First posted on UnGen, this story is a three part short that links 'Bearer of all light' with its sequel, 'Better to burn out, than fade away'.

Meeting of minds, breaking of hearts

Chapter 1 – And the thunderheads rolled in

Dean focused on the wide, grease spot, slowly soaking into the split wooden surface of the table. He didn't need to look up to see the out of date 'Buick Calendar' behind the till, or hear the soft country rock on the radio, all of which told him this diner was pretty unremarkable. Oily food, white trash waitress and those all too familiar grease spots all came as standard.

Transient drifters came and went unnoticed; ordered their own favourite poison and drifted back to their shadowy lives…until the need for their next fix of fat.

John sat in the booth opposite his son, but made no attempt at small talk. He was a man who spoke only when he'd something to say and right now, he was lost in his own world, full of dark and malevolent thoughts. Thoughts he'd been trying to push out of his mind for a while now, but couldn't seem to quite push hard enough.

Dean had only eaten three mouthfuls of scrambled egg skillet but already felt nauseous, nothing wrong with the food – just the company. For the last two weeks, spending any time with the old man had been a trial and he was now nearing his own personal threshold.

He'd never felt anything quite like this before. Always the peacekeeper and happy to fulfil that role, Dean was used to being the one to get in the middle, the one who took the flack from both sides without complaint. But now he was brimming over with an inner rage and he could pinpoint the exact time it'd started.

The day Sam had walked out; been pushed away by the constant arguments, the incessant orders, the butting of heads…and had headed for a better life without them; without him.

He'd been on the verge of vomiting even then; his body needing to purge itself of the intense resentment he felt towards his father, the man he held singularly responsible for his loss. But the good soldier, forever inside, controlled him more than his emotions ever could and, once again, he sat and waited to be told what to do, what to think, and what to feel by the man sitting in front of him.

With a gruff voice, John nodded his chin to Dean's breakfast special. "You gonna finish that?"

"I'm done."

With no acknowledgement the older man threw a handful of bills on the table, got to his feet and made for the door. With Dean automatically falling into his usual place, one step behind, they walked in silence towards the large black chevy.

Climbing assertively into the driver's seat, John waited for his son to slam the passenger door before turning and fixing him with a dark, poisonous stare. "Dean, this attitude of yours stops now, you got me?"

"Don't know what you're talking about." Dean's eyes tracked back to the dashboard but his tone was prickled in defence, body stoically rigid.

"Sam is gone…get over it. We still have work to do and if he couldn't hack the job, then its best he isn't here."

Dean could feel his perfectly constructed emotional floodgates begin to crumble.

Even with Sam over 300 miles away, the need to defend his brother's character was overwhelming and it couldn't be denied. "You think he left because he couldn't do the job?" He swivelled on the bench seat and looked at his father's face, desperately searching for any sign of true feeling from the older man. "Are you crazy? He left because he couldn't stand living with you, with your drills and your 'need to know'. You drove him out dad."

John glared at his eldest son as he felt himself rise to the bait. He'd never heard Dean speak to him like this; he didn't like it one bit and never wanted to hear it again, so when he answered, he spoke slow, loud and clear. "You'd better watch your mouth with me boy, you're not too old for me to knock some manners into you. What Sam did, he did for himself. He's a grown man and he wanted to leave, so were better off without him. If his mind's not on the job he's a liability and you know that, just as well as I do."

Dean felt the last of his resolve crumble under the condemnation he was being forced to listen to. He turned to face his father full on, his tone accusing. "Better off without him? You made him leave, you drove him out, and you told him to never come back…SO, WHAT HAPPEN'S NOW, DAD? AM I NEXT?"

John felt an icy hand of rage clench in the pit of his stomach and he locked eyes with Dean for what felt like an eternity, but said nothing. Just stared out; and immovable force clashing with an unbreakable object. Dean waited a full five seconds before opening the car door and climbing out, the frame rattling as he slammed it in his wake. He stalked off down the street; hands thrust deep in his pockets and didn't look back.

Sitting completely still in the drivers' seat, hands clenched tight around the wheel, John tried to breath. If he was honest he'd known this was coming, in fact he was surprised it'd taken so long. Dean was hurting; he knew that, beyond a shadow of a doubt…because he was hurting too.

Reaching into his pocket, he found his old leather wallet and withdrew a small square of yellowed paper. He rubbed the tiny stained photo between thumb and forefinger slowly, almost reverently, as if somehow the small contact would cause the image to spring to life. It'd languished, folded and hidden in his wallet for over twenty years, only occasionally seeing the light of day. The smiling face of Mary Winchester gazed out at him with such love and joy written all over it that John could hardly bear to look at her. In her arms she cradled Sammy, his face a strange mess of fledgling emotion and at her side, tiny Dean sat beaming into the camera. John remembered how they'd both been convinced this had been Sammy's first smile, and had forced him to capture it for posterity.

