The Stain That Won't Wash Out
Dean Winchester woke with a pounding head and a mouth that tasted like ash. His eyes searched for the shape in the other bed in the room, before his mind fully registered where and when he was.
While the seedy motel room resembled any number of rooms that made up his life story. There was a difference.
There was no other bed. And there was no other body in this room.
No little brother, Sam had been gone at Stanford for more than a year. And Dad, he was working a job in another state.
Today, for some unforeseeable reason that knowledge hit him with a weight that seemed impossible to push aside. A weight that crouched on his chest in a way that wasn't explained by his hangover or even the absence of his family.
…..
It had begun yesterday. The case was finished, the bones salted and burnt in record time, with no hassle and no fuss.
Dean had been feeling good, hanging at a bar, hustling pool and making out fine. He'd been drinking cheap beer and enjoying the local wild life, looking forward to really enjoying it in a little while.
The way she'd sashayed in like she owned the joint, her two friends trailing behind her like an afterthought.
Painted on jeans, tits to die for in a shirt two sizes to small, a red stained mouth that promised a night of wicked exploration; coupled with those wide blue eyes and the way they'd slid over his body, had said it all.
They were on the same page. And it wasn't from a book ... more like a magazine, that was hidden in the back corner of a drug store where old ladies and small children wouldn't see it.
A bit of charm, a couple of drinks, she'd ditched her two friends with a practiced ease that spoke of a girl used to the one night hook-up game.
Just the way he liked it.
Some guys might like the thrill of the chase, undiscovered territory; but he valued experience and no hang-ups, coupled with a hot body.
Last night he'd been so ready to let off steam. And the little spitfire was more than up for it, her hands and mouth all over him on the ride back to her place, making it nearly impossible to concentrate on the road.
It was a surprise they'd made it there still fully clothed, if a trifle rumpled.
Then, they'd practically fallen through her door and barely made it to the couch.
The first time had been faster than he usually liked it, but they had all night, and she had definitely not complained.
The second time round the track, both of them had showcased their mutually appreciated skills in a much more prolonged and pleasing light.
When he'd finally left her place, slipping back into the night and out of her life, leaving her drowsing in the tumbled bed, as sated as a cat that had gotten into a cream factory. His blood had been singing with the perfect languor of alcohol buzz and the sort of exercise he could really get behind as the answer to cardiovascular fitness.
It was the fricking song that had started it. Flipping on his Baby's radio for the drive back to his room de jour, he'd caught the end of a Guns and Roses song.
It was familiar, in a way that was like a dark itch in the back of his head, somehow, he'd found himself thinking of Dad and Sam. And suddenly his evening lost all its savour, becoming twisted and empty, an image viewed in a funhouse mirror.
He'd downed half a hip flask of whiskey after he got back to his room, trying to recapture the golden feeling of contentment.
But it had evaporated, like Casper after a handful of salt, so finally he settled for the darkness of simple unconsciousness instead.
…
Now, he was awake, squinting against the weak morning light that was shoving its invasive fingers through the flimsy material of the cheap motel curtains.
Rubbing eyes crusted with lack of sleep and too much alcohol and scrubbing a hand through hair that still smelt of cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume from last night's entertainment.
With a groan, Dean rolled over onto his back and surveyed the cracked and peeling plaster above the bed, eyes tracing the discoloured blotches and stains like they were a road map of the future.
The sight was nothing new, in younger years he'd lain side by side with Sammy looking up at roofs like these, finding shapes for their amusement, the way other kids searched for shapes in clouds. Unicorns and puppies, trees and people ... and later when experience and interests had expanded, images of his latest sexual exploits to describe for the continued mortification of his geeky little bro. Good times.
But today, the only shapes he could decipher were twisted shadows and a gaping feeling of helpless and dread.
Suddenly he couldn't bear to look at the ceiling anymore. Curling onto his side he stared unseeingly across the room, unable to go back to sleep or muster the energy to crawl out of bed. Trying to work out what the hell was wrong with him, but while the feeling seemed to pervade every part of him, it seemed to have no roots that he could discern.
Who knows how long he would have lain there, wrapped in the quicksand of his own darkened mind, if not for the all-powerful call of nature.
Watching the stream of last nights processed beer and whiskey colour the water in the stained motel porcelain Dean curled his lip in disgust at the reek of sweat, smoke and old sex that clung to him.
Aspiring to godliness was a reach too far for someone like him, but John Winchester was a man who had drummed the all-important message of personal hygiene and order into his sons with a military detachment.
