Author Notes (Bear with me, gentle reader. We'll only be doing this the one time.):
I began this story in the summer hiatus between seasons four and five, so there have been at least a dozen major canon plot points that occurred on the show that had a hand in changing the tone or course of the narrative, in spite of the fact this is a Pre-Series story.
This is told in the style of the movie "Memento," so instead of moving chronologically from Point A to Point Z, we're doing just the opposite. Instead of "What happens next?" you will hopefully be plagued by thoughts of "How did we get HERE?"
Hints or teases of this story have been dropped along the way, in "Disintegration," "Believe in What You Want," "Reason 346," and "Evidence."
The one liberty I've taken with canon is in the manner in which John believes Samuel Campbell died. I don't feel that the "heart attack" cover story fit well with the way we last saw the trio of Samuel, John, and Mary on the side of that road.
Perused for potholes and twisted into proper shape by CornishGirl, a new but true SPN fan and friend, who caught all of the typos and grammatical errors that I'd gone snow-blind to over the years.
In the six years since I started this story, I have deliberately danced away from other fics concerning/exploring what happened after, or why, Sam walked out for Stanford, so as not to be influenced by another writer's work. For this reason, if there are any similarities between what you read here and any other work of fanfiction, they are purely coincidental.
This story is dedicated to all of the amazing people I've met and friends I've made since I began this fanfiction journey ten years ago. K, S, A, and B, you grew me. D, you laughed with me. B, you nurtured me. K, you introduced me to these boys, and then you PUSHED me. J, C, M, and N, you pulled me back when I had strayed, and reminded me that this is supposed to be FUN.
COLLATERAL DAMAGE
CHAPTER ONE
Late October 2001
Carson City, Nevada
Suddenly, the ride comes to a stop and Dean's not in Kanas anymore, dropped like Dorothy into a diner on the outskirts of town, deposited without ceremony into a work in progress, a scene already well on its way with nothing to be gained by his presence. He's unsure of his part in this play, lost in a tumultuous sea of strange faces without being entirely sure of how he got here, where he's supposed to go now, or what's going to happen next.
The stops along the way seem like fleeting dreams, or maybe nightmares. Either way, he has a strong desire to believe none of it could have possibly happened. It feels like he was JUST talking to Sam, but the date of the newspaper the man in the next booth is reading says differently, says it's been months now. He doesn't even know where Sammy is.
California, obviously. Stanford. Dean's been there recently enough, seen for himself some evidence of Sam's shiny new life, but he hasn't actually managed to see Sam. He's not sure if that's a sign of strength on his part, or one of weakness. Cowardice. Regardless, he now knows for sure he's more than capable of tracking the little shit down whenever the need next arises. If it ever does. That may very well be a door that won't be opened for him.
Dean has never not known exactly where Sammy is or what he's doing. He's never not looked out for the kid. That's more than the job his father gave him, it's a big brother's duty, his birthright, and he takes it seriously.
He TOOK it seriously.
"Hon?"
Dean raises his eyes slowly, looks up into the kind, though somewhat wary and overly tanned face of a middle-aged waitress holding aloft a steaming pot of coffee. She's got a look about her: cagey, suspicious not just of him but of the world in general. Like she's seen some bad shit in her day and she's maybe on the better side of forty but appears ten years older and sure, he can relate. Has that same weathered look himself, probably. Obviously. He's been passing for five years older since he was seventeen, and you can't pull that one unless you've been through the wringer somewhere along the way.
His eyes tick down to the full mug on the table in front of him and he honestly can't tell whether she's refilled the cup while he wasn't looking or he never drank from it to begin with. There's a hot, stale taste in his mouth but it's not necessarily from the diner's weak brew.
The waitress plants a hand on the grease-stained apron spanning her wide hips and cocks her head, a wad of bright pink chewing gum rolling in her mouth, a cow with cud. "You okay?"
"Sure," Dean answers noncommittally, shrugging the shoulder that doesn't jostle his still tender ribs. He can't help staring at the gum. She doesn't wear a nametag but he's sure it's something like Ginger or Ethel or Maude. Something from a different time, as out of date as this diner.
Whatever her name is, she, her bright-red press-on fingernails and her dented aluminum coffee pot move on to the man with the newspaper, and Dean resumes his lonely stare out the window.
It's not just Sammy that's left him, but now Dad, too. Hell if he knows for where, hell if he knows why, hell if he knows for how long. His father's been taking phone calls in secret for as long as Dean can remember, but the calls have certainly increased in both number and mystery over the course of the last few months.
Something has John spooked, something big but not apparently big enough to have him calling in the cavalry. Instead of being a soldier on the front lines standing next to his father, boots on the ground in the away team, he's here. Discarded, relegated to bench-warming detail for no clue how long, and very little money to survive on. Enough for gas for the drive from Cumberland and to book the motel room he'd been given orders to secure for two nights. But something inside has been gnawing at him, a tiny, annoying voice telling him Dad won't be back in Cumberland by then.
He had more money, hundreds of dollars in cash, small bills he's scammed in bars over the past couple years on those occasions Dad was out on a hunt or a bender and left him behind to babysit a resentful Sam too old to need babysat. At first it was just to pass the time, just for fun because he could, because the marks were easy. He started to stash it away, a false bottom sliced into his duffel, with no real reason in mind but a painfully traitorous pit in his stomach telling him he should have a way to make it on his own if he ever needed to. It's all gone now, every single bill, gone to Sam hopefully, left in the care of a stranger.
It's raining pretty hard now, Dean's own personal storm cloud following in his wake like a second shadow. It'd been unseasonably warm the past few days and dry as a bone when he stopped here and he feels a momentary pang of ludicrous guilt for bringing the storm to this small, peaceful town. His eyes are locked on the two inches of exposed space from where he left the Impala's windows cracked in the parking lot, allowing fat raindrops to pit pit onto the leather. He should go out and roll them up but he won't. He loves that car but the car is Dad's and he's finding it hard to care right now.
