Jump the Track: chapter 2
The rest of the first week dragged by at a tedious pace. Dean went to school every day and attended most of his classes more out of a sense of obligation to his family than anything else. It was all so utterly redundant. He spent most of his time dreaming about long stretches of road. When he was younger, he used to collect maps of America and old travel brochures he’d picked up from here and there, and he’d fantasize about the trips he’d take one day. He’d trace routes on maps with his fingers, make notes of the sights he had to see. He’d tour the whole damn country, just him and the Impala his dad had promised to pass down to him once he got his license. He couldn’t imagine any greater freedom, any greater adventure. Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d closed his eyes and pictured himself speeding along an empty road in his car so fast it was like flying, and he’d be drift away, the imaginary thrum of the engine like a lullaby to him.
He knew it was never going to happen now, of course. He’d never make the kind of money to finance a trip of that scale, even if he did odd jobs as he went along. Plus, there was no way in hell his dad would let him take off like that - John had already told Dean how much he valued his help at the auto shop and how Dean would have a job waiting for him there once he finished school. Dean never had been able to stand up to John, not like Sam could.
It wasn’t that his dad was mean or overly-authoritative, but Dean had always had a horror of disappointing him. Making John proud was like an obsession to him, and if John wanted Dean to stay in Lawrence and work at the garage, then that was what Dean would do. Even if he did have that wistful longing in his heart for something… more. Dean wouldn’t really be able to achieve anything else anyway, he told himself harshly. He was being ungrateful. He’d have a better life if he just stuck to what he knew than if he attempted to do something by himself.
Dean felt bad for the car. The Impala was his now and he loved it, and because he loved it he felt guilty. A car like that should be speeding along highways chasing adventure, not trundling around a guy’s hometown, picking up groceries and giving people lifts. It was an insult. When he was sure that he was alone, he’d sit in the driver’s seat and talk to the car. “I’m sorry, baby,” he’d say. “I know you could do better. Wish I could give it to you.” He’d tell the car about the dreams he used to have, convincing himself that he was consoling it somehow. He told his car everything.
School was a waste. Dean didn’t know why he hadn’t quit already, though he suspected that it had something to do with his mother. The one time he’d mentioned the idea he’d had of dropping out now and going to work at the garage full time, Mary hadn’t said anything but he’d seen the regret in her eyes. She’d smiled at him and told him that he should do whatever he needed to make him happy. Dean’s heart had sunk at this. Happy. This had nothing to do with happy. He’d known that his mother had felt bad though, and that stopped him from mentioning dropping out again.
Still, he had to remind himself of this when he got detention for honestly forgetting about the history report he was supposed to do, or when Mr Henriksen kept calling him out in math, making it next to impossible for Dean to do anything other than pay attention.
Dean didn’t give much thought to the new student, Castiel, after the first day back. He had other things to think about, like hanging out with his friends, looking out for his brother, meeting up with the hot college chick he’d ‘befriended’ last year and who’d come back for the new semester. He was vaguely aware that Castiel had firmly established himself as one of the ‘smart kids’, and that he’d joined the FCS where he’d already made quite an impression. His life and Dean’s were evidently very different, and there was no cause for their paths to cross. Dean occasionally found himself staring at the back of the guy’s head in class, smiling to himself over how damn poised Castiel was, like he’d never learned how to relax, but it wasn’t like he ever really thought about him.
However, on the Wednesday of the third week of term, Dean was forced to think about Castiel. He’d skipped fifth period to hang out behind the bleachers with Steve, Karl and Laura, three of his waster buddies. Good god, they were boring. All they ever talked about was getting drunk or getting high or getting laid. They had no interests beyond that. Dean thought wistfully of the time when he’d spend evenings at Jo’s house watching crappy science fiction movies with titles like The Killer Shrews or Santa Claus Versus The Martians! He thought of hanging out at the pizza parlor with Ash, flirting with the waitresses. He had to remind himself that in less than a year, all those people would be leaving him behind for something better. Dean had to establish new relationships now, with his own kind. It was painfully depressing.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. These people idolized him. They saw Dean with his nice car and his charm and his ability to attract all the pretty girls, and they thought he was amazing. They’d been thrilled when Dean had started hanging out with them last year. It made him feel, just for a little while, like he was worth something. As far as the hierarchy of loser dropouts went, at least, he was at the top.
