and it felt so good. It was like the car was massaging him. Shit, he thought, I need to find some female company if I’m thinking about the car like this.
He might have closed his eyes. Distantly, he heard his father clean out the truck, re-arranging things, taking some stuff from the Impala’s trunk and transferring it to the truck’s storage box. An offer of help was refused, and Dean didn’t insist, because goddamn it if he didn’t love just lying on his car.
“Dean?” His father’s voice cut in, drifted into his thoughts like a persistent mosquito. “Son?”
Oh, man, he’d fallen asleep. Dean blinked a couple of times, reminding himself to not make a habit of nodding off in the middle of a cemetery, and slowly sat up. His dad was right there, an arm hovering at Dean’s side, ready to help. Dean looked at it pointedly, and John dropped it with a tight smile.
Dean stretched like a cat in the sun. “Great. We ready to go?”
John laughed. “You want to find a motel? You need some more shut eye?”
Dean pretended a wound. “Ow. Hell, no. Tell me you don’t take a nap every once in a while.” He slid off the car, petted her gently before assessing his father. Alert, but relaxed, he decided.
Then, out of the blue, “So, where to now?”
Eyes entirely on Dean, who didn’t know what to say. He’d never been asked this question in his life. Not by his dad, anyway.
“What?” he blurted out. Dad had somehow learned Esperanto.
John seemed amused, deep creases appearing to either side of his clean-shaven mouth. “Well, we’ve pissed on some old guy’s bones so that the Tinkerbelles can rest easy.” He spread his hands. “I’m obviously taking requests.”
Joking, tenuous humor. Dean crossed his arms, didn’t know if he should risk it. Didn’t know if he could afford not to. “I want to see him, Dad. I want to see Sam.”
He stopped there. He had all sorts of arguments - they were a half-hour’s drive away, they still had most of the day left, it was barely out of the way. Thanks to one of Sam’s drunk friends, Dean knew exactly where Sam lived. Dean didn’t use any of these weights to tip the scales. Either his dad was serious about this new thing they had going, or he wasn’t.
John’s face was blank, but then he nodded like he’d known this was what Dean would say. “Sure. We’re close. But-”
Dean made a weird noise, like a cough. Choking on his own spit. “I know. We don’t talk to him. He doesn’t need to know we’re there.” He nodded in return. “It’s dangerous, him on his own, especially when we’re in contact. Leading shit right to his doorstep, maybe.”
John shrugged, but it was impossible to read his face now. “Well, let’s not make a habit out of this.”
Couldn’t read his face, no, but there in his voice, Dean heard everything his dad had been holding back for a year now. It was new, and therefore scary, this level of longing. But Dean had called the shot, sunk the ball, and the table was now his.
--
Impossible as it might seem, the boy had actually grown.
Even from a distance, John could see the long-shanked sprawl, the way Sam ducked his head as some relatively miniscule boy with a heavy knapsack made him laugh. Even from across a grassy field covered in Frisbee-tossing students, Sam’s broad smile made John smile in return.
He knew Dean was watching him as much as he was watching his brother, picking out little nuances, waiting for some kind of sign, probably anticipating a breakdown. The black truck was less noticeable than the Impala, which Sam would have recognized instantly, and Dean had fallen into silence as they approached campus, giving only soft directions: turn here, slow down, let me check -- jumping out to read a campus map posted on a sign, back in, directing John to the residences.
Nervous.
They didn’t have to even look for him; Sam was right there, was lounging on the residence steps on a late spring afternoon. Dean had assured John that Sam would still be in residence until the end of the month, at least. Had softened his demand with a counter-offer: if it wasn’t today, they didn’t have to hang around.
It was like watching the lion cage at the zoo. All these young things sleeping and strutting and trying to catch each other’s attention, bored in the heat, waiting for something to happen.
“Shouldn’t stay too long,” Dean murmured and John wondered if that was for Sam’s sake, or John’s. It occurred to him then that maybe it was for Dean’s own sake, that he wanted to cut this short. Seeing Sam after so long was too much for him, needed to be doled out in minute doses.
It hurt, realizing that. So John watched Dean as much as he stole glances at laughing oblivious Sam, knew Dean had had enough, had seen enough, had taken his fill.
Too much of a good thing. And it was dangerous, maintaining any sort of contact with Sam, one-sided or not. Saying no to Dean was one of the hardest things in the world for John to do, but every once in a while, he had to. Because Dean was trapped, looking into this world, and no good could come of it.