John Winchester hasn't felt a need to explain himself in years, least of all to his children, and so Dean has no place to be surprised, not really. He's off somewhere, hunting something. Or so he says. So he always says. Dean isn't regularly privy to the details of his father's whereabouts or intentions when that's the way John wants it, and it's been that way for quite some time. He's been pulled away for gigs Dean's entire life, days or weeks or the occasional stint that brought severe-looking women in cheap suits with clipboards knocking on the apartment door because little Sammy couldn't ever keep his mouth shut when cornered by inquisitive do-gooder teachers. He hasn't been ditched for this long since Sam was old enough to pitch a fit about wanting to stay behind for homework or some shit, but he's well on his way to a solid week this time, without so much as a hint as to where his father's gone to, but that's just as well.
This trip came with no warning, no explanation. Just a few rounds the night before to make sure Dean was nice and sleepy and wouldn't wake when the bastard snuck out in the middle of the night. Money for food on the table in the morning and the Impala parked at the curb like it's Christmas morning. Dad doesn't say sorry with words.
Probably a job, and probably a real one, no need to assume otherwise. Then again, he may have simply felt the need to escape from Dean for a few days. Just like Sammy.
Well, if Sammy can take off, and Dad can take off, then so the fuck can Dean. Even as he sits here across the country, he knows he'll go back. Not the same motel, but the same town. Dad will find him. Hard to miss the Impala in a small town and small towns are where their lives happen.
Dean sits and stares at the coffee and it's really no wonder the waitress is staring at him suspiciously; probably looks like he's casing the joint, needs to pay off the loan shark that painted his face black and blue. He just can't stomach the thought of returning to a small, dank room alone. Any other day it'd be easy enough to ensure he wasn't going back to the room alone, but recent events have left him plenty wary of the intentions behind a smile from an attractive girl. Maybe's he's just going to have to get used to being alone for a while.
The time for pondering what do we do without Sam has come and gone as quickly as a season and now he's thinking what would I do without Dad? Dean had never entertained such fantasies until Sam realized his. Until very recently he'd have considered this train of thought as traitorous, and nothing Dad's deserved. But he's damned sure entertaining such fantasies now, still nursing bruises and cracked ribs and more or less abandoned in this hole-in-the-wall diner with split forest-green vinyl booths but not a decent cup of coffee. Maybe Dad won't meet up with him this time. Maybe Dean could learn to be okay with that. Maybe he could learn to be okay with a lot of things.
Maybe he'll take a break from hunting for a couple of months; God knows he could use the rest. Maybe he'll spend some time on the coast. Maybe get a dog. Maybe find a girl, maybe one who's not interested in disemboweling him. Maybe that yoga instructor back in Indiana. Maybe not, but maybe it will be better than being alone.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Maybe if he finds a good enough reason. Maybe if they have one more fight. Maybe if he had the stones.
There's something going on, has been since Sammy split. Something his father knows but isn't sharing, documented and studied and agonized over but torn from the journal before Dean could sneak a peek. That lingering smell of char in the stuffy air of the motel room in Maine when he woke to Dad missing pretty much tells the story. Dean never seems to be on the "Need to Know" list. He gazes down at the mug cupped in his hands, suddenly wishing he had something stronger than coffee in front of him despite the day's early hour.
A flash of lightning brightens the interior of the diner and startles everyone but him. It takes a lot more than lightning at this point in the game. Dean counts Mississippi's until thunder rolls overhead, rattling the windowpanes. The fluorescent lights flicker ominously as the storm moves in. The waitress winks at him from behind the counter and snaps her gum. His stomach roils for a multitude of reasons.
He'd like off this ride now, please.
Broken Bow, Nebraska
John's been keeping a number of burner cell phones collecting dust in the glove box since the idea of cell phones became a thing, switches up frequently enough for all of the obvious reasons, from lessons learned the hard way. Ditching law enforcement when a hunt's gone sideways or CPS when the boys were young enough to still be prone to mouthing off without thinking to friends and teachers. Dean learned quick but Sam? Damn, there were a few years there, where Sammy just never shut up. He doesn't know much about this new technology fad but his more paranoid contacts are always telling him cellular devices can be traced, your location pinpointed within feet. Despite all of this, he'd rather keep this current number as long as possible.
It's the number Dean knows, provided some miracle occurs and his son will WANT to speak to him anytime soon, seeing as how John left him alone and penniless in a motel room back in Maine. Boy's more than capable enough to fend for himself for a few days while the situation between them cools down a bit. He has no intention of not catching up with his boy, at some point, before the crack becomes a crevice. He just knows they need the space.
It's the number Sam knows. It might already be too late for such notions but he wants Samuel to have a way to contact him on the off-chance he pulls his head out of his ass and comes back to them. The both of them can huff and puff and blow down brick houses when they want and he might not always be with them, but he's never been asshole enough to go intentionally unreachable for his children. He's not looking to become his father, and he'll always answer the serious calls.
In any case, the conversation he's gearing up for isn't one to be had over the phone, as he'd rather not tip any unwanted or otherwise unseen eavesdroppers onto the names or locations of those he cares for. There's still the chance he's already done so; isn't going to risk it again. Nor does he want to drop the dime on himself for not giving up this decades-long hunt as easily as he might have led others to believe. He doesn't want to slip up and have to trash the phone number. Dammit, Cam, he thinks with a sad smile. Now you've got me actin' just as paranoid as you.
All paranoia aside, this is a conversation John knows he needs to have in person. He plays dumb sometimes but he's not an idiot, and is aware he owes a lot of people a lot of things, and he needs to start repaying sometime. This drive isn't entirely out of his way, and the surface of his debt to her won't even be scratched by this face-to-face meeting, especially when he's looking for a favor from the last person he should be asking for such a thing. But it's a start, and he certainly needs to make up for the ass he made of himself during that last awkward phone call before she's cut him out of her life entirely.
John sighs, settling as best he can on the squeaky bench seat of the truck. The vehicle's not new, not by any means or standards, but the presumably fabric original seat had been replaced before the sale and the new leather cushions are still stiff, needing broken in. The old girl's not yet a comfortable companion for the long drives they'll be taking together in the years to come. He squints as a late-eighties model Honda Civic pulls out of the gravel lot across the street under a cloud of dust, the maroon sedan turning onto the highway in the opposite direction, towards town. The car doesn't pass where he's been parked here at the truck stop, but he still finds himself shrinking into the shadows of the spacious cab. It's easy enough from this distance to identify the slim young blonde behind the wheel, and he comforts himself with the thought that even she if were able to recognize him, she wouldn't know the truck.
