Forever 'neath the Streets (1/1)
written for bittersweet-art, who had a brilliant idea:
I want fic where Dean's stuck in hell, and hell is PUBLIC TRANSPORT. Sam saves him from it by showing up in the Impala. Imagine Dean waiting endlessly for some bus or train that never arrives and when it finally does it's either so full that he can't get on it, or it's full of school kids that keeps fighting and screaming and throwing things at each other.
before the fic, a Very Important Note:
as i began to get attached to the prompt, i realized the only way i wanted to write this idea was to emulate a story that i STILL am very, very in love with.
when i think of spn fic in general, this is always the first one that comes to mind. conceptually it is fascinating; insanely well-built, tense, moving, and showcasing a skill that is TRULY, TRULY something to envy.
it's shelter beneath the mundane, by drvsilla, and if you haven't read it, you should just go read that instead of mine. because it's absolutely phenomenal, and this is not. dru has already built and perfected this model; not me.
thanks for giving me the okay to post this, lady. i want to be you when i grow up!
Forever 'neath the Streets
dean, sam
pg13 for language
gen; au set after dean goes to hell (end of s3)
word count: 2600
A car horn blares; Dean jolts as if being awoken. Snow floats from the tips of his hair to the windburn on his cheeks. He blinks, looks around; suddenly feels the crowd of bodies that are packed in tight around him like a hug. His chest feels strained, like he’s not been using it right.
He leans past the bodies toward the street, turning an ear toward the horn, looking for its source. A wind with icy fingers slaps his face and then reaches into him. He huddles backward, and the crowd presses closer, and he suddenly feels smothered.
They’re waiting, he realizes, and frowns. He must have nodded out, thinking about his morning to come. The T is late, the tracks empty and silent. He’s surrounded by students: young people in fingerless gloves and hooded peacoats and Uggs and Tims. It’s Boston; half the commuters aren’t even old enough to drink yet.
Dean shifts his shoulders, tries taking a step out, cranes his neck in an effort to create some personal space. It’s useless. He feels his back touching someone’s chest; feels his shoulder touching someone’s shoulder. When he moves his feet, the toe of his sneaker touches someone’s toe.
The girl behind him is spilling some banal bullshit about a guy who fucked her best friend last night at the party. The girl listening to her is saying, yeah, totally, oh my god. What a jerk. The two guys next to him are arguing about whether Theo Epstein was at the Cask last night. Dude, no fucking way would he go to that dive. He owns the Red Sox, for fucks’ sake.
Rolling his eyes, Dean moves out toward the track to get a better look; still not coming. He’s going to be late for work again if this keeps up. Mr. Elliot has already given him a written warning for it.
More importantly, another two minutes of this drivel and he’ll completely lose his mind. Christ, these douchebags.
There is a clatter and a rumble then, and Dean looks up, attention piqued. But it’s not coming down these tracks. It’s across the street. Dean frowns; that’s the outbound side. The inbound train is coming down the outbound tracks. That’s weird.
He looks around at the rest of the crowd. The conversations are continuing on; the Boston College victory last night. Professor Young’s perverted references to cunnilingus in physiology lab. Becky’s got HPV; don’t hit that this weekend. No one’s even noticed the train pulling up.
Screw this noise, Dean thinks. These fools can keep on standing here.
Pulling his jacket tighter around him, he ducks his head against the winter wind and hops the tracks. The train is filling quickly, he sees as he looks up. Nerves pull the stretch of his skin tight. He’d better hurry; they never wait long, and there are about eight hundred kids in this city with an 8:30 lecture to get to. He can’t miss this train. He can’t.
Stepping into the street, he misses the car that’s barreling at him and he gasps, frozen, staring as it bears down on him.
A car horn blares; Dean jolts as if being awoken.
He blinks, looks around; turns an ear toward the horn, looking for its source. He suddenly feels the crowd of bodies that are packed in tight around him like a hug. His chest feels strained, like he’s not been using it right.
They’re waiting, he realizes, and frowns. He must have nodded out, thinking about his morning to come. The T is late, the tracks empty and silent.
