Hey everybody! Look! I ficced again!
Title: Fire and Ashes
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Word Count: 3,250
Spoilers: Not spoilers so much, but touches on Home and Bloody Mary
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys, sadly, are not mine. I have never been to Douglas or Bisbee... but I did live in AZ for a while.
Thank you to Barkeep, not only for the two hour late night beta, but for keeping me on track, in line and grounded with all my circuitry in tact. AFU, baby. AFU.
Dean woke up to find his father sitting in a chair at the end of his bed. John was leaning forward, looking anxious, with his fingers steepled under his chin.
“Dad, everything okay?” Dean asked, sitting up.
John sighed and leaned back in the chair, folding his hands in his lap. “We need to split up.”
Dean threw his legs over the side of the bed. Hunched over, he scrubbed his face with both hands then turned to look at his father. “What are you talking about? We’re doing fine. There’s no reason to split up.”
“We can cover more ground,” John said. “I think we’ll do better, get more accomplished if we separate.” He stood up and started packing his clothes and guns.
“Cover more ground, dad? Really? Yeah. Okay.” Dean got up and walked to the bathroom, turning on the shower. Stripping off his boxers, he stood under the hot spray for a few minutes, letting it sink in. Sam was gone. Now his dad was leaving too.
Dean hit the wall of the shower with the heel of his right hand.
He took his time, letting the hot water wash some of his tension and anger away. Not that it really helped, just prolonged the inevitable. He finally got out and wrapped a towel around his waist. Stepping out of the bathroom, he knew immediately that John was gone, had left while Dean was in the shower.
He walked out into the crappy motel room and found a cup of coffee and a note.
I’m sorry, son.
Dean took the note and crumpled it up. He held it in his hand for a moment before sighing and throwing it away. He sat down on the end of the bed and ran his hands through his hair.
He was on his own.
Fine.
He shoved his things into a duffle, grabbed the coffee and his keys and headed out to the Impala. He had no idea where he was going. He figured he’d just hit the road and work things out later. He just knew that he needed to get out of that room before he set it on fire.
His coffee had never tasted so bitter.
~ -|- ~
Sam sipped at his coffee as he leaned back against the headrest of the “queen sized” bed. He swore that “queen sized” beds were getting smaller and smaller. “So, what did you do after dad left? I mean, you were on your own for what, two years, before you came to get me? Did you ever call him?”
“He called me,” Dean said, looking up from cleaning the .45. “About a week after he left he called, told me about a haunting in Columbus, Georgia. I checked it out; just a routine haunt. Salted and burned the bones - had some damn fine peach cobbler. That was about how things went for a year or so, then he stopped calling. When I tried to call him, his number didn’t work.”
“But it works now.” Sam had that furrowed brow that said he was thinking too hard.
Ever since they’d left Lawrence the week before, Sam’s face had pretty much been stuck like that. In fact, since they’d left Toledo and those freaky mirrors, Sam could hardly look at himself. Dean didn’t particularly care for mirrors anymore either, but shaving was pretty hard without one.
“Yeah, it does. Too bad he never answers… or calls back.” Dean clicked the clip back into place, chambered a round, engaged the safety and tossed the .45 on the bed.
“Dean, why did your eyes bleed?” Sam was leaning forward now, brow still furrowed.
“Hello, random? I’m going to take a shower.” Dean got up and headed toward the bathroom.
Sam heard the door click shut and the water start up. As he leaned back on the bed Sam sighed. He could be patient. He could wait Dean out, it’s not like he hadn’t done it before. And if he had to, he’d beat the answer out of him.
~ -|- ~
Dean had been on his own for over a year now. Sure, dad would call every now and then to tell him about a job, but really, Dean was alone. He’d been from one end of the country to the other chasing ghosts, imps, ghouls, you name it. But now dad had stopped calling. And even worse, his number didn’t work anymore.
