FIC: The Wandering Kind (SPN, Sam/Dean) (1/7)
THE WANDERING KIND
PART ONE: Tore Out the Leaves
Dean woke. The alarm clock read 7:46 AM. Outside, the day had dawned bright and warm, the sky an endless sort of blue that Dean had only seen a handful of times. It was beautiful.
It was the third day of Dean being completely alone.
He got out of bed. He considered brushing his teeth. He thought about walking into the living room, but then he remembered what was in there. No. Dean settled for hiding in the kitchen and brewing a pot of strong, black coffee, just the way his dad liked it.
He took a couple of sips and poured the rest into the sink.
It wasn't long, maybe an hour, until a few other hunters showed up to help him carry his father's body from the cabin. The corpse was heavy and stiff, and it took a while to start burning, even with all the butane they'd poured over the pyre: the heavy, soiled sheets, the heaps of branches and twigs. Dean could smell charred wood and skin. His father's skin.
Dean turned from the pyre, walking on stiff, shaky legs, and made it to the edge of the clearing before he threw up in the bushes.
*
After the fire burned down, Bobby asked, "Do you know what you're doing now, boy?" His baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes, and he regarded Dean with a steady gaze, no mention of the tears that were still running down Dean's face.
Dean had met him a few times before, but Bobby and his dad had never gotten along. Still, for just a moment, there was something about the man that made Dean want to follow him home like a lost puppy.
"You shouldn't be by yourself," said Bobby. His eyes were sympathetic. "I have a few odd jobs that need doing around my place - you'd be doing me a favor."
"I don't do favors," Dean told him.
Bobby's mouth turned down at the corners. "Your dad did. In fact, I owed him a big one. The way I see it, this is how I pay it back." His voice dropped low, as if he thought the other hunters would overhear: "He'd have wanted me to make sure you were okay, before I let you take your fool self and go trotting off to do hell knows what."
"You don't know anything about me," said Dean. Fuck. He couldn't do this. Bobby's good intentions and earnest expression made Dean want to shoot something. His words came out ragged and sharp, like a dog bite. "And you don't know anything about my dad. That favor was between you and him. Don't drag me into it just because you've lost your chance to pay up."
Bobby sighed. "Just don't get yourself killed, kid."
Dean said nothing. He squeezed the car keys in his hand until they bit into his palm, then he made himself turn and walk away from Bobby and the other hunters. Away from the stinking embers of what was left of his father.
The Impala sat at the edge of the woods, its chassis gleaming black and vengeful. Like Dean.
"Hey, girl," Dean said roughly. "I guess this means you're mine, now, huh?"
*
He tore through the Midwest, tires squealing loops of burnt rubber on long lines of backcountry roads. Dean's boot was planted firmly on the accelerator and the Impala shuddered under his feet , like she was a living thing hurting under his heel. Hell, Dean wanted her to hurt. He'd loved the car all his life, always begged his dad to let him drive her, but now she was nothing. She smelled like sweat, car exhaust, and old blood.
Dean wanted to kill something. Wanted to make the world pay. But there was nothing to hunt. Nothing to fight. Nothing to blame for what had happened to his father.
After everything, Dean thought bitterly, after almost twenty years of fighting the meanest and toughest sons of bitches that Hell had to offer, the thing to finally get the better of John Winchester was a heart attack.
Dean had never been completely alone before. Even the time he ran away at sixteen, Dean had never been alone; he'd known that every second he spent hitching rides was another second closer to when his dad would finally catch up to him. And John had. He'd found Dean in western Pennsylvania, hungry and lonely, ready to come home. Hugged Dean until Dean was about to cry - home, home -- then he drew back and punched Dean square in the face. The only time his dad ever hit him. Dean had the black eye for weeks, but knew he deserved it.
His dad wasn't going to find him this time.
When he stopped to think about it, Dean figured he was probably going crazy. He didn't really talk to anyone. Waitresses at diners seemed a little less flirty and a little more business, and Dean guessed he was probably giving off all kinds of messy, fucked-up vibes. Hell, Dean would stay away from himself, too.
But other stuff was happening, too, and it wasn't anything that could be explained away by Dean's grief; the longer Dean traveled by himself, the stranger the world became.
One night, he was driving back through the outskirts of Columbus after wiping out a nest of pixies, and the sky turned violet. Flower petals rained down on his car from nowhere, tiny white blossoms getting caught underneath the windshield wipers.
In Oklahoma, a month later, a tornado ripped right in front of the Impala, swirling up a huge train rattle of dirt and tree branches, and then disappeared.
Dean didn't do anything, either time; he just rubbed his eyes, gunned the engine, and kept going.
*
Twenty miles from Ohio, Dean's shitty driving finally caught up with him: the Impala blew out a tire and nearly skidded into a ditch. Dean slammed on the brakes and then just sat there for a long moment, heart thudding dully in his chest.