Dean stares vacantly, mind curiously blank as he waits. He feels his back touching someone’s chest; feels his shoulder touching someone’s shoulder. When he moves his feet, the toe of his sneaker touches someone’s toe.
The girl behind him is spilling some banal bullshit about a guy who fucked her best friend last night at the party. The girl listening to her is saying, yeah, totally, oh my god. What a jerk. The two guys next to him are arguing about whether Theo Epstein was at the Cask last night. Dude, no fucking way would he go to that dive. He owns the Red Sox, for fucks’ sake.
Christ, these douchebags.
There is a clatter and a rumble then, and Dean looks up, attention piqued. But for a moment, he is distracted by something that sounds like a song. It’s from far away, brought on the wind, but somehow still loud. Heavy.
Dean turns, scanning the street, looking for someone. He’s looking for the source of the sound. But it’s gone, moved on from him. There’s a screech of brakes and a bell; the train, right.
But it’s not coming down these tracks. It’s across the street. Dean frowns; that’s the outbound side. The inbound train is coming down the outbound tracks. That’s weird.
He looks around at the rest of the crowd. The conversations are continuing on; the Boston College victory last night. Professor Young’s perverted references to cunnilingus in physiology lab. Becky’s got HPV; don’t hit that this weekend. No one’s even noticed the train pulling up.
Screw this noise, Dean thinks. These fools can keep on standing here.
Pulling his jacket tighter around him, he ducks his head against the winter wind and hops the tracks. The train is filling quickly, he sees as he looks up. Nerves pull the stretch of his skin tight.
He’d better hurry; they never wait long, and there are about eight hundred kids in this city with an 8:30 lecture to get to. He’s going to be late for work again if this keeps up. Mr. Elliot has already given him a written warning for it. He can’t miss this train. He can’t.
Stepping into the street, he misses the car that’s barreling at him and he gasps, frozen, staring as it bears down on him.
A car horn blares. Dean snaps to attention, breathing hard. He feels the crowd of bodies that are packed in tight around him like a hug. He looks around himself in jerky movements that cause a few strangers to serve him with a questioning look.
His breath comes hard. His chest feels strained, like he’s not been using it right.
They’re waiting, he realizes, and frowns. He must have nodded out. The T is late, the tracks empty and silent.
Dean’s mind races in a nervous, heated circle. He feels his back touching someone’s chest; feels his shoulder touching someone’s shoulder. When he moves his feet, the toe of his sneaker touches someone’s toe.
“Yeah, totally, oh my god. What a jerk,” says the girl behind him.
There is a clatter and a rumble then, and Dean looks up. Listens hard, beneath the racket, for something else. Nothing is there. He turns, scanning the street, looking for someone. There’s a screech of brakes and a bell; the train, right.
But it’s not coming down these tracks. It’s across the street. Dean frowns; that’s the outbound side. The inbound train is coming down the outbound tracks. That’s weird.
He hears his name being shouted then, loud and clear above the din of the city. His head snaps up, heart racing. He’s panicking and doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know where to look.
“Becky’s got HPV; don’t hit that this weekend.”
Dean blinks and shakes himself, turning back to the train. He’d better hurry; they never wait long, and there are about eight hundred kids in this city with an 8:30 lecture to get to. He’s going to be late for work again. Mr. Elliot has already given him a written warning. He can’t miss this train. He can’t.
Stepping into the street, he misses the car that’s barreling at him and he gasps, frozen, staring as it bears down on him.
A car horn blares; Dean jolts as if being awoken.
He blinks, looks around; turns an ear toward the horn, looking for its source. He suddenly feels the crowd of bodies that are packed in tight around him like a hug. They’re waiting, he realizes, and frowns. He must have nodded out, thinking about his morning to come.
The T is late, the tracks empty and silent.
Dean stares vacantly, mind curiously blank as he waits. He’s surrounded by students: young people in fingerless gloves and hooded peacoats and Uggs and Tims. There are about eight hundred kids in this city with an 8:30 lecture to get to. He’s going to be late for work again.