Dean tried not to think about it too much. There could be any number of reasons that could have caused John to change his cell number or cancel the service: Traced calls, delinquent bill, lost phone, new service, incapacitated, dead…
Not going to think about those last two.
Dean was on Arizona State Road 80 heading into New Mexico, he sincerely doubted if a longer, hotter more boring drive existed outside of hell itself. Tombstone had been a bust. You’d think a town with such a violent history would turn up some good haunts... but no. The closest he came to anything supernatural was at The Bird Cage Theater, and they wanted to keep their ghosties. Good for business. And Bisbee… well, you blink and you miss the damn town. This whole trip had been a total waste of time.
He was just outside of Douglas, and looking north along the road he could see desert scrub and a sandy butte rising up out of the land. The sky was thick with clouds but he was doubtful it would rain anytime soon.
Up ahead, he saw a plume of smoke whisping its way to the sky. Probably just a brush fire, they happened all the time in the dry season. He thought about calling Sam. Thought about it too often really. Sometimes he was so mad at that kid he could barely see straight. Where did Sam get off leaving his family? What the hell was he thinking going off by himself? He knew what was in the dark, waiting, biding its time. Dude, was the kid freakin’ high? Dean snorted at the thought. He was pretty sure the kid hadn't even so much as taken a drag off a cigarette. Such a freaking Girl Scout.
Dad left, just like Sam had left. And now dad was missing. Why the fuck did everyone leave? Dean hit the dashboard, turned up Ride the Lightning and put his foot down on the gas. To hell with them. Fuck Sam and Dad and the fucking horse they rode in on. If they couldn’t see how much Dean needed them, he certainly wasn’t going to tell them. They should know. They were family. Fucking family.
Dean decided that he’d call it an early day, check into the closest motel and visit the seediest hole-in-the-wall bar he could find.
Dean was alone on the road, absently watching the plume of smoke inch closer and closer. He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realize what the source of the smoke was until he was practically breathing it in. About 200 yards ahead a car was burning.
Dean stepped on the gas, pushing the Impala to her limit… he had a bad feeling about this.
~ -|- ~
Dean opened the door to the bathroom and let the steam roil out. God he loved hot showers. And you had to get to the shower before Sam if you wanted a hot one.
Sam was still sitting on his bed propped up against the headboard. The only difference now was that he had the laptop open and was staring intently at the screen.
“That’s not porn I hope, because... awkward.”
Sam rolled his eyes at his big brother. Dean could be such a douche. He didn’t bother too look up, just kept searching for signs of the supernatural that they should check out on their way out of town. No word from dad, nothing going on here, no destination in mind, it all made Sam kind of nervous. Not that he didn’t trust Dean, just that he liked to have a plan in place.
Sam was only half paying attention to what he’d been doing. He was distracted by Dean’s humming and air drumming while he dressed. He finally gave up on the search altogether and closed the laptop down. He waited for Dean to come out of the bathroom nook, and when he did, Sam caught him in a patented We’re-going-to-talk-whether-you-want-to-or-not Sam stare.
“Oh, no. No, Sam. I don’t care what this is about, but no. I haven’t even had coffee yet.”
Dean pulled the towel off his head. (What? It helped his hair dry faster.)
He turned for the door but one patented Sam sigh had him stopping in his tracks, rolling his eyes. "Aw, Sam, c'mon, man."
Dean turned around to face a cross-armed Sam staring back at him intently.
~ -|- ~
Dean brought the Impala to a screeching halt near the burning car as he hung up on 9-1-1. Through the haze of smoke he could make out an adult in the front seat, passed out, and a child in a car seat in the back. The child, maybe 2 or 3-years-old, was letting out gasping sobs, his head kind of lolling and rolling on his shoulders.
