"Another Soldier 1/6" by ellipsisblack, commentary by ladyvyola
Another Soldier on the Road to Nowhere
by ellipsisblack (conquest)
Rating: NC-17
I'm Vyola and I've gotta say I'm a die-hard Sam/Dean girl. But I <3 Dean/Mikey with the power of a thousand fiery suns because ellipsisblack shows me why it's so right. And without belittling Sam/Dean in the slightest.
Part 1: I-IV. PG.
"i can't imagine all the people that you know
and the places that you go
when the lights are turned down low
and i don't understand
all the things you've seen
but i'm slipping in between
you and your big dreams"
* *
"Hello, you've reached Sam Winchester. I am not available right now. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
"Sam? Sam? Sam, answer your goddamn phone. Damn it. Where are you? Can you hear me? I'll find you, okay."
Rip our hearts out right away, why don't you?
* *
I.
Once you were in the life, it was easy to keep track of your fellow hunters. Michael learned that lesson early.
The Winchesters were easier to keep track of than most. They were like Big Joe or Tony, the only people on the East and West coasts respectively who could hook you up with any kind of ammunition you could name, plus a few you hadn't heard of. They were like Eveline, who gave Michael his first lessons in hunting monsters when he was fifteen and told his mom he was going to summer camp. Other hunters drifted in and out of the collective consciousness, but not these people; they were remembered, and if you found it pretty hard to put your hand on the Winchesters in a hurry-they moved around the country like the Devil himself were snapping at their heels-at least their activities filtered through the collective unconscious the next time they touched base.
He asked Eveline about the Winchesters on his second day at her place in Iowa. She sighed and told him that John Winchester had died a few years back, but his boys were still around, mostly working gigs together. They were some of the last generalist hunters out there, she said. Most people specialised into one aspect of the life after the first few years, but not the Winchesters. They went after anything and everything, whether they could handle it or not.
Outsider's POV firmly in place. It's cool to see the Winchesters -- and the hunting "community" -- through Mikey's eyes. It's an interesting combination of pragmatism and utter hero worship.
We also get our first hints of Mikey's stubbornness and determination. He wants to be a hunter so he found a teacher and did what he had to do to learn what he needed.
He liked hearing stories about them, because it meant they were still alive, still kicking ass, and that maybe one day he would actually run into them again and say thank you properly to them for saving his brother and opening his eyes to what was out there.
For three years he went back to Eveline's place over summer, learning the lore and the tricks of hunting from her because there was no one else to teach him. Sometimes there were other kids there; sometimes there weren't. He never really remembered them, anyway.
Nobody's really real except the Winchesters.
The last time he went back was the summer after he graduated. Evie greeted him with a smile, then sat him down in her cozy den with a can of coke.
"I just rang Tony," she said. "I knew you'd be asking me how your heroes were doing."
Michael sipped his coke. He was a little old now for the kind of enthusiastic curiousity he used to show, but she had him pegged right, of course. He did want to know what was up with the Winchesters.
Oh, dear. If this is Michael after outgrowing his displays of enthusiastic curiosity, I can only imagine how transparent he was before.
Eveline sighed. "Tony said he saw Dean a month or so ago. Alone." She took a gulp of coffee. "That's not so unusual, but Tony said Dean was in a bad way. Not physically, but in his head. When Tony asked where Sam was, Dean said Sam was gone and he couldn't find him."
Michael frowned and leaned back in his chair. Eveline sighed, playing with the end of her greying braid. For an old battleaxe, she was remarkably sentimental. Then again, every woman Michael knew who had met Dean-including his own mother, well, at least until Mastercard caught up with them-seemed to have a soft spot for the guy.
Michael is ever-so-slightly obsessed with Dean and women.
"It's so sad," she said. "When the young ones die."
Michael started. "You think Sam's dead?"
Wait, what? I don't believe it.
"What else could it be? If Sam Winchester weren't dead then you can rest assured Dean'd know where he was."
"Do you have Dean's cell?" Michael stood up. He'd never asked Eveline that before, because he knew he wouldn't call, and he didn't want to have that number burning a hole in his cell phone.
Eveline blinked. "Now what would you want with that?" she asked.
"I'm going to go find him. Help him find his brother."
Go, Mikey! You know that Sam can't be dead, either.
"Oh honey, Dean doesn't want to be found. I tried to call him just before, and his phone just going to voicemail," said Eveline with pity. "I know you have a bit of a crush on him, Mikey, but you need to give him his space. Can't be easy on him losing Sam with his ma and pa already in the ground."
"I do not have a crush," Michael bit out. "Dean and Sam Winchester saved my family. Now, if they're in trouble, then I gotta find Dean and help him get Sam back. Give me his cell number."
Eveline raised one eyebrow and frowned at Michael.
"Please," he added, kinda hating that he'd backed down.
Mikey tends to think of himself as tentative and retiring. In actuality, his politeness just masks his relentlessness. He doesn't give up. He just steps back and figures out a new approach.
"All right, fine," she said, "but if you're going to be out on a hunt-and mind me, Dean will be harder to track than most critters-you have to be prepared. What are you going to tell your ma?"
"I'll tell her I'm going to see the country before I go to college. Easy."
"By yourself? Won't she kick up a dust?" Eveline had pulled her own hunter's journal off the table beside her and was flicking through the pages until she reached one somewhere in the middle. She tore a page out of the back of the journal and scribbled a number on it.
"She has Asher to worry about, and besides, I'm eighteen now. She can't stop me."
"Michael Sorenson, you don't talk about your mother like that," Eveline said, frowning at him over her reading glasses. "Or I won't give you this number."
"Sorry ma'am," muttered Michael, feeling like he'd lost once again. He was going to have to practice being assertive if he were going to find Dean.
Eveline handed him the paper. "You won't get an answer from him, anyway. His pa pulled the same trick years back when they were on the trail of that demon. Gave us all a bit of a scare, especially his boys. Dean learned from the best."
Michael shrugged. "Can't hurt to try," he said, flicking open his phone and punching Dean's number in, then stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket. "Thanks, Evie."
"You're not going anywhere for a week anyway," she said fussily. "You should head over to Manteo and talk to Tony first up. And, if you're striking out on your own, then we got to make sure you're ready for the big wide world."
"I gotta leave tonight," said Michael firmly.
They wound up bargaining down to five days, long enough for Michael to do some research, and Eveline to make some phone calls and see what her contacts had to say, and to let them know that a new hunter was setting up business. Michael felt a tingle down his spine when she said that. Him, a hunter. Finally.
But Evie was right. Finding Dean Winchester would probably be the toughest hunt of his career.
So Sam's missing, Dean's elusive, and Mike's a baby hunter.
* *
"Hello, you've reached Sam Winchester. I am not available right now. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
"Sam, where the hell are you? I just-God, I looked everywhere. I'm starting to wonder if you're-if you get this, call me."