The girl behind him is spilling some banal bullshit about a guy who fucked her best friend last night at the party. The girl listening to her is saying, yeah, totally, oh my god. What a jerk. The two guys next to him are arguing about whether Theo Epstein was at the Cask last night. Dude, no fucking way would he go to that dive. He owns the Red Sox, for fucks’ sake.
Another two minutes of this drivel and he’ll completely lose his mind. Christ, these douchebags.
Rolling his eyes, Dean moves out toward the track to get a better look; across the street, waiting on the other platform, he sees a man looking directly back at him. Frowning, he squints, leans forward out of the crowd. A wind with icy fingers slaps his face and then reaches into him. He stares unflinchingly.
“Dean!” the man shouts out over the tracks, above the traffic and the din of the city.
There is a clatter and a rumble then, and Dean looks up, attention piqued. The train, right. But it’s not coming down these tracks. It’s across the street. Dean frowns; that’s the outbound side. The inbound train is coming down the outbound tracks. That’s weird.
Then Dean gasps, because the guy is leaping out in front of the train. He tries to shout, hey! Buddy! The train! But nothing comes out; his mouth falls open in silent, heart-stopping panic. But the guy just makes it, train screeching to a stop at the crowd waiting behind him.
There is the screech of brakes and a bell, and Dean blinks. Shit, he thinks. Mr. Elliot has already given him a written warning. He can’t miss this train. He can’t.
The guy races through rush hour traffic, jumping out of the way of a cyclist, and then a mini-van.
A car horn blares; Dean jolts as if being awoken.
He blinks, looks around; turns an ear toward the horn, looking for its source. He must have nodded off.
A guy comes running full-speed out of the street and barrels into him, two hands clasping tightly to Dean’s shoulders, panting harsh hot breath into Dean’s face. Dean startles, trying to jump backward.
“Dean,” the guy says. “Jesus, thank God. Are you all right?”
“Whoa, man, I’m fine,” Dean says warily, trying to pull away.
Dean stares at this person hanging off of him, hovering close, panicked, eyes burning as they search Dean’s face for any sign of recognition. And Dean can’t give it, doesn’t know who he is, only that he’s making Dean nervous.
“Let’s get you out of here,” the guy says, trying to lead Dean away.
Dean sticks his heels in, bracing against the movement. He puts his hands on the guys’ shoulders and tries to push him away. The guy stops, face falling, and stares back at Dean. The crowd of students makes a circle around them, giving them room.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere, man,” Dean says.
“Yeah, totally, oh my god. What a jerk,” says the girl behind him.
“Dean, man, it’s me,” the guy says. “It’s me. Sam. Shit.”
“Yeah, well, the T is late. I’m going to be late for work again if this keeps up. Mr. Elliot has already given me a written warning for it.”
“The T - the train, you’re waiting for the train?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, look around, man. Train stop?”
There is a clatter and a rumble then, and Dean looks up, attention piqued. But it’s not coming down these tracks. It’s across the street. Dean frowns; that’s the outbound side. The inbound train is coming down the outbound tracks.
“That’s weird,” Dean says.
Sam looks over his shoulder quickly, and then back to Dean. “Yeah, man, that’s not the right train. That one isn’t going to the city. And this one ain’t coming, either.”
“What do you mean, it’s not the right train? I can’t miss it. I can’t.”
“Listen, how about you at least let me give you a ride? My car’s around the corner.”
Dean stares, searching this stranger’s face. It’s completely open, and something is looking back at him; fear, panic, worry, concern. It’s scary. Dean shakes his head, leaning to stare down the empty tracks again. Nothing; not so much as a bell. He looks back to Sam apprehensively.
“You’ve got a car?” he asks.
“Yeah, man, just around the corner. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“All right.”
The crowd watches in silence as Dean follows Sam out of the cluster and down the street. When he looks back, he sees all of their eyes on them, and it makes Dean’s skin crawl. Douchebags.
Sam walks quickly, shoulders hunched away from the cold, hands jammed into his pockets. He looks behind him periodically, checking to see that Dean is still there. Dean frowns, staring hard at Sam’s back and trying to push down the feeling that something is wrong.
He’ll be on time for work, and that’s all that matters. Mr. Elliot has already given him a written warning.