After a few minutes had passed, Dean got out of the car, surveyed the damage-and the blank space in the trunk where the spare used to be-and walked the long three miles to the nearest gas station with the sad mess of rubber. By the time he'd returned to the Impala and installed the repaired tire, Dean wondered if he was having a heart attack, too; he felt empty, like his chest had been hollowed out, and he couldn't breathe.
Dean sat down on the ground, hard. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't deal.
He was ready to stop.
He was still sitting next to the Impala, gasping for air, wondering if he wanted to bother even trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest, when a man walked up to him.
"You okay?" asked the man. He was a young guy, tall, with brown hair and a dirty face. He had a backpack that was the same shade of dull, faded brown as the rest of his clothes. He was obviously a hitchhiker, possibly an axe murderer, too. Dean couldn't bring himself to care, not when he was busy dying already.
But with the interruption, Dean was already starting to breathe a little easier. His next breath caught on something deep in the back of his throat, like a clogged drain. Tears. Dean inhaled shakily, covered his face with his hands.
The guy sighed and squatted down on the ground beside Dean, lowering his backpack to the ground. He didn't say anything, just looked intently at the gravel by Dean's feet like he was waiting for Dean to finish.
Dean took some deep breaths, forced the tears back down. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "What do you want?" he asked.
"You need some help changing that tire?" The guy's voice was casual and his expression was easy and kind. Big earnest eyes, a sharp, up-turned nose, wide mouth. His hair was all in his face.
Dean blinked. "Nah, I'm done. It's done."
"Okay," said the guy. "Need to talk? I'm a good listener."
"What? No," said Dean.
The guy just nodded and looked up at the Impala. "Nice car. I mean, if you like that kind of thing."
"What are you talking about, she's gorgeous," said Dean. He pressed a hand against the Impala's side, closing his eyes for a second. So many of Dean's memories were tied up in this big mass of metal, and with a sick jolt, he realized he didn't want to let go of any of them. "Best fucking car in the world."
"She's a gas-guzzler," said the guy. "An antique. Plus, you're obviously over-compensating for something. But, hey."
"Was there a point to this?" Dean asked.
The guy shrugged and stood, hoisting his pack back onto his shoulders. "I was going to ask you for a ride, but you're going the wrong way. So... I guess I'm gonna keep walking." He took a few steps, turned back and gave Dean a small smile. "Nice to meet you."
It was the smile that did it, Dean thought later. There was something familiar about it. Or maybe Dean just wanted it to be familiar: that tiny quirk of lips, the knowing eyes.
"Where you headed?" Dean asked.
The guy paused and shifted his weight, gravel crunching beneath his heels. "California."
"California," Dean said to himself, then nodded slowly. He got to his feet. "Yeah, all right. I can give you a ride."
"Seriously?" The guy stared at him. "You sure? Your car's pointed east."
"Huh, see, that's funny," said Dean. "These days, they make these things called steering wheels. You can turn them, and the car moves in a different direction." Dean's throat hurt; he realized, suddenly, that he'd just said more words in the past five minutes than he had in the past five months.
He held out his hand. "I'm Dean."
The guy just raised an eyebrow at him, ignoring Dean's offer of a handshake. "Sam," he said. "I'm Sam."
Dean let his hand drop. "Well, Sam. Nice to meet you. Hop on in."
*
Sam was a good traveling companion. He shut up for the most part, didn't try to make Dean talk more than he wanted to. They made good time for a couple hundred miles, and Dean didn't have to think about anything at all. He just had to keep driving towards the sun, its bright orange glow beginning to set behind the rise of the road.
The only time things got hairy was when Sam started rifling through the cassette tapes under the seat.
"It's like the greatest hits of redneck country," Sam muttered.
Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel, rage suddenly firing through every pore. "Shut up."
Sam cast him a startled glance. "Hey, I was kidding. You want me to put something on?"
The feeling of rage passed, replaced by a near-crippling sadness. No, thought Dean. He hadn't listened to any of his dad's tapes since he'd died. But something made him nod. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
Sam bent over the little cardboard box again, making a humming sound in the back of his throat. When he finally made a selection and popped it in the tape deck, Dean let out a breath.
I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. I keep my eyes wide open all the time.
"So, where are you going?" asked Sam. "After California, I mean."
"Wherever, dude," said Dean. "Anywhere." Because you're mine. "The whole world, maybe." I walk the line.
Sam looked at him from under messy bangs. "Sounds nice."
Dean didn't respond. Johnny Cash started singing I don't know where I'm bound, and his hands tightened on the wheel.
"You want to stop for the night soon?" Sam asked. "I'd offer to drive, but I figure -"
"No way are you driving my baby," Dean finished. He'd actually considered it for a split second, though, which was - weird. He'd only just met this guy. "Yeah, okay. Next motel we see?"
"Works for me," said Sam. He gave Dean a critical look, taking in Dean's fierce grip on the steering wheel, and hit eject on the tape deck. Cash's throw my ashes to the wind cut off with a click, and Dean felt the tension in his shoulders ease like a discarded rubber band.
