Godzilla...missing scene
Here's the other section that was cut. Since the story was written from most recent to oldest events, this one was supposed to the first after the opening. But, the Benders story fit the lyrics better, so it went first in the original version of the story. Then, this went away, so, reverse chronological order was preserved, and the universe was safe, once again...*grins* Yeah, more than you wanted to know. Huge thanks to GG. I'll shut up now...
*****
No, no, they say he’s got to go
Go, go Godzilla, yeah
Oh no, there goes Tokyo
Go, go Godzilla, yeah
*****
Daevas suck balls, Dean thinks as he wipes the blood from his eyes again. His forehead just keeps bleeding. The freaking slashes that score his body burn, like there’s acid in the mix, and somehow, he doesn’t doubt that there is. His shoulder is aching, damned shadow demons nearly pulled his arm out of its socket, and he’s not gonna think about how bad his ribs hurt. He glances over at his brother. Sam looks like something out of Fangoria, his face torn to hell, shirt a bloody goddamned mess and Dean knows that he doesn’t look any better. They’ve been driving for an hour in silence since they left Dad and took off in the opposite direction, neither one willing to be the first to talk. Because each one knows that the first words are going to be. “Wait. Go back. This is a mistake.”
Sam’s got his pissed-off face on. Dean knows that one well-he sees it often enough. He also knows that Sam’s not pissed so much at Dean or Dad as at himself. He was the one who had been preaching about letting go. Dean had just been the one to insist, to hold him to it. Even as he was doing it, he couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his traitorous mouth.
The blood trickles down into his eyes again, blurring his vision. “Fuck this,” he says, and Sam looks over at him hopefully, and Dean knows he thinks Dean’s cracked first. “We gotta stop. I can’t fucking see.”
Sam sucks in a loud breath, lets it out, and Dean can hear the disappointment in his brother’s voice when he says, “Next exit is about half a mile ahead.”
Dean nods, and sure enough, Sam’s right. He pulls off the highway, and follows the signs to the Lakeville Motor Lodge. It looks a little seedy, and the sign says “Vacancia,” and also, “Rooms by the Hour or the Day”. This is a step below even their usual, but it’s late, and they’re tired. There are two tricked-out lowriders parked in the lot as he pulls up in front of the office.
Sam starts to get out of the car, but Dean stops him. “Dude, you look like you went 12 rounds with Freddy Krueger. They’ll take one look at you and call the cops.”
“You aren’t exactly kittens and puppies yourself, Dean,” Sam says and takes a closer look at his brother. “But at least your shirt is dark-the blood hardly shows. Much.” He digs in his pocket, and hands Dean a big, red handkerchief. “Here, tie it like a do-rag over your forehead, that should hide most of the blood.”
“I’m not tying your dirty snot rag around my head,” Dean grimaces, pushes it back at his brother.
“It’s clean, you idiot.” Sam tosses the rag at his brother’s head.
“Fine.”
“Fine.
Dean ties the kerchief around his head, wincing with the movement. He goes into the motel office, and returns in less than five minutes, key in hand. “Dude didn’t even look up. He was watching porn on the TV.”
“They have porn here?” Sam asks.
Dean grins slyly, puts his lech face on. Cackles evilly.
“Shut up.” Sam gets out of the car, reaches into the backseat for his duffle. Dean does the same. Then they find their room, and it’s just as ugly as Dean expected. Standard seventies décor-geometric patterns on the bedspreads, and pictures of majestic mountain scenes, and this is fucking Illinois. Kinda short on mountains. The color scheme is classic, except for the carpet. Brown, oranges, tans, on the fabrics. Purple carpet. Or what used to be purple. Now it’s just kind of…stained looking. It smells, too. Like sex, and feet. Not a good combo. He tosses his duffle on the nearest bed, and sits down heavily, too tired, too sore to move.