John dons his sunglasses and hops casually out of the cab, pausing a moment to stretch road-cramped muscles and run a smoothing hand through his coarse hair. The parking lot across the street at the Roadhouse is empty, a bit unusual even for the late morning hour. It's five o'clock somewhere, he muses, trotting across the two-lane blacktop. He leaves the asphalt and approaches the building, boots crunching on uneven gravel marked with weed growth, the impacts loud in his own head, surely at a volume that will signal his arrival to the restaurant's proprietor. He doesn't possess an unaggressive gait, doesn't know how to do anything lightly. He pulls open the door with a jerk, permanently creaky and in his experience, never locked. The bar is always open to the wayward traveler but is now as vacant as the empty parking lot would suggest, the tables wiped clean and prepped for the evening's business, stacked with paper coasters advertising local craft brews.
He lingers inside the restaurant, not quite halfway between the door and the bar, because he's always looking to be closer to a way out. The middle of a room is the most dangerous part. That's just his way, just instinct, and something he unfortunately passed on to at least one son. The swinging door connecting the bar and kitchen flies open as Ellen kicks it in, hands occupied with an old, shallow cardboard box that originally housed some sort of produce but is now stuffed with napkins, ketchup bottles, and salt and pepper shakers. A highly perceptive woman, she senses the presence in her establishment long before caring to look up and see who it is.
"Kitchen won't be open 'til eleven," she starts by way of generic casual greeting, eyes pointed downward. "But if you're feelin' peckish I can probably get you a…" She finally glances up, stops in her tracks so suddenly it's nearly comical but for the color running out of her face. "Well. Goddamn."
"Hey, Ellen." John maintains a healthy distance across the room, hands tucked into his pockets nonthreateningly, fully aware of the loaded shotgun typically tucked under the bar and the circumstances surrounding his last visit to Harvelle's, however many years removed they may be from that moment. Some things aren't forgotten. Some things shouldn't be.
"John." Ellen drops the box to the countertop, leaves her hands flat on the smooth, polished surface. Her eyes remain wide and her mouth falls open, but it's impossible to predict what she'll say from here.
He half-expects her to shoot him where he stands, or at least threaten to, a too-common occurrence these days. He expects it, and maybe deserves it, but she doesn't seem to be twitching that way just yet. Uncomfortable with the yawning silence, he makes the first move, clears his throat roughly. "Jo around?"
"No, she's, uh, fetching some more peanuts and pretzels before business picks up. We have a few minutes before she'll be back." She squints, sizing him up. "But then, you already knew that, didn't you?"
John doesn't answer, doesn't confirm. He's not normally the type to shy away from confrontation and only waited across the street out of respect for Ellen, not at all to avoid having to explain his sudden reappearance to her daughter.
Like Bobby, Ellen masks her anxiety by keeping her hands busy, adjusting the lapels and folds of her open button-down blouse, wringing a bar towel, pushing condiment jars around, wiping glasses that already appear clean and dry. She does a bit of each as she says, "I'd be lying if I said I haven't been thinking you'd drop in ever since you called. Figured there was no way in hell you actually would, but here I am, lookin' right at you."
John finally, cautiously steps up to the counter. "You look good, Ellen."
Her eyes find his, as sharp and biting as her tongue. "For a widow, you mean? You think I should be hiding upstairs, shutters closed and dressed in black?"
"You don't have any shutters." John smiles kindly, or attempts to as well as he can, and leans on the counter, resting an elbow casually. "And I'm just saying you look good."
Ellen lifts her chin, her hands stilling for a brief moment as her eyes search his face, her expression falling into something more resembling but not quite entirely concern. "Wish I could say the same to you."
John remembers the yellowing wash of bruises he's still toting, the painful crash of Dean's fist against his cheekbone. He sniffs. "Rawhead. In Tampa. Feisty sons of a bitches."
"Rawhead in Tampa, huh?" She draws away from the counter and the dishtowel in her hand squeaks aggressively inside a dry draft glass as she looks away, what concern there was melting like ice cream on a summer afternoon. "So then you weren't just up at Bobby Singer's, asking about the very same demons you called me about?"
John squashes his instinct to rise to his own defense but straightens from the bar top. "You know Bobby?" He should hardly be surprised.
She chuckles and sets the glass aside. "John, everyone who knows anyone knows Bobby."
"He called you?"
"I called him, after you...he's worried about you." Ellen squares her shoulders, throws away the next words with an exhale of hot breath. "I am, too."
He's probably a little less worried now, though. She must have talked to him before that last night in Sioux Falls, and hasn't since, or he's sure they'd be having an entirely different conversation. He shrugs, attempting a devil-may-care attitude, though his heart is heavy. "What's there to be worried about?"
"Clearly there's something, or you wouldn't be knocking on my door with the sole purpose of lying to me about where you've just been." No one can spit out a summary quite like Ellen can.
John can't help the amusement pulling his lips into a grin. "I didn't come here to lie to you, Ellen."
"Why did you come?"
John can't quite put an explanation together quickly enough for her. She leans forward over the bar, and it takes some work to keep his eyes from straying south. Ellen is not an unattractive woman. "D'you care if I take a stab at a guess?"
He shakes his head, and she goes back to wiping glasses.
"The conversation we had doesn't lend itself to much interpretation, John. I may not know much about demons," she says. "Don't know of anyone out there that does. But I've heard enough, bits and pieces to put together, hunters who've come across those unfortunate souls who've been possessed. A demon's no feisty Rawhead, that's for sure. If you've got one after you, well, that's damn bad news." She chews her lower lip. "And the John Winchester I've known for…he would never spill his business to so many people." She pauses, meets his eyes and squints. "What you said before, when you called me…you've got a demon on your tail, and you're trying to draw it out in the open, bring it to you."
John's eyes have grown wider as she's gone on, but he doesn't attempt to deny any of what she's saying. What he's doing isn't up for debate, and he's here to see if he's got a shot in hell of asking for a very simple favor. He's not going to need any help bringing the son of bitch to him, just wants to be ready the next time it does.
