Stranger than Fiction
Title: Stranger than Fiction
Summary: When a traumatised teenager stumbles from the woods hypothermic and covered in blood, the obvious conclusions are not necessarily the correct ones. Pre-series.
Beta: sendintheklowns
Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to the CW, I’m just borrowing.
A/n - This story is dedicated to gidgetgal9 . I technically started writing it on her birthday, if that counts. I may also have stolen a lot of the story idea form her somewhere along the line too (sorry).
Day 5-6: Jake, Colin, Dean
Henry’s account of the Winchester’s place was like something out of a one of those movies from the ‘50s, about the scores of Americans that fortified themselves against the threat of nuclear attack; Jake was really sorry to have missed it. Especially since his visit to the hospital had been such a bust. He was still awaiting the psychologist’s evaluation and it was getting harder to ignore the disappointment in his supervisors’ glances.
Henry and Harriet Martin had spent the better part of the day poking around the Winchesters’ cabin on the pretence of looking for next of kin, or for some kind of evidence in his home life that might provide an explanation behind an apparently mild mannered kid going psycho and hacking at his father with a 15” blade.
Allegedly.
The visit had been a waste of time on both counts, but there had been plenty of other interesting things to keep them occupied. While Jake had been passed around the hospital and fobbed off at every turn, his partner and their colleague had been photographing some seriously crazy decor. While he’d been in the station compiling a background check and profile on John Winchester, they’d been cataloguing his collection of occult books and wilderness survival guides.
Jake had seen the photos taken of the place, had been sorting through them all morning. If he didn’t know there were two teenage boys living there he would never have guessed. There was no games consol in the living room, no comic books in the bedroom. A neatly packed school backpack and a stash of M&Ms and skin mags in the closet were the only outward signs. Everything else in the place was either functional, or outright bizarre.
The closet was full of outdoor clothes and hiking gear, the cupboards stocked with basic goods and survival rations. The kitchen table looked like it had never seen a meal, buried nearly 3 inches high in books and print outs and ordinance survey maps of the area.
He still didn’t know what Winchester had been doing dragging his son out there into the middle of no-where, but it was becoming clear it was no spur of the moment thing.
What little details Jake had managed to piece together during his research added up to form no fluffier picture. Winchester had been a Marine, served in Vietnam, and after his tour had returned home to Kansas, married a local girl, and taken a couple of odd jobs as a mechanic until opening his own shop with a buddy in town. He had two sons, Dean born 1979 and Samuel 1983, the same year his wife had died in a mysterious fire in their home.
John had managed to rescue his two boys from the blaze.
Things got a little hazy after that.
No permanent job, no fixed address, just a string of cheap apartments in backwater locations, constantly moving, doing God knew what while his children limped through school. In fact, the elder Winchester himself was almost impossible to trace - it was only because he’d kept his two sons enrolled in school that Jake was able to compile even the limited data he had.
The tour of ‘Nam, the loss of his wife, the erratic behaviour and obsessive condition of his desk; it was all screaming PTSD in the worst possible way. The constant moving and obvious interest in survivalist training spoke of an ex-militant paranoia that could not have proved to be a healthy environment for two young kids. This family was an accident waiting to happen. It was a miracle one of them hadn’t snapped sooner.
Only a couple of weapons were found on the premises - a set of mean looking knives, one shotgun and one hand gun, both of which were licensed. Jake didn’t doubt that the knife Sam Winchester had been carrying had come from his father’s stash.
So far they had been unable to locate John Winchester’s car or truck, but the picture was becoming clear enough. Winchester and his youngest son head out for a night of camping out and hunting in the wilds, no doubt putting the theory of their survivalist training into practice. Only somewhere down the line they had a disagreement - maybe daddy takes the games too far - and Sam pushes back in an incredibly brutal way.
By the looks of it Jake would say it was unplanned; a split second spur of the moment thing that he’d been unable to take back. But the way he’d tended to his father’s wounds and arranged his body, the fact he’d apparently been trying to find help, spoke to the fact that he probably regretted it. That and the fact no-one who had ever spoken to the kid gave any credence to the idea he could have committed such an act in cold blood.
He’d run the theory by the sheriff and other officers and all seemed happy with his explanation of events. All that was left was to interview the kid, go about charging him, and see if his doctor’s claim of temporary insanity would stick.