Sam drops his bag on the other bed, and disappears into the bathroom. Dean can hear his brother’s moan of “gross” through the door. He appears a moment later, towels in his hand, and tosses one to Dean. “That bathroom…it’s…kinda…moldy. And there’s hair…not head hair, either…in the sink.”
Dean looks up at that. “Huh,” he says, thinks about it for a moment, then draws the same conclusion as Sam. “Oh, gross.”
Sam frowns at him, “Dude, your head is still bleeding.”
“I know. Stings like a bitch, too. How bout yours?”
“Yeah, it hurts…like, more than it should.” Sam gingerly touches the gouges in his cheek. “Holy water first, you think?”
“Yeah, but let’s start with the carpet, maybe we can exorcise the stink out,” Dean says with a grin, and gets a smile out of Sam. He digs through his duffle for a bottle of holy water while Sam gets out the first aid kit, digs out a suture needle and some sterile vycril. “Here,” he says, tossing the bottle to Sam. “Do mine first. If I can see again, maybe we can vacate this hell hole and just keep driving.”
Sam doesn’t argue with that, just opens the holy water and sprinkles it on one of the washcloths. He gingerly pats it on Dean’s bloody forehead and white smoke literally roils off his brother’s head.
“Whoa!” Dean jerks back, eyes wide.
“Holy crap, that must be some evil demon goo,” Sam says in awe. “Does it hurt?”
“Doesn’t hurt. Feels pretty good, in fact. Pour some on,” Dean urges, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, like a supplicant. Sam complies, dousing his brother liberally with the consecrated water. He watches in amazement as more smoke pours from his brother’s head, and the rough scratches bubble, and then heal, closing up in front of his eyes, leaving only pink lines where the slashes had been.
“Wow,” Dean says, touching his healed forehead. “Here, hit me again.” He lifts his shirt. A score of gashes cross his chest and gut, like some sort of bloody tic-tac-toe game. Sam pours on more holy water, and the result is the same, white smoke and instantaneous healing.
“Awesome. Let me do yours, now.” Dean takes the holy water and ministers to Sam’s cuts, watching in amazement as he heals completely before his eyes. “That is so weird.”
Sam rubs his fingers gently over his healed cheek. “We should call Dad, tell him….”
Dean shakes his head. “Dad’ll figure it out.” He rolls his sore shoulder, cracks his neck, sorry that the holy water doesn’t work on the bruises. Picks up the remote and turns on the television. Naked bodies roll around on the screen. Loud music and voices speaking Spanish fill the room. “Huh. Mexican porn. That’s new.”
Sam grins, settles down on his own bed. “I used to watch Salsa porn all the time at Stanford.”
“All the time? That’s my boy.”
Sam smiles fondly. “Freshman year, yeah. Got tired of it by the time I was a sophomore. But I aced my Spanish class.” Sam squints at the screen. “I think I’ve seen this one. There’s a really ugly hairy naked guy who comes in with a guitar, and he sings while he gets…uh, serviced.”
“Ugly hairy naked guy with a guitar? Singing?” Dean quickly changes the channel. “No porn is worth that.” He skims past half a dozen stations before he realizes that EVERYTHING is in Spanish. He sighs, turns off the TV, stands up. “Wanna shag ass?” he asks, but Sam doesn’t answer. Just stares off into space. “Sam?”
Sam looks up at Dean, and there’s more pain in his eyes than Dean has seen since…Jessica. “Dude, what?”
Sam drops his head, sighs. “I haven’t seen Dad in four years, we barely have two minutes to talk, and then, he just…leaves.”
“He had to, Sammy. You know that.” Dean sinks down on the bed next to his brother.
“I know. But…it sucks, you know? I didn’t even…I didn’t get to…”
“Yeah.” A sad smile crosses Dean’s face. “He was real happy to see you, Sammy.”
“Until he had to go.”
Dean doesn’t respond at first, then he quirks an eyebrow at his brother.
“What?” Sam asks.
“Remember?”
“Remember what?”