"And if that," she continues, going back to work cleaning clean glassware, "ain't just the stupidest damn thing I've ever heard…"
"Ellen, I've got no right to ask this of you. No right to ask anything of you, but…"
She sets the glass down more gently this time, with a patient sigh that seems to release any frustration stubbornly hanging on. "If it's about your boys, John, it's not about having a right. And you don't even have to ask. Didn't the first time."
He chuckles, runs a weary hand over his face, wincing as he pulls at tender, bruised skin hiding under a week's worth of beard growth. "You know me that well?"
"Well enough to know what's important to you, what can get you tongue-tied like this." Ellen squints. "There was a time when I thought we were a part of that."
"You might not believe me, and I might not show it like I should, but you still are." John wants to believe he means it, but he can't help but be worried there's no end to what he'll say to soften someone up these days, even his few close friends. Even his sons. "You're right, Ellen, I do think there's a demon out there, and I am sure as hell after it. I don't know how this is gonna end, but I can't assume it will go my way, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure it has nothing to do with my children. Not sure what kind of timeline I'm looking at, so what I need you…" John pauses, takes a breath. "What I'm asking you is, keep your ear to the ground. And call me if you catch a whiff or a word of ANYTHING that might have to do with me, or them, or any kind of demon." He pauses before adding, "And to keep it to yourself."
Her expression hasn't changed through all of this. "You're afraid."
He doesn't have the luxury of being afraid, but needs Ellen to do this for him. Bobby has facts and research materials, but Ellen has information. No one hears more in the hunting world than she does, and he can't afford not to have her on his side. He nods, once, all instinct against what he's admitting to.
Her hand covers his on the bar. "John, I'm a little insulted you didn't think I'd tell you already, that you felt it necessary to ask me twice now. I was…I was hard on you before, and I shouldn't have said…" She takes a breath, smiles a small, sad smile. "What's done is done, and I would never let something happen to you or those boys out of spite for what happened to Bill."
He pulls his hand away from hers, draws back from the bar. He's said his piece, and he'd rather this not turn into anything else. He can't look at and not see the way her past is painted red with the same blood as his own. "I appreciate that. I'd better be going. Jo…"
Ellen nods. "Sure."
He takes long steps towards the door, has a hand on the handle when she stops him.
"John."
Not now, Ellen. He turns back without releasing his grip on his exit.
"What happened with my Bill…I did hold you responsible, and for a long time, too. But I'm done blaming you. So you should try to stop blaming yourself, and bring those boys around here sometime."
They're not boys, Ellen, not anymore. John forces a smile, feels how tight and false it is and knows she can see it, too. "Yeah, sometime."
Ellen squints. "You know if it is a demon, and you draw it out in the open, it might just end up possessing you. Might not be any coming back from that."
"Yeah." John forces his eyes wider. "Yeah, you're right, I guess I hadn't thought about that."
Ellen nods, not buying it for a moment, but knowing she doesn't have much of a dog in this fight. "Don't be a stranger, Winchester."
"Take care of yourself, Ellen."
The sun is beating mercilessly in the sky, driving John to return his sunglasses to his eyes as he pushes out of the bar. This was a bad, however necessary, idea. There's no getting anything past that damn woman.
At the end of the day, the demon possessing him might not be the worst thing that could happen. If he can trap the son of a bitch in a fragile human cage for JUST long enough…he stands a chance of bringing all of this to an end.
Cumberland, Maine to Palo Alto, California
Turns out the truck was a smart move on John's part. Now he can up and leave whenever he pleases without having to haul Dean's ass around. And he does. Dean didn't realize he'd been a burden his father was looking to unload.
It takes two days for him to split, and Dean really should have seen it coming. Or maybe he just didn't want to. They go out to the bar down the block and John, grinning too big and talking too much, like nothing's happened and they aren't broken and covered in scabs and bruises in the shape of each other's fists, orders a round of beers and two shots of Jack, because that's how Dean drinks now. Dad's music and Dad's leather jacket and now Dad's liver damage, too.
He follows it quickly with another round. And another. And before Dean knows it he's rolling stiffly out of bed at noon the next day with a queasy stomach to find Dad's empty and unmade.
The curtains are open, never drawn the night before, and the room is filled with a cool, bright wash of light. Outside the streaky window the Impala is alone at the curb, a teasing sprinkle of early season snow dusting the roof and hood. When the room stops its nauseating, Tilt-a-Whirl spin, he finds there isn't even a courtesy note on the table, just forty-three dollars in a pile of crumpled bills tossed presumably as an afterthought, rushing out of the door; probably meant for food but Dean thinks it will be better spent on beer or Jack.
He counts out the money and throws it down, smacks a palm against the window. The thin pane rattles against his hand, the vibrations travelling all the way through his arm and down his chest to the patch of real estate still tender there. He winces, and the heat from his hand leaves a smear on the cold glass. Is this how it's going to be?
What did you expect? a voice answers.
It's Sam's, and Dean shakes his head, pounds his fist once more on the glass and ignores the residual pangs in his side. I don't need your guilt trip bullshit right now, Sammy.
What DO you need?
That's a tough one. He hasn't had enough sleep or caffeine to formulate an answer.
Okay, the voice concedes, what do you want?
A drink. A lay. He's been living according to Dad's plan his entire life. What does he do if he has the choice to do anything?
Anything. That's the answer. The first chapter of a new story he isn't quite ready to begin. Dad and Sammy might be moving on, but he's still not convinced this one has ended.
What's he need? An escape. A purpose. A driving force. Sam finally found one, and Dad's always had one, since Mom was killed.
Dean HAD one, had an out, an offer, and stayed in Dad's shadow instead. He stares down at the keys on the table. They were a silent thank you for sticking around, as well as hush money, and Dean accepted them with barely a moment's hesitation. He would have preferred the words.
He trashes the motel room in a merely momentarily satisfying bout of raw fury and desperate frustration, misdirected but intended for everyone in Camp Winchester, himself included. Dad and Sammy are dead-wrong. Dean does get angry, scary angry, but keeps it inside. Not this time.
Breathing hard, he surveys the damage – shattered mirror, splintered chairs, smashed lamps, a couple of fist-sized holes in the flimsy plaster walls, chunked to the thin carpet. Sore, weeping knuckles to match.
