Somewhere Back of the Sun - Chapter 8
Wherein Sam travels through the Southwest, and finds out what he'll do to stay alive.
Chapter 8: Southwestern United States, late 2012
Sam stepped out of the alley cautiously. The car he’d spotted earlier that day hadn’t moved from where someone had parked it that morning. The driver’s side window had been smashed, but the windshield was in one piece, as was the back. That was all he needed to know.
He needed to get out of Oklahoma City, and he was willing to do whatever it took.
Stumbling slightly, Sam managed to sidle up close to the car he’d scoped out, slide the jimmy between the window glass and the door, and slip the locking mechanism. Smooth and easy, just like Dean had taught him ages ago.
Although Sam had long since realized that his peculiar upbringing had given him skills to survive the apocalypse, he’d also figured out that it was hard to steal from people who had nothing. And these days, most folks had nothing.
“Hey, man. You got something to sell? You sellin’ somethin’?”
Sam turned as he heard the bum’s wrecked voice, felt the smaller man bump into him. He probably wouldn’t have noticed the hands in his pockets, deftly picking out anything of value, but Sam had been raised by John Winchester.
And John Winchester didn’t raise any fools.
In a moment’s time, Sam had the man on his knees, howling in pain from a broken wrist, and Sam was picking up his wallet from the asphalt.
“Don’t fucking mess with me,” Sam spat, giving the man a quick kick, hard enough to bruise ribs, but not hard enough to break.
Sliding behind the wheel, Sam quickly hotwired the car, a little concerned that the man’s cries would bring help and witnesses he didn’t need. After the first burst of speed, when he was certain he wasn’t being followed, he slowed, knowing that he needed to conserve gas every way he could.
Sam drove south down I-75, dodging potholes, driving straight into the mess that was Dallas. He’d learned the hard way over the last year that most people in rural areas were quick to chase strangers off with a shotgun. Sam preferred cities, with their masses of people and quick, frenetic pace.
In a city, he could be anonymous, just another guy displaced by the apocalypse, looking for work.
Sam dumped the car in a deserted area of north Dallas, and then began to hike towards the downtown area. He’d heard there was a revival of clubs, restaurants and bars, but a “revival” meant different things to different people. In this case, it meant five places had opened with limited menus. What had been a nice area was now smoke-stained and trashed.
At the fifth bar, he saw a “Help Wanted” sign in the window, and Sam walked inside, his shoes sticking to the scarred wooden floor. Wading through the crowd, he sidled up next to the bar and waved the bartender over. “Beer, please.”
Maybe it was the courtesy, but the bartender had his drink to him in a couple of minutes, and Sam drank half of it in a couple of gulps. Leaning back, Sam began sipping a little more slowly, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of a couple of guys bumping chests.
He’d been in enough fights to sense when one was brewing, but Sam waited until the first punch was thrown before stepping in. He grabbed the two men by their collars, knocked their heads together, and tossed them out the door before anyone else could get involved.
“That was neatly done.” A man standing next to the door said, his brown skin and dark hair shiny with sweat and pomade, respectively. “You are good with your hands?”
“I’m good with my hands,” Sam agreed. “I saw you had a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. As you just saw, I can bounce, and I’ve tended bar in the past, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
The man looked him up and down, craning his neck to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam had a good foot on the guy, maybe close to 18 inches, and he tried not to loom too much. It didn’t pay to try to intimidate the prospective boss, even when Sam’s side was an advantage.
And this guy was definitely the boss-his belt buckle was silver, shiny, and as big as one of Sam’s hands. His boots were black, with silver-plating on the toes, and Sam could just make out the etching.
“Let’s have a drink, on the house,” the man said, waving Sam over to a small table in the back corner. “Tequila okay?”
“Perfect,” Sam replied, even though he didn’t much care for tequila. He would have preferred Johnny Walker, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
The man smiled. “I’m William Perez.”
“Sam Winchester.”
Sam sat down at the small table, feeling a bit like an elephant. He took the shot that the bartender brought over and followed Perez’s example when the other man knocked it back in one smooth motion.