Dean had made a decision, then and now and now. Making it was one thing; living with it another.
“Come on,” John said, starting the truck. “Let’s hit the road.”
He pulled away from the curb, and Dean looked out the window, not back at the teeming commons, eyes set at mile twenty, lost in thought, far away for all that John could have reached out and touched him.
--
They went north, then east. Dean had said Minnesota and Pastor Jim and fishing, and his dad had gone along with it. It wouldn’t last forever, this letting Dean take point, but he’d ride it as long as it was coming.
Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of the Airstream Caboose Diner, the sun setting behind them, desert again, but not Nevada. Maybe we should avoid Nevada for a bit. He got out, stretched experimentally, not cracking anything.
The back felt just fine. Another few weeks, and he’d never notice a difference, never know that it’d been injured in the first place. He grimaced, watched John turn the truck onto the blacktop, both vehicles dusty and hot. He had fallen; he’d broken his back. His father had not been able to stop it, had not been able to get past his rage and his fear and his grief to see it, let alone prevent it.
Dean didn’t want to sweep anything under the rug, but he didn’t want to wallow in it, either.
John got out with a sigh, smiled at Dean in greeting, gestured to the diner. “Just because it looks retro doesn’t mean the pie’s worth a damn.”
Dean shrugged. “Hey, decent décor never hurt. Order me whatever the blue plate is. I’ll be right in.”
John gave him a curious stare, but didn’t ask. Dean followed his back, waited for the door to close with a muffled jingle, the light now sheeting off the rounded windows like the diner was hosting a movie shoot.
He took out his phone. It didn’t matter if John saw him. A quick call, that was all. That much he could do. One last call was safe enough, and had been earned. All of them deserved it.
Once done, he slowly closed the phone, dropped it into his shirt pocket. He shaded his eyes and stared at the open road with the same disingenuous grin he’d give a pretty girl. Behind him, he could feel his father’s eyes on his back, light as a warm hand.
In front, nothing but asphalt and dust. And work. Lots and lots of work.
He turned, nodded at the unseen face on the other side of the shining window, took the steps by twos. His father was wrong: the pie was going to be perfect.
--
Hey Sam, I’m glad you’re doing okay. Stockcars, blondes and beer? Sounds like summer.
We were just in Colma, finishing up a job. What a fucking weird place. Hunter’s paradise. You could set up shop there and never have to step out of the city limits.
So I guess we were near. Coulda dropped by. But I know that kind of shit would have freaked you out, and tell you the truth, it probably would have freaked me out too and there’s no telling what Dad would have done. Jesus, if I wanted to embarrass you in front of your friends, no one better for that than Dad, right?
Still, he’s doing okay, Dad. Same as ever, thank god.
I’m gonna be busy too. No shortage of work. Always crap lurking out there. I’ll phone if there’s an emergency, but I won’t bug you. You have stuff to do, too.
Take care of yourself, okay? Stay safe. Keep your head up.
I’m sure Dad would say hi. If he knew it was you on the line.
--
-30-
a/n: When I told her the rough outline of this story, Sasquashme said, “Wow. That’s a helluva lot of work just so Ellsworth can piss on Hearst’s grave.” A big smooch, then, to all the Deadwood girls. The pie is, as always, for Kimonkey7, who makes me happy.
If you came here via word of mouth, please credit so I can go back and thank. Cheers.
I am off to Scotland for a week (I know! I just got back from vacation!), so if I’m not swift with replies, it’s because Glasgow doesn’t have any Internet cafés. Or computers. Or I’m, like, drunk.
Next up? Bear Hunt 2 - get yer crackhats on.
Finish the following sentences:
If I were a SPN fic, I’d be….COMPLETE! Not a WIP! I'd be a Generrific pre-series fic, somewhat angsty, featuring a loopy narrative that you'll need drugs to understand. And I'd be rated PG-13 for crazyass bad language.
SPN fics don’t survive without…Coffee! No, really, thanks to Kripke for giving me such a nice bunch of pretty boys to work with. Thanks also to the readers and reviewers who keep me motivated, for the amazing smilla02 for the icons, and of course and always, the betas Lemmypie and Sasquashme, without whom none of this happens.
Dean’s thighs taste just like…chicken, of course. Or maybe bacon. Or chicken wrapped in bacon. No wait. Pie.
Read previous chapters
--
You are such a freak, man. But everything’s okay here. Really. I think you know that.