He was just putting the finishing touches to his report on John Winchester when he was called into the sheriff’s office. Apparently Dr Harding had been on the phone - Sam Winchester was ready to give a statement, and Jake was excited to learn he had been chosen for the task. A familiar face, maybe someone less threatening than one of the more senior officers.
Jake didn’t care why, he just wanted a chance to see this through, find an explanation for the nightmare he’d walked into.
He’d have to tread carefully - the presence of Winchester’s doctor, lawyer and social worker was going to turn the kid’s interview into a circus, but he’d been given leave to bring them back to the station and make it all official.
He was just leaving the sheriff’s office, promising for the third time to do his damndest to avoid a media circus, when Henry Mason strode into the office looking excited. Seeing Jake and their superiors huddled together he moved purposefully in their direction, eyes alight with excitement and grim determination.
“You’re never going to believe what I have here,” he issued, waving a few loose sheets of paper in their faces.
“And what would that be?” Sheriff Turner demanded.
“The forensic report on the knife we took from the kid. Our guys in Tiverton have been analysing the wound patterns in Winchester Senior’s flesh, comparing it with the blade…” He paused for effect.
“And?” Jake demanded.
“They’re not a match.”
“What? How’s that..?”
“Don’t ask me, but they swear it’s impossible for a knife with those serrations to have caused such a smooth edged wound. Whatever was used to take Winchester down, that wasn’t it.”
“But there was blood all over the blade,” Jake protested.
“That’s where it gets really interesting,” Mason continued, handing over the report to their boss. “The blood on the knife wasn’t a match. It’s not Winchester’s. They say it’s a weird mixture of animal and human, obviously cross contaminated, but none of it is his.
“Whoever that kid stabbed with that knife, it wasn’t his father.”
-0
He was due to start afternoon rounds in half an hour and there were discharge papers he needed to sign, but Colin couldn’t focus on the paperwork in front of him. He couldn’t think of anything beyond the previous day’s events.
It had been evening by the time Colin had left the station. He saw Sam loaded into the child welfare van and then he had left him, trying to ignore the betrayal in his patient’s eyes, or the stab of guilt it caused him. He’d done his job - he’d analysed the child, provided a report on his findings, and handed him off to the relevant authorities. If he didn’t think Sam was up to the transition then he would have detained him longer.
What Sam Winchester needed was a stable family environment and some emotional support. He did not need to be kept on a psychiatric ward, restrained, or medicated. His situation definitely needed to be monitored, but not by someone of his calibre and not at the hospital’s expense. His social worker would be more than capable of arranging child or family therapy, and would be able to house him in a secure facility until the police and family services had decided just what exactly they wanted to do with him.
He’d arrived at the hospital early that morning, despite not being due to start his shift until noon. He’d had to free up a lot of time accompanying the kid to the police station and there was still paperwork and a few follow-ups that he needed to do before he could begin for the day.
Despite heading straight for his office and closing the door behind him, he had not been able to concentrate on the task at hand.
Sam’s insistence that he be allowed to talk to the police, provide a statement, had taken him a little by surprise. He’d thought he’d made it clear that the only thing keeping Sam from CPS or the police’s clutches was Colin’s own insistence the issue not be forced.
But Sam had been determined.
He’d remained determined, even in the face of everything the police seemed to know.
Sam’s claim that he hadn’t attacked his father was at least corroborated by the evidence. The police had found no trace of any other weapons at the scene, and Sam had been carrying nothing but the one blade when they’d detained him. It seemed clear to Colin and the police that they were looking for a third party.
It seemed clear to everyone but Sam, who remained adamant that he and his father had been alone. Colin would stake his reputation on the fact Sam had been genuinely surprised to hear they’d found traces of human blood on the knife.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was lying - it was looking more and more probable that his first diagnosis was true; Sam’s mind would simply not allow him to remember the exact chain of events. A simple animal attack was easier for his brain to handle than anything else - the idea there might have been another predator in the woods that night. One with an all too human element.
Especially since the police were all but saying he’d killed them.
There had been so much blood on the kid’s hands and clothing it would be almost impossible to determine what had happened. The majority of it came from the father - not residue from the attack as they’d once assumed, but transferred from when Sam had been trying to help him. But there was enough of the underlying animal/human mix to make it clear Sam had been involved in whatever had happened.
Whether he’d had the knife in his hand when the killing blow was dealt was purely a matter of speculation, as his lawyer was quick to point out. If in fact such a blow had been dealt at all. Sam could not be charged with anything until a victim came forward or a body was found.