“Have I heard of you?” Perez asked.
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Haven’t been in Dallas for a while.”
Perez smiled thinly. “But you’re looking to stay.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably under the other man’s stare. “Depends.”
Perez didn’t ask what it depended on. He merely nodded. “I see. I imagine we can work something out. I won’t ask if you’re comfortable with violence, because it’s clear that you are.”
Sam winced inwardly, but he didn’t respond to the obvious jibe. “Yeah, I can handle myself.”
“Clearly.” Perez’s musical voice was deceptively light, and Sam couldn’t help but wonder what Perez was looking for from him. “But can you deal with everything that goes on in this place?”
Sam frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Let’s just say that I supply a lot of needs. I don’t want business interrupted.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you’re dealing,” Sam replied bluntly. “It’s your business, not mine.”
Perez smiled thinly. “Do you think you can crack a few kneecaps when necessary?”
Sam took a deep breath, giving the question serious consideration. “And if I decide I’m done, if I want to walk away, can I?”
“You’d be an employee,” Perez replied in a tone of voice that Sam immediately distrusted. “And, of course, I would compensate you well.”
“Of course.” Sam met his eyes, and then nodded. “Let’s talk terms.”
~~~~~
Three months later, Sam still worked Perez’s bar and anywhere else Perez ordered him. Most of the time, he managed to not think about what he was doing.
Sam had managed to not think about a lot of things over the past couple of years.
“Early owes me money,” Perez announced as Sam wiped down the bar. He had the early shift on Tuesdays, which made it easier for Perez to draft him to do his dirty work.
Sam sighed. “Early owes everybody money, Perez.”
“But this time, he owes me money, and that’s the difference.” Perez smiled easily. “I need you to make an example of him, Sam.”
This was the part that Sam hated.
He shrugged his shoulders, feeling dirty just from Perez voicing the request. “Early is-”
“Heading down the wrong path,” Perez supplied easily. “If you’re the one making an example of him, Early has a chance to survive. You know that, Sam.”
He did. Sam knew it was true; if Perez sent someone else after Early, he was as good as dead. If Sam went, he had half a chance of convincing Early to get out of Dallas but still leave him able to move.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Tonight, Sam,” Perez warned him. “I need this done before my business suffers.”
Sam gave a tight nod. “Yeah, sure. I’ll handle it.”
This was the last job, Sam told himself. He had enough now to make it out of Dallas, maybe all the way to Nevada. He’d heard there was still a booming business in Las Vegas, which made sense. People still liked their sin, even if the end of the world had been narrowly averted.
He’d break a couple of bones, warn Early to head out of town, and then he’d be off himself. It was time for Sam to shake the dust of Dallas off his feet.
Perez gave Sam a knowing look, as though reading his mind. “Bring Early back here, Sam. I want to see what a good job you’ve done.”
“I’ll take care of him,” Sam promised.
Sam didn’t have any trouble finding Earl “Early” Boudreaux, who had camped out on a barstool at one of the few open places in town, just blocks from Perez’s place. He didn’t know if Early was unaware that Perez was looking for him, or if he was just that stupid, but he slid onto the stool next to him with an easygoing smile.
“Hey, Early.”
“Sam.” Early gave him the stupid smile of the drunk. “How’s it going, man?”
“Not so great,” Sam admitted, deciding to go for honesty as much as he was able. “Perez sent me after you.”
Early’s face fell. “Aw, come on, Sam. You know I’m good for it.”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here, Early,” Sam replied. “I need you to come with me quietly.”
“Fuck that!”
Sam sighed as Early tumbled off the stool and began to dodge through the crowd. “Shit.”
Early was half-trashed, and he couldn’t move very fast, making it easier for Sam to catch up to him. He snagged Early by the back of his denim shirt and dragged him back into the alley east of the building. “You shouldn’t have run, Early.”
“Sam, come on! Tell Perez I got away.” Early’s whine grated on Sam’s nerves and that made it easier to smash his fist into Early’s face.
“I have to bring you back,” Sam replied. “You should know better than to borrow that much money.”