Dean's messages are the one place we hear his doubts and fears. He almost -- almost -- voices his worst fear, that Sam is dead. He'd never admit it to another person. But the phone, his last link to Sam, is his confessional. It's just like the messages he left for his father in those awful, lonely times when John pursued his own agenda and kept Dean in the dark.
* *
II.
Manteo was a bust. Well, not exactly a bust; Michael did pick up some useful intel from Tony about Winchesters and Where to Find Them.
It was a two-day bus trip from Des Moines to Manteo. He presented himself, dusty and tired, at Manteo Guns and Antiques, and was met by a disconcertingly ordinary looking older man with thinning hair and fading freckles, who said, "You must be Mikey, Evie's boy!"
Get used to that, Mikey. You'll be Evie's boy until you've trained a hunter or two yourself.
Michael leant back from this effusive greeting and offered his hand. "I'm Michael Sorenson. Evie said you saw Dean Winchester come through here a month or so ago?"
Tony nodded and sighed. "Yeah." He scratched at his scalp. "Come on out back."
He didn't bother to flick over the closed sign on the door, just ducked through a wooden bead curtain, expecting Michael to follow.
Michael hitched up his bag with one hand, wiped over his eyes and through his hair with the other, and followed Tony into the back room.
It turned out that Tony was a hippy in an eccentric's clothing. This room was furnished like-well, like an Arab harem, with drapes over all the walls, knotted rugs on the floor, charms from every different religion in each corner, and the persistent, slightly intoxicating smell of incense seeming to waft from the fabric. Tony plunked himself down on a cushion in the centre, gestured to Michael to do the same, and offered him some sort of coffee wafer thing.
"So, Mikey, you're on the hunt for Deano?"
"Yeah." Michael was practicing his tough guy attitude, but it was difficult when his hair was still floppy-long and a cherubic golden brown and his face was still round like a baby's.
In other words, Sam just before Stanford. What I like to call Dean bait.
"Well, what do you want to know? He came by about a month ago to restock his kit. He was by himself. I asked him where Sam was, and he said Sam was gone, and he couldn't find him. He was talking kinda crazy, you know. And I thought to myself, mark me, little Sammy Winchester's gone where his parents are, ‘cause if he were on God's green earth, then his big brother would know where he was, even if they were split up."
This was almost exactly what Eveline had said too. Michael nodded.
Tony leaned forwards. "Have you ever hunted a Winchester, Mikey?"
"Do you like gladiator movies, Mikey?"
Michael shook his head.
"You need to know how they operate, where they go to ground. I had to track ‘em down a few years back myself; it took me a month just to catch up to them. And that was the both of them, not looking to hide from anything. Eventually I had to call their pa, God keep his soul, and he put me onto Dean's cell. ‘Course, you've got Dean's cell, don't you? Fat lot of good it'll do you."
"So, can you help me?" said Michael quietly.
"Sure can," said Tony. "There's few know the Winchester ways better'n me, and most of them are dead. And there's one thing you can rely on with hunters: when they're in trouble, they fall back into what they know. Damned predictable. Dean'll be doing jobs, following his usual circle round the country, up north, then across west, then south." He crunched on another coffee wafer. "I hope you find him, Mikey. Kid needs someone to keep an eye on him."
Let's hope the FBI doesn't figure that out.
Michael's back straightened like someone put a ruler up his ass.
After a couple of hours and at least two tins of coffee wafers, Tony sent Michael on his way. Even though Tony said Dean had headed up north towards New Hampshire, Michael still went into a couple of bars in Manteo, half-expecting Dean to be sitting slumped over the bar in the first place he went into.
He wasn't, and it felt like a failure, so Michael used one of the fake IDs Evie had hooked him up with-credit cards, IDs, and a few pieces of official identification were apparently included under what Eveline considered "getting him ready for the real world"-to get very drunk.
He poured himself onto a bus to Manchester. Dean had mentioned to Tony that there was a haunting up there he was going to check out. Tony's commentary had been, "Running away from his emotions. Predictable." Accompanied with a derisive snort.
Once Michael was sober enough to be regretting it badly, he leaned against the window of the bus with a sweater over his head.
The first time he showed up at Eveline's place, she'd asked him why on earth he wanted to be a hunter. Usually the kids who came through either had no-one else, or had family in the business, but Michael just presented himself, and she wondered why, coming from a family like his, he even knew about the hunting life. He'd told her the truth, that a shtriga had got his brother, and they thought he was going to die, but then a couple hunters came through and took care of it.
Evie had nodded and said, "You don't want to get caught like that again, right?"
And Michael had pulled himself up to all the height his fifteen years could muster and replied, "It's my job to take care of them, ma'am, and I can't do that if I don't know what I'm protecting them from."
Once she figured out who exactly it had been who had helped them out, Eveline had asked him what it was about the Winchesters that set Michael's heart aflutter like a girl at a rock concert. Michael had tried to punch her in the arm and had wound up pinned to the mat with a knee in his back.
"Hang on a second. Just listen to me. You have to believe me, okay? This thing came through your window, and it attacked your brother. Now, I've seen it. I know what it looks like. ‘Cause it attacked my brother once, too."
There was no real reason to think that Dean would be in Manchester. Jobs didn't usually take more than a week, max. But it was the start of the trail, Michael could only hope that eventually he'd catch up to Dean, even if Dean was running as fast as he possibly could.
His phone rang about two hours in, starting him out of an uncomfortable doze. His seatmate, a chick around his own age, swore sleepily at him as the pinging ringtone reverberated throughout the bus. Michael flushed. He should have put his phone on vibrate or something. What kind of a hunter had a ringtone like that?
Then again, what kind of a hunter travelled by bus?
And, hell, what kind of a hunter got irate phonecalls from his mother?
I'm charmed by the prosaic details. Not everybody gets a kick-ass muscle car to travel America's scenic by-ways. Some must go Greyhound.
"Mom, I'm fine," he said. "I'm on a bus to New Hampshire."
"New Hampshire? Weren't you going to North Carolina?"
"Yeah, I went there, and now I'm going to New Hampshire. How's Asher?"
Joanna wasn't so easily distracted. "He's fine. Why are you going to New Hampshire?"
"There's some lovely scenery," Michael said, deadpan. "Listen, mom, I'll-e-mail you or something when I find an internet café. Don't worry about me. Tell Asher I said hi and that I'll kick his ass if he acts up."
"Michael, I'm you're mother, it's my job to worry."
"Mom-"
"Don't do anything stupid."
"Mom-"
"Keep in touch. And if you're not back here in time for semester to start, then I'll be the one doing ass kicking."
"Mom-"
"I know, sweetie. You'll e-mail." Joanna sounded resigned. "Love you. Bye."