I’m going to be moving around the next little while. Summer and all. Demolition derbies and overcompensating blondes and partying all night. You know me. So it might be hard to get hold of me.
You know. If that’s something you needed to do.
It’s been a long year, hasn’t it? You wouldn’t believe it. Hell, maybe you would. I never gave you enough credit. But I think I’m finally okay.
--
He didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t hear, either.
Hard calloused hands lifted his head, shoved something soft under it, and John heard, muffled like he was wearing ear protectors, “Goddamn jellybrained Winchesters, crustygusset dickstupid fucking slowchild shitaddled fuckforbrains idiot Winchesters,” and a splash of water sluiced across John’s face followed by a wet cloth and then, more clearly, “Don’t open your eyes if you know what’s good for you.”
Then John was given over to the business of coughing for a good few minutes, lungs creaking uncomfortably with mine sludge.
Behind his closed eyelids, the sun bathed his face, bloodred and warm. This light was unforgiving, elemental, like they were closer to heaven here than they were most places on this earth, and he felt his flesh open to it, lizardlike.
A bottle was pressed into his fingers, and John drank gratefully, then poured it over his face, blinking cautiously. It was like coming out of a movie theater after a matinee: John had forgotten it was still daylight outside. They’d been down below for quite some time, but nothing outside had changed.
The scene came into watery focus: Bobby, covered in dust, like a Mount St. Helen’s survivor, beard shedding detritus as he patted it. John thought the beard looked like a small disheveled dog. Then John didn’t think, heart coming right into his mouth, stomach twisting, swiveled his head frantically, but there was no need for worry, not this time.
Dean was sitting up not two yards away, arms draped across bent knees, eyes radiant green rimmed with bloodshot red, the rest of him all one color of beige. A bottle of water dangled loosely from one hand and he took a long slug of it while John watched.
On a mountainside, god sky above.
Slowly, his son lowered the bottle and met John’s open stare, smiled against the dust, showed a row of white teeth, and it was the best thing John had ever seen in his life.
Bobby crouched on the rock-strewn ground between them, eyes in shadow beneath his cap’s bill. “You leave me up top with a fire down below ever - ever - again, and I’m going to kill you with my bare hands,” he said, and he might have been talking to John, or maybe to Dean, but it really didn’t matter.
--
Dean sat up in bed, used the buffalo horns for leverage, and swung his legs over, testing a little weight on his bare feet. Felt just fine. A few bruises, minor lightweight stuff, and he was getting antsy.
Take it easy, he told himself, but the words just made him unaccountably sad, so he grimaced, got to his feet. Bounced a little, testing. Solid, stronger than he’d felt in a long time. Whole.
Don’t push it.
God, now he was lecturing himself, which was just somewhat more pathetic than his father doing it. Funny, though, it was Sam’s voice that sounded in his head. You draw another Get Out of Traction Free card and you’re going to blow it? I don’t think so, jerk.
He pulled the curtain back with one hand, kept to the side so that if John looked over, he wouldn’t see Dean upright. Wouldn’t see him spying.
Tim stood by the black truck, Oklahoma plates on the thing, and he was moving his arms as he talked. Pointing north. Describing an arch, maybe a bridge. Pulling the imaginary handle of a slot machine. So animated it was like a long-distance game of charades.
Second word sounds like let’s get the fuck out of here, John.
His father stood, hands in the pockets of his jeans, eyes slits against the sunlight, a patient expression on his face. His mouth moved, explaining something.
Dean tried not to care if his dad went with Tim or not. Easy job, John had said that morning as he watched Dean do the physio repetitions. Might give me something to do while you rest up. Dean had agreed, had said he could hang with Bobby, use the time to build up some muscle tone.
He should do it; it’ll give him something to do. I’ll be fine.
Then John clapped Tim on the back, and Dean closed his eyes because saying that he was okay with it and actually being okay with it were two different things. He opened them just as John looked over, met Dean’s stare through the window and across the parking lot. One second and John nodded to him, raised a hand as far as his waist like he was going to wave.
Some kind of decision made.
Tim leaned against the truck, waiting while John ambled back to the motel room door. Dean didn’t use the time to get back on the bed, to fake rest. He wanted to face this standing, no matter what.
“Hey,” John greeted him, uncertainty coloring his words and Dean took a breath, didn’t know what he was going to say.
“So?” he asked, asking for it.
John shrugged. “So.” One hand fluttered a little, fell to his side. “I have to give Tim a ride.”