He worked Early over methodically, closing his ears to the cries of pain, trying not to cause permanent damage while making it look good. He knew what Perez expected, although this was the first time Perez had sent him after some piss-ant boozer with a penchant for running up a tab.
Sam didn’t mind going after the dealers so much, the ones who had somehow crossed Perez, or had lost a shipment. One less dealer on the street was the way Sam looked at it.
This was different, but Sam had lost what few qualms he had about getting his hands dirty months ago. What was beating up one more guy in comparison to starting the fucking apocalypse?
When Early was unconscious and bruised, his face swollen, Sam dragged him back to Perez’s place and took him in through the back.
One of the bartenders watched as he dragged Early into the storeroom, and Perez appeared in the doorway as soon as Sam dumped the body in a corner.
“He dead?” Perez asked. “Because I didn’t ask you to kill him.”
“Unconscious,” Sam replied, stepping back. “He might be gunning for me once he comes to.”
“Nah, he’ll know who sent you.” Perez offered a shark’s grin. “Come have a drink with me, Winchester. Wash the taste of that trash out of your mouth.”
Sam didn’t bother mentioning that it wasn’t Early who’d left the bad taste in his mouth. Other than this errand, Sam wasn’t working, and although he wasn’t stupid enough to think that Perez would front him enough alcohol to get drunk, that’s exactly what Sam planned on doing.
Perez surprised him, though. Sam got most of a bottle of off-label whiskey to himself, and he drank slowly but steadily, stumbling out of the bar around 2 am. He had a flop nearby, and he did just that-flopped onto the ancient, lumpy mattress.
Sam stared at the watermarked ceiling, some rust-colored from the old pipes, and he thought some of the splotches looked a lot like bloodstains-like the ones on his jeans from Early.
“Shit,” Sam muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes. “If Dean-” He stopped, the words sticking in his throat.
This was why he didn’t drink; it cost money he didn’t have, and he got swamped by old memories.
He couldn’t do this anymore; Sam knew he had to get out of Dallas. He’d head south, maybe west, in the morning. Steal a car, siphon gas, do whatever it took to get out from under Perez’s thumb.
It wasn’t like Dallas had anything to hold him.
~~~~~
Sam’s drunken, early morning decision to leave held up in the cold light of day. Perez still owed him for a week’s worth of work, but Sam didn’t plan on sticking around to collect. He knew that if he didn’t act immediately, he’d stay, get caught up, end up stuck in Dallas the way Early had been.
He’d seen it happen in Perez’s bar, had seen it happen in Ok-City, the last place he’d stayed for any length of time. People got stuck a lot easier these days, and sometimes it was easier to stay stuck than it was to pack up and leave.
Sam didn’t plan on getting stuck.
He snuck out early, found a car to steal far enough away from Perez’s not to raise any alarms, and started driving. He took I-35 south, because he’d heard that San Antonio and its River Walk hadn’t been hit quite as hard by the apocalypse.
Where he could, Sam stopped and stole food, siphoned gas, slept in the ancient Cutlass off the interstate.
He took the time to see the Alamo; he’d been in San Antonio before, but had never gone. They had always been on the tail of some monster, and whatever ghosts the old fort held had long been exorcised.
It was there, reading the tarnished plaque by the entrance, that Sam felt a wave of homesickness pass over him, so strong he nearly turned around and started driving north right then.
He could go back the way he came, heading north, straight up 35, to I-29, and then to Sioux Falls and Bobby’s.
Bobby would call him an idjit and tell him to get inside, and Sam could stay under wide blue skies, in the midst of rusted-out cars, and let the wind blow over him until he was clean again.
But when he thought of Bobby’s, Sam couldn’t help but remember that Dean would have left Ben there. He would have made certain that Ben was safe, and Ben might be there still-so much like Dean that even the thought made his chest ache.
Sam feared that seeing Bobby-and possibly Ben-again would bring Dean’s loss into a sharp focus nothing could dull.
So, he’d just continue on-west, and then north into Nevada, and on to California.
Maybe he couldn’t outrun Dean’s death, but he could damn well try.