Dean forced a laugh at the stupid story Karl was telling him about almost getting arrested the night before. At least this was better than being in class.
“Hey, look!” Steve said suddenly. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Dean turned around, only half interested, and saw Castiel Delacroix wandering towards them, a small frown of consternation on his face, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. The sight of him made Dean uneasy. He wanted to warn Castiel somehow to go back where he had come from. He knew instantly that his companions were going to give the guy a hard time, and he loathed the pettiness of it all. “Who cares?” he muttered, hoping to prevent events from taking the course he could envision. “Who cares what he’s doing?”
However, Steve had that stupid grin on his stupid face. “Dude, we cannot turn a blind eye when prey wanders so willingly into our midst. This is our turf, and nerds are not allowed.”
Dean had the sudden urge to punch him.
Steve moved to block Castiel from passing them, while Karl and Laura sniggered idiotically.
Dean hated this. Most of all he hated that he was too much of a coward to stop it from happening. He didn’t want anything to happen to Castiel: there was something about him that reminded Dean of Sam. He would kill anyone who picked on his little brother, and it made him feel sick that he was basically condoning the bullying of someone like him.
He hung back, not looking at what was going on, loathing himself.
“Hey!” Steve said.
Castiel stopped and looked up, blinking like he hadn’t realized where he was. He looked at them all blankly. “Hello.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Steve was still smiling, but Dean could hear the menace in his voice, and he saw the way he was crowding Castiel slightly.
Castiel, however, did not seem to recognize the warning signs. “I have a study period now,” he informed Steve mildly. The gravel in his voice surprised Dean as much as it had the first time he’d heard it. “I’m working on a paper for history, and walking helps the cognitive process.”
Dean saw the others stare in confusion at this. Dean doubted that they’d understood half of what Castiel had just said.
“Well listen, nerd,” Steve said, giving Castiel a hard push in the chest. “You need to go be a freak someplace else.” Another shove, making Castiel stumble a little. “This is where we hang out, and we do not take kindly to nerds.” He tried to push Castiel again, but the other boy reached out and grabbed his wrist before Steve could make contact.
“Don’t do that.” His voice was still mild, but Dean could see the whites of his knuckles where he was gripping Steve’s arm.
Steve’s eyes widened a little with shock, but he soon recovered. “Get the fuck off me, freak!” He swung his free arm to hit Castiel, but the other boy effortlessly blocked him, and an attempted kick resulted in Steve sprawled on the floor, his legs knocked from under him. Laura and Karl looked on, shocked.
Castiel began to walk away from them, but Steve struggled to his feet and with a yell of rage he threw himself at the other boy. They grappled for a couple of seconds and Dean was momentarily concerned that Steve was going to get the upper hand, but then Castiel delivered him a sharp blow to the stomach, then a kick that sent him to the ground again.
“I’d give up if I were you,” Castiel growled, a definite bite to his voice now. “At this point you’re just embarrassing yourself.” He looked down at his opponent with obvious distain, his mouth a hard line. Just before he turned away again his eyes met Dean’s, just for a second. It was long enough to make Dean’s chest clench with shame. Castiel’s blue eyes were full of reproachfulness and disappointment, as if for all the world he knew that Dean wasn’t like these people and he judged him for being there. But maybe that was just Dean’s overactive conscience playing tricks with him.
Dean watched Castiel walking away, his face burning with shame.
Laura went to help a winded, but otherwise unharmed Steve to his feet.
“Well, thanks a lot, guys!” Steve complained. “Great friends you are! Why the hell didn’t you come help me? Oh man, if anyone finds out about this… If I hear any of you repeating what just went down I will kill you, understand? He just… caught me unawares is all. Hey, Winchester! What the hell were you doing, man? Why didn’t you back me up?”
Dean was still staring at the retreating figure of Castiel Delacroix. “Who the hell is that guy?”