Before he had even processed it consciously, Dean was running full tilt for the car. Dean grabbed for the back passenger door handle, hissing in pain as heat seared his skin. The damn thing was locked. Taking his shirt off and wrapping it around his hand he ran around to the front of the car and opened the driver’s door. Reaching in, he grabbed the arm of the woman slumped over the steering wheel and manhandled her out of the smoking car onto the ground, dragging her several feet away just for good measure. Running back to the car, he climbed over the front seat to get to the child. He was quiet now, his floppy brown hair thick with soot. Dean pulled the boy out of the car seat, took him over by his mother and laid him down on the ground.
He wasn’t breathing. Shit. He wasn’t breathing.
Dean checked the boy’s airway for obstructions and his carotid artery for a pulse. Nothing. Shit. Shitshitshit. Dean tilted the boy’s head back and gave him 2 breaths, then checked for any signs of breathing or a pulse. Still nothing. He started CPR.
5 compressions, 1 breath...5 compressions, 1 breath... 5 compressions, 1 breath... 5 compressions, 1 breath...
Dean wasn’t sure how long he sat there with the child. Every few minutes he’d stop to check for a pulse, only to find nothing. He was still doing CPR when the paramedics arrived. Someone pulled him off the boy, guided him away from the wreckage. The mother, still unconscious but breathing, was being placed onto a stretcher and carried to the ambulance.
Dean watched as one of the paramedics knelt down next to the child and felt for a pulse. Dean knew what would happen next... body bag. A child in a body bag.
“Sir? I need to know what happened. Sir? Sir?”
Dean turned around to be faced with a bear of a man in a State Patrol uniform. “I... I’m not sure. I was driving and I saw smoke. When I realized what it was, I got here as soon as I could. I found the car full of smoke and the... the woman and boy inside. I couldn’t get the back door open. I had to pull her out first. I had to. I couldn’t get the back door open. He stopped crying. I...” Dean scrubbed his face with his hands. When he looked up at the officer again his eyes were rimmed in red.
“Sir, you did everything you could. There’s nothing else you coulda done. You saved that woman’s life,” The officer said laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?”
“No.” Dean straightened himself up, rolled his shoulders back and looked the officer dead in the eyes. “No, sir. I’m fine. Can I go?”
“Sure. I’ll need your contact information in case we need to follow up,” Deputy Grizzly said as Dean started walking away. Absently, Dean scrawled a fake name and number on the back of one of Deputy Grizzly’s cards, and handed it over.
He walked back to the Impala in a daze.
Pulling out his road map, Dean realized that he’d have to backtrack to Douglas if he was going to call it a night. Well, early day technically, but what the hell ever. He needed a drink more than he needed to drive at the moment, and he figured he was long overdue for a reacquaintance with his old friend Jack. He watched as the ambulance pulled away, sirens blaring, then his eyes caught something small and green and kind of shiny on the side of the road. A GI Joe action figure, in jungle camo.
Jesus, he was just a kid. Dean didn’t save him, couldn’t save him.
When Dean cranked the engine Ride the Lightning was still playing in the tape deck and he didn’t bother to turn it off. He turned the Impala around, headed back west, and coasted back to Douglas lost in the drone of tires on asphalt and the desolate unchanging landscape.
Dean checked into the first motel he came across, The Painted Pony Inn. Jesus was this place kitchy. It played to every cliché the southwest had to offer; muted sunset pastels, Native American memorabilia, cacti, Spanish style architecture and a freaking jackalope on the wall. But the room was cheap and the motel was across from the Uta Tavern, which looked like nothing more than a pre-fab tin shed. Talk about the seedy side of town.
Dean stripped off his clothes and let some of the smoky smell fall to the floor. The odor was permeating his skin and hair, stuck in his nose and clinging to his fingers and lips. He absently wondered if he’d ever get rid of that smell. Turning the shower on as hot as he could stand, he let the water wash over him until his skin turned red.
God damn it! Why hadn’t Sam been there? Or Dad? That boy would still be alive if Dean hadn’t been alone. If everyone hadn’t left him.
Dean punched the wall. Then he did it again, and again, and again until his knuckles started to bleed.
Sam.
