Dean threw his surfboard onto the wet sand and shook salt water out of his sun-bleached, chin-length hair. Throwing himself onto the sand next to his beat-up board, he closed his eyes and let the heat of the sun dry his tanned skin. The crash of the waves on the shore was somewhat soothing to his scorched brain.
Mom… gone. Dad… gone. Sam…gone. Cas… gone. Bobby… he couldn't even bring himself to look the older hunter in the eye. As a matter of fact he couldn't really look himself in the eye for a long time after… everything happened.
Yeah, he tried playing house with Lisa and Ben. He loved Ben, he was a really great kid, but he couldn't love Lisa. She brought back memories he was not interested in having. Hunting brought back more hurt. Even his goddamned Impala… abandoned on Bobby's lot in the middle of the night a long time ago. He didn't want to see it for a long time. Maybe never.
In fact, everything he'd ever known and loved, from his music to his car to his damned leather jacket just cut him to the soul to even think about, so he did something new. He went out to California, picked up surfing, and neglected his typical 'high-and-tight' to the point where he looked like a goddamned hippie. But it was different. He didn't look like 'Dean' anymore, and that was OK with him.
In fact, he wasn't 'Dean Winchester' anymore. Dean Winchester was legally dead anyway. He was 'Rob Paige' now, (OK, so the music was still in his blood, even if the Led Zeppelin inspired name was a little mish-mashed) and he was just a quiet guy who kept to himself and worked at the local surf shop. Waxing a board wasn't too far from waxing a car, right? Well, maybe, but he couldn't go near cars of any kind. Besides, more hot chicks frequented surf shops than an auto mechanic's shop. He'd become notoriously shy, not nearly as flirtatious or lecherous. He didn't barhop, didn't hang around in strip clubs, didn't really even make friends. He just went home to his efficiency near the beach and made himself something or other to eat and vegged out on the couch. Dean didn't know who he was anymore, but he was happy with that.
As he stretched out on the sand, he tried not to think of the strange weather reports he'd seen on the news last night before shutting off the television. Hurricane-like weather in Kansas. Hurricanes. In Kansas. Definitely something he didn't want to think about ever again. If the world was going to end he wanted it to end without his knowing anything about it. The thought of the devil riding Sam like a pony as he tore the planet to pieces wasn't something he could deal with right now.
"Dude, what's with your tatt?" He heard a voice drawl from somewhere above him. He opened one green eye to squint at the teenager gawking down at him. "Do you like, worship the devil or something?"
His anti-possession tattoo. He felt a cold curl of sickness in his stomach as the word 'devil' hit him. The kid looked high, though, or at least perma-stoned. His anger faded and he just felt empty again.
"No. Its just… a design."
"Oh, dude, cool." The kid bobbed his head and continued on down the beach like he'd never stopped to ruin Dean's peace. Dean sighed. The angle of the sun in the sky told him it was almost noon and time to head to work. He rolled up off the sand and grabbed his board, trudging off down the beach.