Around the corner, Dean stops. There’s a black car parked in front of a fire hydrant. Kansas plates; KAZ 2Y5. It’s the Impala. Dean blinks.
“Sam?” he asks.
Sam spins around, eyes bright and wide. He steps up to Dean carefully, leans close, looks hard into his face.
“Dean? Dean.”
“Yeah, man, where the hell are we?”
Dean’s engulfed, face shoved into Sam’s shoulder so fast he loses his breath. Sam holds on tight, squeezes, crushes him, trembles.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Dean,” he swears softly, into Dean’s hair.
“Dude, get off. Seriously, man, what is going on? Where are we? I have no idea - ”
And a thought stops Dean in his cold-veined tracks.
“Hell,” he says. “I’m in Hell. You’re - right? This is Hell. This is Hell.”
“Hey, whoa, listen, calm down. We’re getting out of here, right now. Get in.”
“We’re in Hell? How did you find me?”
“Now’s not the time, Dean, for real. Move your ass.”
Sam starts the ignition and the speakers open up, loud and heavy over Dean. Let loose, from the noose. He remembers this, now.
“I heard this. I’ve heard this. How long have you been looking for me?”
Sam bites his lip, pulling into traffic, checking the mirrors, waiting for a pedestrian to cross. He darts quick look to Dean and then keeps his eyes on the road. Flips the wiper blades on to clear the snow.
“Found you years ago, man,” Sam says quietly. “It was getting to you that was the problem.”
“Years? Wait, how long -”
“Dean, can we not right now? There’s plenty of time to explain, once we get out of here. Just, chill out. We’re goin’ home.”
Dean stares at Sam’s profile a moment, watching the nervous twitch of his mouth and the fine tremor in his fingers against the steering wheel. He tries to remember what’s been going on, but there’s nothing there. The image of the Impala parked on the corner is emblazoned in his mind, inhaling strength, blocking everything else out.
He looks out the passenger side window, watches three students in peacoats and Uggs hurrying along the sidewalk and onto the Northeastern main campus. Alongside the street, the T rattles over its tracks, headed downtown.
I want fic where Dean's stuck in hell, and hell is PUBLIC TRANSPORT. Sam saves him from it by showing up in the Impala. Imagine Dean waiting endlessly for some bus or train that never arrives and when it finally does it's either so full that he can't get on it, or it's full of school kids that keeps fighting and screaming and throwing things at each other.
before the fic, a Very Important Note:
as i began to get attached to the prompt, i realized the only way i wanted to write this idea was to emulate a story that i STILL am very, very in love with.
when i think of spn fic in general, this is always the first one that comes to mind. conceptually it is fascinating; insanely well-built, tense, moving, and showcasing a skill that is TRULY, TRULY something to envy.
it's shelter beneath the mundane, by drvsilla, and if you haven't read it, you should just go read that instead of mine. because it's absolutely phenomenal, and this is not. dru has already built and perfected this model; not me.
thanks for giving me the okay to post this, lady. i want to be you when i grow up!
Forever 'neath the Streets
dean, sam
pg13 for language
gen; au set after dean goes to hell (end of s3)
word count: 2600
A car horn blares; Dean jolts as if being awoken. Snow floats from the tips of his hair to the windburn on his cheeks. He blinks, looks around; suddenly feels the crowd of bodies that are packed in tight around him like a hug. His chest feels strained, like he’s not been using it right.
He leans past the bodies toward the street, turning an ear toward the horn, looking for its source. A wind with icy fingers slaps his face and then reaches into him. He huddles backward, and the crowd presses closer, and he suddenly feels smothered.
They’re waiting, he realizes, and frowns. He must have nodded out, thinking about his morning to come. The T is late, the tracks empty and silent. He’s surrounded by students: young people in fingerless gloves and hooded peacoats and Uggs and Tims. It’s Boston; half the commuters aren’t even old enough to drink yet.
Dean shifts his shoulders, tries taking a step out, cranes his neck in an effort to create some personal space. It’s useless. He feels his back touching someone’s chest; feels his shoulder touching someone’s shoulder. When he moves his feet, the toe of his sneaker touches someone’s toe.