"Bye mom." Michael flipped the phone shut.
The girl in the seat next to him sent him a superior look and Michael looked her up and down.
"Heeeeey," he drawled, like he was from Texas not Wisconsin. "Don't look at me like that. You've got bird shit in your hair."
The girl's hand flew to her head, horrified, and Michael nearly sprained something laughing.
They stopped for two hours in Philadelphia, and the girl switched, so Michael found himself crammed up against a big guy for the rest of the trip while she smirked at him every time he looked back over his seat.
Poor Joanna. You just know she thinks she's being modern and understanding and supportive, letting Mikey stretch his wings before college. She's worrying about him running out of money or sleeping with the wrong girl. She has no earthly idea.
* *
"Hello, you've reached Sam Winchester. I am not available right now. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
"Oh God, Sammy, what if you're dead? You can't be dead. I won't... I'm gonna find you, okay? Just hold on."
HOLD ON, SAMMY. Oh, Dean....
* *
III.
Michael only stuck around in Manchester long enough to talk to the victims of the haunting-a family of six girls living in a creaky old house that practically screamed "poltergeist"-who told him that after he dealt with their problem, they'd given " Miles Dagobert", the address of their cousin out to the west, and he'd stayed there for a while before heading on towards Ohio. That was about three weeks ago. Michael begged the same info, and Carrie, the eldest sister, gave it up cheerfully enough.
Not feeling ready to face another bus trip, he thumbed a lift to Allenberg, Pennsylvania, then a cab out to Carrie's cousin Emmy Ann's place, which was a farm about ten miles out. The cab driver gouged him, but "Bob Segnier" was picking up the tab. Michael was getting good at this credit card fraud gig. He did feel a moment's twinge of guilt, knowing the trouble his mother had gone through when the credit card company had come trying to weasel out of paying the Winchesters' tab. In the end, though, they'd had to foot the bill, and everything had worked out the way it should, in Michael's mind at least.
He knocked on the door of the farmhouse, and was greeted by a very busty brunette with braids, freckles, and an adorable sliver of a gap between her front teeth.
"Mikey?" she said. Michael winced. Why was it that his nickname seemed to precede him everywhere?
Because you are adorable and clearly a Mikey. Stop fighting it, Mikey.
"Carrie called an hour back, said you were a friend of Miles' and could we put you up for the night. And I told her, of course. We do pride ourselves on our hospitality," Emmy Ann grinned.
"Michael Sorenson," he said, offering his hand. "How long did Miles stay with you?"
"A couple weeks," said Emmy Ann, ushering him inside. "Miles, he got... distracted, you see. You can just dump your kit here'n I'll show you the guest bedroom later."
"Did he take care of a problem for you?" said Michael. Two poltergeists in one family was not unheard of, he didn't think, but it was kinda strange.
Emmy Ann looked over her shoulder and raised an amused eyebrow. "You could say that, sweetie," she said, and Michael flushed bright red.
Oh, now his mind kept giving him images of Dean with Emmy Ann focused on sleek, tanned muscles, short-cropped hair, and a dangerous smile that said at the same time, "don't mess with me," and "I won't let anything bad happen to you."
Oh, yeah. Mikey's a fangirl.
Michael was petrified that Emmy Ann was going to try to "distract" him too, but she didn't. He met the rest of the family over dinner, then he and Emmy Ann sat up talking for a while, about "Miles". Emmy Ann said that he'd driven out on the road west, she thought towards Ohio. After a while, Michael yawned hugely and declared he was going to turn in.
He shot her a wary look, and Emmy Ann laughed. "Don't worry, sweetie. You're a little too young and gay for me."
Michael stared at her. He was the king of the closet. He had been building a small army of closet-people since he was fourteen. Why was it that the farm girl could pick that he dug guys when the entire high school football team had never figured it out? Because the average straight high school football player has the gaydar of a duckbilled platypus. They assign 'gay' and 'straight' arbitrarily, leading to traumatic pranks at Homecoming and embarrassing revelations at the 10-year reunion. "Oh come on," she said, rolling her eyes. "It's so obvious, you've got a major thing for Miles. It's okay, so do I, and between you and me, he's amazing in the sack."
And there he went, blushing bright red again. Proper hunters did not blush like a tomato every five seconds.
A. Dorable.
Emmy Ann frowned. "It was weird, actually. When he left, he said he was going back to where he lost him. His voice, I dunno. It was like, for two weeks he'd been fun, sexy as hell, helping out on the farm and stuff, and then, suddenly he dropped all that like a mask or something. And his voice was dead and… it's hard to describe. Anyway, I asked him who ‘he' was, and he shrugged and said ‘Sammy, never mind'." She looked at Michael. "Maybe you have a chance with him, kiddo. Sounds like he loved this ‘Sammy' a lot."
"Sammy's his brother," said Michael quietly. "And he isn't dead. We just have to find him."
"Is that why you're looking for him?"
"I owe him a favour," said Michael flatly. "He's in trouble, and I figured it was time I paid up."
"Uh huh. So this has nothing to do with the fact that you're clearly totally in love with him."
"Am not," said Michael. "I only met the guy once."
"Oh, so you're stalking him?" Emmy Ann winked.
"No!"
Hunter, stalker. To-may-to, to-mah-to.
In the morning, Emmy Ann took him back to town in the pick-up and hung around while he booked a ticket. "It was a pleasure meeting you," she said with an impish grin, "and I hope you find Miles eventually!"
Michael nodded solemnly, and she pinched him on the cheek.
"You're precious," she said, and hopped back into the truck.
"Ow," he muttered, rubbing his cheek.
Ohio wasn't really much to go on. He wished like hell that Dean had told Emmy Ann where he meant when he said he was going back to where he lost Sammy. All he really knew was that Dean was following a pattern, like Tony had said, and that he'd driven out west from Four Oaks, probably through Ohio.
He'd booked a ticket to Columbus, figuring to work outwards from there, but it'd be really nice if he knew where he was headed. He leant up against the wall of the bus depot and flicked through the cards Eveline had given him. Among them was a police badge.
I get an picture of a toddler in a Halloween costume.
With a mental shrug, Michael flipped open his cell and dialed the state police for Ohio.
A half hour later, he was armed with the intel that Dean's car had been impounded in Columbus for a DUI offence. Heart racketing in his chest, he thanked the officer and flicked the phone shut.
Oh, thank god. I'll pretend that Mikey can project a deep enough voice on the telephone to convince a public servant to give out confidential information.
* *
"Hello, you've reached Sam Winchester. I am not available right now. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
"Why the hell is your phone still on? It's been over a month, it should have run out by now, unless you're charging it. God, Sam, if you don't want me to find you, that's fine. Just-let me know you're okay. ... Fuck. Fuck you Sam. That's it. I'm not looking anymore. You can stay down whatever rabbit hole of fucking normality you're in. Enjoy your fucking life."
