Happy Places
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He remembers the morning he woke up and Dad was there. Must of been about eight or nine years old.
Remembers feeling Sam's hot little back pressed up against his own and knowing that all was right with the world, because Dad was home and was sitting in the chair just looking at him.
He must of snuck in during the early hours, because he wasn't there at 1am when he'd been awake and the rain on the window had been strong enough to stop him from drifting off. Or 3.30am when the storm had passed and he'd been wakened by something else. Even now he remembered how his heart would jump into frantic action at a sound loud enough to wake him. Hope and fear. That's what it brought.
Hope that it was Dad turning the key in the lock. Coming home.
Fear that it was an intruder. Supernatural or otherwise.
*
The strain on his neck is overwhelming. And all he has to do is lift his head. Get his chin up off his chest. As simple as that.
Why when he fell asleep, did his head always fall forward like that? It really sucked, because by the time the pain woke him again, his neck muscles were too damned stretched and sore to lift his head up.
He makes a concentrated effort – the pain forcing a strangled whine from his throat that stabs the silence of the basement.
It doesn't matter.
No one to hear it anyway.
Anston Riley wouldn't hear it. Another dead hunter lying beside him. Dead eyes staring out towards the door neither of them can reach. A faithful, silent witness to Dean's suffering.
Anston had almost got him too. Swung that machete high and even connected with the side of the Vampires head. Had he not moved ever so slightly towards the left like he did, he would've been bloodless and dead. Much like Anston is now.
Ah. Such is life.
Or death.
*
He remembers fumbling for his phone.
Remembers cursing into the darkness when his slick fingers had transformed the cell into a bar of soap and it had shot out of his grasp and onto the floor.
An hour to find it. At least.
He remembers the last few words of their argument.
"No, Sam, off you trot. Don't let me stop you."
"I said I'd come with you -," his eyes flashing with anger.
"- No, you said you'd drive with me, and then you have a ' meeting' to attend." Dean had executed the quote signs with particular gusto although there was nothing funny about it.
"I'll cancel the meet,"
"No, just fuck off and leave me alone." Obscenities were always useful when there was no fight left in the argument.
"Fine." He'd snatched his jacket and done just that.
"Fine." Dean had muttered much too late.
He remembers the lull of the ring tone, and the effort it took to hold the phone up at his ear.
"This is Sam. Leave a message..."
*
A cough. A cry.
A cough. Another cry.
That's how it goes.
And he doesn't appreciate the frothy blood in his mouth either. Doesn't have the breath to spit it that far away from him because turning his head hurts too.
A crossbow.
Who the hell has a crossbow these days?
Of all the weapons through out all the years, he can't think of one other time he'd ever come across someone with a crossbow.
Actually. Pretty impressive, now that he thinks about it.
It's bolt was strong enough to drive him onto his butt and pinned him to the wall he is now propped up against. A new fixture of the basement.
He shifts his leg underneath him, trying to ease the strain on the bolt. The feathers jutting out of his right shoulder goad him with their permanent presence.
So does Anston.
Two hunters colliding on their way to the same objective.
He was young and keen and what the hey. Two heads and all that.
He remembers thinking about warning him off, but he'd lost the energy after his fight with Sam.
And during the short 'get to know you' session they had shared, Dean would never have asked for the kids next of kin. Bad karma and all that.
And now his life had ended on a filthy basement floor in the middle of Vermont.
At least he had company.
*
He remembers the shape of her lips and the pull of her arms as he pushed himself inside her.
Remembers the warmth of her breath on his skin and the shared anticipation of the climax.
Acceptance.
Raw and pure.
He gave and she accepted.
Everyone goes home happy.
Afterwards, everything always seems softer.
The bed. The sheets. Her skin. Her scent.
Comfort and contentment.
*
Cold and cramps.
He jerks at the cramp in his leg and sees that his head is down again, his neck muscles screaming.
Pink frothy globs dot his jeans and the fact that he can see this means it's getting light.
Breathing's getting worse.
He lifts his head.
Lifts the phone.
Hears the ringing.
"Yeah." Sleepy.
"Uh...think you could...come get me?" He listens for the reaction.
"Sure." There's no trace of smugness. "Where are you?"
He rests his head back onto the wall and remembers he isn't where he's supposed to be. Remembers getting dragged into a truck with Anston. The journey was short and violent.
"Still in Vermont...I think. Can't be far from...from the original nest."
"What happened?" He's awake and worried now.
He considers launching into the whole story, but his arm is too sore and his chest aches and his breath seems too precious to waste.
"Later, dude. I'm stuck here though. I'm not getting out without..."
And then he sees it. The shadow under the door.
"Without what?"
There's no more time.
He's coming back.
They're all coming back.
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