The girl behind him is spilling some banal bullshit about a guy who fucked her best friend last night at the party. The girl listening to her is saying, yeah, totally, oh my god. What a jerk. The two guys next to him are arguing about whether Theo Epstein was at the Cask last night. Dude, no fucking way would he go to that dive. He owns the Red Sox, for fucks’ sake.
Rolling his eyes, Dean moves out toward the track to get a better look; still not coming. He’s going to be late for work again if this keeps up. Mr. Elliot has already given him a written warning for it.
More importantly, another two minutes of this drivel and he’ll completely lose his mind. Christ, these douchebags.
There is a clatter and a rumble then, and Dean looks up, attention piqued. But it’s not coming down these tracks. It’s across the street. Dean frowns; that’s the outbound side. The inbound train is coming down the outbound tracks. That’s weird.
He looks around at the rest of the crowd. The conversations are continuing on; the Boston College victory last night. Professor Young’s perverted references to cunnilingus in physiology lab. Becky’s got HPV; don’t hit that this weekend. No one’s even noticed the train pulling up.
Screw this noise, Dean thinks. These fools can keep on standing here.
Pulling his jacket tighter around him, he ducks his head against the winter wind and hops the tracks. The train is filling quickly, he sees as he looks up. Nerves pull the stretch of his skin tight. He’d better hurry; they never wait long, and there are about eight hundred kids in this city with an 8:30 lecture to get to. He can’t miss this train. He can’t.
Stepping into the street, he misses the car that’s barreling at him and he gasps, frozen, staring as it bears down on him.
A car horn blares; Dean jolts as if being awoken.
He blinks, looks around; turns an ear toward the horn, looking for its source. He suddenly feels the crowd of bodies that are packed in tight around him like a hug. His chest feels strained, like he’s not been using it right.
They’re waiting, he realizes, and frowns. He must have nodded out, thinking about his morning to come. The T is late, the tracks empty and silent.
Dean stares vacantly, mind curiously blank as he waits. He feels his back touching someone’s chest; feels his shoulder touching someone’s shoulder. When he moves his feet, the toe of his sneaker touches someone’s toe.
The girl behind him is spilling some banal bullshit about a guy who fucked her best friend last night at the party. The girl listening to her is saying, yeah, totally, oh my god. What a jerk. The two guys next to him are arguing about whether Theo Epstein was at the Cask last night. Dude, no fucking way would he go to that dive. He owns the Red Sox, for fucks’ sake.
Christ, these douchebags.
There is a clatter and a rumble then, and Dean looks up, attention piqued. But for a moment, he is distracted by something that sounds like a song. It’s from far away, brought on the wind, but somehow still loud. Heavy.
Dean turns, scanning the street, looking for someone. He’s looking for the source of the sound. But it’s gone, moved on from him. There’s a screech of brakes and a bell; the train, right.
But it’s not coming down these tracks. It’s across the street. Dean frowns; that’s the outbound side. The inbound train is coming down the outbound tracks. That’s weird.
He looks around at the rest of the crowd. The conversations are continuing on; the Boston College victory last night. Professor Young’s perverted references to cunnilingus in physiology lab. Becky’s got HPV; don’t hit that this weekend. No one’s even noticed the train pulling up.
Screw this noise, Dean thinks. These fools can keep on standing here.
Pulling his jacket tighter around him, he ducks his head against the winter wind and hops the tracks. The train is filling quickly, he sees as he looks up. Nerves pull the stretch of his skin tight.
He’d better hurry; they never wait long, and there are about eight hundred kids in this city with an 8:30 lecture to get to. He’s going to be late for work again if this keeps up. Mr. Elliot has already given him a written warning for it. He can’t miss this train. He can’t.
Stepping into the street, he misses the car that’s barreling at him and he gasps, frozen, staring as it bears down on him.
A car horn blares. Dean snaps to attention, breathing hard. He feels the crowd of bodies that are packed in tight around him like a hug. He looks around himself in jerky movements that cause a few strangers to serve him with a questioning look.
His breath comes hard. His chest feels strained, like he’s not been using it right.