According to Jake, one of the most coherent things Sam had said when they’d found him had revolved around his fear that he hadn’t been able to kill ‘it’, but as Colin had pointed out, Sam’s ‘it’ at the time had also been a monster and he’d suggested more than once that his triage doctor was some sort of shape-shifter. His medical records showed him to be delirious with the combination of dehydration, shock, and fatigue, and nothing he’d said for the first twenty-four hours of being admitted could be given any credence what-so-ever
The important thing for the time being was that no third party could be identified. The lab was still trying to trace an ID from the DNA, and admissions to local hospitals and clinics were being checked, but Colin whole heartedly believed Sam when the kid assured them they would never find a body.
He just wasn’t sure whether he was reassured by the assertion or not.
And so the police were now doing their best to prove a crime had actually been committed. A second opinion had already suggested that John Winchester’s wounds could be consistent with some form of animal attack, and Sam’s bear story had never waivered. Colin had received a call earlier that morning to confirm that DNR had reported two other animal related deaths within the same patch of forest, just miles to the north of them and across the county line.
What had sounded such an improbable tale at first was starting to gain an air of credence. The testimony of John Winchester himself was now considered the most crucial piece of evidence outstanding. The last reports he’d heard from the ICU suggested that Winchester senior’s vitals were improving, so such a testimony might no-longer be that far away.
He’d heard from the facility Clover had delivered Sam to earlier that day as well. Sam had been moved to a secure care facility in Tiverton that housed troubled or disturbed teens.
From the sound of it, he was not at all happy with the move, or his new environment. The fact he was now fifty miles away from his ill father, was still not in contact with his brother, and was kept on lock down as the institute considered him a flight risk no doubt all contributed to his sullen and un-cooperative behaviour. Sam might not have been officially charged with anything, yet, but he was clearly a person of interest and it would not be in CPS’s best interest to lose him. He was probably more smothered and watched in his new location than he had ever been on the hospital ward.
Sam had also refused to come to the phone and speak with him. He couldn’t say the snub came as a surprise; Sam was no doubt feeling betrayed, but he couldn’t say it didn’t sting a little. Colin couldn’t pretend he didn’t recognise the interview with CPS had left his charge terrified.
The phone on his desk rang and he pushed the thoughts of Winchester and fear aside.
“Harding,” he offered into the phone.
“This is Julie from the ER. Mrs Taggert has just been re-admitted. I understand you performed a consult on her the last time she was here.”
“She’s cutting again?”
“Looks like.”
“Ok. Tend to the wounds and keep her calm and I’ll be down when you’re done to talk.”
He hung up and sighed deeply, dropping Winchester’s chart in the filing cabinet at his side, losing it from view as he flicked forward to ‘T’ for Taggert.
-0-
“How about another round, boys?”
Dean glanced at the clock above the bar and saw that it was already much later than he’d thought, but he was reluctant to deny the smiling face in front of him anything.
“I think we’ve already waved goodbye to your early start,” Caleb reassured him, pushing his glass across the bar for a refill.
“Sure, why not,” Dean agreed, revelling at the blush in the waitress's cheeks as he smiled in her direction.
The hunt had gone well and they’d made it back to civilization a couple of hours ago. There had been no messages waiting on his cell telling him to make it over to Jim’s any sooner, and perhaps even more surprisingly, no rant from his little brother about how unfair it was for their dad to pull him out of school again so close to midterms. Assuming Sam even knew that when they left for Jim’s they would be leaving Woodhouse for good. The depth of his excitement when he’d been explaining to Dean about sports try-outs suggested he hadn’t figured it out the last time Dean had spoken to the kid.
There’d been no answer from his father’s cell when he’d called a couple of hours ago - in fact it didn’t seem like the old man even had the damn thing turned on. He’d probably forgotten to charge it, again, and there’d be no remedying that while they were on the road. No matter how much Sam bitched about it.
He and Caleb were done here. If he hit the road in the morning he could be at Jim’s before lunchtime the next day, get the full low-down from them then.
When the girl set his new beer down in front of him she also slid a cocktail napkin towards him. On it were scrawled the words ‘I get off at 2 - Carly’.
She smiled at him over her shoulder and swayed her hips provocatively as she moved to serve the next customer.
Dean smiled to himself and looked again at the clock. It would be irresponsible to leave so soon after the job was finished. Maybe he’d hang out here a little while longer, just to be safe.
