After the Lucifer vs. Michael showdown and watching his little brother throw himself into The Cage, Dean just wasn't in a good mood. Bobby was dead. Cas was dead. Sam was in Hell. What about Dean? All he had was a busted up face, some broken bones and a shattered heart and soul. Sam had made Dean promise that he wouldn't go trying to get Sam out, and Dean intended to keep that promise.
He buried Bobby. Dean chuckled slightly as he did so because if Bobby's spirit was around, he would be livid. Bobby has always said to give him a hunter's burial, but Dean couldn't stand to see his old friend go up in smoke. He didn't put up a marker or any sort of identifying mark for his grave. He thought for a moment about putting up a cross, but Bobby wasn't religious and Dean was currently boycotting God. Besides, Dean wasn't one to go visiting people's graves. He just didn't do that. Especially when he would have so many graves to visit at this point.
Dean was all alone in the world. He hadn't made many roots in his life as far as people were concerned, and the people he had done so with were dead. So he went to the next best thing: he tried reconciling with Lisa Bradean.
It worked out for about two months. Lisa welcomed him back with open arms and so did Ben, but Dean was damaged goods. He was always edgy and tended to stay out a little late at the bars. Lisa understood, she knew his brother had passed, she knew the life he had led, and quite frankly was surprised Dean was still alive. All was well for the most part. Dean got a job as a local mechanic and he made scrambled eggs and toast in the mornings and tucked Ben in at night. Dean was finally started to seem a little adjusted to "normal" life when Lisa's ex-husband came stumbling in the door.
Dean would've been a fool not to see that Lisa was still in love with the man. He was Ben's real father and he made the family whole. Dean was like the awkward step-child who had been abused one too many times.
So Dean did what his gut told him to. He uprooted himself from Lisa and Ben's life with a quick note explaining his need to get away. He said he had important business to attend to in California and that he wouldn't ever be coming back. Lisa would probably just pick up where she left off anyways.
Dean packed the Impala full of the few things he owned and headed somewhere quiet where he could wallow in self-pity and guilt away from all seeing eyes. He drove for weeks until he found himself satisfied with a town called Alta in North Carolina. The town was low key and only had a population of 3,012, so Dean thought he could live with that.
He checked himself into the Pines Motel. Out of habit, he got a room with two queen beds, but as soon as he walked in, he found himself slammed with the memory of Sam. Sam was everywhere. He was griping at him because he only cared about food and girls. He was bugging Dean about his disregard for the ghost's sister. He was brushing his hair, which really bugged Dean, but he only wished he could see the kid.
The sudden blast of emotions sent Dean reeling. He became short of breath and found he couldn't see anything except for Sam's face everywhere he looked. Tears began to sting at his eyes. So Dean did what was becoming a nightly habit: he went to the local bar and got drunk.
One drink became ten and ten became twenty. Dean drank and drank until he wasn't seeing Sam as the bartender and wasn't hearing Sam nagging him about the amount of alcohol he drank. And so became Dean's nightly routine: Drink, pass out, wake up, repeat. After about three weeks, he became known as one of the "local drunks", and he could care less. He didn't have it in him to care. He wasn't there to impress nobody.
For some odd reason though, when Dean woke up on July 13, he decided to shave. It didn't seem like such a big deal if it weren't for the fact that he was looking like a mountain man because he had a 3 in. long beard. It never really occurred to him what he looked like these past months until now. Afterwards, he went down to the barber and had his hair cut, because he quite honestly was beginning to get shaggy, and Dean just didn't do "shaggy".
Dean was getting quite tired of the "normalcy" his day had taken on and was exhausted by all the social interactions he had to engage in, so he went to the bar.
Perhaps the sun was being particularly bright or maybe it was because he was all clean and nicely shaven, but Dean actually stopped before barging in the bar and looked at the big, red sign taped next to the sign stating, "Crossroads Bar". It said "HELP WANTED" . The letters were big and bold like whoever wrote them wanted to make sure nobody missed it.
Again, whatever happened to make Dean feel so productive all of a sudden obviously influenced this decision also. Because Dean walked right up to "his" bar stool, plopped down, asked for a newspaper and a glass of water. The bartender- who happened to be named Claire -looked at him as if he had grown another head. Dean raised an eyebrow in confusion at first, but then found himself smirking. She barely recognized him now!