…
The one thing that Dean actually looked forward to every week was when he got to work at the garage on Saturdays. Okay, so the thought of working in that particular garage for years to come under his dad’s constant supervision was… more than a little discouraging, but all of that seemed to melt away once Dean was working on an engine. There was something beautiful about it. Dean wasn’t an especially creative guy, but he felt like fixing cars was a kind of art form. There was something inherently satisfying about taking a machine that was malfunctioning and making it work again. It was something that came naturally to him. He knew how to listen to a vehicle, discover what it needed, do whatever he had to in order to make it happy. He’d made the mistake of trying to explain this to John once, and his dad had made a lame joke about how if Dean could apply that theory to women he’d be set for life.
Dean loved his dad and would’ve done anything to make him proud, but there were some things that John just wouldn’t get.
He liked the easy camaraderie of the garage though. He liked being around people who knew what it meant to work for a living. He enjoyed joking around with Kat, the mechanic, and making coffee for Rufus, their acerbic supplier, whenever he dropped in. Dean was the only one who could make him laugh. He loved it when his dad taught him something new, or when he smiled at Dean and told him he’d done a good job. He looked forward to the opportunities he’d get to talk with Bobby, John’s business partner.
Bobby was family: both he and Sam had grown up calling him ‘Uncle’. One of Dean’s earliest memories was of riding around on his shoulders, both of them laughing till their sides ached. Bobby had laughed a lot back then. Dean remembered how he used to make up silly stories for them and take them out to the park where he’d buy them ice cream and play ball with Dean while Sam watched from his buggy.
All that had changed when Dean was eight and Bobby’s wife had died in a car accident.
Dean had been too little to really understand anything more than Auntie Karen was gone and it was real sad. Even so, he remembered how devastated Bobby had been. He’d remembered the hushed conversations his parents had had about how they were worried their friend wouldn’t get through this.
Bobby stopped laughing after that. He’d come to stay with the Winchesters for a while, and he’d sit for hours, silent and brooding, drinking beer. Dean remembered how he and Sam had nervously tried to comfort him, bringing him books and toys. In retrospect, Dean marvelled at Bobby’s patience with them. He had just smiled at them sadly, never once turning them away.
Dean wondered whether Bobby would ever really recover from his wife’s death. He could function now, sure. He’d go out with John and the others, he’d read books, he was enthusiastic about the work he did. His love for Sam and Dean had been as unwavering as if they’d been his own boys. Still, something had been broken, and Dean was starting to doubt whether it would ever be mended.
It made him wonder whether it was worth it, falling in love so deeply that you’d be shattered if you lost the other person. It made his chest feel tight just to think of it. Dean had to remind himself that he didn’t have anything to worry about - he’d never fall in love like Bobby and Karen, or like his parents. He didn’t think he had it in him. More to the point, he couldn’t see anyone falling in love with him. The mere thought was ridiculous; wanting to be in love was as preposterous as wanting a flying horse. Sure, it’d be nice. But it was never going to happen.
…
“I don’t care if it’s not useful!” Sam yelled. “I like history, and I’m joining History Club! What’s the big deal, anyway?”
“I just don’t want you wasting your time!” John retorted. “I don’t mind about the debate team, but what’s the point in spending two hours a week doing more history? Do you really think it’s gonna help with your career?”
Sam made a loud noise of exasperation. “Dad, I won’t even go to college for another four years! Can’t I just do something I enjoy for once? Why should it always be about where it’s heading? I don’t even know what I want to do when I grow up, give me a damn break!”
“Don’t you talk to me like that! I’m just thinking about-Sam, don’t you walk away from me. I am your father, and you will show me some respect! Sam, I-Sam, get back here! Sam!”
Bang.
Dean winced as his brother’s bedroom door was slammed shut with enough force to make the whole house shake. He heaved a sigh and threw aside the copy of FHM he’d been reading. His mother was out with friends, so he was going to have to do some damage control.
He found John in the kitchen, angrily making coffee and getting more granules on the counter than in the pot.
“Dad?”
“I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do with that kid,” John grumbled. “He’s so damn smart. He must get that from your mom’s side. He could do anything he puts his mind to, but he’s so damn stubborn as well, and what if…” He sighed.
“He’s not gonna screw up,” Dean said quietly. “You know he’s just gonna get more stubborn the more you tell him what he can and can’t do. I know he’s just a kid still, but he doesn’t feel like he’s a kid anymore. He wants to be treated like he knows what he’s doing.”
John smiled at him grudgingly. “When the hell did you get so insightful?”