“A ride,” Dean repeated, needing to understand. “How long will you be gone?” If Dad was leaving, if he wasn’t coming back, Dean deserved to hear it said straight out.
“Not long,” John said, a smile curving one corner of his mouth. “What? I told him he could either go back to Vegas, or take care of the bridge in Reno by himself. He says he’s got a friend in town that might be interested in the Reno thing. I told him to knock himself out. Probably will, too, inept bastard. Still, good ammo and the truck’s running like a top.” Switched gears faultlessly. “Why aren’t you resting?”
“Getting right on that,” Dean assured him, because his insides were suddenly all askew, just a wet handful of squid, and he knew that sitting down would be a good thing.
John was back inside a half hour, and when he reentered the room, sun lower in the sky now and slanting through the curtains at a steep angle, Dean was lying down, watching a cable show that would apparently make him a better bass fisherman. His father clattered around in the bathroom for a bit, came out rubbing his clean-shaven face like it was a new weapon, opened the bar fridge, searching.
“Dean?” It was almost dinner hour and the kitchen wasn’t exactly stocked, and so Dean was expecting an invitation to decide between pepperoni and green olives, because John couldn’t stand both on a pizza, but instead he got, “I know you didn’t help Sam leave.”
John straightened, a bottle of Gatorade in his hand, leaned against the counter, face serious. Trying so hard, and Dean didn’t think he could bear it.
Maybe if he held very still, this would just pass, because Dean had said all he wanted to down there, in front of a demon and Christ, he was tired. But John was looking right at him, so Dean shifted on the bed and turned off his opportunity to become a Bass Master, because you gave a conversation with John Winchester the attention it demanded. “I didn’t stop him.”
John nodded, then pressed on. “Must have been just as much a shock to you as it was to me. Worse, even.”
What did his dad want him to say? What was he asking?
But Dean knew. “I suspected. I didn’t want to believe it, though. So yeah, surprised the shit out of me.” He stared back at his dad. “He would have left anyway, you know. The whole Niagara Falls thing? Just made it happen faster.”
“He asked you to go with him.” A question, disguised as a statement.
Dean took a minute, wanted to be sure, didn’t want to jump into confession without being totally aware of what building he was falling from.
“Not in so many words, but yeah. He did.”
“Must have been scared.” John wasn’t getting angry; Dean could see the effort it took.
Dean shrugged. “Yeah. Blubbered like a baby. But I knew he’d be okay, once he got there.”
A long silence followed, and the obvious corollary to that confession was somehow already there, hanging: John had needed Dean more. Moving into the silence like a big ship, an elusive whale curving broad back to surface before diving again, John sighed, took some plastic plates out of the cupboard, examined them for bits of dried food.
Dean stayed put in every sense, didn’t move, couldn’t move. He’s trying to meet me halfway, but it’s a hell of a distance.
He could try, though. “So, you didn’t like the Reno job?” Small talk, come at it from a different angle.
John continued to scrape one fingernail on the plate, finally put it down and ran some water in the tiny sink, squirted in diluted dishsoap from a beat up bottle. “Nah.” He paused, waggled his hand in the water to kick up some desultory suds. “Didn’t like the company.”
Had company he preferred, was the insinuation.
“Tim’s okay,” Dean argued, found himself arguing for chrissakes. “If he goes at it the right way. I mean, what kind of ghost do you…”
Stopped, because his father was just staring at him, full in the face, no pretence of washing anything anymore. “You want this? Really? This life?”
Because somehow, he thought there were alternatives still left. And he wants me to say yes, wants it so badly.
Dean nodded, eyes on his father.
John kept his stare, acknowledging what was said with a small bob of his head. “The stuff we hunt is evil, Dean. You don’t trust it, not even the tommyknockers. It just gets too gray too fast.”
More to come. It was banging around in him, Dean could see, thrashing.
“But son, those kids in the parking garage? They might have been trouble, and they may have been murderers, and that skinny fuck may have been getting ready to kill you-” and he collected himself, because his voice had become strained. “Given the exact same circumstances again, someone with a gun to your head? No question. But everything leading up to it was one big fubar. You understand?”
Dean nodded, felt awash in the unfamiliar. It wasn’t precisely bad, but it was unusual, which was almost the same thing. Most of all, he wished his dad would shut the hell up because he was hungry and this was enough of this kind of talk for one fucking day. One fucking year, as a matter of fact.
There was a knock at the door, and John looked over at Dean, a smile crossing his face. “You up for company? Bobby said that he’d bring by some Tex-Mex.”