"Claire! Stop staring at the man and get over here! That ol' drunk who sits there is gonna be here real soon for his whiskey so get it ready!... Claire!", a shrieking voice came from a few feet away. It belonged to Marie, the skinny middle aged woman with crazy, black hair that owned the joint.
A moment or two later, her quick footsteps could be heard heatedly walking in Dean and Claire's direction. (Claire was still openly gaping at Dean). "Claire! I said-" Marie stopped looking at Claire and finally looked at Dean. The woman's eyes flitted around Dean's face before settling on his eyes. Her lips pursed. "So you finally cleaned up, huh? I recognize them eyes of yours anywhere though. You want your whiskey or what? You're distracting my employee."
Claire- who had finally stopped gaping and had begun combing her fingers through her cropped, blond hair -finally set a newspaper and a glass of water in front of Dean.
Dean, who had only ever uttered the word "whiskey" in his time in the bar spoke up smoothly, "So Marie, I see you could use some help around here."
The woman narrowed her eyes at the man and replied, "What makes you think that?" Her tone was bitter, accusing and clipped.
Dean smirked before giving way to a small grin that made his eyes crinkle slightly, "There's a 'HELP WANTED' sign on the door. I'd be a fool not to take interest. I don't care how much it pays. I just need work. My name is Dean, and I just want a job. Besides," he chuckled slightly, "I know how a bar works."
Dean's thoughts strayed to the Roadhouse and Ellen and Jo and Ash, and he dropped his gaze whilst he put his game face back on. Their faces brought back painful memories too. It also just reinforced that he was surrounded by death, forever and always. He looked up a moment later, mask on, memories off and gave the best make-your-knees-go-weak smile ever. Five minutes later, he was bussing tables.
Dean found pleasure in the simple task of bussing tables. It gave him something to do other than wallow in memories of his dead loved ones. It also gave him purpose, and Marie found out real quick that he was a "good soldier". She began to take a parental figure role in Dean's life, and he was completely OK with that. It started to feel as though she was his mother. That was fine by him, because to them, he was known as Dean Worthington or as Claire had once said, "The Man With No Life Behind His Emerald Eyes". Dean got a kick out of the latter. If only Claire knew how true it was.
Dean woke up on July 14th and looked at himself in the mirror. He ground his teeth together to hold back a tidal wave of emotions and smiled. It looked like more of a grimace, but after awhile, he convinced himself that he was happy. He had no reason to be upset. Everything was fine. After all, he was Dean Worthington, Bar Busser Extraordinaire. So after putting away every weapon that he had except for the demon knife in his pocket, he said aloud, "My name is Dean Worthington. I am 29 years old. I like bussing at the Crossroads Bar. I just needed a break from the hustle and bustle of city life. My name is Dean Worthington because Dean Winchester is dead."
He said that to himself in the mirror eight times before it began to sound convincing, but it was a start, and that was all he needed.
Dean worked around the clock his first day. He didn't stop once. He made sure that everyone's drinks were filled at all times and every single table was shining. He never considered himself a neat freak, but if he couldn't go and destroy a bunch of evil nasty's, then cleaning it was.
It was around nine o' clock that Dean was wiping off one of the back tables. It was where the "local drunks" sat. He was almost done when a gruff voice called out to him, "It don't gotta be perfect, Boy."
Dean looked up in surprise to find a warm, kind face that belonged to an older man with a white goatee. Dean gave him a small grin and a nod of acknowledgement before continuing to fiercely scrub the table.
"What's your name, Kid?"
Dean made brief eye contact with the older man before replying in a low tone, "Dean. Dean Worthington, Sir."
The older man grunted and stuck out a calloused, slightly shaky hand and said firmly, "Jim. Jim Rogge. Now that we've made our introductions, quit attacking my table and get me a beer."
Dean found himself grinning at the older man. He seemed like a nice enough guy. When Dean looked up in slight shock, he saw that the older man was smiling like a Cheshire cat and chuckling. It was in that moment that Dean decided that Alta, North Carolina was just what he needed.