Dean wondered what Sam was doing right now. Was he in class, or maybe eating a normal dinner with a normal friend at a normal restaurant?
Dean hit the wall again.
That was it. He had to go find Sam. Dad was missing and he didn’t think he could do this on his own anymore. And it was getting harder and harder to stay mad at Sam. He was family.
At least he knew Sam was still alive and safe. And what if something had happened to dad? Sam really was all Dean had left.
He had to go to California. But first, he needed a drink.
Dean got out of the shower and put on some clothes that didn’t smell like death. He walked across the street to the Uta and found himself a stool at the far end of the bar. The bartender, an older woman, not too hard on the eyes, kind of sauntered over and gave Dean a What’ll-ya-have look.
“Jack Daniels, double.”
“Coming right up,” she said in her whiskey and cigarettes voice.
Dean took the chance to have a good look at her as she was pouring the shot. Tall, slight, dark tanned skin and black hair, she definitely had some Native American heritage. Her face was hard but pleasant, and weathered from hard work and probably even harder play.
Dean drained the glass quickly, letting the numbing liquid wash away the taste of soot that seemed to linger in the back of his throat. Before the bartender could even turn around, he was raising his finger for another round.
Three doubles in and Dean realized he hadn’t eaten dinner. He saw a rack of snack size chip bags on the counter behind the bar.
“Who do you have to screw around here to get some Cheetos?”
Huh, slurring already. They must not water down the booze here.
The bartender pulled a bag of Cheetos off the rack and flung them onto the bar in front of Dean. He looked at her sheepishly as she walked away and made a mental note not to piss her off because she looked like she could totally kick his ass.
He started formulating a plan for the next day’s drive in his head. It would be a long way to Palo Alto, but he’d made up his mind. He’d go get Sam (who was probably miserable at Stanford anyway), they’d go find dad, get the band back together, and then things could get back to normal. Well, as normal as they could get for a Winchester.
Dean wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.
Apparently not only does family leave him, he doesn't even have to screw to get Cheetos.
“One more, please.”
The bartender came over with the bottle and eyeballed him for a long moment. Dean started feeling a bit uneasy under her stare.
“It ain’t your fault, you know.” She quirked an eyebrow at him in a gesture that was so reminiscent of Sam that it left him breathless.
Clearing his throat roughly, Dean asked, “What’s not my fault?”
“Whatever it is you’re drowning for. Ain’t your fault. Sometimes things just happen.” She had a small smile on her face that barely reached her eyes.
“Yeah, well... thanks,” Dean said, laying a fifty-dollar bill on the bar.
Dean stumbled back across the street to the Painted Pony Inn. Tomorrow was going to be a bitch of a drive. He'd have to check the map, but he figured it would take about 15 hours to get to Sam.
He fell back onto the bed and fell asleep within minutes.
He dreamed of fire.
~ -|- ~
Sam was standing now, all up in Dean’s personal space. And when Sam invaded your personal space it could be intimidating. “Dean, why did your eyes bleed?”
“Sam, back off. I need coffee. And food.” Dean placed a hand on Sam’s chest and shoved him back a few feet.
“No, Dean. You know mine. You know my secret. Why did your eyes bleed?”
Dean rolled his eyes. He was so not getting into this right now. First, coffee. Then, food. Talking? Not on the agenda.
“Sam, what did I say? I need coffee. Piss off.”
“Dean. C’mon, man. Cut the strong, silent act. If I have to, I’ll kick your ass. I need to know, and you need to talk about it,” Sam demanded from under his fucking bitch face brows. How Sam could manage to look like a pissed off puppy, all sad eyes but bared teeth, Dean would never know.
Dean sighed, using the towel to rub his hair dry. After tossing his wet towel onto his bed he grabbed a shirt out of his duffle and pulled it over his head. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Dean looked up at Sam, his eyes clouded with the past.
