The motel room was messier then normal- clothes lay half piled on bags, and take out food tossed away in an over-flowing garbage bin. Those garbage bins were to small to hold anything at the best of times.
With the sun just beginning to peek over the tops of the unawakened buildings, The sturdily built man hauls a heavy black duffel bag that rattles lightly outside their floor-level room. The trunk of the old muscle car of a Chevy Impala that sits with its trunk ajar just outside the door in a near-empty parking lot.
His footsteps fall heavily on the way back indoors, the heavy boots moving across the dingy, yellowing carpet to the bed closest the door where the man began adjusting the pile of clothing into a unorganized heap inside another bag. The alarm clock on the shared bedside table red a vibrant 5:44 am- and to the left of it a young man was still sleeping in a tangle of covers.John's pacing frame finally brings the attention onto Dean, who even in the best of times was a graceless bastard. As it was conscious, so it can be seen in the way he sleeps; with one leg tangled around the sheets in the hope of finding balance between the too-hot and too-cold as most motel rooms tended to be. Yet despite his tangled sprawl there was an odd amount of space he lent to the other side of the bed.
Like a phantom limb, Dean was used to making room for one more.
Sam.
Dean's eyes shot open and his planted cheek lifted from the pillow. In the next second, the greens lacquered under the weight of the morning. He shoved up, rubbing his eyes and immediately looked to his right at...
Nothing.
The clock. 5:44. He overslept.
Dean curses under his breath, dedicating the rest of his weight to the effort of pushing himself out of the semi-warm bed. He sat at the edge, rubbing the stubble on his jaw. An odd prickling curled down his spine, and once again he looked over his shoulder to the opposite side of the bed."Time to move." The voice comes before Dean has a chance to get his bearings. There's a sort of measuring glance over towards his son as he continues gathering the rest of the important belongings from the room- he reassembles the hand gun that was left on the table, snapping it back together and putting it inside his jacket where it's easily accessible.
"got a call from out in South Dakota." He didn't need to tell Dean to get the ball rolling- although he was itching to. He over slept, but they weren't going to be behind schedule. He'd just have to get it together in a hurry- it should take less time to get organized without Sam there, not more.
They were leaving California... and if they left they weren't planning on coming back any time soon for anything other then work. If Sam wanted to be apart of the family, his time was running awfully short.
John stayed busy, holstering a knife and tossing the motel key on the table top to leave behind.Dean rolled to his feet, sliding his jacket on from where it draped over the lamp shade. In same motion, he slipped the knife from the nightstand and into his thigh holster. It was clockwork, perfected by 23 years of the making.
Dean didn't need John to know how to live his life, but if he wanted to be smart he'd be damned not to listen. That's where Sam went wrong. For a kid practically born in the family business, Sam sure could bitch and moan. And frankly, if Sammy wanted to leave so bad than good riddance. It just shows how much he appreciated all that John and Dean sacrificed for the bitch.
But despite the thought, Dean's eyes shot up, doused in an inexplicable panic. South Dakota.
He wasn't stupid, he knew dad was trying to put as much space between him and Sam, leaving Dean strung in the center. "What about the Mexicali case?"John doesn't look over but the eyes are on him and he knows it- Dean's stare wasn't really a subtle one, and he knew what he was thinking to. Fact was, he didn't want to hear it.
"Doug's taking over. something weird is happening up in South Dakota, not sure what it is but its closer to what we're looking for then some haunting." Point blank. He felt his voice take a bit of a edge that was short. This was what was happening- he needed to check it out, because it might be what their after.
He scratches the heavy stubble that's grown in on his jaw looking over to the bed that's in disarray, thinking the place has a bit more space with on less person. his jaw sets and he hauls up the last of his bags. It was a little bit more empty, too.
He moves on to toss the luggage into the back of the Impala as the sun creeps slowly higher in a yellowy hue now, illuminating the buildings in a glow.
He had a knee-jerk reaction to back off, give dad the satisfaction of a compliant morning to match the compliant week Dean's been willing to lend him. After 7 days, though, patience tends to wane thin-especially when it's toward your father.
Dean's jaw set, a mirror reflection of his father's. He bent over, reaching the last of his effects off the nightstand. His amulet.
He strings it around his neck, towing after John outside where the crisp California morning assaults his senses into full alert. "So we're not talking about Sam, then? Just, packing up and moving on?" Dean's cheeks hollow, it wouldn't be the first time he disobeyed John, but he knew the consequence of doing so.
And he was facing it head on.