~~~~~
He took highway 87 northwest, and then I-10 almost straight west to Juarez. The guards at the border were more interested in their card game than in Sam, and they waived him into Mexico without searching his car or asking for paperwork.
Sam found a cantina still doing a brisk business, and he thought longingly of a beer and a meal that wasn’t pre-packaged and stale. He entered after only a moment’s hesitation, sitting down at the bar and paying for a blue-plate special and a bottle of beer up front.
The food was good enough that Sam cleaned his plate with the plentiful tortillas that accompanied the meal. When the plate had been cleared, he felt a presence next to his elbow. “Hola.”
The girl who spoke was young and very pretty, with large dark eyes and dark hair with a tinge of red. “Hola,” Sam replied, clearing his throat with a deep swallow from the bottle of beer.
“Habla español?” she asked with a smile.
“Un pequito.” Sam shrugged apologetically. “I’m an American.”
“Sí.” She smiled and put a hand on his wrist. “My name is Laura.”
“Laura.” He smiled. “I’m Sam.”
He knew what she wanted as soon as she touched him, and Sam allowed himself to want. Perez had offered women, but most of them had been prostitutes, and he’d been hesitant to sample the wares. Maybe, if he’d been around for long enough, he might have done just that.
This girl was willing, however, and he covered her hand with his own.
“There is a place, out back.”
Sam followed her to the alley behind the cantina. She shoved her hands under his shirt as soon as they were outside, and Sam pushed her back against the wall in response. Laura was willing and warm, and Sam raised her skirt, finding her thighs and pulling her legs around him.
Her mouth opened under his, and Sam thrust his tongue inside her mouth, sucking and licking and biting.
Laura returned his kiss with fervor, and Sam moaned when he realized that she wasn’t wearing underwear. Fumbling with the fly on his jeans, Sam let his pants drop around his ankles as he thrust up inside her. It had been so long since he’d been with anyone, since he’d come with anything but his hand for company. Sam didn’t last long, and he thought of nothing but his own release.
When he was done, he let her go, putting her back on the ground. Sam belatedly realized that Laura had tears running down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Sam blurted out. “I’m sorry.”
Laura shook her head, unable to speak immediately.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Sam promised. He’d never made a girl cry during sex before; they had always been pretty happy with his performance. Laura’s tears made him feel like an idiot, though, and Sam felt only relief when she nodded.
Maybe he was the rotten bastard who had started the apocalypse, but he didn’t want to add “made girls cry during sex” to his list of sins.
Sam slowed down a little, focusing on Laura, and on the sounds she made as he thrust a finger inside her. She was barely wet, and Sam concentrated on making her respond to him, to his fingers and lips.
Sam had enough experience with women to have her writhing around him in short order, his thumb manipulating her clit as his fingers learned her responses.
When she came with a cry, it felt like a bit of absolution, as though he wasn’t a complete fuck-up.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, holding her through the aftershocks. She might just be a girl he’d never see again, but Sam had no desire to break something-someone-else.
“I’m fine.” Laura smiled, and from the way her eyes crinkled around the corners, she meant it. “Better than fine. Thank you.”
Sam stepped back and pulled his pants up, giving silent thanks that no one had come by. “I don’t-”
“I wanted you to take me with you,” Laura blurted out. “Somewhere else, anywhere else.”
Sam sighed and shook his head. “Other places are pretty much the same, Laura.”
“But they are not here.”
“No, they’re not.”
Sam didn’t know this girl, didn’t know how she’d feel about long days on the road, stolen food and water, nights under the stars. He suspected that she was desperate enough not to care, desperate enough to trade sex for transportation, and he felt guilty enough to offer.
“I can’t take you far,” he warned. “Las Cruces, maybe.”
“Far enough.” Laura offered a fierce smile. “I can be ready in an hour.”
Sam’s ass ached with the thought of driving farther that night, but he nodded anyway, guilt making him agree.
Guilt over the apocalypse, guilt over the blood spilled by his own hands, guilt over being an insensitive ass the first time around.
He could get her as far as Las Cruces, maybe farther if necessary, and he could absolve this small guilt. Maybe, just maybe, he could save her and save himself at the same time.