Later that night, scratch that, more like one o' clock in the morning, Marie and Claire were sitting at the bar, having a drink and Dean was "attacking" more tables. After a good two minute period of Marie and Claire's prolonged silence, Marie cleared her throat and called to Dean, "Hey Dean, come have a drink with me and Claire. Clean the table tomorrow."
Dean cursed Marie in his head. He needed to keep busy so he could keep his mind off things, but he wanted to stay in her good graces, so he obliged
As he walked over, he took off his apron in a fluid motion and popped a few of his fingers. He smirked to himself, Claire was gaping again. The smirk vanished as soon as he sat down though because Marie then said nonchalantly, "So tell us about yourself Dean. Where you from?"
Marie was clearly going to pump him for information all night, so he prepared himself for the inquisition. He cleared his throat, took a sip of his beer and answered smoothly, "Philadelphia." He would only answer her question and not venture further. He wanted them to know he was not the sharing-caring type.
Marie and Claire both nodded, but it was Claire that piped up asking, "Why move here then? This is just a small town hours away." Her curiosity was genuine, so he smiled at her.
"I needed a break from all the hustle and bustle of the city."
"A break?! Boy, you needed more than a break. You were getting plastered every night here for almost a month", Marie snorted and replied.
Dean pursed his lips, took a long draw of his beer and replied, "I guess I just needed to get my priorities straight."
Marie regarded Dean carefully. She studied his strong jaw that sported "manly" stubble and his straight nose that led perfectly into his picture perfect lips. All in all, he was supremely attractive.
Marie frowned slightly before voicing her next question, "And are they straight?"
It was Dean's turn to frown now. As he did, he broke eye contact. Marie's gaze was burning a hole in him, but he wasn't sure how to answer, so he gave her his signature smile and lied straight through his teeth.
"Yes, yes they are." And that was the end of Marie's interrogation.
Marie got up after that and walked towards the bathroom. Dean's eyes followed her the whole time, and Claire's eyes never left Dean.
Once Marie was safely in the bathroom, Dean focused his gaze on Claire. She was very beautiful, that much was obvious. She was a real petite blond, and she carried herself with confidence, but didn't have too much. She had straight blond hair that was cropped. It outlined her face perfectly, and it made her big, blue eyes stand out.
"You know, Marie isn't that bad. She's just protecting her territory", Claire said softly.
Dean smiled back at Claire and replied, "I wouldn't expect any less." And that was the end of the "Dean/Claire Bonding Time".
Dean found out real quick that after the last customer leaves-or gets dragged out- each night that Marie and Claire have a drink and talk about what's new, and now Dean is included. That particular night, Marie and Claire rambled on about their families. Dean tried his best to slip out unnoticed, but his stealth skills were a bit rusty, so Marie caught on and made him stay.
Marie talked about a grandmother who used to knit her mittens when she was small and a father who gave in way too easy. She had had a good childhood and wasn't afraid to recall all of her wonderful memories.
Claire, on the other hand, had been adopted and never got to meet her real parents. She, apparently, could care less. She had great parents, whether they actually birthed her doesn't matter. Her mother, a fiery red head, is a nurse down at the local clinic. Her father, a sweet guy, is a psychiatrist.
Dean had been listening quietly the whole time, noting their whimsical expressions and small smiles. He hadn't said a single word about his family. He had yet to actually confront his emotions about the whole thing. He was just getting better at pretending he had it all under control. So before Marie could begin interrogating him again, he bid the women good night and sped away to the motel he was residing in.
The next day, Dean got dressed and drove to the bar. He was there early, he knew, so when he saw cars lined up and down the block and the noise coming from the bar, he was surprised to say the least.
He walked in, slowly, taking in his surroundings like he would've if he were on a hunt and saw that the bar was full of people watching the four flat screen televisions mounted on the walls. It was Sunday and apparently they were there for the football game. All he could do was smile. These people apparently were very traditional and very close knit.
About one quarter of the way through the game, Dean went back into the kitchen and started washing dishes. He knew Marie and Claire were dishing out drinks and had their hands full, so Dean knew he would be alone for at least five minutes.
So he took a seat on the stool near the sink and put his head in his hands. He was emotionally exhausted. All the fake smiles he gave were beginning to weigh on him, especially when so many people were present. Marie and Claire were in their element, but Dean had begun to feel claustrophobic.