Dad's gonna be pissed when he gets back. Dean's sole thought as he shakes out the ache in his hand and spots the gray carpet with blood, and so telling of a state of mind there's no changing the state of. It's going to take a hell of a lot more than what they've been through this summer to turn him from his perpetual quest of basking in his father's pride, earning that hearty thump on the back. He stomps into the bathroom and after a few bracing splashes of cold water to the face Dean leans on the sink, staring at a fractured reflection of a bruised young man he didn't quite recognize anymore.
To hell with John Winchester, if he thinks Dean's just going to putter around the room and wait for him to come back. He steps over the mess in the room and packs up his gear, throws it all into the back of the Impala, and before he knows it he's speeding down a westbound interstate, pulling off for gas, coffee, and a few zzz's stretched out in the backseat when his muscles lock up and he can't press on any further.
Dean finds himself pulling into a motel outside of Palo Alto in what may very well be record time, lifting an atlas from a corner fill-up joint, then a car, then driving through Stanford's campus, scouting. He'd memorized the address found in the back of Dad's journal, finds the building easily enough. The car he's hotwired is a pissy, rusty little teal-stained shrimp of a vehicle with a sticky second gear and a sinfully silent engine. He found the chickmobile parallel-parked outside some kitschy little street-side boutique with a triangular chalkboard sign on the sidewalk. Didn't feel even a little bad about it, either. Did someone a favor, he figures.
Sitting outside Sam's dormitory, Dean wonders about the fine line between stealth and creepy stalker. He also wonders if it hasn't been longer than three months. It must have been, has to have been, for Sam to get so damned sloppy he doesn't notice the strange, not-at-all inconspicuously colored car parked across the street for half of the day. Or he just stopped caring to notice. Like he could scoop everything Dad ever taught him out of a litter box into a plastic grocery bag, tie it up and throw it out with the garbage.
He looks down at the notebook laid open on his lap, something pink and glittery with a slack-jawed pop star on the cover he found on the backseat, pages of scribbled math notes tossed aside in search for a blank sheet. He's stuck, locked up, trying to put into words three months of loss, regret, anger and betrayal. Trying to figure out the best way to say 'fuck you,' 'you were right,' and 'I miss you' all in the same sentence.
Roses are red, violets are blue. Dad's an ass, but so are you?
Take care of yourself, he starts hesitantly, with a light hand, but remembers that Sam's pretty much got that down pat. He rips the sheet away, balls it up and tosses it angrily to the floor mat. Miss you, kid, he thinks, but can't put the words down, doesn't want to give his brother that sort of satisfaction.
S'not about satisfaction, Dean reminds himself. S'about responsibility. He's responsible for Sam, when it all comes down to it. But Sammy's got that pretty well covered, too, living it up on this ivy-covered campus crawling with geniuses and prepsters. He's chosen a life where Dean has no place, and it's hard not to feel completely rejected. Sam didn't care what Dean thought when he left, so who's to say he'll give a shit now? Use it for beer and strippers, he finally prints in big letters, pen pushing roughly into the paper, almost ripping through.
He hesitates, then because he isn't entirely sure he's ever going to see his little brother again, hastily scrawls, Love you, Sammy, and rips the page from the notebook, tucks it into the envelope before he can change his mind and crams the whole thing into his pocket so he can't leave it behind in the car. He wishes he had a drink. Mighta had that lesson not to mix alcohol and automobiles pretty well drilled into him in his teenage years, but hell, at this point, why not? Just wishes he'd had a little boost of courage for this trip, been trying to stay clear-headed since the ill-conceived binging at Bobby's. Had a few and woke up to Dad gone, so maybe he'll stick to coffee for a few days, see if it doesn't bring someone back.
There's a chill in the air this autumn evening, even in California, and it's trapped in the car with Dean. He'd been hoping for something utopian to have jumped out to him by now, something miraculous about this place to justify Sam's actions, a colony in a bubble with perfect weather and beautiful people and no crime…but it's the same as anywhere. He can't easily pinpoint anything that could so obviously be classified as Better than My Family. Then again, he's not the one who's been on a lifelong search for something to pull him away.
Maybe you should have been. If maybes were dollars he'd be a millionaire by now, and Dean wishes he could rid himself of this constant running commentary in his head, Sammy's voice still telling him how wrong he is at every turn even from a thousand miles away. Screaming here, when he's so damn close, yet feels the farthest away.
He burrows deeper in the soft, familiar comfort of his leather jacket, adjusts to compensate for the lingering protests screaming expletives from his ribcage, and feels out the smooth paper of the envelope in his pocket. He holds it in a tight fist, and relaxes for a moment, taking deep breaths, getting his head on straight. Just a moment, until he catches the always-present whiff of gun oil, stale cigarettes and aftershave from the collar. Dad. He gags, an uncomfortable flush of heat overtaking him, suffocating him. He can't handle this assault of Dad and Sam all at once, doesn't know his place with regards to either of them. It's been a bit of an eye-opener, and maybe the one good thing to come out of little brother's departure. He straightens, shucks out of the coat and carefully exits the tiny car, aggravated and pacing, waiting out his brother to wise up and spot him out here on the sidewalk.
Come on, Sammy, Dean thinks, staring daggers at the front door of the dormitory each time he passes and wishing more and more that he was a least half as drunk as he's been the past few days. He double-checks the address he'd copied out of Dad's journal. This is the right building. Sammy should be in there, has to come out sometime. Maybe if Dean'd had that boost of courage he'd up there pounding on the door by now.
Maybe Sam did see him, just doesn't give a damn.
The chill deepens steadily as the sky grows darker, and he balls his fists, resisting the urge to grab the leather coat from inside the car. He angrily unrolls and yanks down the long sleeves of his navy blue button-down shirt, shakes his head and takes a walk around the block. Great way to get the cops called on him, loitering outside undergrad housing like a goddamn pervert.
There's a lot weighing on him as he returns to the car, heavy, hasty steps on the way back; lost his nerve on the walk and now he just wants to get out of town. Fuck it all. Doesn't want to see Sam, no longer cares to give him the money he's brought along, doesn't know what the hell he was thinking. He's moving towards the door handle when he senses someone approaching from behind, whirls with wide eyes and fingers reaching for the compact Beretta in his waistband because if he's going to be somewhere new then he's DAMN well going to be packing, and sees a tall blonde kid a few feet away, grinning too widely in put-upon friendliness.