Chapter 8: Southwestern United States, late 2012
Sam stepped out of the alley cautiously. The car he’d spotted earlier that day hadn’t moved from where someone had parked it that morning. The driver’s side window had been smashed, but the windshield was in one piece, as was the back. That was all he needed to know.
He needed to get out of Oklahoma City, and he was willing to do whatever it took.
Stumbling slightly, Sam managed to sidle up close to the car he’d scoped out, slide the jimmy between the window glass and the door, and slip the locking mechanism. Smooth and easy, just like Dean had taught him ages ago.
Although Sam had long since realized that his peculiar upbringing had given him skills to survive the apocalypse, he’d also figured out that it was hard to steal from people who had nothing. And these days, most folks had nothing.
“Hey, man. You got something to sell? You sellin’ somethin’?”
Sam turned as he heard the bum’s wrecked voice, felt the smaller man bump into him. He probably wouldn’t have noticed the hands in his pockets, deftly picking out anything of value, but Sam had been raised by John Winchester.
And John Winchester didn’t raise any fools.
In a moment’s time, Sam had the man on his knees, howling in pain from a broken wrist, and Sam was picking up his wallet from the asphalt.
“Don’t fucking mess with me,” Sam spat, giving the man a quick kick, hard enough to bruise ribs, but not hard enough to break.
Sliding behind the wheel, Sam quickly hotwired the car, a little concerned that the man’s cries would bring help and witnesses he didn’t need. After the first burst of speed, when he was certain he wasn’t being followed, he slowed, knowing that he needed to conserve gas every way he could.
Sam drove south down I-75, dodging potholes, driving straight into the mess that was Dallas. He’d learned the hard way over the last year that most people in rural areas were quick to chase strangers off with a shotgun. Sam preferred cities, with their masses of people and quick, frenetic pace.
In a city, he could be anonymous, just another guy displaced by the apocalypse, looking for work.
Sam dumped the car in a deserted area of north Dallas, and then began to hike towards the downtown area. He’d heard there was a revival of clubs, restaurants and bars, but a “revival” meant different things to different people. In this case, it meant five places had opened with limited menus. What had been a nice area was now smoke-stained and trashed.
At the fifth bar, he saw a “Help Wanted” sign in the window, and Sam walked inside, his shoes sticking to the scarred wooden floor. Wading through the crowd, he sidled up next to the bar and waved the bartender over. “Beer, please.”
Maybe it was the courtesy, but the bartender had his drink to him in a couple of minutes, and Sam drank half of it in a couple of gulps. Leaning back, Sam began sipping a little more slowly, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of a couple of guys bumping chests.
He’d been in enough fights to sense when one was brewing, but Sam waited until the first punch was thrown before stepping in. He grabbed the two men by their collars, knocked their heads together, and tossed them out the door before anyone else could get involved.
“That was neatly done.” A man standing next to the door said, his brown skin and dark hair shiny with sweat and pomade, respectively. “You are good with your hands?”
“I’m good with my hands,” Sam agreed. “I saw you had a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. As you just saw, I can bounce, and I’ve tended bar in the past, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
The man looked him up and down, craning his neck to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam had a good foot on the guy, maybe close to 18 inches, and he tried not to loom too much. It didn’t pay to try to intimidate the prospective boss, even when Sam’s side was an advantage.
And this guy was definitely the boss-his belt buckle was silver, shiny, and as big as one of Sam’s hands. His boots were black, with silver-plating on the toes, and Sam could just make out the etching.
“Let’s have a drink, on the house,” the man said, waving Sam over to a small table in the back corner. “Tequila okay?”
“Perfect,” Sam replied, even though he didn’t much care for tequila. He would have preferred Johnny Walker, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
The man smiled. “I’m William Perez.”
“Sam Winchester.”
Sam sat down at the small table, feeling a bit like an elephant. He took the shot that the bartender brought over and followed Perez’s example when the other man knocked it back in one smooth motion.
“Have I heard of you?” Perez asked.
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Haven’t been in Dallas for a while.”
