[SPN]: a little walk to the edge of town
2163 words.
R, Gen.
Sam, Dean, various OC's.
Disclaimer: Anything recognisable is not mine in the least.
A/N: A whole hell of a lot of months ago, paxlux asked for fic based on a picture. So I wrote it. Title from Red Right Hand by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
Summary: Nobody’s sure how it started, can’t quite recall whether or not there was a man with a glint in his eye and a gas can in his hands, but it’s not long after that the motel closes down, the owner packs his bags and moves away, and this stretch of highway is avoided. Even less time after that the local council approves the development of a bypass, and now you only drive down that stretch of old highway if you haven’t heard the stories. So listen up.
a little walk to the edge of town
Outside, the air crackles in patches, electricity writhing in spirals and jabs and it crawls in jerky movements over the hard wood of the walls, curling around knots and hollowing into cracks. The wood creaks and Sam’s bones echo, knocking together inside of his skin and he thinks We’ve been here too long and he thinks Something’s wrong with this. Dean looks at him and Sam knows he’s thinking the same thing and the bartender puts another beer in front of the both of them, grin crackling like the air outside.
The bar they’re in is smoky and small, looks bigger from the outside and even though there’s maybe only five other people scattered here and there, it feels too closed in, too invading, everybody breathing each other’s stale air. Sam takes a sip of his beer and it’s lukewarm on his tongue and sliding sticky down his throat. Dean’s lip curls up with the taste of his own bottle and sends a glare at the bartender who doesn’t pay any attention, wiping the glasses down with a rag that’s long passed dirty. There’s the sound of the jukebox, low and garbled, playing something old that tickles recognition in the back of Sam’s mind. There’s the sound of a cue against a pool ball, clacking again and again and again but when Sam looks over, there’s no one there, the sound echoing in his head and through his blood. A patron in the back stumbles to his feet and into the men’s room, the cracked tiles of the bathroom sparking yellow from a flickering light bulb.
Sam thinks he’s seen it all before, but the memory is just out of reach, fog in the mirror and the more he tries to hold on to it, the more it slips away. He can’t remember where they came from, can’t remember the hunt, or the road, or why they stopped. He can’t recall where they’re going, why they’re going there or how long it’s going to take them. It seems like his entire life is limited to this small, smoky bar, and his brother in the seat beside him.
The bartender puts down another bottle in front of him, but Sam can’t remember finishing the one he had.
The mirror behind the bar gleams at him, cracked in patterns, a half finished spider web of lines that splits Sam’s face in ten different pieces, his brother in twenty and laughter pierces harsh and painful in his ears, rough and he can’t locate where it came from, it’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. Outside, stars shoot across the darkness in alternating slow and fast, slow and fast and Sam gets caught up in it, can’t focus, his brother’s breathing blurring with his own and he thinks We’ve been here too long and he thinks There’s something wrong with this picture.
Someone stumbles to their feet and into the men’s room, cracked tiles and yellow flickers, like fire, like sunset, like yellow eyes of Sam’s nightmares, of Dean’s.
The bartender puts down another bottle in front of him, but Sam doesn’t remember finishing the one he had.
--
They’ve just wrapped up a werewolf in Oklahoma when Bobby calls.
Yeah, they say, all finished up, easy as pie and Sam didn’t even get choked in the process.
Yeah, they say, we’re headed back your way. Should be a few days if we don’t stop for anything.
A case? they say, sure Bobby, which highway we looking at?
Bobby gives them the details and Dean takes first driving shift (like Sam had a choice in the first place), keeps his foot on the accelerator, Sam sitting shotgun snoring against the window.
They reach the highway within two days.
--
You see, once upon a time this was a major highway. Ran through three states and brought folks down towards the border, plans of holidaying in Tijuana and lazy dreams of lazy mornings. Once upon a time there was a bar here along this major highway, a neat old thing, right opposite a motel and gas station, dinner right across from a bed for the night, halfway point on a journey to nowhere. A perfect set up, you see, family friendly, an easy point of rest when you’re tired and hungry and the little angels have turned into little brats, when you’re just about out of fuel in your car and in your body.
The words Bar and Grill are a temple for the traveller.
When you walk in the bartender smiles at you, tells you to sit wherever you like, menus are already on the table and by the time you’ve taken your coat off a little perky someone is there ready to get you drinks while you debate the merits of a steak versus a burger. There’s even a few vegetarian options for those so inclined.
The air is clean and you breathe in the smell of the grill, the smell of just-short-of-charred meat and cooked onion, the subtle waft of fresh lettuce. The tap water runs clear and cool along your hands and down your wrists, tastes clean and natural on your tongue when you go to splash your face, freshen up a little. The clack of laughter moves in time with the clack of pool balls, and when you glance over you see a ball sink, right corner pocket, one face grinning while the other smiles small and shakes his head, hands over a twenty and the winner buys a round in compensation.
The wine is good, the shots are better, your company has finally let go of that last argument in the car and you leave hours later than you planned, flushed and smiling and at that time of night the highway is empty, so you stand in the middle and look up to the sky, dark and still and silent, playing connect-the-dots with the stars until you let yourself be pulled along and into the motel room, laughing or kissing as you fall into bed. You’re asleep just as your head touches the pillow. It’s perfect.