He wished Sammy were here to do all the talking and flash his puppy dog eyes around. He helped Dean stay level headed which was something he was having a lot of trouble with here lately, but he wanted to stay put for awhile, so he bit his tongue and minded his manners.
All so suddenly, a tidal wave of emotions washed over Dean, so he converted it to anger and frustration. He tried to just swallow it, he really did, but it just wasn't happening. He barely had time to clock out for a break before all he could see was red. He basically sprinted outside and jumped in his car.
He gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles blanched, but he just couldn't make this anger go away. He was angry at himself for not saving Sam and stopping the Apocalypse all in one go. He hated Cas for getting blown to pieces. He hated Bobby for not being here to yell at him to quit acted so wimpy and go save the world. He was mad at Sam for not being alive. He was mad at God for not caring, but he hated himself the most. He didn't want to be alive. Everyone he had ever cared about was dead. Ellen. Jo. Dad. Cas. Mom. Bobby. Sam.
Then Dean let out the most pain filled scream and started pounding the steering wheel until his hands were black and blue. But nobody would hear him because he was all alone. There was no one anymore.
The next day, Dean Worthington was in a great mood. He was bussing tables at the bar and was whistling while he did it. There was nothing that was going to ruin his day... except a nosy psychiatrist.
Dean heard the man before he saw him. His hunter instincts had come to life whether he realized it or not. A moment later, a hand gripped Dean's shoulder and he involuntarily tensed. That, too, was because when you're a hunter, it's generally not a good thing.
So Dean swallowed his instincts and turned around swiftly. In front of him stood a man Dean's height with brown, thinning hair and warm hazelnut eyes.
Did I really just think his eyes were hazelnut? Oh God, I'm turning into a girl, Dean thought, horrified.
The man stuck his hand out and said politely, "There's a buzz about you around town. Everyone's talking about you. I'm Kyle. Kyle Lightly, Claire's father."
Dean's hunter instincts kicked into overdrive when he heard that. Every hunter knew not to draw attention to himself, and that's what Dean was doing. He almost had to physically suppress the urge to skip town. So he answered back in a low tone, "Dean. Dean Worthington."
Kyle nodded and then said, "Where you from, Dean?"
Dean smirked to himself. Technically, he considered himself from Lawrence...or maybe even his car. "Philadelphia."
"Really? You have absolutely no accent."
Dean's hand stalled for a second. He hadn't thought about trying to sound authentic. "I get that a lot."
Kyle tilted his head slightly and studied Dean. He found the young man interesting yet oddly secretive. Kyle's curiosity got the best of him. "Well if you have any trouble adjusting or need somebody to talk to, just come by my office. It's right down the road."
Dean's nostrils flared, and he clenched his hand in a tight fist. He rotated on his heel so he was eye-to-eye with Kyle and said in a mocking, dangerously low tone, "Listen Doc, I don't need a therapist, but thanks for the offer."
Kyle looked taken back for a moment but then also intrigued. They held eye contact, but Dean cocked his head sideways, trying to listen to a conversation behind him. He had heard "freaky death" and "locked house" and "no one could've gotten in". His hunter instinct got the best of him, and he did a full 360 on his heel and made his way over to the place where the conversation originated.
When Dean got there, he saw that it was a bunch of college aged kids, so he smiled real big at the girls and acknowledged the guys before feigning horrification at what they said, "Oh hey! Did I just hear that somebody died? That's so terrible."
The kids all looked up at him, and by the looks on their faces, they believed that he was just as horrified as they were. One of the girls, a spunky red head, spoke up quickly, but in a hushed whisper, "Oh my God, I know right. The police said, supposedly, that it looked like she was stabbed, like, twenty times."
Then the guy next to her, a skinny blond snorted and said, "Yea, somebody had some anger issues."
Then another girl, a gothic chick, reached across the table and slapped his arm and said, "Michael! Dude! Way to be insensitive! Besides, 'somebody' didn't have anger issues." She focused her big, blue eyes on Dean, "The house was locked, the door and the alarm system. The cops said there was absolutely no way someone could've gotten in without triggering the alarm."