He'd been convinced it was wind, but once those two put their heads together it was easier just to agree and go along for the ride.

Now he sat hunched in the safety of the black car, looking at the image of the three most beloved people he had ever known, and wondered, how come he was sitting alone.

ooooo

Dean didn't know how long he'd walked, or how far he'd travelled and he didn't much care; he'd no idea where he was headed, hadn't even considered that far ahead. For a while he wandered aimlessly in a numb stupor through the streets, barely avoiding the bustling people who pushed and jostled each other as they rushed to live their important, 'normal' lives. At that moment, Dean hated every single one of them.

It was only when he found himself sitting on a park bench as the sun went down, that he realise just how long he'd been drifting. Looking up at the darkening sky as the thunderheads heavy with rain rolled in on the horizon, he couldn't help thinking this was strangely appropriate. The night Sam left had been marked by a storm too, a big, threatening thunderstorm that mirrored the emotions of that night. Thinking back, he remembered the look of determination on his brothers' face as he'd marched out of the door and down the porch steps, into the downpour and out of his life.

Dean watched as people ran for cover from the drizzle. Was Sam was one of those people now? One of the normal ones? He'd spent so much of his childhood doing everything in his power to ensure his baby brother had a taste of 'normal'…and now all that effort, all that sacrifice had come back to bite him in the ass…and it hurt.

On the other side of the road, a luminescent beer light suddenly flickered to life, casting a blue and red hue across the dampening sidewalk. 'Yeah, a drink looks real good right about now.' He stood and slowly and made his meandering way towards the alcohol and hopefully, a little oblivion.

ooooo

Dean embraced the numbness so he didn't have to think, didn't have to remember, didn't have to feel. He drained the amber liquid from the tiny glass in one gulp, the whisky burning its way down his throat as he swallowed; not his drink of choice maybe, but it had its uses. 'Ah, Jack, you're the best anaesthetic in the world, dude.'

Gesturing to the buxom blond waitress serving the other patron and pointing to his shot glass, he gave her the best heavy lidded, lop sided grin he could muster. She noticed the smile straight away, already decided she liked this one, and sashayed in his direction…leaning forward to afford Dean a very generous view of the goods on offer. He tried to focus on the numerous blurry images of the barmaid's huge chest, but it just made him feel queasy.

Looking into her eyes instead, he treated her to a wide drunken smile. "You are one stunning figure of a woman, you know that." He'd no idea how slurry he sounded, or how corny.

Smiling warmly back at him, she shook her head slowly. "And, I think you've had enough, sugar. You got a ride?"

"You offering?"

She giggled coyly. "Not you're lucky day, hon." She wiggled her ring finger in his face showing her wedding band, and winked suggestively.

'Ah well.' If he were honest with himself, there was no way he could have managed anything other than a brisk lie down anyway. He stood on shaky legs and watched as she sidled away to start flirting with the next drunken low life. The freakishly tall, lanky lowlife that reminded him of Sam every time he'd looked up, but then everyone reminded him of Sam. And suddenly he had to get out, fast. Making his way to the door, not bothering to look back, he pushed past a group of new customers as they made their way in.

As the cool night air hit him, he felt the bile rise up in his throat, barely making it around the side of the building before 'Jack' made an unwelcome and colourful return. With tremors wracking his body, and one hand braced against cool stone, Dean vomited whisky, bile and pain in equal measure.

Wiping his chin with the back of one hand, he sniffed hard and spat, taking a deep breath and pushing both palm heels into sore eye sockets. He tried to stifle the stinging tears threatening to form, tried to allow his body to relax against the wall, making a distinct and concerted effort not to think of what Sam might be doing right about now.

A then, a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye jolted him from his thoughts; he looked up to see a dark figure moving in.

The first punch drove into his sternum, forcing him forward onto his knees; the second, arched towards his temple as if in slow motion, but he knew he couldn't avoid it. The sharp ring on his attacker's finger sliced through soft skin barely missing his eye as it clouted him to the ground, and he grunted involuntarily as a booted foot slammed into his side and flipped him onto his back.

In a distant part of his mind, Dean could remember being told that the human body could only deal with one intense pain at a time, and as he lay there, on the cold wet ground, he wondered if that were true as the black shiny boot came driving into his ribs once more.

TBC

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