He sighed heavily and looked away, “There was this, Jesus, a fucking car accident….”
end ~ -|- ~
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Word Count: 3,250
Spoilers: Not spoilers so much, but touches on Home and Bloody Mary
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys, sadly, are not mine. I have never been to Douglas or Bisbee... but I did live in AZ for a while.
Thank you to Barkeep, not only for the two hour late night beta, but for keeping me on track, in line and grounded with all my circuitry in tact. AFU, baby. AFU.
Dean woke up to find his father sitting in a chair at the end of his bed. John was leaning forward, looking anxious, with his fingers steepled under his chin.
“Dad, everything okay?” Dean asked, sitting up.
John sighed and leaned back in the chair, folding his hands in his lap. “We need to split up.”
Dean threw his legs over the side of the bed. Hunched over, he scrubbed his face with both hands then turned to look at his father. “What are you talking about? We’re doing fine. There’s no reason to split up.”
“We can cover more ground,” John said. “I think we’ll do better, get more accomplished if we separate.” He stood up and started packing his clothes and guns.
“Cover more ground, dad? Really? Yeah. Okay.” Dean got up and walked to the bathroom, turning on the shower. Stripping off his boxers, he stood under the hot spray for a few minutes, letting it sink in. Sam was gone. Now his dad was leaving too.
Dean hit the wall of the shower with the heel of his right hand.
He took his time, letting the hot water wash some of his tension and anger away. Not that it really helped, just prolonged the inevitable. He finally got out and wrapped a towel around his waist. Stepping out of the bathroom, he knew immediately that John was gone, had left while Dean was in the shower.
He walked out into the crappy motel room and found a cup of coffee and a note.
I’m sorry, son.
Dean took the note and crumpled it up. He held it in his hand for a moment before sighing and throwing it away. He sat down on the end of the bed and ran his hands through his hair.
He was on his own.
Fine.
He shoved his things into a duffle, grabbed the coffee and his keys and headed out to the Impala. He had no idea where he was going. He figured he’d just hit the road and work things out later. He just knew that he needed to get out of that room before he set it on fire.
His coffee had never tasted so bitter.
~ -|- ~
Sam sipped at his coffee as he leaned back against the headrest of the “queen sized” bed. He swore that “queen sized” beds were getting smaller and smaller. “So, what did you do after dad left? I mean, you were on your own for what, two years, before you came to get me? Did you ever call him?”
“He called me,” Dean said, looking up from cleaning the .45. “About a week after he left he called, told me about a haunting in Columbus, Georgia. I checked it out; just a routine haunt. Salted and burned the bones - had some damn fine peach cobbler. That was about how things went for a year or so, then he stopped calling. When I tried to call him, his number didn’t work.”
“But it works now.” Sam had that furrowed brow that said he was thinking too hard.
Ever since they’d left Lawrence the week before, Sam’s face had pretty much been stuck like that. In fact, since they’d left Toledo and those freaky mirrors, Sam could hardly look at himself. Dean didn’t particularly care for mirrors anymore either, but shaving was pretty hard without one.
“Yeah, it does. Too bad he never answers… or calls back.” Dean clicked the clip back into place, chambered a round, engaged the safety and tossed the .45 on the bed.
“Dean, why did your eyes bleed?” Sam was leaning forward now, brow still furrowed.
“Hello, random? I’m going to take a shower.” Dean got up and headed toward the bathroom.
Sam heard the door click shut and the water start up. As he leaned back on the bed Sam sighed. He could be patient. He could wait Dean out, it’s not like he hadn’t done it before. And if he had to, he’d beat the answer out of him.
~ -|- ~
Dean had been on his own for over a year now. Sure, dad would call every now and then to tell him about a job, but really, Dean was alone. He’d been from one end of the country to the other chasing ghosts, imps, ghouls, you name it. But now dad had stopped calling. And even worse, his number didn’t work anymore.