They’re waiting, he realizes, and frowns. He must have nodded out. The T is late, the tracks empty and silent.
Dean’s mind races in a nervous, heated circle. He feels his back touching someone’s chest; feels his shoulder touching someone’s shoulder. When he moves his feet, the toe of his sneaker touches someone’s toe.
“Yeah, totally, oh my god. What a jerk,” says the girl behind him.
There is a clatter and a rumble then, and Dean looks up. Listens hard, beneath the racket, for something else. Nothing is there. He turns, scanning the street, looking for someone. There’s a screech of brakes and a bell; the train, right.
But it’s not coming down these tracks. It’s across the street. Dean frowns; that’s the outbound side. The inbound train is coming down the outbound tracks. That’s weird.
He hears his name being shouted then, loud and clear above the din of the city. His head snaps up, heart racing. He’s panicking and doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know where to look.
“Becky’s got HPV; don’t hit that this weekend.”
Dean blinks and shakes himself, turning back to the train. He’d better hurry; they never wait long, and there are about eight hundred kids in this city with an 8:30 lecture to get to. He’s going to be late for work again. Mr. Elliot has already given him a written warning. He can’t miss this train. He can’t.
Stepping into the street, he misses the car that’s barreling at him and he gasps, frozen, staring as it bears down on him.
A car horn blares; Dean jolts as if being awoken.
He blinks, looks around; turns an ear toward the horn, looking for its source. He suddenly feels the crowd of bodies that are packed in tight around him like a hug. They’re waiting, he realizes, and frowns. He must have nodded out, thinking about his morning to come.
The T is late, the tracks empty and silent.
Dean stares vacantly, mind curiously blank as he waits. He’s surrounded by students: young people in fingerless gloves and hooded peacoats and Uggs and Tims. There are about eight hundred kids in this city with an 8:30 lecture to get to. He’s going to be late for work again.
The girl behind him is spilling some banal bullshit about a guy who fucked her best friend last night at the party. The girl listening to her is saying, yeah, totally, oh my god. What a jerk. The two guys next to him are arguing about whether Theo Epstein was at the Cask last night. Dude, no fucking way would he go to that dive. He owns the Red Sox, for fucks’ sake.
Another two minutes of this drivel and he’ll completely lose his mind. Christ, these douchebags.
Rolling his eyes, Dean moves out toward the track to get a better look; across the street, waiting on the other platform, he sees a man looking directly back at him. Frowning, he squints, leans forward out of the crowd. A wind with icy fingers slaps his face and then reaches into him. He stares unflinchingly.
“Dean!” the man shouts out over the tracks, above the traffic and the din of the city.
There is a clatter and a rumble then, and Dean looks up, attention piqued. The train, right. But it’s not coming down these tracks. It’s across the street. Dean frowns; that’s the outbound side. The inbound train is coming down the outbound tracks. That’s weird.
Then Dean gasps, because the guy is leaping out in front of the train. He tries to shout, hey! Buddy! The train! But nothing comes out; his mouth falls open in silent, heart-stopping panic. But the guy just makes it, train screeching to a stop at the crowd waiting behind him.
There is the screech of brakes and a bell, and Dean blinks. Shit, he thinks. Mr. Elliot has already given him a written warning. He can’t miss this train. He can’t.
The guy races through rush hour traffic, jumping out of the way of a cyclist, and then a mini-van.
A car horn blares; Dean jolts as if being awoken.
He blinks, looks around; turns an ear toward the horn, looking for its source. He must have nodded off.
A guy comes running full-speed out of the street and barrels into him, two hands clasping tightly to Dean’s shoulders, panting harsh hot breath into Dean’s face. Dean startles, trying to jump backward.
“Dean,” the guy says. “Jesus, thank God. Are you all right?”
“Whoa, man, I’m fine,” Dean says warily, trying to pull away.
Dean stares at this person hanging off of him, hovering close, panicked, eyes burning as they search Dean’s face for any sign of recognition. And Dean can’t give it, doesn’t know who he is, only that he’s making Dean nervous.
“Let’s get you out of here,” the guy says, trying to lead Dean away.