Dean looked away, embarrassed. “Um… I’ll go talk to him. Get him to calm down.”
“Thanks, Son,” John sighed as Dean left the room. “I’m glad I can depend on you.”
Dean ignored the pang his father’s words caused him. Dependable. Predictable. Boring.
There was no reply when he knocked on Sam’s door, but he could hear the maudlin tones of Nirvana or The Manic Street Preachers, or whatever wrist-cutter band his brother was favoring that week.
“Sam? It’s me. Can I come in?”
No reply again, but the music was turned off which Dean took as a yes.
He found his brother lying on his bed with his back to the door. “Dad’s a jerk,” Sam mumbled. “What’s the big deal if I join History Club? Ava’s joined and her parents didn’t mind. They were actually pleased she wanted to do something extra, like any normal parent would be. Like Mom was when I told her last night. What the hell is his problem?”
Dean sat at the foot of the bed. “Look… I know Dad can come on a little strong sometimes-”
Sam snorted.
“Okay, yeah, I know. But he’s…” Dean tried to find the words. He’d never been good with words. How to tell his brother that he was lucky John got angry with him. John only got angry when he really cared about something. How to explain that Sam was lucky that his dad cared so much about his future, had such high hopes for him, that he’d make a big deal about a stupid history club. How to explain that Dean envied him. That he understood that Sam was under pressure and it must be frustrating, but hey, John was actually fighting for his future. John wanted him to get out into the big wide world and do something amazing. How to explain all of that without sounding like a whiney bitch. “Give him time,” he said eventually. “He’ll cool off, and Mom will talk him round. He’s just really… practical, you know? He’s always thinking three steps ahead, and sometimes he gets so… caught up in what he wants for you he forgets that it might not be… I dunno. He means well. Just… don’t get so mad, okay, Sammy?”
“Sam,” his brother replied half-heartedly.
Dean knew he had won.
…
September wasted away, and October saw the stores of Lawrence stocking up on candy and costumes for Halloween. Dean couldn’t normally get up much enthusiasm for the holiday because for the last few years he’d had to take Sam Trick-or-Treating, but this year Sam had been invited to a party at Andy’s house, so Dean was free to do as he liked.
“So you guys are all free next Friday, right?” Pam asked a week before Halloween. “I was thinking the four of us could get together at my place for a creep night. You know, I could do a séance, and we could have a horror movie marathon and eat so much junk food we barf.”
“Sounds good,” Jo said. “You know, minus the barfing.”
“We could have a run-down of horror through the ages!” Dean enthused. “You know, Nosferatu to Blair Witch. Oh man, I’m gonna put a list together.” Dean didn’t care that he was being a geek. Horror movies were his thing, okay?
He was actually really looking forward to it. He knew it wasn’t a big deal and it was just a night in with friends, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt like an evening of mindless fun with people he loved was just the distraction he needed right now. He’d been put in charge of getting the movie collection together, and he felt confident that he’d got a good combination of mainstream and cult classics. And okay, most of the cult classics featured the lovely Barbara Steele in the lead role, but he was sure none of his friends would mind.
He dropped the films off at Pam’s house after school on Friday, and promised to return as soon as he’d picked up some frozen pizza. Dean did not have as much of a sweet-tooth as his friends and he didn’t think he’d last the night on candy alone.
There was a general store just a couple of blocks away, so Dean decided to walk it. The early evening air was chill and crisp. He walked slowly, enjoying the crackle-snap of fallen leaves beneath his boots and the way the air smelled dusky. People’s front yards were decorated with streamers and pumpkins and plastic skeletons. Dean could remember when he was little and Sam was still a baby; Mary would make pumpkin cookies and they’d all sit around watching Scooby Doo. Thinking about that gave him a strange, wistful ache in his chest.
Everything should have gone so smoothly. Dean should have got to the store, bought a couple of pepperoni pizzas, and returned to his friends.
Instead, he ran into Gordon.
Gordon was a couple of years older than Dean and went to the local college. Dean had met him through Steve, who relied on the older guy for his supply of alcohol and pot. Dean didn’t especially like Gordon but, unlike some of Dean’s other associates, the guy had a brain in his head and could hold a half decent conversation.
“Hey, Winchester!” Gordon hailed him from the other side of the shop.