"Just be okay, okay, Sam? Just talk to me."
* *
IV.
First thing when Michael got to Columbus, he went to the impound lot to see whether Dean's car was still there. The attendant scowled.
"He was an ornery bastard. Came to see about getting the car back, and I told him how much it'd cost, and he almost broke my head chucking the bell at me." He pointed to the call bell on the desk, which sure looked like it had collided hard with something. "Anyway, the asshole came back that night and busted the car out. Left the plates too."
So Ohio was a dead end. Well, as far as Dean's trail went, but Michael realised he could still get something done. Emmy Ann said Dean was going back to where he lost Sam, and he went to Ohio. So, Michael decided to make lemonade out of the fact that he was stuck here to do some on-the-ground investigating.
There were a few supernatural beasties that took people. It would be difficult to know without talking more to Dean, but there were a few that seemed like they fit the kidnapper-profile; a wendigo was high on Michael's list of culprits, but he was also thinking about a sphinx. Yeah, it was a stretch, but sphinxes were famed for leaving no sign where they devoured a victim. He was really hoping he was wrong about that one. Then, of course, it could be humans, but Michael disregarded that possibility early on; he was so not going digging in gangland. Did Ohio even have a gangland?
Michael's got a good brain. He doesn't dismiss any possibility. Dean's going to need that kind of thinking on his side since he's obviously not thinking too clearly himself.
For the next three nights, he sat in a bar, using another of his fake IDs, and worked shot-by-shot through the bottles of vodka the bartender had up on the shelf. His phone rang and he swore loudly. It still had that goddamn girly ringtone.
He flicked it open. "Hello?"
"Mikey? It's Eveline. I just got word from Big Joe that Dean dropped in a couple days ago."
"Big Joe?" Michael almost banged his head against the bar. "He's in California now?"
"Seems like. Joe said Dean was limping, and was probably going to hang around in San Diego for a while. If you hop on a bus straight away, you should catch him."
"Thanks Evie," said Michael, fervently. "You're a hero."
His e-mails from his mother were getting progressively more resigned, but when he e-mailed her two days later to say he was in an internet café in San Diego, it took her all of ten minutes to phone him.
"California?" she practically screeched.
"Yeah. Wanted to see the Pacific."
"Michael, this is getting ridiculous."
"I know, mom. I'll be back before school starts."
"You could at least have dropped in to say hi on your way through. We're not exactly out of your way."
"Yeah, I'm sorry. Listen, I gotta go-"
"Yeah, sure. Keep in touch."
"I will. Bye, mom."
Michael's racking up the frequent rider miles, isn't he? I bet he even has favorite seats on the bus, the ones where you get less carbon monoxide coming up from the engine and the bathroom door doesn't hit you in the shoulder every time someone opens it.
Michael ran his hand through his hair, which was now passing "floppy" and heading into "girlish waves". Did he have time to get it cut before he went and found Big Joe? He decided not. Dean had proven himself perfectly capable of skipping town, and Michael wasn't willing to take that risk.
It was hot and windy in San Diego in July, and even though Michael knew a proper hunter wouldn't be seen dead in less than jeans and two layers of shirts, no matter how high the temperature climbed, he was forced to compromise on jeans and a black wifebeater, and he sweltered as the heavy fabric clung to his legs.
He had a text message from Evie with Big Joe's address in it, so he tied his hair up off his neck and struck out on foot from the motel.
Let's pause to appreciate this picture. Young, fit, healthy, pretty boy in tight jeans, a sleeveless black shirt, and a little ponytail. Here, Dean Dean Dean!
Big Joe's was actually a diner about two streets back from the bay. Even though it was prime real estate, Joe's looked like it hadn't had a cent put into upkeep since the 1980s. When Michael pushed open the glass door, a burst of cool, stale air-like the air-conditioner wasn't working right-hit him in the face.
A big guy in an apron looked up from the till. "Can I help you, kid?" he said pleasantly.
Michael looked around and went up to the bar. There were a few people in the diner, but it was two thirty, right between the lunch and dinner periods. When he reached the bar, he leant on it and said in his best gruff voice, "I'm Michael Sorensen. I'm looking for Dean Winchester. Eveline said he'd been around."
Big Joe grinned wide enough to sprain a muscle. "Oh! You're Evie's boy?"
Michael sighed. "Yes, I'm Evie's boy."
Big Joe looked amused. "Don't worry, kid. You could do worse than be known as Evie's boy. She trains ‘em up well, so they say." He glanced over Michael's shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
Michael looked around, but it didn't seem like anyone was looking back at Joe, so he turned back. "Have you seen Dean Winchester? Do you know where I can find him?"
Big Joe shrugged. "Yeah, he was in here about a week back. Maybe a bit less." He rubbed his chin. "Can't help you with where he is now, though. Could still be in town, I guess."
Michael's stomach felt like lead. "Okay, thank you."
Joe nodded. "No worries. Can I get you something to eat?"
Michael shook his head. "No thanks. I should head back to the hotel."
He had barely stepped outside the diner when a hand on his arm spun him around and pinned him face-first to the dirty plaster wall of the building. A body pressed up against his, lean and unforgiving.
"You're my stalker, then?" said a voice, and Michael barely recognised it from years ago.
"Dean?" he said, relief mixing with fear, because Dean was pressing his arm up behind his back almost high enough to dislocate his shoulder.
"Yeah, you found me. What the hell do you want?"
Michael tried to drag in a breath, then exhaled on a slight whine. Dean stepped back abruptly, and released him.
Michael turned around and got his first good look at Dean Winchester. He wasn't sure if his memory had just changed the image, but he remembered Dean as tall-though not as tall as Sam-and lean, with short-cropped hair, but a soft, almost pretty face. Michael had a lot of sympathy with the last bit, because people had been calling him pretty all his life too. It was a curse. Anyway, either Dean had changed, or Michael had remembered wrong. There was nothing pretty about Dean now. He was still handsome, but the planes of his face were sharp enough to cut glass, and anywhere where there wasn't a bone there seemed to be a bruise-dark hollow-under his cheeks and eyes, even at his temples.
We've seen Dean in bad shape before -- after his father died, when Dean was dying -- but Mikey hasn't. It's got to be shocking.
He looked like someone recovering from a long and debilitating illness. Moved a bit like that too, favouring his left leg, but Michael still wouldn't bet against him in a fight.
"I heard about your brother," Michael said hesitantly. "I-want to help you find him."
Dean laughed harshly. "Can't help me find him," he said flatly. "He can't be found. He's gone. Go home, kid. Concentrate on school, or your girlfriend, or toilet-papering some nerd's house, or whatever it is you do."