Dean tried not to think about it too much. There could be any number of reasons that could have caused John to change his cell number or cancel the service: Traced calls, delinquent bill, lost phone, new service, incapacitated, dead…
Not going to think about those last two.
Dean was on Arizona State Road 80 heading into New Mexico, he sincerely doubted if a longer, hotter more boring drive existed outside of hell itself. Tombstone had been a bust. You’d think a town with such a violent history would turn up some good haunts... but no. The closest he came to anything supernatural was at The Bird Cage Theater, and they wanted to keep their ghosties. Good for business. And Bisbee… well, you blink and you miss the damn town. This whole trip had been a total waste of time.
He was just outside of Douglas, and looking north along the road he could see desert scrub and a sandy butte rising up out of the land. The sky was thick with clouds but he was doubtful it would rain anytime soon.
Up ahead, he saw a plume of smoke whisping its way to the sky. Probably just a brush fire, they happened all the time in the dry season. He thought about calling Sam. Thought about it too often really. Sometimes he was so mad at that kid he could barely see straight. Where did Sam get off leaving his family? What the hell was he thinking going off by himself? He knew what was in the dark, waiting, biding its time. Dude, was the kid freakin’ high? Dean snorted at the thought. He was pretty sure the kid hadn't even so much as taken a drag off a cigarette. Such a freaking Girl Scout.
Dad left, just like Sam had left. And now dad was missing. Why the fuck did everyone leave? Dean hit the dashboard, turned up Ride the Lightning and put his foot down on the gas. To hell with them. Fuck Sam and Dad and the fucking horse they rode in on. If they couldn’t see how much Dean needed them, he certainly wasn’t going to tell them. They should know. They were family. Fucking family.
Dean decided that he’d call it an early day, check into the closest motel and visit the seediest hole-in-the-wall bar he could find.
Dean was alone on the road, absently watching the plume of smoke inch closer and closer. He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realize what the source of the smoke was until he was practically breathing it in. About 200 yards ahead a car was burning.
Dean stepped on the gas, pushing the Impala to her limit… he had a bad feeling about this.
~ -|- ~
Dean opened the door to the bathroom and let the steam roil out. God he loved hot showers. And you had to get to the shower before Sam if you wanted a hot one.
Sam was still sitting on his bed propped up against the headboard. The only difference now was that he had the laptop open and was staring intently at the screen.
“That’s not porn I hope, because... awkward.”
Sam rolled his eyes at his big brother. Dean could be such a douche. He didn’t bother too look up, just kept searching for signs of the supernatural that they should check out on their way out of town. No word from dad, nothing going on here, no destination in mind, it all made Sam kind of nervous. Not that he didn’t trust Dean, just that he liked to have a plan in place.
Sam was only half paying attention to what he’d been doing. He was distracted by Dean’s humming and air drumming while he dressed. He finally gave up on the search altogether and closed the laptop down. He waited for Dean to come out of the bathroom nook, and when he did, Sam caught him in a patented We’re-going-to-talk-whether-you-want-to-or-not Sam stare.
“Oh, no. No, Sam. I don’t care what this is about, but no. I haven’t even had coffee yet.”
Dean pulled the towel off his head. (What? It helped his hair dry faster.)
He turned for the door but one patented Sam sigh had him stopping in his tracks, rolling his eyes. "Aw, Sam, c'mon, man."
Dean turned around to face a cross-armed Sam staring back at him intently.
~ -|- ~
Dean brought the Impala to a screeching halt near the burning car as he hung up on 9-1-1. Through the haze of smoke he could make out an adult in the front seat, passed out, and a child in a car seat in the back. The child, maybe 2 or 3-years-old, was letting out gasping sobs, his head kind of lolling and rolling on his shoulders.