Dean sticks his heels in, bracing against the movement. He puts his hands on the guys’ shoulders and tries to push him away. The guy stops, face falling, and stares back at Dean. The crowd of students makes a circle around them, giving them room.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere, man,” Dean says.
“Yeah, totally, oh my god. What a jerk,” says the girl behind him.
“Dean, man, it’s me,” the guy says. “It’s me. Sam. Shit.”
“Yeah, well, the T is late. I’m going to be late for work again if this keeps up. Mr. Elliot has already given me a written warning for it.”
“The T - the train, you’re waiting for the train?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, look around, man. Train stop?”
There is a clatter and a rumble then, and Dean looks up, attention piqued. But it’s not coming down these tracks. It’s across the street. Dean frowns; that’s the outbound side. The inbound train is coming down the outbound tracks.
“That’s weird,” Dean says.
Sam looks over his shoulder quickly, and then back to Dean. “Yeah, man, that’s not the right train. That one isn’t going to the city. And this one ain’t coming, either.”
“What do you mean, it’s not the right train? I can’t miss it. I can’t.”
“Listen, how about you at least let me give you a ride? My car’s around the corner.”
Dean stares, searching this stranger’s face. It’s completely open, and something is looking back at him; fear, panic, worry, concern. It’s scary. Dean shakes his head, leaning to stare down the empty tracks again. Nothing; not so much as a bell. He looks back to Sam apprehensively.
“You’ve got a car?” he asks.
“Yeah, man, just around the corner. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“All right.”
The crowd watches in silence as Dean follows Sam out of the cluster and down the street. When he looks back, he sees all of their eyes on them, and it makes Dean’s skin crawl. Douchebags.
Sam walks quickly, shoulders hunched away from the cold, hands jammed into his pockets. He looks behind him periodically, checking to see that Dean is still there. Dean frowns, staring hard at Sam’s back and trying to push down the feeling that something is wrong.
He’ll be on time for work, and that’s all that matters. Mr. Elliot has already given him a written warning.
Around the corner, Dean stops. There’s a black car parked in front of a fire hydrant. Kansas plates; KAZ 2Y5. It’s the Impala. Dean blinks.
“Sam?” he asks.
Sam spins around, eyes bright and wide. He steps up to Dean carefully, leans close, looks hard into his face.
“Dean? Dean.”
“Yeah, man, where the hell are we?”
Dean’s engulfed, face shoved into Sam’s shoulder so fast he loses his breath. Sam holds on tight, squeezes, crushes him, trembles.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Dean,” he swears softly, into Dean’s hair.
“Dude, get off. Seriously, man, what is going on? Where are we? I have no idea - ”
And a thought stops Dean in his cold-veined tracks.
“Hell,” he says. “I’m in Hell. You’re - right? This is Hell. This is Hell.”
“Hey, whoa, listen, calm down. We’re getting out of here, right now. Get in.”
“We’re in Hell? How did you find me?”
“Now’s not the time, Dean, for real. Move your ass.”
Sam starts the ignition and the speakers open up, loud and heavy over Dean. Let loose, from the noose. He remembers this, now.
“I heard this. I’ve heard this. How long have you been looking for me?”
Sam bites his lip, pulling into traffic, checking the mirrors, waiting for a pedestrian to cross. He darts quick look to Dean and then keeps his eyes on the road. Flips the wiper blades on to clear the snow.
“Found you years ago, man,” Sam says quietly. “It was getting to you that was the problem.”
“Years? Wait, how long -”
“Dean, can we not right now? There’s plenty of time to explain, once we get out of here. Just, chill out. We’re goin’ home.”
Dean stares at Sam’s profile a moment, watching the nervous twitch of his mouth and the fine tremor in his fingers against the steering wheel. He tries to remember what’s been going on, but there’s nothing there. The image of the Impala parked on the corner is emblazoned in his mind, inhaling strength, blocking everything else out.
He looks out the passenger side window, watches three students in peacoats and Uggs hurrying along the sidewalk and onto the Northeastern main campus. Alongside the street, the T rattles over its tracks, headed downtown.