Perez smiled thinly. “But you’re looking to stay.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably under the other man’s stare. “Depends.”
Perez didn’t ask what it depended on. He merely nodded. “I see. I imagine we can work something out. I won’t ask if you’re comfortable with violence, because it’s clear that you are.”
Sam winced inwardly, but he didn’t respond to the obvious jibe. “Yeah, I can handle myself.”
“Clearly.” Perez’s musical voice was deceptively light, and Sam couldn’t help but wonder what Perez was looking for from him. “But can you deal with everything that goes on in this place?”
Sam frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Let’s just say that I supply a lot of needs. I don’t want business interrupted.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you’re dealing,” Sam replied bluntly. “It’s your business, not mine.”
Perez smiled thinly. “Do you think you can crack a few kneecaps when necessary?”
Sam took a deep breath, giving the question serious consideration. “And if I decide I’m done, if I want to walk away, can I?”
“You’d be an employee,” Perez replied in a tone of voice that Sam immediately distrusted. “And, of course, I would compensate you well.”
“Of course.” Sam met his eyes, and then nodded. “Let’s talk terms.”
~~~~~
Three months later, Sam still worked Perez’s bar and anywhere else Perez ordered him. Most of the time, he managed to not think about what he was doing.
Sam had managed to not think about a lot of things over the past couple of years.
“Early owes me money,” Perez announced as Sam wiped down the bar. He had the early shift on Tuesdays, which made it easier for Perez to draft him to do his dirty work.
Sam sighed. “Early owes everybody money, Perez.”
“But this time, he owes me money, and that’s the difference.” Perez smiled easily. “I need you to make an example of him, Sam.”
This was the part that Sam hated.
He shrugged his shoulders, feeling dirty just from Perez voicing the request. “Early is-”
“Heading down the wrong path,” Perez supplied easily. “If you’re the one making an example of him, Early has a chance to survive. You know that, Sam.”
He did. Sam knew it was true; if Perez sent someone else after Early, he was as good as dead. If Sam went, he had half a chance of convincing Early to get out of Dallas but still leave him able to move.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Tonight, Sam,” Perez warned him. “I need this done before my business suffers.”
Sam gave a tight nod. “Yeah, sure. I’ll handle it.”
This was the last job, Sam told himself. He had enough now to make it out of Dallas, maybe all the way to Nevada. He’d heard there was still a booming business in Las Vegas, which made sense. People still liked their sin, even if the end of the world had been narrowly averted.
He’d break a couple of bones, warn Early to head out of town, and then he’d be off himself. It was time for Sam to shake the dust of Dallas off his feet.
Perez gave Sam a knowing look, as though reading his mind. “Bring Early back here, Sam. I want to see what a good job you’ve done.”
“I’ll take care of him,” Sam promised.
Sam didn’t have any trouble finding Earl “Early” Boudreaux, who had camped out on a barstool at one of the few open places in town, just blocks from Perez’s place. He didn’t know if Early was unaware that Perez was looking for him, or if he was just that stupid, but he slid onto the stool next to him with an easygoing smile.
“Hey, Early.”
“Sam.” Early gave him the stupid smile of the drunk. “How’s it going, man?”
“Not so great,” Sam admitted, deciding to go for honesty as much as he was able. “Perez sent me after you.”
Early’s face fell. “Aw, come on, Sam. You know I’m good for it.”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here, Early,” Sam replied. “I need you to come with me quietly.”
“Fuck that!”
Sam sighed as Early tumbled off the stool and began to dodge through the crowd. “Shit.”
Early was half-trashed, and he couldn’t move very fast, making it easier for Sam to catch up to him. He snagged Early by the back of his denim shirt and dragged him back into the alley east of the building. “You shouldn’t have run, Early.”
“Sam, come on! Tell Perez I got away.” Early’s whine grated on Sam’s nerves and that made it easier to smash his fist into Early’s face.
“I have to bring you back,” Sam replied. “You should know better than to borrow that much money.”
