Sam's car shouldn't have broken down. It shouldn't have been raining, the diner shouldn't have been open. There should have been no lights on in the houses that lined the street like dark candles, as the world collapsed and the water poured from the sky like it would never, ever stop.
But a lot of things had gotten fucked-up lately, and Dean Winchester wasn't really one to take bad luck in stride.
"Sammy, your piece of scrap metal fritzed on me. I want an explanation." he hissed as quietly as he could into the available telephone. The diner was almost completely empty, and he was soaked to the bone. There was no telling what awkward questions would surface if he attempted to explain himself to a patron.
"It's not that big a deal, okay? Just call Bobby, I'll be there in a day. Find a room. I dunno, drink yourself into a stupor, whatever." Sam's voice was weary and beaten through the telephone line. "Look, Dean, this isn't a good time. Can you call in the morning? I'm at Jess' house."
Dean could feel his heart sink. Outside, rain slanted slithering across the large store windows. It was even cold outside.
"Right. Jess. How is she?" He'd forgotten about his brother's fianceé, a little trouble with the law keeping him desperately out of the loop. It had been at least a year since they had gotten engaged, but then, it was hard to even do that around here. Life was dangerous, life was short, life was a serious kill joy according to the Winchester family curse.
"Not great, Dean. Her family's losing the farm. Too many fines."
Dean could practically hear the softening of Sammy's face as he sighed, the sound distorted by the crappy telephone line. It was a wonder this place even had a phone without a government bug–Dean was admittedly impressed.
"Okay. Yeah. See you later then, Sammy. Shout out to Jess for me."
His brother hung up with a desolate click.
And just like that, Dean was stuck.
...
Dean was running. A hard run, a fast run. A "something big is coming" run that echoed in his bones as his feet slapped the mud/dirt road and sprayed the earth behind him with pebbles.
The smell of smoke was thick and cloying, and oh God it burned, burned everything it touched. The house. The car. The photo album Mom kept locked away, hidden from the government that would take it and destroy it.
But Mom was gone, now. Eaten by the same flames that ate her last photographs.
Fire was clawing, licking, scratching at his heels. The faster Dean ran, the harder it became to move. The air was solidifying, churning into a thick jelly that filled his lungs and tore him off his feet, smoke still writhing in his gut.
He was drowning, suddenly. The air had turned to water, the road to a black lake. Water frothed and boiled around him, and the eerie glass-green of nothing at all was tearing at his nervous system even as his lungs clawed for air.
Around him, the charred remains of everything he had loved floated around him.
A lock of hair (gold).
A shred of a baseball glove.
A piece of paper once taped proud to a fridge. A+, for Sam Winchester, written in red, red ink.
A whole photograph of a beautiful, night-black car, definitely illegal (the government didn't like empowerment via good transportation. It worried them). Burning underwater.
"Dean,"
Someone was talking, grabbing his ankles. He looked down to see a pair of bleeding gray eye sockets, the eyes themselves orbs of throbbing white.
He recognized the corpse.
It was his own.
...
"Sir, you have to wake up now."
Dean jerked awake, his head swimming. He thought he smelled smoke for an instant, and he wiped his brow with a shaking hand.
He must have fallen asleep waiting for his food, because he was still in the sticky red diner booth, and the sky outside was the same broiling cacophony of hail and rain and angry black clouds. The waitress had his bacon cheeseburger and fries balanced on her palm, a look of bland concern etched across her face. She might have been pretty once. No longer.
"Sorry. Thanks." Dean allowed himself to breathe in reality. He couldn't quite remember what he had been dreaming, but it smelled awful, and the sizzling bacon was making him drool.
He leaned over the food, and dug in with no fork. It wasn't like he was trying to appear polite, and he needed something to take his mind off things, take his mind off of everything. The surge in unusual deaths. The decaying of the Unified American Police Force and the rise of the new, corrupt government.
And Sam was engaged.