“When we changed the words…to the song?” Dean’s grinning happily now, which annoys Sam even more.
“What song?” he snaps.
Dean sings, “No, no, they say he’s got to go. Go, go _---” and pauses, waiting for Sam to fill in the blank.
Sam looks at him like he’s crazy. “Freak,” he says and shakes his head, tries to resume his funk, but Dean will have none of it.
He sings again, “Oh no, there goes To-le-do…”
He pokes Sam, who sighs, and rolls his eyes before muttering weakly, “Go, go Dadzilla.”
“Dude, I know you can do better than that.” Dean shoves the first aid supplies back in the kit, and gathers up his duffle as he sings, loudly, “No, no, they say he’s got to go!”
Sam stands, quirks a half grin. “Go, go Dadzilla!” he sings, trying to match his brother’s enthusiasm.
Dean smiles widely in recognition of Sam’s effort. “Oh no, there goes To-le-do-“
”Go, go, Dadzilla, yeah!” Sam even does a fist pump. “You’re a total freak, you know that?” he says with a grateful smile as he grabs his duffle. “Did Dad ever catch on, about the words?”
“Nah, never. I think he pretty much tuned us out whenever he was driving.” Dean says as they walk out of the motel together, load up the Impala. “Long as we weren’t settin’ fires, he didn’t care what the hell we did back there.”
Sam lets out a loud guffaw. “Yeah, he noticed that, didn’t he? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was cold. It was dark. Fire seemed the obvious answer.”
“You really are a freak.”
Dean laughs and gets into the car, puts the key in the ignition. “He really was happy to see you, Sammy.” The engine comes to life with a roar and then settles down to a rough purr. “He missed you.”
“Yeah. I missed him too.” Sam draws his knees up, folds into the passenger seat, as Dean pulls out of the parking lot. He quirks a fond grin at his brother, glances at him through hooded eyes. “I missed both of you.”
“You’re gonna make me cry, man.” Dean punches Sam in the shoulder, hard.
“Shut up, pyro.”
“Wuss.”
They drive till morning, and spend the whole time talking about Dad, about growing up, and fondly remember how things were, before Sam had to go, go, Dadzilla.
**************
*****
No, no, they say he’s got to go
Go, go Godzilla, yeah
Oh no, there goes Tokyo
Go, go Godzilla, yeah
*****
Daevas suck balls, Dean thinks as he wipes the blood from his eyes again. His forehead just keeps bleeding. The freaking slashes that score his body burn, like there’s acid in the mix, and somehow, he doesn’t doubt that there is. His shoulder is aching, damned shadow demons nearly pulled his arm out of its socket, and he’s not gonna think about how bad his ribs hurt. He glances over at his brother. Sam looks like something out of Fangoria, his face torn to hell, shirt a bloody goddamned mess and Dean knows that he doesn’t look any better. They’ve been driving for an hour in silence since they left Dad and took off in the opposite direction, neither one willing to be the first to talk. Because each one knows that the first words are going to be. “Wait. Go back. This is a mistake.”
Sam’s got his pissed-off face on. Dean knows that one well-he sees it often enough. He also knows that Sam’s not pissed so much at Dean or Dad as at himself. He was the one who had been preaching about letting go. Dean had just been the one to insist, to hold him to it. Even as he was doing it, he couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his traitorous mouth.
The blood trickles down into his eyes again, blurring his vision. “Fuck this,” he says, and Sam looks over at him hopefully, and Dean knows he thinks Dean’s cracked first. “We gotta stop. I can’t fucking see.”
Sam sucks in a loud breath, lets it out, and Dean can hear the disappointment in his brother’s voice when he says, “Next exit is about half a mile ahead.”
Dean nods, and sure enough, Sam’s right. He pulls off the highway, and follows the signs to the Lakeville Motor Lodge. It looks a little seedy, and the sign says “Vacancia,” and also, “Rooms by the Hour or the Day”. This is a step below even their usual, but it’s late, and they’re tired. There are two tricked-out lowriders parked in the lot as he pulls up in front of the office.