He worked Early over methodically, closing his ears to the cries of pain, trying not to cause permanent damage while making it look good. He knew what Perez expected, although this was the first time Perez had sent him after some piss-ant boozer with a penchant for running up a tab.
Sam didn’t mind going after the dealers so much, the ones who had somehow crossed Perez, or had lost a shipment. One less dealer on the street was the way Sam looked at it.
This was different, but Sam had lost what few qualms he had about getting his hands dirty months ago. What was beating up one more guy in comparison to starting the fucking apocalypse?
When Early was unconscious and bruised, his face swollen, Sam dragged him back to Perez’s place and took him in through the back.
One of the bartenders watched as he dragged Early into the storeroom, and Perez appeared in the doorway as soon as Sam dumped the body in a corner.
“He dead?” Perez asked. “Because I didn’t ask you to kill him.”
“Unconscious,” Sam replied, stepping back. “He might be gunning for me once he comes to.”
“Nah, he’ll know who sent you.” Perez offered a shark’s grin. “Come have a drink with me, Winchester. Wash the taste of that trash out of your mouth.”
Sam didn’t bother mentioning that it wasn’t Early who’d left the bad taste in his mouth. Other than this errand, Sam wasn’t working, and although he wasn’t stupid enough to think that Perez would front him enough alcohol to get drunk, that’s exactly what Sam planned on doing.
Perez surprised him, though. Sam got most of a bottle of off-label whiskey to himself, and he drank slowly but steadily, stumbling out of the bar around 2 am. He had a flop nearby, and he did just that-flopped onto the ancient, lumpy mattress.
Sam stared at the watermarked ceiling, some rust-colored from the old pipes, and he thought some of the splotches looked a lot like bloodstains-like the ones on his jeans from Early.
“Shit,” Sam muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes. “If Dean-” He stopped, the words sticking in his throat.
This was why he didn’t drink; it cost money he didn’t have, and he got swamped by old memories.
He couldn’t do this anymore; Sam knew he had to get out of Dallas. He’d head south, maybe west, in the morning. Steal a car, siphon gas, do whatever it took to get out from under Perez’s thumb.
It wasn’t like Dallas had anything to hold him.
~~~~~
Sam’s drunken, early morning decision to leave held up in the cold light of day. Perez still owed him for a week’s worth of work, but Sam didn’t plan on sticking around to collect. He knew that if he didn’t act immediately, he’d stay, get caught up, end up stuck in Dallas the way Early had been.
He’d seen it happen in Perez’s bar, had seen it happen in Ok-City, the last place he’d stayed for any length of time. People got stuck a lot easier these days, and sometimes it was easier to stay stuck than it was to pack up and leave.
Sam didn’t plan on getting stuck.
He snuck out early, found a car to steal far enough away from Perez’s not to raise any alarms, and started driving. He took I-35 south, because he’d heard that San Antonio and its River Walk hadn’t been hit quite as hard by the apocalypse.
Where he could, Sam stopped and stole food, siphoned gas, slept in the ancient Cutlass off the interstate.
He took the time to see the Alamo; he’d been in San Antonio before, but had never gone. They had always been on the tail of some monster, and whatever ghosts the old fort held had long been exorcised.
It was there, reading the tarnished plaque by the entrance, that Sam felt a wave of homesickness pass over him, so strong he nearly turned around and started driving north right then.
He could go back the way he came, heading north, straight up 35, to I-29, and then to Sioux Falls and Bobby’s.
Bobby would call him an idjit and tell him to get inside, and Sam could stay under wide blue skies, in the midst of rusted-out cars, and let the wind blow over him until he was clean again.
But when he thought of Bobby’s, Sam couldn’t help but remember that Dean would have left Ben there. He would have made certain that Ben was safe, and Ben might be there still-so much like Dean that even the thought made his chest ache.
Sam feared that seeing Bobby-and possibly Ben-again would bring Dean’s loss into a sharp focus nothing could dull.
So, he’d just continue on-west, and then north into Nevada, and on to California.
Maybe he couldn’t outrun Dean’s death, but he could damn well try.