Bobby had brought enough food to feed a truckload of migrant workers, but surprisingly little was left after the three men had given it a once-over. They sat outside, enjoying the last of the sunshine, cold beers on the plastic patio table, trucks rushing by on the 50 like there was someplace good to go to in that direction, exhaust and exhaustion and sharp sun and chipotle sauce so toxic Dean thought that his stomach lining might need replacing.
He only allowed himself one beer, because it was easier saying no to a second than to hear the lecture his father would give him about mixing meds and alcohol. When it was gone, he needed water and when that was gone, he switched to Mountain Dew, which burst in his mouth like a sugar piñata. Bobby eyed the both of them, and Dean knew he was assessing what had changed between them, saw that John was different.
Was smiling and joking and telling one tall tale after another.
When John went inside to fetch Dean another soft drink, Dean didn’t miss how Bobby’s eyes followed his back before coming to rest on Dean.
“I was up at the rathole today, making sure it’s good and demolished.” An introduction to something difficult. Or personal. Which amounted to the same thing.
“Yeah?” Dean murmured, wondered if his horoscope today actually read, Everyone’s gonna go emo on your ass. Suck it back, princess. “Whaddya find?”
And Bobby held up Dean’s phone. One quick look, then he passed it over to Dean’s cold fingers. It had fucking nine lives, this thing. Damn. Automatically, Dean flipped it open. A signal.
More importantly, a message.
Well, fuck me.
He looked up, met Bobby’s steady stare and remembered how it had been in the ER, screaming with pain and Bobby just there, solid.
“Could be a trick,” Bobby warned, but not unkindly.
Dean nodded, dumbstruck. “Hell, could be someone about a job.”
John came back out, two cans of soda in his hands, dropped them on the table. Stared at the phone in Dean’s hands. “What the fuck is that, Bobby?”
Bobby went through it again. Left out that there was a message, Dean noticed. While John asked questions about the state of the rathole, Dean carefully put away the phone, tucked it into the pocket of his button up, dipped a chip into the nearly inedible salsa.
Could stand it for approximately ten seconds. “I gotta go to the can,” he excused himself, not caring if either one of them tried to stop him.
As he shut the motel room’s door, he heard Bobby calmly explain about the collapsed tunnels. He got to the bathroom and locked the door. The message had been sent the day before, and he recognized the number, would know it anywhere, and as he pressed for play, a lightheadedness came over him and he had to sit. Replayed it three times as he sat on the closed toilet bowl lid, finally just leaned forward and pressed the phone to his forehead, overwhelmed.
He thought about his imaginary horoscope again and laughed, jerky and soft.
Too long and there would be questions and he’d had enough questions to last a lifetime. He washed his face, rubbed his scalp with his fingertips, didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do now. In a dingy bathroom on the edge of nowhere, all roads open to him.
There was a sweating Mountain Dew waiting for him when he sat back down again.
“What did the demon say about the phone, Dean?” John asked as though Dean had never left the table. It wasn’t an inquisitor’s voice, not really. More like he was curious and being careful, and Dean was feeling all hot and cold and testy.
“It tried to make like it could call Sam. It couldn’t. It could make me think it was ringing, but it can’t invent satellite signals, not through all that silver.” The sun slipped further, and everything was gold and glowing and pink, even John.
“How’d Bobby find it, then? Is this thing really sealed up?”
Bobby nodded. “I’m sure of it.”
“The tommyknockers must have left it,” Dean said, positive. “I owe them. We all owe them. This is just a reminder, I think.”
Piss on them bastards what put us here.
He told them what the spirits had said, what held them there in that terrible tomb. Something soft came into Bobby’s small eyes, followed very quickly by something very, very hard, reminding Dean that this was a hunter to be reckoned with.
“I think I know just what to do,” Bobby said, crumpling a paper napkin over his mesa red sauce and chips.
--
The whole place was one big graveyard. A city of the dead, and if a hunter couldn’t catch a break here, well, time to pack up the salt and go home.
Singer took off his cap and he didn’t do that often or lightly, but Colma had a way of making you awful respectful about the dead.
Mostly because there were so damn many of them.
San Francisco didn’t have enough room to bury those that dropped dead within city limits; hence, Colma, suburb of the dead and the damned. Row upon row of tombstones and mausoleums, undulating landscape of manicured lawn and marble, blue sky hanging above. The San Francisco Bay was a shimmer in the distance, sun California mild, different from the Nevada anvil. The dead outnumbered the living in this town, and it behooved a man not to forget it.