Dean's fingers relax, the thought of any immediate threat dispensed of with an eyeful of that doofy grin. He can tell the guy's a student, though probably also a douchebag just from appearance: a false tan, faded straight-leg jeans and a bright blue polo, the upturned collar his only protection from the wind, like the out-of-season chill doesn't bother him.
"Hey, uh, I don't mean to be an asshole, buddy, but are you out here waiting for someone or do I need to call the cops?" Asked with a mouthful of perfectly straight, impossibly white teeth that glow under the streetlamp.
Buddy? Dean wants to knock each and every one of those teeth down the kid's throat. He cocks his head, swallows the impulse to swing but not the one to get the hell out of town. "You live in there?" he asks, jerking his chin at the dormitory.
The kid shoots a glance at the brick building behind him. "Uh, yeah, I do." He frowns, runs a hand through the frosted tips of his hair. "You get locked out? There someone inside I can get for you?"
Dean bites the inside of his cheek, and the movement reminds him of the bruises and cuts on his face. Kid thinks he's drunk, maybe got into it in a bar. Lost his keys. If only the story was that easy. He looks away, sees his jacket on the seat inside the car, the edge of the white envelope peeking out of the pocket. He refocuses, plots a way to use this kid to his advantage. "You by any chance know Sam Winchester?"
"Yeah, actually, I do, I'm just down the hall. How do you know Sam?"
Dean hears, you don't look like the type to be rubbing elbows with such a polite, clean-cut guy, and the douche isn't wrong. He pops open the car door, wrestles the cash-stuffed envelope from the deep pocket of his – Dad's – leather coat. "Can you get this to him for me?"
"Whoa." The kid steps back, hands held up. "I've known Sam a few weeks now. Never pegged him as a dealer."
Dean frowns. "What the hell are you taking about?"
"I'm not really down for delivering envelopes of money for strangers in the middle of the night, man."
"Look, smartass, it's not money." Dean slaps it into the guy's hand with enough force to make him stagger. "Well, it is, but it's not…just get this to my brother, okay?"
"Brother, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Sam hasn't mentioned a brother." The guy studies Dean with the kind of look he'd reward with a right hook if they weren't on the side of a well-lit street. "And you don't seem surprised to hear that."
Eat me, asshat. "Yeah, well, Sammy didn't leave home under the best of circumstances."
"Figured as much."
Dean sizes him up. "You friends?"
The kid shifts uncomfortably. "I think so. He doesn't seem like a guy who opens up easily."
Dean shakes his head. "He's not." And then, because this story will be told to Sam one day, if not this day, and he doesn't want to come off as a pompous jackass, extends his hand. "Dean."
"Brady." He pumps Dean's hand eagerly, breaks into another Day Glo grin. "It's really nice to meet you, Dean."
Dean grimaces, rips his hands away and points at the envelope in Brady's hands. "Just get that to Sam."
"You don't want to come up and say 'hi'?"
"Nah, s'okay." Dean steps back, grasping again for the door handle of the car. "I've gotta get going."
"Well, Dean, Sam's apparent brother," Brady says awkwardly, shoving the hand not holding everything Dean's got to his name into his jeans' pockets. "I bet our paths will cross again someday."
A chill drops down Dean's spine as he folds gingerly into the driver's seat, mindful of bumps and bruises that don't know when to say when, and slams the car door, wants the kid to step away so he doesn't see the stripped wires hanging under the ignition. He jerks his left leg up quickly to cover the sight. "I wouldn't count on it."
The kid ducks his head and takes a step back. "Drive safely now."
There's something about his tone of voice that pings Dean's radar, raises the hairs on his back of his neck, but he knows he's screwed up right now, not thinking right, so he ignores it. He's not light on the gas pedal, hauling ass out of town.
Cumberland, Maine
Dean's been eyeing the journal with all manner of intention, in ways that aren't so much stealthy as they are horribly, painfully obvious. His poker face is shot, the emotions on his face so unguarded it feels like stealing to call his bluff when John moves across the room to grab the book from the table and return it to its home in the bottom of his own duffel, carefully placed beneath a constructed and memorized stack of folded button-down shirts and rolls of socks.
Dean's always had some limited access to the information kept inside, devoured notes and stories as they were added, when permitted. Bedtime horror stories while Sammy snored softly in the next bed. Those nights are the ones that paved this broken road they're now traveling, that laid the groundwork for Dean's warped perception of his father as some kind of hero, instead of the broken shell of a former family man doing his level best to hold what's left of his life together. It's John's own fault he's in this position; he elevated himself to the pedestal he's now so desperate to leap from.
Dean puts a decent dent in the bar's storeroom before John helps him inside and he drifts off. John sips a steaming mug of black coffee and muses on the situation while he waits for his own healthy amount of whiskey to wear off. He wrests the journal back out of his bag and flips through the most incriminating pages. Maybe he should let Dean read these newest entries he'd added over the past couple of months, and speed this process of falling along. Let him know about John's blatant, deliberate withholdings, the barely-not-lies, and allow him to see that his supposedly heroic father is nothing more than a garden variety coward. That he lied about the circumstances surrounding Dean's attack. That he knew there was a threat of some kind on their asses and he didn't tell Dean before the black-eyed bitch had her knife hilt-deep in his gut. That he let Sam go off on his own when he knew there was a chance he was in danger.
Let him get a taste of the sort of man his father really is.
Dean's curious, probing eyes have spent weeks following the movements of the thick book like a starving child hungrily watching a massive slice of chocolate cake. Licking his lips. Biding his time. He's been through the book already, recently but thankfully not recently enough, or he'd have come at him the way Sam always did. Or he just didn't know what he was looking for. Either way, the only thing John knows better than his son is the damned journal he's been keeping for twenty years, and a single bend in the corner of one page gives Dean away, the book closed too quickly as John returned before his son expected. His emotions always make him sloppy.