He turned on his heel and strode off like he was ignoring the pain in his leg.
PART 2
by ellipsisblack (conquest)
Rating: NC-17
I'm Vyola and I've gotta say I'm a die-hard Sam/Dean girl. But I <3 Dean/Mikey with the power of a thousand fiery suns because ellipsisblack shows me why it's so right. And without belittling Sam/Dean in the slightest.
Part 1: I-IV. PG.
"i can't imagine all the people that you know
and the places that you go
when the lights are turned down low
and i don't understand
all the things you've seen
but i'm slipping in between
you and your big dreams"
* *
"Hello, you've reached Sam Winchester. I am not available right now. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
"Sam? Sam? Sam, answer your goddamn phone. Damn it. Where are you? Can you hear me? I'll find you, okay."
Rip our hearts out right away, why don't you?
* *
I.
Once you were in the life, it was easy to keep track of your fellow hunters. Michael learned that lesson early.
The Winchesters were easier to keep track of than most. They were like Big Joe or Tony, the only people on the East and West coasts respectively who could hook you up with any kind of ammunition you could name, plus a few you hadn't heard of. They were like Eveline, who gave Michael his first lessons in hunting monsters when he was fifteen and told his mom he was going to summer camp. Other hunters drifted in and out of the collective consciousness, but not these people; they were remembered, and if you found it pretty hard to put your hand on the Winchesters in a hurry-they moved around the country like the Devil himself were snapping at their heels-at least their activities filtered through the collective unconscious the next time they touched base.
He asked Eveline about the Winchesters on his second day at her place in Iowa. She sighed and told him that John Winchester had died a few years back, but his boys were still around, mostly working gigs together. They were some of the last generalist hunters out there, she said. Most people specialised into one aspect of the life after the first few years, but not the Winchesters. They went after anything and everything, whether they could handle it or not.
Outsider's POV firmly in place. It's cool to see the Winchesters -- and the hunting "community" -- through Mikey's eyes. It's an interesting combination of pragmatism and utter hero worship.
We also get our first hints of Mikey's stubbornness and determination. He wants to be a hunter so he found a teacher and did what he had to do to learn what he needed.
He liked hearing stories about them, because it meant they were still alive, still kicking ass, and that maybe one day he would actually run into them again and say thank you properly to them for saving his brother and opening his eyes to what was out there.
For three years he went back to Eveline's place over summer, learning the lore and the tricks of hunting from her because there was no one else to teach him. Sometimes there were other kids there; sometimes there weren't. He never really remembered them, anyway.
Nobody's really real except the Winchesters.
The last time he went back was the summer after he graduated. Evie greeted him with a smile, then sat him down in her cozy den with a can of coke.
"I just rang Tony," she said. "I knew you'd be asking me how your heroes were doing."
Michael sipped his coke. He was a little old now for the kind of enthusiastic curiousity he used to show, but she had him pegged right, of course. He did want to know what was up with the Winchesters.
Oh, dear. If this is Michael after outgrowing his displays of enthusiastic curiosity, I can only imagine how transparent he was before.
Eveline sighed. "Tony said he saw Dean a month or so ago. Alone." She took a gulp of coffee. "That's not so unusual, but Tony said Dean was in a bad way. Not physically, but in his head. When Tony asked where Sam was, Dean said Sam was gone and he couldn't find him."
Michael frowned and leaned back in his chair. Eveline sighed, playing with the end of her greying braid. For an old battleaxe, she was remarkably sentimental. Then again, every woman Michael knew who had met Dean-including his own mother, well, at least until Mastercard caught up with them-seemed to have a soft spot for the guy.
Michael is ever-so-slightly obsessed with Dean and women.
"It's so sad," she said. "When the young ones die."
Michael started. "You think Sam's dead?"
Wait, what? I don't believe it.
"What else could it be? If Sam Winchester weren't dead then you can rest assured Dean'd know where he was."
"Do you have Dean's cell?" Michael stood up. He'd never asked Eveline that before, because he knew he wouldn't call, and he didn't want to have that number burning a hole in his cell phone.
Eveline blinked. "Now what would you want with that?" she asked.
"I'm going to go find him. Help him find his brother."
Go, Mikey! You know that Sam can't be dead, either.
"Oh honey, Dean doesn't want to be found. I tried to call him just before, and his phone just going to voicemail," said Eveline with pity. "I know you have a bit of a crush on him, Mikey, but you need to give him his space. Can't be easy on him losing Sam with his ma and pa already in the ground."
"I do not have a crush," Michael bit out. "Dean and Sam Winchester saved my family. Now, if they're in trouble, then I gotta find Dean and help him get Sam back. Give me his cell number."
Eveline raised one eyebrow and frowned at Michael.
"Please," he added, kinda hating that he'd backed down.
Mikey tends to think of himself as tentative and retiring. In actuality, his politeness just masks his relentlessness. He doesn't give up. He just steps back and figures out a new approach.
"All right, fine," she said, "but if you're going to be out on a hunt-and mind me, Dean will be harder to track than most critters-you have to be prepared. What are you going to tell your ma?"
"I'll tell her I'm going to see the country before I go to college. Easy."
"By yourself? Won't she kick up a dust?" Eveline had pulled her own hunter's journal off the table beside her and was flicking through the pages until she reached one somewhere in the middle. She tore a page out of the back of the journal and scribbled a number on it.
"She has Asher to worry about, and besides, I'm eighteen now. She can't stop me."
"Michael Sorenson, you don't talk about your mother like that," Eveline said, frowning at him over her reading glasses. "Or I won't give you this number."
"Sorry ma'am," muttered Michael, feeling like he'd lost once again. He was going to have to practice being assertive if he were going to find Dean.
Eveline handed him the paper. "You won't get an answer from him, anyway. His pa pulled the same trick years back when they were on the trail of that demon. Gave us all a bit of a scare, especially his boys. Dean learned from the best."
Michael shrugged. "Can't hurt to try," he said, flicking open his phone and punching Dean's number in, then stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket. "Thanks, Evie."
"You're not going anywhere for a week anyway," she said fussily. "You should head over to Manteo and talk to Tony first up. And, if you're striking out on your own, then we got to make sure you're ready for the big wide world."
"I gotta leave tonight," said Michael firmly.
They wound up bargaining down to five days, long enough for Michael to do some research, and Eveline to make some phone calls and see what her contacts had to say, and to let them know that a new hunter was setting up business. Michael felt a tingle down his spine when she said that. Him, a hunter. Finally.
But Evie was right. Finding Dean Winchester would probably be the toughest hunt of his career.
So Sam's missing, Dean's elusive, and Mike's a baby hunter.
* *
"Hello, you've reached Sam Winchester. I am not available right now. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
"Sam, where the hell are you? I just-God, I looked everywhere. I'm starting to wonder if you're-if you get this, call me."