Fewer than two thousand aboveground residents; more than 1.5 million below.
Singer had been here a few times, of course; it was a good place to bring new guys, got real loud sometimes, a party atmosphere upon occasion. But a great testing ground, something to be taken seriously. Really, with this many bones, you had to.
The three of them wandered between the headstones at Cypress Lawn Cemetery, Singer looking down at his map from time to time. Eventually, he folded it in half and jammed it into his back pocket, the sea breeze buffeting his hair into what Cathy had once referred to as ‘a graying Easter basket’, and stood quite still.
George Hearst hadn’t been the worst of them. He was only one of them. But the Ophir mine connected with the Kentuck that connected with the Yellow Jacket and so on, and these giants had made millions of dollars, pulled all that protection from the earth. Hearst had a feel for the color, and it sent him from Nevada to South Dakota to Peru, sucking the ground dry, heedless of the human cost.
There were miners trapped below and releasing them was justice, really, because Singer summered in Nevada, but he lived in South Dakota, and you knew about George fucking Hearst if you came from there.
A pleasure, which he thought would probably matter to those poor Cornishmen.
“Guys,” he said, pointing with his nose to a large marble structure outfitted with angels and birds and other assorted doo-dads that didn’t actually matter, except as a hindrance to entry. Dean and Winchester turned in unison, their body language almost exactly similar: watchful, curious. Reliant on the other, and Singer noted it.
They approached the mausoleum without hurry, because George wasn’t going anywhere, and Singer popped the lock on the wrought iron gate within ten seconds. Inside, it was much cooler, clean as a good library. They would need to be fast, as fast as this kind of thing took. Not as though hanging out in a graveyard was anyone’s idea of fun, anyway. Well, not Singer’s idea of fun, especially a mausoleum so public and visited.
“Let’s make this quick,” Winchester mirrored Singer’s thoughts, taking a crowbar from his bag and approaching the nearest niche.
“Um,” Singer cleared his throat. “It’s not gonna do the tommyknockers any good to open up William Randolph’s grave. Might do other people a favor, but…”
Winchester backed up a little, eyebrows weaving together as he strained to make out the name carved into the marble. “Who the fuck are we after?”
“His dad, George.” Singer laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You want to take the door, make sure we’re not disturbed?”
Dean shrugged, leaned against the entry, but as he looked out into the day’s sunshine, Singer heard him say, “Don’t make me wait long; I just downed a Super Gulp Slurpee.”
That was enough to make Singer bark a surprised laugh, which Dean returned without abandoning his post.
It didn’t take much; the sepulcher’s lid was heavy, but between Winchester and Singer, it wasn’t difficult. More difficult was getting a good angle, because it was at waist height. Singer realized he’d been expecting the grave to be in the ground. Still, didn’t take too much in terms of acrobatics.
As Singer unzipped, he spared a glance to Winchester, whose face said it all: Do I have to? Raising both brows, Singer grinned. The job had its perks, right enough. Then Dean was back with them and he said it for all of them.
“It’s what they asked for, Dad. I know you didn’t trust them, but we owe them. And this won’t hurt; it’s not as if they’re asking you to open up a vein and bleed on the fucker.”
They wouldn’t know the outcome, not really. The rathole was collapsed, and the Kentuck adit was flooded and destroyed. But immediately after they had all relieved themselves on George Hearst’s bones, Singer felt a weight lift, a door opening in him that had been nailed shut for some time, and everything felt like it might be okay.
They came outside and the sun was just as bright, just as high. They’d breakfasted close by and still had the better part of a day to kill. If Singer left now, he’d make it to Gold Hill by sundown. He didn’t want to go there, though. He wanted to drive all night to the salvage yard, drop by Cathy’s sometime before she left for the morning shift. Wanted a cup of her coffee and the pleasure of her company. A considerable drive, but worth it. It had been too long.
He stared sideways at the Winchesters as they walked slowly down the paved road to the parking lot, the silence companionable and easy, each immersed in their own thoughts.
A week ago, the tension between these two had been unbearable. Now, everything was different and Singer didn’t know exactly what had transpired under the mountain, but it made Winchester seem a whole lot younger. And it made that kid into a man. Comfortable in his own skin, sure, his body getting stronger every day. Not just his body, though. Everything. A grown man, except when he looked at his dad, and then a gleam came into his eyes and that was the sort of thing any father hoped to see.