God, he'd never get over that. With a chuckle, he chewed a slice of bacon. It was minor grade, probably manufactured off of some slimy g-men sanctioned slaughterhouse, but at least he wasn't starving. Dean Winchester was never picky when it came to food.
He paid for his burger. He needed to find a room, then get the hell out of dodge before this sleepy town even noticed he was here.
He was technically a criminal, after all. Technically.
The government didn't particularly take to traveling vigilantes, especially ones who went after their men. And Dean was a damn good vigilante, he had to admit.
With a slide of green paper across Formica, he aimed a signature mega-watt smile at the waitress.
"Where can I find myself a cheap motel?"
...
Pulling up to the Good Fortunes Roadside Inn, Dean knew immediately that there was something wrong. He eased Sam's beaten car (temporarily repaired for a few extra dollars) into the farthest space, and flicked off the lights, sinking down a little in his seat.
There were three government official outside the motel. It was easy to see they were government, with their neat black suits and their eyes covered by slim shades. Even the female g-man wore a shapeless blazer and pants. For a second Dean worried that they were after him, that they had finally found him, but then he noticed who exactly they were crowded around.
The fourth suit was different. Instead of the traditional black, he wore what appeared to be a beige trench coat, a little too large. A tie was hanging upside-down from his neck, and his messy dark hair looked oddly rumpled, as if he had just rolled out of bed minutes ago.
If the change of outfit hadn't given the stranger away, the look of utter confusion certainly told Dean he wasn't a g-man. He let out a breath of relief, the anxiety lessening slightly. He'd been so afraid. He had promised Sammy only nights ago that he would return from this mission alive. Return to see his baby brother get married quietly, under the watchful eye of oppressive strangers.
But even as he trundled out of the car, the hood under his leather jacket yanked all the way up to protect his face (just in case), Dean couldn't help but slow a little as he passed the confrontation. The rain had stopped just enough to allow their words to travel easily to Dean's passing ears.
"You know we're only trying to help, Mr. Novak," the female suit said smoothly, adjusting her glasses. Her thin lips barely raised in a smile. "We're doing the best we can to find your friend, but I'm afraid these things take time."
"It has been two years," the trench-coat man said in a grave voice. "He's been gone for two years, and you have not even given me a single clue to where he is."
"I advise you to hold your tongue, Mr. Novak," the woman answered neatly. She had stepped forward just slightly, and her smile was frozen on her face. "You're lucky the department is even considering searching for your friend. He's probably just a runaway criminal. Balthazar, did you say his name was?"
"Yes."
"We'll get back to you when we can. Until then..." the woman glanced around, and for a second Dean thought she had seen him watching. But as he snapped his head back, she turned back to the trench-coat man. "Until then you hold up your end of the deal. Do your job. Carry out order like a good little soldier, and we'll be back with news about your poor missing Balthazar."
She turned to the man, and beckoned with a plain hand.
"Uriel, Virgil. Let's go. There are orders from headquarters that need attending to."
With that, they strode across the parking lot, and all but melted into the darkness.
The man held still, his head still turned in the direction the three had left in. Dean was curious, all of the sudden. His end of the deal? Was this stranger actually working for those sadistic creeps? He felt a shiver of automatic hatred run through him, but something made him stop. Something made him shift uncomfortably where he stood, and force himself to blink normally.
The man was whispering something, eyes closed. His head was tilted up, and he gazed at the sky through his flickering eyelids. Dean frowned. Was he...praying? He couldn't quite hear the words, but they didn't sound English. Instead, they sounded ancient, all at once beautiful and terrible, power seeping from them as easily as innocence.
When the man finally opened his eyes again and turned to face Dean, the rain had stopped completely, and a dull wind picked up instead.
Eyes. His eyes were the color of the sky.
But before Dean could say anything to explain his being there, the stranger lowered his gaze and brushed past, pushing the glass motel door open, and leaving Dean with the unexplainable feeling that he had just been ditched.
...