John glances across the room to where Dean is sleeping restlessly in the twisted position he'd done little more than fall into. But that's just Dean, and he's not worried about waking his boy with these subtle movements around the room. He stands at the kitchenette a long while with the journal open on the countertop, averts his eyes and gazes down at the penciled, smeared pages. He opens to the most incriminating section, from July, from New York. Thinks on it a moment and digs into the deep inside pocket of his coat, retrieves the pages he'd torn out years ago, kept hidden from these two sons. Adam is safe where he is. John knows it in an odd, sure way. He's not Mary's son, and this all started with her.
The calloused pad of his fingertip trails along the edges of the papers. Dean lets loose a gentle snore and John uses the sound to cover the noise of the pages ripping free of their three-ringed binding.
It's not enough, not nearly, and he knows it. He's raised a hunter. A damned good one, too. Dean will find the pages, whether in a coat pocket, a lockbox, the trunk. Sam would whine and bitch and argue. Dean will search. He'll hunt. The only reason he hasn't sought out the pages from 1990 is that he doesn't yet know there's anything to look for.
John carefully folds the handful of pages and pulls his silver Zippo from the hip pocket of his jeans. He turns swiftly to the small sink and strikes a flame, holds it steadily and deliberately to the corner of the paper and lets the fire eat his words, devour his secrets. When the heat licks his fingers he releases the journal pages, lets them fall to the bottom of the sink. Watches the blaze do its job.
The thought's been festering since the night they burned the young boy's bones back in Sioux Falls, spreading in his mind like a cancer. It's well past time to put some miles between them, lead any lurking dangerous parties off of the scent. Maybe the only way to ensure his boys are safe is to keep them as far from this fight as possible.
Dean has had a shadowy hollowed look about him since they left Singer's, like he's expecting John to split just like Sammy did. There's a good amount guilt to be felt there, but not enough to change his mind. The guilt has nearly become an entity in its own right, a weighing presence so familiar it's like a friend walking alongside him. He never notices it until it trips him.
John hefts his duffel by both straps, the folded jeans and wadded shirts within feeling instead like a stack of bricks weighing down the bag in his hand. He knows better, knows it's just the guilt tripping him, given an assist by the strain on his sore arms and joints. He pauses a moment on the threshold, pauses even longer to lay a hand on the cold hood of the Impala parked outside the room.
The new truck is a larger vehicle, a hulking, intimidating mass of metal, but he's a bit disappointed in how quiet she is when he turns the key in the ignition. There's no hunger in the sound, no growl, nothing that gets his blood pumping. Alternately, there's no more hesitation to be felt as he pulls away from the room, waiting until he takes a sharp right out of the parking to flip on the headlights.
John drives far enough to be content that he can't undo what he's just done, comforts himself knowing he'll catch back up with the kid in a few days. Then he pulls off at the very next exit, into the first convenience mart he finds. The lighting under the outdoor canopy is bright and harsh, and it's no better when he makes his way stiffly through the automatic sliding doors. He steps around a tented Wet Floor sign and pours a large Styrofoam cup of whichever coffee pot is hot enough to be steaming, and moves quickly to the counter. He smiles tightly at the young clerk at the register, sets the cup down on a mat advertising cigarettes and wrestles his overstuffed wallet from his back pocket.
"Can I get you anything else, sir?"
"No, just the caffeine, thanks." Forces the politeness into his voice because he knows the bruises on his face are enough to startle, if not outright spook.
Mechanical beeps as the clerk keys the coffee into the register, then, "Sure thing, John."
John's head snaps up and he knows immediately. The body is different, but that, it turns out, is the giveaway. The face may be unfamiliar, but the cruel grin, the deliberate manipulation of the boy's features are the same. The middle-aged smoker in the trench coat, the expression he imagined producing the voice over the phone. The demon. "How'd you find me?"
An eighteen-wheeler rockets past on the interstate, illuminates the interior of the mart and a strange light dances across the kid's eyes. Not black, the way it's supposed to be, the way he's studied. The way Bobby warned.
He raises index finger to temple, taps once, smiles.
Mind readers. Fuck, Bobby, you coulda mentioned that. "You knew where I was gonna be, that mean…"
"I know where your boys are, too?" The grin widens. "Sure."
John swallows, tries to bring the attention back round to himself. He focuses on breathing, forces all thoughts from his mind. "You gonna kill me now? Make a hell of a lot of folks happy if you did."
"You've misunderstood my intentions with you, John."
"I know who you are now. What you are," he amends.
The boy laughs. No, not the boy; the demon pulling the strings. "Let's call a spade a spade, John. I told you what I was."
John tilts his head, acknowledges the concession. "And because you did, I know how to kill you."
"Do you now? That must explain why I'm standing here, very much alive and well."
"I know how to send you back to Hell."
"That's not quite the same thing, is it? And anyhow, what makes you so sure whatever exorcism you've managed to crap out is going to work on something like me?"
"You saying it won't?"
The kid smiles, wags a finger. "Very good, John. Nice try." He steps back away from the counter, sticks out a bottom lip John wants to reach out and rip off of his face. "No need to fret. Just don't forget what I told you about short leashes and straying pups. So long as you and your boys play nice and stay on track, we won't have to be seeing each other again."
John squints, opens his mouth, some smartass remark dancing across his tongue, but before he has a chance to speak the demon escapes the boy, a violent rush of dark smoke dissipating against the ceiling tiles and caged fluorescent lighting fixtures. The boy's limp body crumples to the floor. He rushes behind the counter, feels out a steady pulse, and thanks God for small miracles.
He shoots a look to the ceiling. "Oh, no," he breathes. "We'll be seeing each other."
Two days before
It's still autumn, but later in the season and already cold in the Eastern half of the country. Dean squints and shoves his hands deep into his pockets, bracing himself against a sudden, biting wind, thinking California would actually be nice right about now. He swallows the emotion of the moment, not quite sure what it is his father is looking for him to say. They haven't really been saying much to each other the past couple of days. "We need a truck?"
John squares his shoulders, winces and moves a hand to massage the sore right joint. "Couldn't hurt."
The truck, a used, beaten and rusted black pickup, isn't much, but it doesn't have to be to have cost the rest of the cash Dean knows about. He has his own hard-won stash of pool and poker earnings, but he's not about to relinquish it all to his father, not when he's likely to be abandoned any day now. He finds a patch of oil slick making rainbows in the pockets of sunshine breaking through the clouds, trains his eyes there. This life's gotten him used to assuming the worst, and this one hurts. "When are they coming to get the car?" He asks it quickly, like ripping off a bandage.