Singer recognized it immediately, and for once remembering didn’t hurt.
They leaned against their respective vehicles for a bit, unsure how to end it. Hunters lives being what they were, there was always uncertainty when the next time would be. If there would be a next time. It was part of the vocation.
Singer left first, a handshake from Winchester, and Dean came around to the side of the big blue truck as Singer lifted a toolbox from the driver’s seat, threw the crowbar into the well beneath the glove compartment.
The kid wasn’t made for emotional goodbyes, which was fine by Singer. They looked at each other long and hard, then Dean smiled, gave a little shrug. “I’ll be seeing you, Bobby.”
Singer shut the door and started the engine, watching Dean walk to the Impala, and knew that would probably be the case.
--
Shit, a graveyard was as a good a place as any, and they really had no other plans for the day. Dean stretched out on the hood of the Impala, felt the heat radiate along his back and it felt so good. It was like the car was massaging him. Shit, he thought, I need to find some female company if I’m thinking about the car like this.
He might have closed his eyes. Distantly, he heard his father clean out the truck, re-arranging things, taking some stuff from the Impala’s trunk and transferring it to the truck’s storage box. An offer of help was refused, and Dean didn’t insist, because goddamn it if he didn’t love just lying on his car.
“Dean?” His father’s voice cut in, drifted into his thoughts like a persistent mosquito. “Son?”
Oh, man, he’d fallen asleep. Dean blinked a couple of times, reminding himself to not make a habit of nodding off in the middle of a cemetery, and slowly sat up. His dad was right there, an arm hovering at Dean’s side, ready to help. Dean looked at it pointedly, and John dropped it with a tight smile.
Dean stretched like a cat in the sun. “Great. We ready to go?”
John laughed. “You want to find a motel? You need some more shut eye?”
Dean pretended a wound. “Ow. Hell, no. Tell me you don’t take a nap every once in a while.” He slid off the car, petted her gently before assessing his father. Alert, but relaxed, he decided.
Then, out of the blue, “So, where to now?”
Eyes entirely on Dean, who didn’t know what to say. He’d never been asked this question in his life. Not by his dad, anyway.
“What?” he blurted out. Dad had somehow learned Esperanto.
John seemed amused, deep creases appearing to either side of his clean-shaven mouth. “Well, we’ve pissed on some old guy’s bones so that the Tinkerbelles can rest easy.” He spread his hands. “I’m obviously taking requests.”
Joking, tenuous humor. Dean crossed his arms, didn’t know if he should risk it. Didn’t know if he could afford not to. “I want to see him, Dad. I want to see Sam.”
He stopped there. He had all sorts of arguments - they were a half-hour’s drive away, they still had most of the day left, it was barely out of the way. Thanks to one of Sam’s drunk friends, Dean knew exactly where Sam lived. Dean didn’t use any of these weights to tip the scales. Either his dad was serious about this new thing they had going, or he wasn’t.
John’s face was blank, but then he nodded like he’d known this was what Dean would say. “Sure. We’re close. But-”
Dean made a weird noise, like a cough. Choking on his own spit. “I know. We don’t talk to him. He doesn’t need to know we’re there.” He nodded in return. “It’s dangerous, him on his own, especially when we’re in contact. Leading shit right to his doorstep, maybe.”
John shrugged, but it was impossible to read his face now. “Well, let’s not make a habit out of this.”
Couldn’t read his face, no, but there in his voice, Dean heard everything his dad had been holding back for a year now. It was new, and therefore scary, this level of longing. But Dean had called the shot, sunk the ball, and the table was now his.
--
Impossible as it might seem, the boy had actually grown.
Even from a distance, John could see the long-shanked sprawl, the way Sam ducked his head as some relatively miniscule boy with a heavy knapsack made him laugh. Even from across a grassy field covered in Frisbee-tossing students, Sam’s broad smile made John smile in return.
He knew Dean was watching him as much as he was watching his brother, picking out little nuances, waiting for some kind of sign, probably anticipating a breakdown. The black truck was less noticeable than the Impala, which Sam would have recognized instantly, and Dean had fallen into silence as they approached campus, giving only soft directions: turn here, slow down, let me check -- jumping out to read a campus map posted on a sign, back in, directing John to the residences.
Nervous.
They didn’t have to even look for him; Sam was right there, was lounging on the residence steps on a late spring afternoon. Dean had assured John that Sam would still be in residence until the end of the month, at least. Had softened his demand with a counter-offer: if it wasn’t today, they didn’t have to hang around.