Dean looked up and smiled, even though his heart sunk a little; it was like he already knew what was going to happen next. Reluctantly, he walked over.
Gordon’s smile was amiable enough, but there was always something about him that made Dean not want to piss him off. “Any plans for this evening?” he asked.
“Oh… just hanging out with some people,” Dean replied dismissively.
“Well, you should come hang with us!” Gordon said, slapping him on the arm.
“I would, man, but I’ve really gotta-”
“Oh, don’t be a buzz-kill! Come on, there’s some people I want you to meet. A bunch of us are gonna be hanging out at Pioneer Cemetery, and there’s this great girl who really wants to know you. Just come along for an hour or so, and then you can get back to your school buddies.”
Dean didn’t miss the hidden barb and, much to his shame, he fell right into the trap Gordon had set for him. “We-ell, I guess I could come along for an hour or so.”
Gordon laughed. “Wise choice, my man. Wise choice.”
Dean left the store with Gordon, sending a short text message to Pam saying something had come up and they should start without him. He really would only miss an hour or so, and if he was lucky that would mean the séance would be over by the time he got there. He would never tell anyone this ever, but Pam’s séances always freaked him out.
“So,” he said to Gordon as they stepped out into the chilly air. “This chick who wants to meet me… she hot?”
…
As it turned out, she wasn’t. At least, she was only attractive in that really obvious way that doesn’t make you think too hard. She wore too much makeup, had overly-bleached hair, and called herself Starla or something. To be fair, Dean had been going after that kind of girl quite a lot recently, so he couldn’t really blame Gordon for thinking he’d like this chick.
Starla gave him a sticky-sweet smile and draped an arm around him. Dean thought longingly of his friends, but he knew the part he had to play well and didn’t let his regret show. He gave Starla a lazy grin, letting his eyes trail up and down her body.
Gordon passed Dean a bottle in a brown paper bag, and he sat down on a tombstone to take a swig. He was glad that he’d decided to sit down, because what Gordon had given him wasn’t beer or whiskey or anything that Dean had ever had before. He choked.
Gordon laughed. “A little much for you, kid?”
Dean glared at him, his eyes watering. “Jesus, did you even wait for it to distil?”
“Oh come on, don’t tell me you can’t handle the hard stuff. You disappoint me, Winchester! I thought you were made of stronger stuff. It won’t kill you - we drink it all the time.” He gestured towards the assorted wasters who were gathered in the cemetery.
Dean resisted saying yeah, you look like it. He knew what was going on. He knew Gordon was goading him into drinking more of that crap. Worst of all, he knew he was gonna fall for it. Starla was laughing huskily and started to kiss his neck; she smelled like stale cigarettes through her heady perfume.
Fuck it, Dean thought, and raised the bottle to his lips again. It went down easier this time. He’d just stay a few more minutes, he told himself. His friends wouldn’t mind. Anyway, this was exactly where he belonged: in the dark, in the cold, with losers like him. He took another swig.
…
Dean had only closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, he was sure of it. His head had been spinning so he’d sat on the ground, and looked up at the stars. It had felt like he was drifting away. The voices of the others had merged into one indistinct blur in Dean’s head, and he’d tried to ignore Starla’s hands on his body and the way her acrylic nails scratched unpleasantly. The bottle of rancid alcohol kept being passed to him, and he’d drunk from it mindlessly. It felt like the stars were getting closer…
When he’d opened his eyes again, he was alone in the cemetery. It had taken him a couple of minutes to figure that out because every time he tried to lift his head he lost balance. He breathed in through his nose deeply, trying in vain to steady himself. Shit. The memory came, completely unbidden, of the last time he had been drunk like this. His body clenched in panic because fuck, he never let himself think about that and fuck, what if it happened again, and fuck, how the hell could he have been so stupid?
He threw up, but didn’t feel better afterwards.