~~~~~
He took highway 87 northwest, and then I-10 almost straight west to Juarez. The guards at the border were more interested in their card game than in Sam, and they waived him into Mexico without searching his car or asking for paperwork.
Sam found a cantina still doing a brisk business, and he thought longingly of a beer and a meal that wasn’t pre-packaged and stale. He entered after only a moment’s hesitation, sitting down at the bar and paying for a blue-plate special and a bottle of beer up front.
The food was good enough that Sam cleaned his plate with the plentiful tortillas that accompanied the meal. When the plate had been cleared, he felt a presence next to his elbow. “Hola.”
The girl who spoke was young and very pretty, with large dark eyes and dark hair with a tinge of red. “Hola,” Sam replied, clearing his throat with a deep swallow from the bottle of beer.
“Habla español?” she asked with a smile.
“Un pequito.” Sam shrugged apologetically. “I’m an American.”
“Sí.” She smiled and put a hand on his wrist. “My name is Laura.”
“Laura.” He smiled. “I’m Sam.”
He knew what she wanted as soon as she touched him, and Sam allowed himself to want. Perez had offered women, but most of them had been prostitutes, and he’d been hesitant to sample the wares. Maybe, if he’d been around for long enough, he might have done just that.
This girl was willing, however, and he covered her hand with his own.
“There is a place, out back.”
Sam followed her to the alley behind the cantina. She shoved her hands under his shirt as soon as they were outside, and Sam pushed her back against the wall in response. Laura was willing and warm, and Sam raised her skirt, finding her thighs and pulling her legs around him.
Her mouth opened under his, and Sam thrust his tongue inside her mouth, sucking and licking and biting.
Laura returned his kiss with fervor, and Sam moaned when he realized that she wasn’t wearing underwear. Fumbling with the fly on his jeans, Sam let his pants drop around his ankles as he thrust up inside her. It had been so long since he’d been with anyone, since he’d come with anything but his hand for company. Sam didn’t last long, and he thought of nothing but his own release.
When he was done, he let her go, putting her back on the ground. Sam belatedly realized that Laura had tears running down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Sam blurted out. “I’m sorry.”
Laura shook her head, unable to speak immediately.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Sam promised. He’d never made a girl cry during sex before; they had always been pretty happy with his performance. Laura’s tears made him feel like an idiot, though, and Sam felt only relief when she nodded.
Maybe he was the rotten bastard who had started the apocalypse, but he didn’t want to add “made girls cry during sex” to his list of sins.
Sam slowed down a little, focusing on Laura, and on the sounds she made as he thrust a finger inside her. She was barely wet, and Sam concentrated on making her respond to him, to his fingers and lips.
Sam had enough experience with women to have her writhing around him in short order, his thumb manipulating her clit as his fingers learned her responses.
When she came with a cry, it felt like a bit of absolution, as though he wasn’t a complete fuck-up.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, holding her through the aftershocks. She might just be a girl he’d never see again, but Sam had no desire to break something-someone-else.
“I’m fine.” Laura smiled, and from the way her eyes crinkled around the corners, she meant it. “Better than fine. Thank you.”
Sam stepped back and pulled his pants up, giving silent thanks that no one had come by. “I don’t-”
“I wanted you to take me with you,” Laura blurted out. “Somewhere else, anywhere else.”
Sam sighed and shook his head. “Other places are pretty much the same, Laura.”
“But they are not here.”
“No, they’re not.”
Sam didn’t know this girl, didn’t know how she’d feel about long days on the road, stolen food and water, nights under the stars. He suspected that she was desperate enough not to care, desperate enough to trade sex for transportation, and he felt guilty enough to offer.
“I can’t take you far,” he warned. “Las Cruces, maybe.”
“Far enough.” Laura offered a fierce smile. “I can be ready in an hour.”
Sam’s ass ached with the thought of driving farther that night, but he nodded anyway, guilt making him agree.
Guilt over the apocalypse, guilt over the blood spilled by his own hands, guilt over being an insensitive ass the first time around.
He could get her as far as Las Cruces, maybe farther if necessary, and he could absolve this small guilt. Maybe, just maybe, he could save her and save himself at the same time.