Sam starts to get out of the car, but Dean stops him. “Dude, you look like you went 12 rounds with Freddy Krueger. They’ll take one look at you and call the cops.”
“You aren’t exactly kittens and puppies yourself, Dean,” Sam says and takes a closer look at his brother. “But at least your shirt is dark-the blood hardly shows. Much.” He digs in his pocket, and hands Dean a big, red handkerchief. “Here, tie it like a do-rag over your forehead, that should hide most of the blood.”
“I’m not tying your dirty snot rag around my head,” Dean grimaces, pushes it back at his brother.
“It’s clean, you idiot.” Sam tosses the rag at his brother’s head.
“Fine.”
“Fine.
Dean ties the kerchief around his head, wincing with the movement. He goes into the motel office, and returns in less than five minutes, key in hand. “Dude didn’t even look up. He was watching porn on the TV.”
“They have porn here?” Sam asks.
Dean grins slyly, puts his lech face on. Cackles evilly.
“Shut up.” Sam gets out of the car, reaches into the backseat for his duffle. Dean does the same. Then they find their room, and it’s just as ugly as Dean expected. Standard seventies décor-geometric patterns on the bedspreads, and pictures of majestic mountain scenes, and this is fucking Illinois. Kinda short on mountains. The color scheme is classic, except for the carpet. Brown, oranges, tans, on the fabrics. Purple carpet. Or what used to be purple. Now it’s just kind of…stained looking. It smells, too. Like sex, and feet. Not a good combo. He tosses his duffle on the nearest bed, and sits down heavily, too tired, too sore to move.
Sam drops his bag on the other bed, and disappears into the bathroom. Dean can hear his brother’s moan of “gross” through the door. He appears a moment later, towels in his hand, and tosses one to Dean. “That bathroom…it’s…kinda…moldy. And there’s hair…not head hair, either…in the sink.”
Dean looks up at that. “Huh,” he says, thinks about it for a moment, then draws the same conclusion as Sam. “Oh, gross.”
Sam frowns at him, “Dude, your head is still bleeding.”
“I know. Stings like a bitch, too. How bout yours?”
“Yeah, it hurts…like, more than it should.” Sam gingerly touches the gouges in his cheek. “Holy water first, you think?”
“Yeah, but let’s start with the carpet, maybe we can exorcise the stink out,” Dean says with a grin, and gets a smile out of Sam. He digs through his duffle for a bottle of holy water while Sam gets out the first aid kit, digs out a suture needle and some sterile vycril. “Here,” he says, tossing the bottle to Sam. “Do mine first. If I can see again, maybe we can vacate this hell hole and just keep driving.”
Sam doesn’t argue with that, just opens the holy water and sprinkles it on one of the washcloths. He gingerly pats it on Dean’s bloody forehead and white smoke literally roils off his brother’s head.
“Whoa!” Dean jerks back, eyes wide.
“Holy crap, that must be some evil demon goo,” Sam says in awe. “Does it hurt?”
“Doesn’t hurt. Feels pretty good, in fact. Pour some on,” Dean urges, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, like a supplicant. Sam complies, dousing his brother liberally with the consecrated water. He watches in amazement as more smoke pours from his brother’s head, and the rough scratches bubble, and then heal, closing up in front of his eyes, leaving only pink lines where the slashes had been.
“Wow,” Dean says, touching his healed forehead. “Here, hit me again.” He lifts his shirt. A score of gashes cross his chest and gut, like some sort of bloody tic-tac-toe game. Sam pours on more holy water, and the result is the same, white smoke and instantaneous healing.
“Awesome. Let me do yours, now.” Dean takes the holy water and ministers to Sam’s cuts, watching in amazement as he heals completely before his eyes. “That is so weird.”
Sam rubs his fingers gently over his healed cheek. “We should call Dad, tell him….”