Before he had even processed it consciously, Dean was running full tilt for the car. Dean grabbed for the back passenger door handle, hissing in pain as heat seared his skin. The damn thing was locked. Taking his shirt off and wrapping it around his hand he ran around to the front of the car and opened the driver’s door. Reaching in, he grabbed the arm of the woman slumped over the steering wheel and manhandled her out of the smoking car onto the ground, dragging her several feet away just for good measure. Running back to the car, he climbed over the front seat to get to the child. He was quiet now, his floppy brown hair thick with soot. Dean pulled the boy out of the car seat, took him over by his mother and laid him down on the ground.
He wasn’t breathing. Shit. He wasn’t breathing.
Dean checked the boy’s airway for obstructions and his carotid artery for a pulse. Nothing. Shit. Shitshitshit. Dean tilted the boy’s head back and gave him 2 breaths, then checked for any signs of breathing or a pulse. Still nothing. He started CPR.
5 compressions, 1 breath...5 compressions, 1 breath... 5 compressions, 1 breath... 5 compressions, 1 breath...
Dean wasn’t sure how long he sat there with the child. Every few minutes he’d stop to check for a pulse, only to find nothing. He was still doing CPR when the paramedics arrived. Someone pulled him off the boy, guided him away from the wreckage. The mother, still unconscious but breathing, was being placed onto a stretcher and carried to the ambulance.
Dean watched as one of the paramedics knelt down next to the child and felt for a pulse. Dean knew what would happen next... body bag. A child in a body bag.
“Sir? I need to know what happened. Sir? Sir?”
Dean turned around to be faced with a bear of a man in a State Patrol uniform. “I... I’m not sure. I was driving and I saw smoke. When I realized what it was, I got here as soon as I could. I found the car full of smoke and the... the woman and boy inside. I couldn’t get the back door open. I had to pull her out first. I had to. I couldn’t get the back door open. He stopped crying. I...” Dean scrubbed his face with his hands. When he looked up at the officer again his eyes were rimmed in red.
“Sir, you did everything you could. There’s nothing else you coulda done. You saved that woman’s life,” The officer said laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?”
“No.” Dean straightened himself up, rolled his shoulders back and looked the officer dead in the eyes. “No, sir. I’m fine. Can I go?”
“Sure. I’ll need your contact information in case we need to follow up,” Deputy Grizzly said as Dean started walking away. Absently, Dean scrawled a fake name and number on the back of one of Deputy Grizzly’s cards, and handed it over.
He walked back to the Impala in a daze.
Pulling out his road map, Dean realized that he’d have to backtrack to Douglas if he was going to call it a night. Well, early day technically, but what the hell ever. He needed a drink more than he needed to drive at the moment, and he figured he was long overdue for a reacquaintance with his old friend Jack. He watched as the ambulance pulled away, sirens blaring, then his eyes caught something small and green and kind of shiny on the side of the road. A GI Joe action figure, in jungle camo.
Jesus, he was just a kid. Dean didn’t save him, couldn’t save him.
When Dean cranked the engine Ride the Lightning was still playing in the tape deck and he didn’t bother to turn it off. He turned the Impala around, headed back west, and coasted back to Douglas lost in the drone of tires on asphalt and the desolate unchanging landscape.
Dean checked into the first motel he came across, The Painted Pony Inn. Jesus was this place kitchy. It played to every cliché the southwest had to offer; muted sunset pastels, Native American memorabilia, cacti, Spanish style architecture and a freaking jackalope on the wall. But the room was cheap and the motel was across from the Uta Tavern, which looked like nothing more than a pre-fab tin shed. Talk about the seedy side of town.
Dean stripped off his clothes and let some of the smoky smell fall to the floor. The odor was permeating his skin and hair, stuck in his nose and clinging to his fingers and lips. He absently wondered if he’d ever get rid of that smell. Turning the shower on as hot as he could stand, he let the water wash over him until his skin turned red.
God damn it! Why hadn’t Sam been there? Or Dad? That boy would still be alive if Dean hadn’t been alone. If everyone hadn’t left him.
Dean punched the wall. Then he did it again, and again, and again until his knuckles started to bleed.
Sam.