"He's your kid." Dean pushes, "I say we haul ass up to Stanford and talk some sense into him before it's too late."The slight impatience bubbles over into a general irritation, and you can see it. John closes the trunk loudly, looking over to Dean with a harsh furrowed brow and wonders if he's in the right mind or maybe he took a hit to the head a little to hard.
"We're not talking about Sam." He chooses to respond. Short and simple, keep it together. Dean isn't much of a morning person, never was. He moves around to the drivers side of the car.Dean licks his canine, peering out the sleepy street. In the next moment, he's heading over to the wrong side of the Impala. He leans over, a hand on the roof of the car, and faces the driver side window. "Look I'm not sayin' what he did was right. I'll be the first one to tell you that Sam's being a real freaking idiot." He stops, struggling as he considers his words carefully, "But we can't...leave him behind. We gotta go back."
John stops in moving to get into the car, and rests his leather-clad arm atop the roof while looking over to dean, impatient and in a hurry.
"You heard him Dean, he doesn't want to be apart of the family!" He snaps, it's rough and harsher then he meant but an emotion came with it that he hadn't realized he was still dealing with. His fingers curl in atop of the Impala's roof, and his jaw adjusts into a tight set, looking around the nearly empty lot of the hotel as if searching for answers he doesn't have. His son, his Sammy, wants to be separate...unassociated. Like he's embarrassed of them. Well John could make that happen- he could put a few hundred miles between them, then they'd see if he felt any degree of bad for abandoning his family...
Because it hurt being abandoned.Dean steels himself, unmoving as he takes a hit of the raw emotion. There were only a few occasions when Dean and seen his dad like this. Most of which were the result of booze, and accompanied by a yellowed picture of mom. That's when it hit Dean, and it hit him hard. Sam was now a fuel to the fire, a reason for dad to keep moving on without looking back.
If dad was gone before, what would happen now?
Dean slicked his fingers against the morning dew that coated the Impala, trying to find a way to brace himself. Hell or high water, the Winchesters always managed to stick together, find their way back home because they made a home out of wherever they were temporarily stuck.
No more.
The whole situation was stirring like a damned pressure cooker. It was a long time coming, sure. Each reunion with dad was matched with an argument, it was only a matter of time before they addressed the elephant in the room. Dean just didn't expect a freaking stampede.
"Yeah well, Sam's a stupid kid! That's why I'm sayin'-" Dean motions, "We haul up north, intercept, and-"
And what?
He motions, at a loss, "And we go from there."He faces him more, resting both arms on top of the car now but his eyes don't fall on Dean- he looks off and out, tense and uncomfortable with the subject. The man's hair is beginning to grey just the slightest, dotted here and there- they say that happens because of stress.
"You want to stay, you stay." He reasons gruffly, slamming the car door without getting inside. He moves to go back to the trunk, hauling just the bag of his clothes out with one of the duffles of packed up weapons.
"Finish the hunt." It sounds like a demand, or even a threat- theres no wiggle room, no argueing as he tosses the keys at Dean. Its not a question. this is where he would normall say 'Watch your brother' like he always does-... look out for Sammy. He doesn't, though. This time, it remains unsaid as he tosses his bags into the nearby truck. It doesn't belong to them.
...but within a minute or two, it does.
John's inside, stowing away a thin stick of metal on the passangers side.
Dean looks away, refusing to watch his dad or give any further recognition toward the argument, because the fact of the matter is it hurts like a bitch to see his dad taking the hit this hard. But his attention snaps back, and on the same reflex he catches the keys.
He watches the metal, unsure at first, then dissolving into a cloaked stare. The keys shift between his fingers, finding their place back in a new home.
Dean watches the truck start up, fog cutting through the early hour chill and a roar rattling the street. Within minutes, it turns into a black speck on the horizon headed east, and not coming back.
Dean looks down to the keys in his palm, rolling them over before noticing the lock on the door.
Within minutes he's inside the Impala.
Snap, roll, click.
He adjusts the seat, the mirrors, and buckles up. His fingers straighten and stretch around the wheel, admiring it. A damn luxury of a reprieve from the drama at hand.
Dean takes a minute slumping back to close his eyes, finding center, when-
His arm juts out, punching the back of his fist against the shot gun seat. Dean exhales a ragged breath, fuming before pushing the keys to the ignition. The car growls to a start, washing out Dean's frustrations with her rumbling purr. There's no soothing sound quite like it.
Frustration ebbs away, leaving Dean...number. He gathers a breath.
"Damn it, Sammy." He growls.
Within a few minutes, the Impala curls out of the lot and onto the road.
Headed North. -