"How do you mean?"
"Well…" Dean gestures to the truck, removing his hand from the warmth of his jeans pocket in lieu of having to say the words.
John turns to him and quirks an eyebrow. "Nothin's happening to the car, Dean. Truck's for me. Figure I've been keeping the driver's seat warm for you long enough. She was always going to be yours."
All of this without looking at him, and in such a rush of words Dean's not sure he actually heard him right. He glances over at his father and sees the keys outstretched.
Dean doesn't move to take them right away, but turns to the Impala. His Impala, if he'll have her. A peace offering. No big talks, no more fights. No explanations and no apologies, not ever out loud at least. It's just John and Dean against the world and for what it's worth, his father is sorry for it to have come to this.
Because he already knows all of this, and John knows he does, there's no need to say the words, no matter how badly Dean might need to hear them.
For all of the times Sam's called him a good little soldier, Dean never really feels he's justified the jab until he takes those keys.
Everyone has a price.
Three days before
Interstate 90
Fleeing doesn't seem to leave a much better taste in John's mouth than being fled from. He's withdrawn as ever, answering questions with grunts and shrugs, noncommittal about every inquiry Dean poses. There's something subtly different about the look in his eyes, something different about what he's hiding from Dean this time.
Dean doesn't know if this new personality trait is some form of perpetual regret finally bubbling over, or just an evolved form of his ever-present solemnity. He looks at his father with mixed feelings, his emotions like a well-stocked vending machine he's feeding quarters and blindly pressing buttons, not knowing what's going to come out when he opens his mouth.
Day two is the peak of bruising, and John's face is a swollen black mountain range, skin dark and shiny, pulled tight with swelling. Dean should feel guilty, ashamed, looking at the damage he's caused, but he doesn't. Once or twice he's felt like tap dancing, some sort of satisfaction at bearing witness to such a vulnerable, pathetic, utterly lost state in John Winchester. It's something begging to be taken advantage of.
They're in the car again, always in the car, always heading somewhere, though it seems they're driving in circles these days.
"Where are we going?" There wasn't a call. There isn't a job. There's nowhere for them to be, just more places for them to not be.
Miraculously, John doesn't seem to see anything that can be gained by another lie at this point, so he gives a noncommittal jerk of his head that isn't any kind of answer, but Dean recognizes the motion and can translate as shut up about it, kid.
But Dean doesn't want to shut up. That wasn't just a friend they left back there, it was family. It was Dean's only remaining sympathetic ear and shoulder to lean on.
John sniffs and winces, brings a hand unconsciously to the bruise on his cheek before catching himself.
A barrier has been breached. They've marked each other, and there's no reason now to be afraid of what words can do. So Dean asks, "What did you do to Bobby?"
John doesn't look over but his grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles drawn white while his face flushes crimson. "Little old to be startin' to get a mouth on ya, aren't you?"
Dad's always used comments like this to put Sam in his place, to acknowledge the disrespect while demonstrating his authority. Flexing his paternal muscles. More than anything, it's a way to get out of answering whatever usually smartass question has been posed, regardless of how justified it may have been.
Dean sighs. Looks like, on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it with some difficulty, like a hangover painkiller with warm, fizzy beer chaser. "Yes, sir," he says instead, at his core the same lapdog chickenshit he was before this entire ordeal.
John regards Dean a moment, for some reason decides to reward his bluntness with an answer. "I didn't do anything to Bobby. People don't always see eye to eye. That'll be the end of this conversation, Dean."
"Sounded like more than not seeing eye to eye to me. He said you were on a path that's gonna kill you. What'd he mean?"
"I mean it, Dean. We're not going to discuss this any further."
Dean stares at the marks left by his own hand. He was given one swing; he won't get two. "What happened that night, in the bar?"
"You know what happened."
"Maybe, uh…maybe you should stop and think before you next decide to get blackout drunk and pick a fight in a bar."
"I started it?"
He barely believed it then, sure as shit ain't buying the story now. "No, Dad, I don't think I do. Don't you think I deserve to?" He swings anyway, throws one for nothing, because he can't imagine he has much left to lose. Dad's always taught him that owed and owing are concepts with no place in their world. There's just surviving, just one foot in front of the other.
But John blinks. "Yeah, I do." He sighs, guides the car to the rocky berm and throws her gently into 'park.'
Dean's heart picks up pace, cha-thunks so loudly he's sure his father can hear.
John chews his lip a long, uncharacteristic time. "It wasn't a fight, and you didn't start it. That was a lie."
Dean knew it then, knows it as his father is saying the words, so his brain skips right past anger and indignation like taking a big step over a puddle in the street. "So then what…"
His father stares straight ahead out of the windshield, maintains a grip around the steering wheel. "You were attacked, to get to me." The pause before he speaks next is long enough to bypass truth and leap straight into bullshit. "By what, I don't know. Why, I don't know. Will it happen again?" His face hardens. "No, it won't. That I do know."
He's still lying, the voice in Dean's head says. He sure as shit knows something.
Shut up. Dean swallows, nods. "Okay."
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Bobby had no intention of giving John the satisfaction, but he's drawn outside anyway, does it for the kid. He leans heavily on the porch railing and watches moonlight reflecting off of the ass-end of the Impala as she escapes in a cloud of dirt and gravel kicked up from the spinning tires. He can hear her long after he loses sight of glinting chrome, the growl of the engine bouncing off of thick tree trunks in the otherwise silent night.
Rumsfeld rises with a drag of untrimmed nails along hardwood and moves to his side. His long-time companion can sense the emotions as they pour from Bobby one after another, unable to focus on any one thought as the dust cloud settles. He pushes his nose into Bobby's thigh with a whine.
Damn it, John. Bobby shakes his head, puts the old dog at ease with a brief, distracted scratch behind the ear. "I hope you know what you're doin.'"
He figures that's about the only thing his old friend could possibly have left going for him.
To be continued...
I'll be updating chapters on Saturdays and Tuesdays. There will be eight chapters in total. Hope you all enjoy this ride!