He’d have to get back to Pam’s house. He knew that it was late now and they’d be mad at him, not least for showing up completely wasted, but it was his only choice. He couldn’t go home like this. Dean sat on the ground, trying to clear his head. His neck was stiff from lying hunched against the tombstone. He’d go to Pam’s. He doubted he’d be able to walk there in the state he was in, and there was a danger he’d get picked up by cops for being drunk, because they were always extra vigilant on Halloween. He forced his brain to think. He’d call a cab. He knew that the cemetery was right next to Constant Avenue and the college campus, so he’d have them come pick him up from there. He reached into his jacket for his cell phone, but couldn’t find it. He tried the other side for his wallet, but that was gone too. It took a few minutes of fruitless searching for Dean to figure out what had happened. Fucking Gordon and his friends has got Dean drunk, and when he passed out, they’d robbed him. His stomach turned, and he threw up again.
There was nothing for it: he’d have to walk now. Stupid. How could he have been such a fucking stupid moron? This was classic Dean Winchester. He’d let everyone down once again, the eternal screw-up. He hated to think of what his parents would say. He hated to think of Pam and Jo and Ash, who must have been waiting for him for hours. They didn’t deserve this. He wasn’t worthy of their friendship.
Dean hauled himself to his feet and took a guess at the direction he needed to head in. This would be easier if everything wasn’t swimming the way it was. Fuck, what had he been drinking? He couldn’t walk in a straight line, and he prayed that he wouldn’t run into any cops. He couldn’t imagine what his father would say if he got a call asking him to pick Dean up from the police station. Gingerly, he made his way out of the cemetery.
Dean breathed deeply, concentrating on the lights he could see up ahead, forcing himself to just keep going. Damn it, he was sure he was going to reach Constant Avenue any minute now. Why the hell was it so dark? Still, if he just headed towards the lights, he’d find his bearings soon enough. He just had to keep going. His head would clear, and then he’d-
Dean’s foot slipped, and he fell. He was on some kind of… hill. A really steep fucking hill. What the hell? He tried to get to his feet, and fell again. It was all so quick that Dean hardly knew what was happening. He slipped downwards, helplessly struggling to stop himself, and then he hit water. It was so cold it took his breath away; he tried to hold onto something, anything, but he just got handfuls of wet earth. His head was spinning with panic and alcohol. It was too dark. He slipped down, down beneath the water, and it pressed in on him even as he tried to escape. He gasped for air but breathed in a lungful of icy water instead. He choked, panic overwhelming him. And then it stopped. He stopped. Everything was cold and dark and still, and Dean didn’t fight anymore. I am dying, he thought. This is how I die. He felt peaceful. He felt that, all things considered, this was probably for the best. He allowed the oblivion to consume him.
…
The next thing that Dean was aware of was the worst pain he had ever known in his life. He couldn’t see. He gasped for breath, but it felt like there were needles in his lungs, and he made a small whimpering noise. His entire body felt like one giant bruise. I am in Hell, he thought. I died, and now I’ve gone to Hell. He tried to move, tried to get away from the pain, but he couldn’t. His body wasn’t doing what he told it to do. It was too much. He wanted the oblivion again; he wanted the pain to end. He tried to cry out, but it hurt too much. His whole chest felt like it was burning from the inside. He had never felt fear this intensely. He hadn’t been afraid when he had known he was going to die, but this was a different story. He could taste blood in his mouth. Why couldn’t he see anything?
“Lie still,” someone said. “The ambulance is on its way. It’s going to be all right.”
Dean tried to speak again, tried to tell whoever it was that he wanted to go back, that it was too much, that he felt like he’d been broken into painful shards and he couldn’t take it anymore. He managed a dry sob.
“It’s all right.” The other person was holding onto him, and Dean realized that he was shivering violently. “You’re going to make it. Just a little longer.” Something was being wrapped around him. It occurred to him that he wasn’t dead after all. He was in pain because he was alive.
Dean couldn’t feel his hands, but he was suddenly aware that he’d grabbed hold of the other person, was practically clinging to them. Please help me. Please stop it hurting. Don’t let go.
“It’s all right. I’ve got you. You’re going to be fine.” Dean was being held tightly, and he forced himself to focus on that instead of the pain, instead of the roaring in his ears. Arms around him. Not alone.
He could make out lights now. Blue flashing lights, and a siren. There were people shouting, but it was okay. Just as long as they did something to make the pain stop. He blinked a couple of times, ignoring how it stung. Someone was looking down at him, so close, and their eyes were intensely blue.
“Oh,” Dean whispered. “It’s you.” And then he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Chapter 3
Chapter 1