Then the girl beside of her, a girl with pitch black hair and scary pale skin piped up, "Maybe she knew the person and let them in, Brittany. I mean, aren't a lot of murder cases-"
"I've got it! Maybe it wasn't a murder! It's gotta be some sort of government experiment to see how small towns react to an unsolvable death!", a geeky looking guy said, getting excited.
The rest of the kids said, "Shut up, Pete" in unison.
Dean wanted to talk more about what the kids knew, but Pete starting talking about some sort of family affair he had going on, so Dean left their table and clocked out for his fifteen minute break.
Dean walked outside, sat on the hood of the Impala and slipped his hands inside his leather jacket. There was a chilly breeze that made the leaves rustle slightly in a soothing manner. He looked upward at the sky to soak in it's vastness. Him and Sam used to sit for hours on the hood of the Impala, just looking at the stars, not saying anything. It had been nice. It wasn't as nice now though. Not without Sam.
So to distract himself from the sky, Dean walked around to his trunk and opened it up. He had ripped apart his arsenal, but he kept a shotgun in there, just in case. He picked it up and stroked it.
Beautiful weapon, Dean thought. He had always taken good care of his weapons. Until now... I've neglected them all, except for a shotgun and a knife. I need a good hunt, something that I can kill without a gun. A vampire... Yea, decapitations are fun.
Then Dean laughed to himself. Who in their right mind likes decapitations? No one, that's who.
"Hello Dean", a silky voice said from way behind him.
He slammed the trunk down and spun around. There, thirty feet away from him, stood a tall, brunette woman in a black dress. It was loose on her rail like form.
"What do you want?!", Dean yelled back gruffly, his voice thick with emotion. He wasn't in the mood for games.
"I want to make a deal", her voice floated to Dean's ears with ease. She flashed her eyes red for a fleeting moment to show her demonic nature. Dean stiffened.
"Honey, I think you need to go back to demon training school. Apparently the teachers there suck. Demons don't offer deals", Dean bit back.
Her lips turned into a cruel, sinister smile as she replied in mock innocence, "Oh you would know all about 'demon training school' wouldn't you? From what I hear, you were quite the student. Alistair really enjoyed having you as his pupil."
"Oh shut up!" Dean yelled back. Hell was another nightmare of his that followed him day and night, so he didn't need to be reminded of it. "What do you want?!"
The demon took two steps forward and stopped. "You want them back, understandably so. I mean, it is your fault they're all dead anyways." She began walking towards him at a slow rate, and he didn't move a muscle. She stopped when she was chest to chest with him.
What a cocky bitch, Dean thought.
She didn't say anything. She just stared into his eyes-his soul. It unnerved him, but Dean wasn't backing down, so he stared back into the soulless pits of her eyes-they were completely red.
Dean didn't know how long they stood like that. It could have been hours. It could have been seconds. He didn't know. But all of a sudden, a hand gripped his shoulder and threw him onto the ground.
He was dazed for a minute. He hadn't been expecting that. He had been having a perfectly good stare down with the demon. Then, almost against his will, his hunter instincts kicked into gear. He jumped up off the ground in time to see the demon throw Kyle fifty feet in the opposite direction.
The demon didn't spare Dean a glance. She was completely and souly (or non-souly) focused on Kyle.
Dean took the demon knife out of his boot, almost lazily, and began stalking his prey, and man, did it feel good! He was two feet behind the demon, when Dean looked over at Kyle. His eyes were as wide as saucers.
"No! Dean! RUN!", Kyle shouted, but he was too late. Dean had already shoved the knife between the demon's shoulder blades. His eyes lit up as the light of her demonic essence was extinguished before ever leaving the vessel.
Dean closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders back. He had enjoyed that moment-the moment the demon died. It had felt good, something he hadn't felt in a long time. He opened his eyes and said to Kyle with a grin, "I'm still not letting you be my therapist." And that was that.
AN: Okay, bear in mind that this is my first fan fiction. So excuse any grammatical errors or just faults that you may find. Also, keep in mind that this is sort of an AU. It takes place right after episode 5.22 (Swan Song), but it's my take on it. Okay, um, also, I am a Dean girl. I love all things Dean, and I just love it when the guy gets physically, emotionally and mentally f****d up. Just saying. Okie dokie then, tell me what you think so far!