Dean shakes his head. “Dad’ll figure it out.” He rolls his sore shoulder, cracks his neck, sorry that the holy water doesn’t work on the bruises. Picks up the remote and turns on the television. Naked bodies roll around on the screen. Loud music and voices speaking Spanish fill the room. “Huh. Mexican porn. That’s new.”
Sam grins, settles down on his own bed. “I used to watch Salsa porn all the time at Stanford.”
“All the time? That’s my boy.”
Sam smiles fondly. “Freshman year, yeah. Got tired of it by the time I was a sophomore. But I aced my Spanish class.” Sam squints at the screen. “I think I’ve seen this one. There’s a really ugly hairy naked guy who comes in with a guitar, and he sings while he gets…uh, serviced.”
“Ugly hairy naked guy with a guitar? Singing?” Dean quickly changes the channel. “No porn is worth that.” He skims past half a dozen stations before he realizes that EVERYTHING is in Spanish. He sighs, turns off the TV, stands up. “Wanna shag ass?” he asks, but Sam doesn’t answer. Just stares off into space. “Sam?”
Sam looks up at Dean, and there’s more pain in his eyes than Dean has seen since…Jessica. “Dude, what?”
Sam drops his head, sighs. “I haven’t seen Dad in four years, we barely have two minutes to talk, and then, he just…leaves.”
“He had to, Sammy. You know that.” Dean sinks down on the bed next to his brother.
“I know. But…it sucks, you know? I didn’t even…I didn’t get to…”
“Yeah.” A sad smile crosses Dean’s face. “He was real happy to see you, Sammy.”
“Until he had to go.”
Dean doesn’t respond at first, then he quirks an eyebrow at his brother.
“What?” Sam asks.
“Remember?”
“Remember what?”
“When we changed the words…to the song?” Dean’s grinning happily now, which annoys Sam even more.
“What song?” he snaps.
Dean sings, “No, no, they say he’s got to go. Go, go _---” and pauses, waiting for Sam to fill in the blank.
Sam looks at him like he’s crazy. “Freak,” he says and shakes his head, tries to resume his funk, but Dean will have none of it.
He sings again, “Oh no, there goes To-le-do…”
He pokes Sam, who sighs, and rolls his eyes before muttering weakly, “Go, go Dadzilla.”
“Dude, I know you can do better than that.” Dean shoves the first aid supplies back in the kit, and gathers up his duffle as he sings, loudly, “No, no, they say he’s got to go!”
Sam stands, quirks a half grin. “Go, go Dadzilla!” he sings, trying to match his brother’s enthusiasm.
Dean smiles widely in recognition of Sam’s effort. “Oh no, there goes To-le-do-“
”Go, go, Dadzilla, yeah!” Sam even does a fist pump. “You’re a total freak, you know that?” he says with a grateful smile as he grabs his duffle. “Did Dad ever catch on, about the words?”
“Nah, never. I think he pretty much tuned us out whenever he was driving.” Dean says as they walk out of the motel together, load up the Impala. “Long as we weren’t settin’ fires, he didn’t care what the hell we did back there.”
Sam lets out a loud guffaw. “Yeah, he noticed that, didn’t he? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was cold. It was dark. Fire seemed the obvious answer.”
“You really are a freak.”
Dean laughs and gets into the car, puts the key in the ignition. “He really was happy to see you, Sammy.” The engine comes to life with a roar and then settles down to a rough purr. “He missed you.”
“Yeah. I missed him too.” Sam draws his knees up, folds into the passenger seat, as Dean pulls out of the parking lot. He quirks a fond grin at his brother, glances at him through hooded eyes. “I missed both of you.”
“You’re gonna make me cry, man.” Dean punches Sam in the shoulder, hard.
“Shut up, pyro.”
“Wuss.”
They drive till morning, and spend the whole time talking about Dad, about growing up, and fondly remember how things were, before Sam had to go, go, Dadzilla.
**************