TBC
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Summary: When a traumatised teenager stumbles from the woods hypothermic and covered in blood, the obvious conclusions are not necessarily the correct ones. Pre-series.
Beta: sendintheklowns
Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to the CW, I’m just borrowing.
A/n - This story is dedicated to gidgetgal9 . I technically started writing it on her birthday, if that counts. I may also have stolen a lot of the story idea form her somewhere along the line too (sorry).
Day 5-6: Jake, Colin, Dean
Henry’s account of the Winchester’s place was like something out of a one of those movies from the ‘50s, about the scores of Americans that fortified themselves against the threat of nuclear attack; Jake was really sorry to have missed it. Especially since his visit to the hospital had been such a bust. He was still awaiting the psychologist’s evaluation and it was getting harder to ignore the disappointment in his supervisors’ glances.
Henry and Harriet Martin had spent the better part of the day poking around the Winchesters’ cabin on the pretence of looking for next of kin, or for some kind of evidence in his home life that might provide an explanation behind an apparently mild mannered kid going psycho and hacking at his father with a 15” blade.
Allegedly.
The visit had been a waste of time on both counts, but there had been plenty of other interesting things to keep them occupied. While Jake had been passed around the hospital and fobbed off at every turn, his partner and their colleague had been photographing some seriously crazy decor. While he’d been in the station compiling a background check and profile on John Winchester, they’d been cataloguing his collection of occult books and wilderness survival guides.
Jake had seen the photos taken of the place, had been sorting through them all morning. If he didn’t know there were two teenage boys living there he would never have guessed. There was no games consol in the living room, no comic books in the bedroom. A neatly packed school backpack and a stash of M&Ms and skin mags in the closet were the only outward signs. Everything else in the place was either functional, or outright bizarre.
The closet was full of outdoor clothes and hiking gear, the cupboards stocked with basic goods and survival rations. The kitchen table looked like it had never seen a meal, buried nearly 3 inches high in books and print outs and ordinance survey maps of the area.
He still didn’t know what Winchester had been doing dragging his son out there into the middle of no-where, but it was becoming clear it was no spur of the moment thing.
What little details Jake had managed to piece together during his research added up to form no fluffier picture. Winchester had been a Marine, served in Vietnam, and after his tour had returned home to Kansas, married a local girl, and taken a couple of odd jobs as a mechanic until opening his own shop with a buddy in town. He had two sons, Dean born 1979 and Samuel 1983, the same year his wife had died in a mysterious fire in their home.
John had managed to rescue his two boys from the blaze.
Things got a little hazy after that.
No permanent job, no fixed address, just a string of cheap apartments in backwater locations, constantly moving, doing God knew what while his children limped through school. In fact, the elder Winchester himself was almost impossible to trace - it was only because he’d kept his two sons enrolled in school that Jake was able to compile even the limited data he had.
The tour of ‘Nam, the loss of his wife, the erratic behaviour and obsessive condition of his desk; it was all screaming PTSD in the worst possible way. The constant moving and obvious interest in survivalist training spoke of an ex-militant paranoia that could not have proved to be a healthy environment for two young kids. This family was an accident waiting to happen. It was a miracle one of them hadn’t snapped sooner.
Only a couple of weapons were found on the premises - a set of mean looking knives, one shotgun and one hand gun, both of which were licensed. Jake didn’t doubt that the knife Sam Winchester had been carrying had come from his father’s stash.
So far they had been unable to locate John Winchester’s car or truck, but the picture was becoming clear enough. Winchester and his youngest son head out for a night of camping out and hunting in the wilds, no doubt putting the theory of their survivalist training into practice. Only somewhere down the line they had a disagreement - maybe daddy takes the games too far - and Sam pushes back in an incredibly brutal way.
By the looks of it Jake would say it was unplanned; a split second spur of the moment thing that he’d been unable to take back. But the way he’d tended to his father’s wounds and arranged his body, the fact he’d apparently been trying to find help, spoke to the fact that he probably regretted it. That and the fact no-one who had ever spoken to the kid gave any credence to the idea he could have committed such an act in cold blood.
He’d run the theory by the sheriff and other officers and all seemed happy with his explanation of events. All that was left was to interview the kid, go about charging him, and see if his doctor’s claim of temporary insanity would stick.