Dean wondered what Sam was doing right now. Was he in class, or maybe eating a normal dinner with a normal friend at a normal restaurant?
Dean hit the wall again.
That was it. He had to go find Sam. Dad was missing and he didn’t think he could do this on his own anymore. And it was getting harder and harder to stay mad at Sam. He was family.
At least he knew Sam was still alive and safe. And what if something had happened to dad? Sam really was all Dean had left.
He had to go to California. But first, he needed a drink.
Dean got out of the shower and put on some clothes that didn’t smell like death. He walked across the street to the Uta and found himself a stool at the far end of the bar. The bartender, an older woman, not too hard on the eyes, kind of sauntered over and gave Dean a What’ll-ya-have look.
“Jack Daniels, double.”
“Coming right up,” she said in her whiskey and cigarettes voice.
Dean took the chance to have a good look at her as she was pouring the shot. Tall, slight, dark tanned skin and black hair, she definitely had some Native American heritage. Her face was hard but pleasant, and weathered from hard work and probably even harder play.
Dean drained the glass quickly, letting the numbing liquid wash away the taste of soot that seemed to linger in the back of his throat. Before the bartender could even turn around, he was raising his finger for another round.
Three doubles in and Dean realized he hadn’t eaten dinner. He saw a rack of snack size chip bags on the counter behind the bar.
“Who do you have to screw around here to get some Cheetos?”
Huh, slurring already. They must not water down the booze here.
The bartender pulled a bag of Cheetos off the rack and flung them onto the bar in front of Dean. He looked at her sheepishly as she walked away and made a mental note not to piss her off because she looked like she could totally kick his ass.
He started formulating a plan for the next day’s drive in his head. It would be a long way to Palo Alto, but he’d made up his mind. He’d go get Sam (who was probably miserable at Stanford anyway), they’d go find dad, get the band back together, and then things could get back to normal. Well, as normal as they could get for a Winchester.
Dean wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.
Apparently not only does family leave him, he doesn't even have to screw to get Cheetos.
“One more, please.”
The bartender came over with the bottle and eyeballed him for a long moment. Dean started feeling a bit uneasy under her stare.
“It ain’t your fault, you know.” She quirked an eyebrow at him in a gesture that was so reminiscent of Sam that it left him breathless.
Clearing his throat roughly, Dean asked, “What’s not my fault?”
“Whatever it is you’re drowning for. Ain’t your fault. Sometimes things just happen.” She had a small smile on her face that barely reached her eyes.
“Yeah, well... thanks,” Dean said, laying a fifty-dollar bill on the bar.
Dean stumbled back across the street to the Painted Pony Inn. Tomorrow was going to be a bitch of a drive. He'd have to check the map, but he figured it would take about 15 hours to get to Sam.
He fell back onto the bed and fell asleep within minutes.
He dreamed of fire.
~ -|- ~
Sam was standing now, all up in Dean’s personal space. And when Sam invaded your personal space it could be intimidating. “Dean, why did your eyes bleed?”
“Sam, back off. I need coffee. And food.” Dean placed a hand on Sam’s chest and shoved him back a few feet.
“No, Dean. You know mine. You know my secret. Why did your eyes bleed?”
Dean rolled his eyes. He was so not getting into this right now. First, coffee. Then, food. Talking? Not on the agenda.
“Sam, what did I say? I need coffee. Piss off.”
“Dean. C’mon, man. Cut the strong, silent act. If I have to, I’ll kick your ass. I need to know, and you need to talk about it,” Sam demanded from under his fucking bitch face brows. How Sam could manage to look like a pissed off puppy, all sad eyes but bared teeth, Dean would never know.
Dean sighed, using the towel to rub his hair dry. After tossing his wet towel onto his bed he grabbed a shirt out of his duffle and pulled it over his head. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Dean looked up at Sam, his eyes clouded with the past.
He sighed heavily and looked away, “There was this, Jesus, a fucking car accident….”
end ~ -|- ~