Anniversary of Tears

She's crying on the inside.

High heeled leather boots, not the expected stiletto but a chunky heel because it's more practical for running or kicking ass. The almost obscenely short skirts are a distraction, for her or for her admirers. Probably both although only her admirers are distracted enough to miss it. The normally cheeky grin lacks its usual luster; the mischief is missing from the depths of those impossibly blue eyes.

Dean sees it. He can't miss it now that it's gone. That sassy attitude of hers isn't quite up to par and he feels the pang of loss when he realizes it. He's not really all that great at the emotional stuff. There's no magic divining stick to help him suss out what's wrong. So he does what comes naturally. He asks Sam. "What's wrong with her?" But Sam's not as in tune to Cal as Dean's always been. He doesn't get that the more she showboats the more she has to hide. "Dunno, man. Looks like the same old to me." And it would to the average Joe because going out to raise a little hell is all Cal, all the time. He'd expected more from Sam, even if he was a little worse for wear. "Nah. Something's off." "Why don't you ask her?" "Because she likes talking about her feelings about as much as I do, Sam, which was why I was hoping I could get something useful out of you." Well then, color him disappointed. Sam grunted in a disgruntled sort of way and stalked off toward the bar, looking for another beer.

It's when he catches himself staring at her over the pool table that Dean really starts to hate himself. There's really no good reason why he shouldn't say something. In keeping with the games Cal likes to play while out, he approaches her like any other poor sap in the bar she'd shot down so far. Part of her fun is to pretend like they don't really know each other. Easier to hustle the locals that way if she so happens to feel like it on a particular evening. Tonight's not one of those nights. She smiles wide, but it's not real enough to make it to those eyes he can't help but be riveted to.

He's sidled up close to her, pretending to flirt and his voice is low and intimate in her ear when he asks. "What am I missing?" Because there's got to be something, she's been downhearted all day. "It's the end of July." Is her answer, she can't even look at him once the words are out. Like if she makes eye contact there will be no controlling herself anymore.

And of course she's upset. "This the first time you haven't been back for the anniversary since…" Since her mother's death, end of July when she'd been seven. Ouch. Even for Dean that was a tough one to forget. "Yeah. Didn't think much of it, but…" But apparently she was human after all. "Okay. Let's go." Sam had to have known. He was already heading toward the door when Dean gestured to him it was time to go. The night was young, the grave marker close enough to make it in time.

Salt Water Doesn't Always Come From the Ocean

The salt tracks are a dead giveaway. The man thinks he's so stealthy, hiding out in Bobby's salvage yard to cry the bitter tears he'd like to make everyone believe he's incapable of. Only the folks that really matter? They know better.

Sam goes out to him first, but that doesn't help a thing. No one's surprised when the guy gets barked at for his trouble or when Dean sends him packing, back to the house. Bobby has a cold beer waiting and an 'I told you so' look that Sam wisely ignores. The men are ready to just let the Caveman outside be, to lick his wounds or drown himself in sorrow. That's when Cal decides it's time to step in. Never send a dude to do a chick's job.

She makes a lot of noise, mostly to save him some dignity in case there was any snuffling going on. No sense in approaching the guy about his feelings if she emasculated him first, right? So Cal takes her time about it, rooting around the yard to give him a chance to wipe his face and gather up some composure before walking up to him from the side.

He's good. Years of experience had served him well. A person couldn't even tell that he wasn't just being super serious, if they didn't notice the salt tracks that had formed in the stubble that dusted his cheeks. Their eyes meet and hold as if their lives depend on the eye contact. There's no jab or tease, Cal doesn't even open her mouth to speak. She just cups his face in her hands and gently wipes away what he hadn't thought to hide.

Dean's lips part and he's going to say something and he's going to regret it because it won't be nice. They both know it, just like they both know he's really not going to get the chance to get it out. "I know." She tells him and touches her forehead to his. He wants to be mad at her. It's just so much easier to get angry than feel all that other complicated, girly shit. But when she's looking at him like that, just letting him be what he needs to be, he can't hide from it. Not any of it.

So he holds her close, anchoring himself to one of the few things that don't budge in the crazy messed up chaos that is his life. His hands on her hands on his cheeks and it's nothing to tilt his face enough so it's not their foreheads touching but their lips. It's a kiss borne of hunger, desperation in the taste of the salt water on their lips. Later they'd find themselves some real privacy and he'd try to forget himself in her for a while until it all got easier to bear again. For now it was enough to just feel.

Dean in Hell and the Power of Salt Water

Time's hard to keep track of where Dean is now. Hell's not exactly known for its clocks. It's not exactly the kind of place that screams 'time flies when you're having fun' either. He really doesn't have a clue how long he's been on that damned rack, the one that's been tearing him to pieces until there's literally nothing left. Then he's there again, right back on the rack; screaming at the top of his lungs and being reduced to shreds all over again.

Seconds last hours, minutes go on for days and days might as well be centuries for all they're putting him through. Time stops ever so briefly in those moments when Dean ceases to physically exist. In the space of a heartbeat he hears Sam's voice, feels the sting of something wet on his wounded soul. A distant memory perhaps, of Sam crying over a body torn to pathetic shreds by the Hell Hounds the day his deal came due. It's those tears that heal him, sort of. They are the reason he becomes whole again. They are the reason the damned demons can hurt him, over and over again and yet he can't bring himself to hate them.

It's been an impossibly long time, each new act of evil worse than the last, especially now that they are done with Dean's own hands. He's resigned himself to this fate worse than death. That's when all hell actually breaks loose. Chaos takes hold, not a soul or monster has a clue what's going on over the wailing all around them. Somewhere deep within the hunter's instinct remains, the tiniest spark of it springing to life long enough to have him crouching and waiting to see what this thing is. Maybe he could kill it. He's done worse down here.

He'd thought the torture had been the worst but when his shoulders start to burn Dean knows he couldn't have been more wrong. It's not his skin that's burning, that stuff is still topside with his corpse. Whatever had grabbed hold of him was melting an imprint on to his very soul.