Dean's messages are the one place we hear his doubts and fears. He almost -- almost -- voices his worst fear, that Sam is dead. He'd never admit it to another person. But the phone, his last link to Sam, is his confessional. It's just like the messages he left for his father in those awful, lonely times when John pursued his own agenda and kept Dean in the dark.
* *
II.
Manteo was a bust. Well, not exactly a bust; Michael did pick up some useful intel from Tony about Winchesters and Where to Find Them.
It was a two-day bus trip from Des Moines to Manteo. He presented himself, dusty and tired, at Manteo Guns and Antiques, and was met by a disconcertingly ordinary looking older man with thinning hair and fading freckles, who said, "You must be Mikey, Evie's boy!"
Get used to that, Mikey. You'll be Evie's boy until you've trained a hunter or two yourself.
Michael leant back from this effusive greeting and offered his hand. "I'm Michael Sorenson. Evie said you saw Dean Winchester come through here a month or so ago?"
Tony nodded and sighed. "Yeah." He scratched at his scalp. "Come on out back."
He didn't bother to flick over the closed sign on the door, just ducked through a wooden bead curtain, expecting Michael to follow.
Michael hitched up his bag with one hand, wiped over his eyes and through his hair with the other, and followed Tony into the back room.
It turned out that Tony was a hippy in an eccentric's clothing. This room was furnished like-well, like an Arab harem, with drapes over all the walls, knotted rugs on the floor, charms from every different religion in each corner, and the persistent, slightly intoxicating smell of incense seeming to waft from the fabric. Tony plunked himself down on a cushion in the centre, gestured to Michael to do the same, and offered him some sort of coffee wafer thing.
"So, Mikey, you're on the hunt for Deano?"
"Yeah." Michael was practicing his tough guy attitude, but it was difficult when his hair was still floppy-long and a cherubic golden brown and his face was still round like a baby's.
In other words, Sam just before Stanford. What I like to call Dean bait.
"Well, what do you want to know? He came by about a month ago to restock his kit. He was by himself. I asked him where Sam was, and he said Sam was gone, and he couldn't find him. He was talking kinda crazy, you know. And I thought to myself, mark me, little Sammy Winchester's gone where his parents are, ‘cause if he were on God's green earth, then his big brother would know where he was, even if they were split up."
This was almost exactly what Eveline had said too. Michael nodded.
Tony leaned forwards. "Have you ever hunted a Winchester, Mikey?"
"Do you like gladiator movies, Mikey?"
Michael shook his head.
"You need to know how they operate, where they go to ground. I had to track ‘em down a few years back myself; it took me a month just to catch up to them. And that was the both of them, not looking to hide from anything. Eventually I had to call their pa, God keep his soul, and he put me onto Dean's cell. ‘Course, you've got Dean's cell, don't you? Fat lot of good it'll do you."
"So, can you help me?" said Michael quietly.
"Sure can," said Tony. "There's few know the Winchester ways better'n me, and most of them are dead. And there's one thing you can rely on with hunters: when they're in trouble, they fall back into what they know. Damned predictable. Dean'll be doing jobs, following his usual circle round the country, up north, then across west, then south." He crunched on another coffee wafer. "I hope you find him, Mikey. Kid needs someone to keep an eye on him."
Let's hope the FBI doesn't figure that out.
Michael's back straightened like someone put a ruler up his ass.
After a couple of hours and at least two tins of coffee wafers, Tony sent Michael on his way. Even though Tony said Dean had headed up north towards New Hampshire, Michael still went into a couple of bars in Manteo, half-expecting Dean to be sitting slumped over the bar in the first place he went into.
He wasn't, and it felt like a failure, so Michael used one of the fake IDs Evie had hooked him up with-credit cards, IDs, and a few pieces of official identification were apparently included under what Eveline considered "getting him ready for the real world"-to get very drunk.
He poured himself onto a bus to Manchester. Dean had mentioned to Tony that there was a haunting up there he was going to check out. Tony's commentary had been, "Running away from his emotions. Predictable." Accompanied with a derisive snort.
Once Michael was sober enough to be regretting it badly, he leaned against the window of the bus with a sweater over his head.
The first time he showed up at Eveline's place, she'd asked him why on earth he wanted to be a hunter. Usually the kids who came through either had no-one else, or had family in the business, but Michael just presented himself, and she wondered why, coming from a family like his, he even knew about the hunting life. He'd told her the truth, that a shtriga had got his brother, and they thought he was going to die, but then a couple hunters came through and took care of it.
Evie had nodded and said, "You don't want to get caught like that again, right?"
And Michael had pulled himself up to all the height his fifteen years could muster and replied, "It's my job to take care of them, ma'am, and I can't do that if I don't know what I'm protecting them from."
Once she figured out who exactly it had been who had helped them out, Eveline had asked him what it was about the Winchesters that set Michael's heart aflutter like a girl at a rock concert. Michael had tried to punch her in the arm and had wound up pinned to the mat with a knee in his back.
"Hang on a second. Just listen to me. You have to believe me, okay? This thing came through your window, and it attacked your brother. Now, I've seen it. I know what it looks like. ‘Cause it attacked my brother once, too."
There was no real reason to think that Dean would be in Manchester. Jobs didn't usually take more than a week, max. But it was the start of the trail, Michael could only hope that eventually he'd catch up to Dean, even if Dean was running as fast as he possibly could.
His phone rang about two hours in, starting him out of an uncomfortable doze. His seatmate, a chick around his own age, swore sleepily at him as the pinging ringtone reverberated throughout the bus. Michael flushed. He should have put his phone on vibrate or something. What kind of a hunter had a ringtone like that?
Then again, what kind of a hunter travelled by bus?
And, hell, what kind of a hunter got irate phonecalls from his mother?
I'm charmed by the prosaic details. Not everybody gets a kick-ass muscle car to travel America's scenic by-ways. Some must go Greyhound.
"Mom, I'm fine," he said. "I'm on a bus to New Hampshire."
"New Hampshire? Weren't you going to North Carolina?"
"Yeah, I went there, and now I'm going to New Hampshire. How's Asher?"
Joanna wasn't so easily distracted. "He's fine. Why are you going to New Hampshire?"
"There's some lovely scenery," Michael said, deadpan. "Listen, mom, I'll-e-mail you or something when I find an internet café. Don't worry about me. Tell Asher I said hi and that I'll kick his ass if he acts up."
"Michael, I'm you're mother, it's my job to worry."
"Mom-"
"Don't do anything stupid."
"Mom-"
"Keep in touch. And if you're not back here in time for semester to start, then I'll be the one doing ass kicking."
"Mom-"
"I know, sweetie. You'll e-mail." Joanna sounded resigned. "Love you. Bye."
"Bye mom." Michael flipped the phone shut.