He was just putting the finishing touches to his report on John Winchester when he was called into the sheriff’s office. Apparently Dr Harding had been on the phone - Sam Winchester was ready to give a statement, and Jake was excited to learn he had been chosen for the task. A familiar face, maybe someone less threatening than one of the more senior officers.
Jake didn’t care why, he just wanted a chance to see this through, find an explanation for the nightmare he’d walked into.
He’d have to tread carefully - the presence of Winchester’s doctor, lawyer and social worker was going to turn the kid’s interview into a circus, but he’d been given leave to bring them back to the station and make it all official.
He was just leaving the sheriff’s office, promising for the third time to do his damndest to avoid a media circus, when Henry Mason strode into the office looking excited. Seeing Jake and their superiors huddled together he moved purposefully in their direction, eyes alight with excitement and grim determination.
“You’re never going to believe what I have here,” he issued, waving a few loose sheets of paper in their faces.
“And what would that be?” Sheriff Turner demanded.
“The forensic report on the knife we took from the kid. Our guys in Tiverton have been analysing the wound patterns in Winchester Senior’s flesh, comparing it with the blade…” He paused for effect.
“And?” Jake demanded.
“They’re not a match.”
“What? How’s that..?”
“Don’t ask me, but they swear it’s impossible for a knife with those serrations to have caused such a smooth edged wound. Whatever was used to take Winchester down, that wasn’t it.”
“But there was blood all over the blade,” Jake protested.
“That’s where it gets really interesting,” Mason continued, handing over the report to their boss. “The blood on the knife wasn’t a match. It’s not Winchester’s. They say it’s a weird mixture of animal and human, obviously cross contaminated, but none of it is his.
“Whoever that kid stabbed with that knife, it wasn’t his father.”
-0
He was due to start afternoon rounds in half an hour and there were discharge papers he needed to sign, but Colin couldn’t focus on the paperwork in front of him. He couldn’t think of anything beyond the previous day’s events.
It had been evening by the time Colin had left the station. He saw Sam loaded into the child welfare van and then he had left him, trying to ignore the betrayal in his patient’s eyes, or the stab of guilt it caused him. He’d done his job - he’d analysed the child, provided a report on his findings, and handed him off to the relevant authorities. If he didn’t think Sam was up to the transition then he would have detained him longer.
What Sam Winchester needed was a stable family environment and some emotional support. He did not need to be kept on a psychiatric ward, restrained, or medicated. His situation definitely needed to be monitored, but not by someone of his calibre and not at the hospital’s expense. His social worker would be more than capable of arranging child or family therapy, and would be able to house him in a secure facility until the police and family services had decided just what exactly they wanted to do with him.
He’d arrived at the hospital early that morning, despite not being due to start his shift until noon. He’d had to free up a lot of time accompanying the kid to the police station and there was still paperwork and a few follow-ups that he needed to do before he could begin for the day.
Despite heading straight for his office and closing the door behind him, he had not been able to concentrate on the task at hand.
Sam’s insistence that he be allowed to talk to the police, provide a statement, had taken him a little by surprise. He’d thought he’d made it clear that the only thing keeping Sam from CPS or the police’s clutches was Colin’s own insistence the issue not be forced.
But Sam had been determined.
He’d remained determined, even in the face of everything the police seemed to know.
Sam’s claim that he hadn’t attacked his father was at least corroborated by the evidence. The police had found no trace of any other weapons at the scene, and Sam had been carrying nothing but the one blade when they’d detained him. It seemed clear to Colin and the police that they were looking for a third party.
It seemed clear to everyone but Sam, who remained adamant that he and his father had been alone. Colin would stake his reputation on the fact Sam had been genuinely surprised to hear they’d found traces of human blood on the knife.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was lying - it was looking more and more probable that his first diagnosis was true; Sam’s mind would simply not allow him to remember the exact chain of events. A simple animal attack was easier for his brain to handle than anything else - the idea there might have been another predator in the woods that night. One with an all too human element.
Especially since the police were all but saying he’d killed them.
There had been so much blood on the kid’s hands and clothing it would be almost impossible to determine what had happened. The majority of it came from the father - not residue from the attack as they’d once assumed, but transferred from when Sam had been trying to help him. But there was enough of the underlying animal/human mix to make it clear Sam had been involved in whatever had happened.
Whether he’d had the knife in his hand when the killing blow was dealt was purely a matter of speculation, as his lawyer was quick to point out. If in fact such a blow had been dealt at all. Sam could not be charged with anything until a victim came forward or a body was found.