Turning the shower up as hot as it could manage, he shed last night's clothes, and plunged himself into the torrent. The water was hot enough to sting but somehow, while he registered the pain, somehow the feeling was muffled like he observed it from a step back, once removed. For the longest time, he simply stood there under the flow letting the scalding water slice down.
Until, with a suddenness that seemed almost disjointed, he found himself double over as if he'd been kicked in the gut, sobbing.
Like a child, he jammed his fist into his mouth to stifle the sound in case Sammy heard, only to realise Sam wasn't here.
He was alone.
Sliding down the shower wall he crouched hugging his knees to his chest, sobbing in rasping gulps, while the water slowly lost all heat and became a freezing torrent.
Finally, the shivering and chattering of his teeth brought him back to himself.
Fuck what the hell was wrong with him? A hard anger flared in his chest as he dried his body with the threadbare motel towel and found clean clothes, dressing mechanically.
Picking up the cheap disposable razor he contemplated the task of shaving, but the edge of the blade glinted in the sickly overhead light and he found himself staring it in a lazy mesmerised way, his mind following dark and bloody paths. Catching himself, he dropped the razor as if it burnt, backing away he hurriedly packed his duffle, fleeing the empty motel room for the comforting familiarity of the impalas deep throated rumble.
Driving without a destination in mind.
But the miles didn't change the darkness he carried with him, the way his mind tore into and twisted with thoughts and memories that on most days he had shoved aside and left alone.
Music didn't drown it, no matter how high he turned it up. The food he bought at the roadside diner held no savour, and the slice of pie he'd ordered lay untouched. The hot waitress just didn't seem worth the effort of forcing the words out to flirt with, even though the way she ran her red lacquered nails over his shoulder in passing indicated an amenable interest in more than just serving him food.
The fact that Dad didn't answer his scattered calls throughout the day, was hardly a new experience. Dad was working a job, Dean knew better than to expect a prompt reply.
Dean ran his eyes over the bland scenery as he drove, knuckles white on the steering wheel, somehow the quality of the light seemed to speak to him, a flinching feeling nagged at the back of his mind like a secret he needed to remember. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't place his finger on it.
It was a feeling of de javu like he should have expected this, but for the life of him he couldn't place why. Because of course, today, John wouldn't answer his calls.
He would be in the bottom of a bottle and he… he... should be with Sam. But Sam was at Stanford being a college geek. The realisation that, that was where he was driving hit him.
He wanted and needed to see his little brother today. If he could just see Sammy, somehow this feeling of despair could be pushed aside. But there were just too many miles, there was no way he could see Sam.
So finally, he pulled the impala over to the shoulder of the road and dialled Sam's number.
The phone rang.
"Hello?" Sam's voice filled the void in his chest in a way that totally stole his voice "Dean?" his brother queried and Dean could almost imagine the way Sam would be chewing his bottom lip, waiting.
"Hiya Sammy." He finally forced the words out in a rough rasp.
"I was wondered what time you'd finally call, Dean." Sam's voice was soft and careful.
"You were expecting me to call?" he asked feeling confused.
"Uh yeah, today, I expected a call."
"Somethings may change dude, but some things don't … and the stain never washes out." Sam voice was mournful.
"I …. I don't get it?"
"You called because it's today."
"What's today Sam? I don't follow, I've been flying solo for a couple o' days."
"So, you don't know what the date is?" Sam asked with that little huff that either meant Sam was exasperated or bracing for impact.
"Nah Buddy, I just needed … I jist needed to hear your voice and know you were okay. So, sue me."
Sam made a small sound in the back of his throat, "Dean…. Today's November 2nd."
And suddenly, it all made sense, today was the day they'd lost Mom.
Today was the day, that each year, they lost their Dad a tiny bit more, to vengeance the hunt and whiskey.
Today was the day when he'd been handed the most precious burden and the only thing that had always been his light in the darkness.
"Take your brother outside as fast as you can - don't look back."
But it seemed even when his head didn't know his body did, and he couldn't help but look back.
Because Sam was right, some stains don't wash out. His life was a stack of cleanex and a drop of pain and darkness had fallen on him so so many years ago, it had soaked through and marred the whole stack. Each new year that passed was a clean sheet. But it would never be truly clean. Because while his head could forget his soul would carry that mark forever.
A/N: So… I have my own "stain that never washes out" and this week though my head didn't know the date but my heart and soul did.
So, this small one shot is dedicated to my son, Davi who's eyes never opened in this world… whom I miss, though I never got a chance to know him. Some griefs have no expiry period and that's okay. If you have one, you aren't alone. Hold on to the light you have and keep walking.
Love ya
MC2
p.s the GnR song was "November rain"