The girl in the seat next to him sent him a superior look and Michael looked her up and down.
"Heeeeey," he drawled, like he was from Texas not Wisconsin. "Don't look at me like that. You've got bird shit in your hair."
The girl's hand flew to her head, horrified, and Michael nearly sprained something laughing.
They stopped for two hours in Philadelphia, and the girl switched, so Michael found himself crammed up against a big guy for the rest of the trip while she smirked at him every time he looked back over his seat.
Poor Joanna. You just know she thinks she's being modern and understanding and supportive, letting Mikey stretch his wings before college. She's worrying about him running out of money or sleeping with the wrong girl. She has no earthly idea.
* *
"Hello, you've reached Sam Winchester. I am not available right now. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
"Oh God, Sammy, what if you're dead? You can't be dead. I won't... I'm gonna find you, okay? Just hold on."
HOLD ON, SAMMY. Oh, Dean....
* *
III.
Michael only stuck around in Manchester long enough to talk to the victims of the haunting-a family of six girls living in a creaky old house that practically screamed "poltergeist"-who told him that after he dealt with their problem, they'd given " Miles Dagobert", the address of their cousin out to the west, and he'd stayed there for a while before heading on towards Ohio. That was about three weeks ago. Michael begged the same info, and Carrie, the eldest sister, gave it up cheerfully enough.
Not feeling ready to face another bus trip, he thumbed a lift to Allenberg, Pennsylvania, then a cab out to Carrie's cousin Emmy Ann's place, which was a farm about ten miles out. The cab driver gouged him, but "Bob Segnier" was picking up the tab. Michael was getting good at this credit card fraud gig. He did feel a moment's twinge of guilt, knowing the trouble his mother had gone through when the credit card company had come trying to weasel out of paying the Winchesters' tab. In the end, though, they'd had to foot the bill, and everything had worked out the way it should, in Michael's mind at least.
He knocked on the door of the farmhouse, and was greeted by a very busty brunette with braids, freckles, and an adorable sliver of a gap between her front teeth.
"Mikey?" she said. Michael winced. Why was it that his nickname seemed to precede him everywhere?
Because you are adorable and clearly a Mikey. Stop fighting it, Mikey.
"Carrie called an hour back, said you were a friend of Miles' and could we put you up for the night. And I told her, of course. We do pride ourselves on our hospitality," Emmy Ann grinned.
"Michael Sorenson," he said, offering his hand. "How long did Miles stay with you?"
"A couple weeks," said Emmy Ann, ushering him inside. "Miles, he got... distracted, you see. You can just dump your kit here'n I'll show you the guest bedroom later."
"Did he take care of a problem for you?" said Michael. Two poltergeists in one family was not unheard of, he didn't think, but it was kinda strange.
Emmy Ann looked over her shoulder and raised an amused eyebrow. "You could say that, sweetie," she said, and Michael flushed bright red.
Oh, now his mind kept giving him images of Dean with Emmy Ann focused on sleek, tanned muscles, short-cropped hair, and a dangerous smile that said at the same time, "don't mess with me," and "I won't let anything bad happen to you."
Oh, yeah. Mikey's a fangirl.
Michael was petrified that Emmy Ann was going to try to "distract" him too, but she didn't. He met the rest of the family over dinner, then he and Emmy Ann sat up talking for a while, about "Miles". Emmy Ann said that he'd driven out on the road west, she thought towards Ohio. After a while, Michael yawned hugely and declared he was going to turn in.
He shot her a wary look, and Emmy Ann laughed. "Don't worry, sweetie. You're a little too young and gay for me."
Michael stared at her. He was the king of the closet. He had been building a small army of closet-people since he was fourteen. Why was it that the farm girl could pick that he dug guys when the entire high school football team had never figured it out? Because the average straight high school football player has the gaydar of a duckbilled platypus. They assign 'gay' and 'straight' arbitrarily, leading to traumatic pranks at Homecoming and embarrassing revelations at the 10-year reunion. "Oh come on," she said, rolling her eyes. "It's so obvious, you've got a major thing for Miles. It's okay, so do I, and between you and me, he's amazing in the sack."
And there he went, blushing bright red again. Proper hunters did not blush like a tomato every five seconds.
A. Dorable.
Emmy Ann frowned. "It was weird, actually. When he left, he said he was going back to where he lost him. His voice, I dunno. It was like, for two weeks he'd been fun, sexy as hell, helping out on the farm and stuff, and then, suddenly he dropped all that like a mask or something. And his voice was dead and… it's hard to describe. Anyway, I asked him who ‘he' was, and he shrugged and said ‘Sammy, never mind'." She looked at Michael. "Maybe you have a chance with him, kiddo. Sounds like he loved this ‘Sammy' a lot."
"Sammy's his brother," said Michael quietly. "And he isn't dead. We just have to find him."
"Is that why you're looking for him?"
"I owe him a favour," said Michael flatly. "He's in trouble, and I figured it was time I paid up."
"Uh huh. So this has nothing to do with the fact that you're clearly totally in love with him."
"Am not," said Michael. "I only met the guy once."
"Oh, so you're stalking him?" Emmy Ann winked.
"No!"
Hunter, stalker. To-may-to, to-mah-to.
In the morning, Emmy Ann took him back to town in the pick-up and hung around while he booked a ticket. "It was a pleasure meeting you," she said with an impish grin, "and I hope you find Miles eventually!"
Michael nodded solemnly, and she pinched him on the cheek.
"You're precious," she said, and hopped back into the truck.
"Ow," he muttered, rubbing his cheek.
Ohio wasn't really much to go on. He wished like hell that Dean had told Emmy Ann where he meant when he said he was going back to where he lost Sammy. All he really knew was that Dean was following a pattern, like Tony had said, and that he'd driven out west from Four Oaks, probably through Ohio.
He'd booked a ticket to Columbus, figuring to work outwards from there, but it'd be really nice if he knew where he was headed. He leant up against the wall of the bus depot and flicked through the cards Eveline had given him. Among them was a police badge.
I get an picture of a toddler in a Halloween costume.
With a mental shrug, Michael flipped open his cell and dialed the state police for Ohio.
A half hour later, he was armed with the intel that Dean's car had been impounded in Columbus for a DUI offence. Heart racketing in his chest, he thanked the officer and flicked the phone shut.
Oh, thank god. I'll pretend that Mikey can project a deep enough voice on the telephone to convince a public servant to give out confidential information.
* *
"Hello, you've reached Sam Winchester. I am not available right now. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
"Why the hell is your phone still on? It's been over a month, it should have run out by now, unless you're charging it. God, Sam, if you don't want me to find you, that's fine. Just-let me know you're okay. ... Fuck. Fuck you Sam. That's it. I'm not looking anymore. You can stay down whatever rabbit hole of fucking normality you're in. Enjoy your fucking life."