*
Sam didn't have much money, so Dean broke about five of his own unspoken rules and told him they should share the motel room. They got a double.
Dean settled in on the bed closest to the door, and Sam jerked his head at the bathroom. "Do you mind?"
Dean shook his head.
Turned out that Sam, freshly showered and without the dirt and grime, looked a lot younger than Dean had originally estimated. Dean muted the TV and stared.
"Jesus, how old are you?" asked Dean. "Sixteen?"
"No, jackass. Nineteen," said Sam. "And I suppose you're what, forty?"
"I'm twenty-three, kid," said Dean. "Nineteen? Jesus. What the hell are you doing out on the road, shouldn't you be in college or something?"
Dean didn't know why he assumed that Sam was the college type; there was just something about him. The kid was genuinely smart, kind of quiet, but really fucking sharp. And he wasn't afraid of Dean. Actually, Dean wasn't sure if that was a smart thing or not; there weren't many people that could say that, these days.
"College... well. That's what's in California." Sam shrugged. "I'm starting classes in August. Or at least, I was. It's kind of complicated"
As Sam spoke, he pulled a clean T-shirt over his head. His hair was still dripping wet from the shower and the damp white fabric stuck to his skin, clinging to the outline of his shoulders.
Complicated. Dean wanted to ask, but he didn't even know why he gave a damn. He looked away from Sam's back, muscles shifting beneath cotton, and flipped to another channel.
*
The next day was spent on the road. Sam didn't talk much, but when he did, he was hilarious. The first time Dean had laughed at something Sam said, Sam looked startled, wide hazel eyes trained on Dean's mouth like he'd just started speaking in a foreign tongue. What, did he not think Dean had a sense of humor? After a second, Sam relaxed and sent Dean a blazing smile.
"You got any brothers or sisters?" Dean asked Sam, because let it never be said that he wasn't a masochist. "Folks still around?"
"A sister," said Sam. "And my mom. Haven't seen them in a while, though."
Dean felt his mouth twisting. He hated himself for the brief flash of jealousy.
"What about you?" Sam asked.
"Only child. My dad died a few months ago," said Dean. It was the first time he'd said the words. "My mom died when I was a kid."
"Sorry," said Sam. He sounded like he meant it. "That must be rough. My dad's dead, too; I didn't know him very well, though. We weren't close."
Dean wondered if he had been close with his dad, or if it was even possible to be close to John Winchester. There hadn't been a day that he and Dean hadn't woken up next to each other, then gone out and slaughtered monsters and ghosts side-by-side, but close? Dean wasn't sure what "close" even meant.
Sam shifted in his seat, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Dean didn't know what he could say to put Sam at ease again. He was getting so bad at this; he couldn't even make new friends anymore. Put Dean in kindergarten and he'd flunk out.
"Hey. Hey, pull over," Sam said suddenly.
"What, what is it?"
"There's a car over there." Sam pointed. Dean followed his gaze and saw a light blue Volvo perched daintily in the drainage ditch. The car seemed unharmed, but the driver, an older woman with carrot-red hair, was leaning against the side of it and clutching her wrist.
Dean pulled over as Sam rolled down his window. He leaned across Sam's lap and called out, "Hey, ma'am, you okay? You need me to call any help?" Sam was trying to lean back in his seat to give Dean more access to the window, but his breath was still hot in Dean's ear.
The woman looked up quickly, shook her head. "Fine," she said. "I'm fine."
"Huh," Dean said under his breath, and Sam nodded.
"Something's fishy. Hey, you wait here and call an ambulance or a tow truck or something," Sam said, rolling the window back up. "I'm going to go make sure she really is okay."
"Whoa, wait up there," Dean started to say, but Sam was already out of the car and heading over to the woman. Great. Dean watched them through the glass and rooted around in his pocket for his cell phone. As he watched, Sam started talking to the woman. She kept shaking her head.
"Hey," Dean said to the operator, "Can I get the number for a tow company right outside of Evansville?" They put him on hold.
The woman was starting to look pissed off. Something wasn't right here: Sam's shoulders had gone tight like an angry cat and the woman's grimace was beginning to show teeth. Dean grabbed his gun from under the seat and started to get out of the car.
Before Dean could even get the door open, the woman practically growled at Sam, then reached into her car and took out a big heavy length of metal pipe, hefting it like she meant to use it. Dean scrambled from the Impala -- shit, the bitch was crazy and Dean was so stupid he was going soft and if Sam got hurt -
But Sam was faster. He wrenched the pipe from her hands and tossed it aside, then reached out for her wrist.
He touched her, and the woman disappeared.
Fucking disappeared.
Dean stood there a moment, didn't move or say anything, not until Sam picked up the pipe and turned towards him. Then Dean raised his gun and aimed it right between Sam's lying eyes.
"What the fuck are you?" Dean snarled.
(illustration by guard_the_cards)
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