According to Jake, one of the most coherent things Sam had said when they’d found him had revolved around his fear that he hadn’t been able to kill ‘it’, but as Colin had pointed out, Sam’s ‘it’ at the time had also been a monster and he’d suggested more than once that his triage doctor was some sort of shape-shifter. His medical records showed him to be delirious with the combination of dehydration, shock, and fatigue, and nothing he’d said for the first twenty-four hours of being admitted could be given any credence what-so-ever
The important thing for the time being was that no third party could be identified. The lab was still trying to trace an ID from the DNA, and admissions to local hospitals and clinics were being checked, but Colin whole heartedly believed Sam when the kid assured them they would never find a body.
He just wasn’t sure whether he was reassured by the assertion or not.
And so the police were now doing their best to prove a crime had actually been committed. A second opinion had already suggested that John Winchester’s wounds could be consistent with some form of animal attack, and Sam’s bear story had never waivered. Colin had received a call earlier that morning to confirm that DNR had reported two other animal related deaths within the same patch of forest, just miles to the north of them and across the county line.
What had sounded such an improbable tale at first was starting to gain an air of credence. The testimony of John Winchester himself was now considered the most crucial piece of evidence outstanding. The last reports he’d heard from the ICU suggested that Winchester senior’s vitals were improving, so such a testimony might no-longer be that far away.
He’d heard from the facility Clover had delivered Sam to earlier that day as well. Sam had been moved to a secure care facility in Tiverton that housed troubled or disturbed teens.
From the sound of it, he was not at all happy with the move, or his new environment. The fact he was now fifty miles away from his ill father, was still not in contact with his brother, and was kept on lock down as the institute considered him a flight risk no doubt all contributed to his sullen and un-cooperative behaviour. Sam might not have been officially charged with anything, yet, but he was clearly a person of interest and it would not be in CPS’s best interest to lose him. He was probably more smothered and watched in his new location than he had ever been on the hospital ward.
Sam had also refused to come to the phone and speak with him. He couldn’t say the snub came as a surprise; Sam was no doubt feeling betrayed, but he couldn’t say it didn’t sting a little. Colin couldn’t pretend he didn’t recognise the interview with CPS had left his charge terrified.
The phone on his desk rang and he pushed the thoughts of Winchester and fear aside.
“Harding,” he offered into the phone.
“This is Julie from the ER. Mrs Taggert has just been re-admitted. I understand you performed a consult on her the last time she was here.”
“She’s cutting again?”
“Looks like.”
“Ok. Tend to the wounds and keep her calm and I’ll be down when you’re done to talk.”
He hung up and sighed deeply, dropping Winchester’s chart in the filing cabinet at his side, losing it from view as he flicked forward to ‘T’ for Taggert.
-0-
“How about another round, boys?”
Dean glanced at the clock above the bar and saw that it was already much later than he’d thought, but he was reluctant to deny the smiling face in front of him anything.
“I think we’ve already waved goodbye to your early start,” Caleb reassured him, pushing his glass across the bar for a refill.
“Sure, why not,” Dean agreed, revelling at the blush in the waitress's cheeks as he smiled in her direction.
The hunt had gone well and they’d made it back to civilization a couple of hours ago. There had been no messages waiting on his cell telling him to make it over to Jim’s any sooner, and perhaps even more surprisingly, no rant from his little brother about how unfair it was for their dad to pull him out of school again so close to midterms. Assuming Sam even knew that when they left for Jim’s they would be leaving Woodhouse for good. The depth of his excitement when he’d been explaining to Dean about sports try-outs suggested he hadn’t figured it out the last time Dean had spoken to the kid.
There’d been no answer from his father’s cell when he’d called a couple of hours ago - in fact it didn’t seem like the old man even had the damn thing turned on. He’d probably forgotten to charge it, again, and there’d be no remedying that while they were on the road. No matter how much Sam bitched about it.
He and Caleb were done here. If he hit the road in the morning he could be at Jim’s before lunchtime the next day, get the full low-down from them then.
When the girl set his new beer down in front of him she also slid a cocktail napkin towards him. On it were scrawled the words ‘I get off at 2 - Carly’.
She smiled at him over her shoulder and swayed her hips provocatively as she moved to serve the next customer.
Dean smiled to himself and looked again at the clock. It would be irresponsible to leave so soon after the job was finished. Maybe he’d hang out here a little while longer, just to be safe.
TBC
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