It was like watching the lion cage at the zoo. All these young things sleeping and strutting and trying to catch each other’s attention, bored in the heat, waiting for something to happen.
“Shouldn’t stay too long,” Dean murmured and John wondered if that was for Sam’s sake, or John’s. It occurred to him then that maybe it was for Dean’s own sake, that he wanted to cut this short. Seeing Sam after so long was too much for him, needed to be doled out in minute doses.
It hurt, realizing that. So John watched Dean as much as he stole glances at laughing oblivious Sam, knew Dean had had enough, had seen enough, had taken his fill.
Too much of a good thing. And it was dangerous, maintaining any sort of contact with Sam, one-sided or not. Saying no to Dean was one of the hardest things in the world for John to do, but every once in a while, he had to. Because Dean was trapped, looking into this world, and no good could come of it.
Dean had made a decision, then and now and now. Making it was one thing; living with it another.
“Come on,” John said, starting the truck. “Let’s hit the road.”
He pulled away from the curb, and Dean looked out the window, not back at the teeming commons, eyes set at mile twenty, lost in thought, far away for all that John could have reached out and touched him.
--
They went north, then east. Dean had said Minnesota and Pastor Jim and fishing, and his dad had gone along with it. It wouldn’t last forever, this letting Dean take point, but he’d ride it as long as it was coming.
Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of the Airstream Caboose Diner, the sun setting behind them, desert again, but not Nevada. Maybe we should avoid Nevada for a bit. He got out, stretched experimentally, not cracking anything.
The back felt just fine. Another few weeks, and he’d never notice a difference, never know that it’d been injured in the first place. He grimaced, watched John turn the truck onto the blacktop, both vehicles dusty and hot. He had fallen; he’d broken his back. His father had not been able to stop it, had not been able to get past his rage and his fear and his grief to see it, let alone prevent it.
Dean didn’t want to sweep anything under the rug, but he didn’t want to wallow in it, either.
John got out with a sigh, smiled at Dean in greeting, gestured to the diner. “Just because it looks retro doesn’t mean the pie’s worth a damn.”
Dean shrugged. “Hey, decent décor never hurt. Order me whatever the blue plate is. I’ll be right in.”
John gave him a curious stare, but didn’t ask. Dean followed his back, waited for the door to close with a muffled jingle, the light now sheeting off the rounded windows like the diner was hosting a movie shoot.
He took out his phone. It didn’t matter if John saw him. A quick call, that was all. That much he could do. One last call was safe enough, and had been earned. All of them deserved it.
Once done, he slowly closed the phone, dropped it into his shirt pocket. He shaded his eyes and stared at the open road with the same disingenuous grin he’d give a pretty girl. Behind him, he could feel his father’s eyes on his back, light as a warm hand.
In front, nothing but asphalt and dust. And work. Lots and lots of work.
He turned, nodded at the unseen face on the other side of the shining window, took the steps by twos. His father was wrong: the pie was going to be perfect.
--
Hey Sam, I’m glad you’re doing okay. Stockcars, blondes and beer? Sounds like summer.
We were just in Colma, finishing up a job. What a fucking weird place. Hunter’s paradise. You could set up shop there and never have to step out of the city limits.
So I guess we were near. Coulda dropped by. But I know that kind of shit would have freaked you out, and tell you the truth, it probably would have freaked me out too and there’s no telling what Dad would have done. Jesus, if I wanted to embarrass you in front of your friends, no one better for that than Dad, right?
Still, he’s doing okay, Dad. Same as ever, thank god.
I’m gonna be busy too. No shortage of work. Always crap lurking out there. I’ll phone if there’s an emergency, but I won’t bug you. You have stuff to do, too.
Take care of yourself, okay? Stay safe. Keep your head up.
I’m sure Dad would say hi. If he knew it was you on the line.
--
-30-
a/n: When I told her the rough outline of this story, Sasquashme said, “Wow. That’s a helluva lot of work just so Ellsworth can piss on Hearst’s grave.” A big smooch, then, to all the Deadwood girls. The pie is, as always, for Kimonkey7, who makes me happy.
If you came here via word of mouth, please credit so I can go back and thank. Cheers.
I am off to Scotland for a week (I know! I just got back from vacation!), so if I’m not swift with replies, it’s because Glasgow doesn’t have any Internet cafés. Or computers. Or I’m, like, drunk.
Next up? Bear Hunt 2 - get yer crackhats on.