"Just be okay, okay, Sam? Just talk to me."
* *
IV.
First thing when Michael got to Columbus, he went to the impound lot to see whether Dean's car was still there. The attendant scowled.
"He was an ornery bastard. Came to see about getting the car back, and I told him how much it'd cost, and he almost broke my head chucking the bell at me." He pointed to the call bell on the desk, which sure looked like it had collided hard with something. "Anyway, the asshole came back that night and busted the car out. Left the plates too."
So Ohio was a dead end. Well, as far as Dean's trail went, but Michael realised he could still get something done. Emmy Ann said Dean was going back to where he lost Sam, and he went to Ohio. So, Michael decided to make lemonade out of the fact that he was stuck here to do some on-the-ground investigating.
There were a few supernatural beasties that took people. It would be difficult to know without talking more to Dean, but there were a few that seemed like they fit the kidnapper-profile; a wendigo was high on Michael's list of culprits, but he was also thinking about a sphinx. Yeah, it was a stretch, but sphinxes were famed for leaving no sign where they devoured a victim. He was really hoping he was wrong about that one. Then, of course, it could be humans, but Michael disregarded that possibility early on; he was so not going digging in gangland. Did Ohio even have a gangland?
Michael's got a good brain. He doesn't dismiss any possibility. Dean's going to need that kind of thinking on his side since he's obviously not thinking too clearly himself.
For the next three nights, he sat in a bar, using another of his fake IDs, and worked shot-by-shot through the bottles of vodka the bartender had up on the shelf. His phone rang and he swore loudly. It still had that goddamn girly ringtone.
He flicked it open. "Hello?"
"Mikey? It's Eveline. I just got word from Big Joe that Dean dropped in a couple days ago."
"Big Joe?" Michael almost banged his head against the bar. "He's in California now?"
"Seems like. Joe said Dean was limping, and was probably going to hang around in San Diego for a while. If you hop on a bus straight away, you should catch him."
"Thanks Evie," said Michael, fervently. "You're a hero."
His e-mails from his mother were getting progressively more resigned, but when he e-mailed her two days later to say he was in an internet café in San Diego, it took her all of ten minutes to phone him.
"California?" she practically screeched.
"Yeah. Wanted to see the Pacific."
"Michael, this is getting ridiculous."
"I know, mom. I'll be back before school starts."
"You could at least have dropped in to say hi on your way through. We're not exactly out of your way."
"Yeah, I'm sorry. Listen, I gotta go-"
"Yeah, sure. Keep in touch."
"I will. Bye, mom."
Michael's racking up the frequent rider miles, isn't he? I bet he even has favorite seats on the bus, the ones where you get less carbon monoxide coming up from the engine and the bathroom door doesn't hit you in the shoulder every time someone opens it.
Michael ran his hand through his hair, which was now passing "floppy" and heading into "girlish waves". Did he have time to get it cut before he went and found Big Joe? He decided not. Dean had proven himself perfectly capable of skipping town, and Michael wasn't willing to take that risk.
It was hot and windy in San Diego in July, and even though Michael knew a proper hunter wouldn't be seen dead in less than jeans and two layers of shirts, no matter how high the temperature climbed, he was forced to compromise on jeans and a black wifebeater, and he sweltered as the heavy fabric clung to his legs.
He had a text message from Evie with Big Joe's address in it, so he tied his hair up off his neck and struck out on foot from the motel.
Let's pause to appreciate this picture. Young, fit, healthy, pretty boy in tight jeans, a sleeveless black shirt, and a little ponytail. Here, Dean Dean Dean!
Big Joe's was actually a diner about two streets back from the bay. Even though it was prime real estate, Joe's looked like it hadn't had a cent put into upkeep since the 1980s. When Michael pushed open the glass door, a burst of cool, stale air-like the air-conditioner wasn't working right-hit him in the face.
A big guy in an apron looked up from the till. "Can I help you, kid?" he said pleasantly.
Michael looked around and went up to the bar. There were a few people in the diner, but it was two thirty, right between the lunch and dinner periods. When he reached the bar, he leant on it and said in his best gruff voice, "I'm Michael Sorensen. I'm looking for Dean Winchester. Eveline said he'd been around."
Big Joe grinned wide enough to sprain a muscle. "Oh! You're Evie's boy?"
Michael sighed. "Yes, I'm Evie's boy."
Big Joe looked amused. "Don't worry, kid. You could do worse than be known as Evie's boy. She trains ‘em up well, so they say." He glanced over Michael's shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
Michael looked around, but it didn't seem like anyone was looking back at Joe, so he turned back. "Have you seen Dean Winchester? Do you know where I can find him?"
Big Joe shrugged. "Yeah, he was in here about a week back. Maybe a bit less." He rubbed his chin. "Can't help you with where he is now, though. Could still be in town, I guess."
Michael's stomach felt like lead. "Okay, thank you."
Joe nodded. "No worries. Can I get you something to eat?"
Michael shook his head. "No thanks. I should head back to the hotel."
He had barely stepped outside the diner when a hand on his arm spun him around and pinned him face-first to the dirty plaster wall of the building. A body pressed up against his, lean and unforgiving.
"You're my stalker, then?" said a voice, and Michael barely recognised it from years ago.
"Dean?" he said, relief mixing with fear, because Dean was pressing his arm up behind his back almost high enough to dislocate his shoulder.
"Yeah, you found me. What the hell do you want?"
Michael tried to drag in a breath, then exhaled on a slight whine. Dean stepped back abruptly, and released him.
Michael turned around and got his first good look at Dean Winchester. He wasn't sure if his memory had just changed the image, but he remembered Dean as tall-though not as tall as Sam-and lean, with short-cropped hair, but a soft, almost pretty face. Michael had a lot of sympathy with the last bit, because people had been calling him pretty all his life too. It was a curse. Anyway, either Dean had changed, or Michael had remembered wrong. There was nothing pretty about Dean now. He was still handsome, but the planes of his face were sharp enough to cut glass, and anywhere where there wasn't a bone there seemed to be a bruise-dark hollow-under his cheeks and eyes, even at his temples.
We've seen Dean in bad shape before -- after his father died, when Dean was dying -- but Mikey hasn't. It's got to be shocking.
He looked like someone recovering from a long and debilitating illness. Moved a bit like that too, favouring his left leg, but Michael still wouldn't bet against him in a fight.
"I heard about your brother," Michael said hesitantly. "I-want to help you find him."
Dean laughed harshly. "Can't help me find him," he said flatly. "He can't be found. He's gone. Go home, kid. Concentrate on school, or your girlfriend, or toilet-papering some nerd's house, or whatever it is you do."
He turned on his heel and strode off like he was ignoring the pain in his leg.
PART 2