--
Sam really doesn’t want to step foot in that building. The whole place shivers with cold and the air crackles slightly, like electricity, sparking along Sam’s skin and across his shoulders, jumping and twitching over Dean. There’s a faint orange-red glow coming through the grimy windows and Sam squints, hears the faint sounds of talking on the wind and he thinks he can see the stools up on their tables.
They weren’t going to come here first, they were going to find a room, put their bags down, do a little research. Instead they found the bar. Or the bar found them, Sam thinks, it’s just as likely. They know absolutely nothing beyond Bobby’s message of a haunted highway, don’t know what happened to the place or the people or if the bar is even involved, but Sam has that icy feeling down his spine, the one that says There’s something wrong with this.
Grass creeps in under his pant leg and scratches his ankle, so he takes a step to the side, repositions his feet on the dirt. Dean’s got his head tipped backward breathing into the night air and he says Dude, there’s something wrong with the stars.
He’s right, and it’s like time’s moving too fast, the stars shooting over and round and the sky lightens slightly like sunrise, before darkening again, like it just forgets it has to go to day. Like it resets. Sam suppresses a shudder and swallows. Maybe we should find a motel Dean, I don’t think we should go in there just yet. Dean nods, and they turn away from the red windows and cracked wooden walls, back to the safety of the car.
--
You see, once upon a time, this was a major highway. And once upon a time, this was a major rest stop- dinner and a bed for the night, fuel to get you going again the next day.
And then the bar burned down.
Nobody’s sure exactly what happened, but between one minute and the next, there’s a dull orange-red glow and too many people trying to get out at once, too many people trying to force their way through locked doors and too many people who couldn’t. The bar burned, along with twenty or so bodies, and it took the whole night to turn to ash, for the screams to fade away on the wind. The dawn brought with it a different glow, slanting long along the ground and lighting up the charcoal of the remains, the letters of the Bar and Grill sign melted into each other and heavy on the dirt.
Nobody’s sure how it started, can’t quite recall whether or not there was a man with a glint in his eye and a gas can in his hands, but it’s not long after that the motel closes down, the owner packs his bags and moves away, and this stretch of highway is avoided. Even less time after that the local council approves the development of a bypass, and now you only drive down that stretch of old highway if you haven’t heard the stories.
So listen up.
--
Katie McGuire and Ross Collins went missing three years ago, disappeared without a trace on their trip up north. Katie’s parents tearfully drawl that the recently engaged couple had an argument over the route they were going to take, chose to take the old highway and avoid the traffic, hopefully drive straight through the night.
Not even their car has been found.
Marlie and Jack Richards read the map wrong on their way down south to wish their parents a happy fiftieth anniversary. Took the turn-off instead of staying on the main road, had to double back. The last words they ever speak is a voicemail message to their sister letting her know they’d be a little bit late, give mum and dad hugs for us until we get there, we’ll see you in the morning.
Ben Williams picked up his dad Mark, kissed his mother on the cheek and said not to worry, it’s only hiking, they’d ring when they stopped for dinner. They never do, and the campsite they were heading to says they never showed up. Ben’s truck is found two days later behind a copse of trees just on the exit to the old highway.
A group of teenagers celebrating spring break, a single mother bringing her kids down to their grandparents for a week, three different newlywed couples and a solo traveller. All of them flick on their indicators and take the road less travelled by, and none of them drive out the other end.
--
They’re standing back outside the bar, red windows glowing and stars shooting across the darkness, and Sam doesn’t want to step foot in it, shivers were he stands, hears Dean swallow and shift restlessly.
But they have no other choice.
They don’t know what else to do.
Dean steps forward and Sam’s right behind him, grass swirling around their ankles in the breeze and Dean’s palm presses against the wood of the door, presses in and the door opens in front of them, creaking wood and rusty nails, jukebox playing low and garbled, something old, something familiar, but Sam can’t place it. They step over the threshold and, shared looks over and done with, head for the bar, hoping for information.
The door swings closed behind them.
--
In one corner, a hushed conversation goes on and from what Sam can gather, Marlie wants to leave early, but Jack wants to sleep in a bit because they’re going to be late anyway. In the other corner sits a girl who Dean has his eyes on, running her fingers along the neck of her bottle. Sam watches Dean watching as a guy walks up to her, slips in beside her, and her hand comes up to his cheek as they kiss, diamond on her finger glinting in the dull light. The clack of pool balls is broken by laughter, coming alternately from the two men in hiking gear sitting opposite Sam, and the group of teens spread out over three booths. Next to them, a woman peruses a menu while two children flick their drinks at each other with their fingertips.
Outside, the air crackles in patches and Sam thinks We’ve been here too long, and he think Something’s wrong with this. Dean looks at him, thinking identical and the bartender puts another beer in front of the both of them, grin crackling. Sam thinks he’s seen it all before, tries to hold on but like fog in the mirror it slips away. He can’t remember. Not where they came from, not the hunt, or the road, or why they stopped.
The bartender puts down another bottle in front of him, but Sam can’t remember finishing the one he had.
