A/N: *peeks out of my little dark hiding place* Hey there! Yeah, I'm still alive and I'm really really sorry for being AWOL for so long. And it's not over yet. My exam starts in about two weeks. *panic* But my muse won't let me go. :)

I'm pretty sure many of you will be disappointed of this being a new small OS and not an update of 'Storm' or some other of my WIP. But I promise there will be more soon. Just bear with me.

A/N: An unbelievable huge thank you to Ridley C James for beta'ing this! Thank you so much hon! And to The Kritty for patiently reading and re-reading my story-snippets and all her wonderful comments and advices. But also a huge thank you to all the other amazing people out there who keep me sane in a time when my RL kinda really sucks (you know who you are)! *huge hug*

Okay, and now I will shut up! :)

Have fun reading! And reviews feed my muse and make my day. :P

Disclaimer: *looks around* At least I can pretend to own them… Yeah, right… okay, everything belongs to Kripke, the CW and Ridley C James. I just have fun playing with their toys. :)

Traveling Riverside Blues

Jimmy's Tavern was almost empty, just a few patrons sitting at the bar or at a couple of well-worn tables, drinking beer or stronger stuff.

The music from the old, ramshackle jukebox at the far end of the room drowned out the constant chatting of the other guests. The sound of Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb should have been comforting, soothing, but right now the music did nothing but to help intensify the pounding inside his head.

Dean shifted slightly on his chair, his gaze fixed on the half empty whiskey glass in his hand. His vision blurred for a second, as the headache went up a notch, followed by a wave of nausea. Pressing the cool glass against his forehead, Dean closed his eyes, taking slow, even breaths of stale, smoke filled air.

Some days just sucked – plain and simple, and this day was definitely high on his list of really fucking bad days.

They couldn't save everyone, fuck he knew that; a realization that came with experience – but when kids got involved in messed-up hunts, it wasn't so easy to accept that fact and move on, especially when it was particularly his fault.

If only he had been a little faster, not fighting a dizzy spell from his slowly manifesting flu, he could have saved the kid, Sam could have taken the shot at the Werewolf before it...

Pictures surfaced inside his head and suddenly the nausea was back, stronger than before. Dean swallowed hard, sweat covering his brow and upper lip.

There was no cure for Werewolf bites, it was a death sentence one way or another. He had sped things up.

"Thought I might find you here." Dean's eyes snapped open at the familiar voice next to him, a testament to how off his game he was. He placed the glass back on the table, watching Reaves sitting down on the stool opposite him.

"Did Sam call you?" Since their drive back to the motel, Sam had been hovering, trying to make him understand, that there had been no other choice as to shoot the kid; that even, if it seemed so fucking wrong and cruel, it had been the right thing to do. If it just would feel that way.

Dean couldn't deal with such reassurances right now. He just needed time to think, to lick his wounds and a lot of whiskey for that matter.

Caleb didn't answer right away, making a sign for the bartender to bring a second glass. He grabbed for the half full Johnny Walker bottle. Eventually gold eyes met Dean's glassy ones; the older hunter smirked, though Dean could easily see the worry flashing in Caleb's gaze. "That hurts, Deuce. Can't I just want to spend some time with you?"

"Not when you were at least a state over last time we spoke, which was this morning by the way." Dean took another gulp of the amber liquid, the whiskey leaving a burning trail on its way down his raw throat.

Caleb's face grew serious, his fingers absently playing with the silver ring on his right hand. "Okay, maybe the runt left a message, though I was already on my way when the call came." At Dean's questioning look he tapped a finger against his temple. "Psychic-hotline."

Sudden panic blossomed inside Dean's chest – made his stomach clench painfully, his hand shook slightly. "You had a vision?" It would have been the icing on the cake on this whole fucked-up mess.

"Hey, hey, hey, easy." Reaves held his hands up in a placating manner, concern evident on his face. "No vision or nightmare, I promise." A frown appeared on his brow.

"You reading me?" Dean asked wearily, refilling his glass.

"I don't have to. You're practically throwing your emotions at me."

"Then don't listen." The middle Winchester shot back, glaring at his best friend. Why the hell was everyone in Doctor-Phil-Mood today?

"It was why I was already on my way when Sammy called." Caleb explained calmly, ignoring Dean's last comment. He folded his hands around the whiskey glass, his gaze lingering on the rich amber liquid for a moment before meeting Dean's again. "I knew that something was up, Sam only confirmed it."

Dean sighed, running a hand over his face, wiping sweat away in that process. Damn, it was hot in here. "Look man, I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. It was a shitty day and the last thing I need are some unnecessary hallmark moments or a babysitter."

Caleb smirked. "Last time I checked Johnny didn't free me of babysitter duties." He emptied his glass. "So I'm afraid you're stuck with me. The runt too of course,"

Dean's mouth twitched, it was Caleb's way of telling him he had his back. "Yeah, right, d'Artagnan." Sometimes Reaves was just too easy.

"Hunting 101." The psychic emphasized and grinned, relaxing back into his chair. "I think even Johnny had read it once or twice." His gaze moved through the room, taking in the remaining guests before finally landing back on Dean.

The middle Winchester laughed humorlessly, for a moment totally lost in thoughts. He rubbed a hand over his burning eyes, not sure if the whiskey or the flu was catching up with him. "You know, I miss him." Dean's eyes traced a scratch on the worn tabletop, eventually meeting Reaves's. "I mean, yes, he'll probably have my ass for this fucked-up hunt but… I don't know, at least he would be here, would know what to do." His fingers tightened around the glass. "I'm so sick and tired of this whole AWOL shit."

"Deuce," Caleb started, searching for the right words. His hands slowly curling into fists. "I know John can be an ass more times than I would like to count, not to mention his whole priority problem, but -"

"He didn't call when I got tasered." Winchester added quietly, interrupting whatever Reaves wanted to say. He knew Caleb wasn't in a better place than he was, the only difference was that the psychic had no problem in voicing his disapproval about one of The Knight's moves. "It was you, Sammy and … Josh… who saved my ass back then." Dean closed his eyes, pressing the cool glass against his throbbing forehead.

"I shot the kid." He said in a low, guilt-ridden voice. "Boy never knew what happened to him, or that's what Sam is saying. Though I guess he's right. The kid was pretty dazed with the amount of blood he was leaking." Dean wanted to believe Sam, but the look he had seen in the eleven-year old's eyes betrayed that hope. Dean opened his eyes, the desperation inside of them clearly visible. "I was too slow. If I just…"

"Sam told me what happened out there." Caleb interjected. "Deuce, you did nothing wrong. It sucks, but some things are just unavoidable."

Dean kept quiet, closing his eyes once more, shifting the glass on his forehead. He was exhausted – physically and mentally. The pounding had reached head-splitting levels and a cough was building inside his chest.

The hand on his cheek was cool, startling. "Shit. Dean, you're burning up." Caleb's fingers brushed his forehead, a worried expression growing on the psychic's face.

Dean blinked his blurry vision into focus, tiredly batting Reaves's hand away. "It's okay. It's nothing." He coughed, deep and wet, his lungs leaden, his body finally deciding to give up on him.

Caleb snorted, fishing for his wallet, tossing a couple of bills onto the table. "Right. I told you before – you don't get to decide when it's okay, ever, remember?" He stood, moving next to Dean.

"You're not going to let that go, are you?" The middle Winchester sighed wearily, rubbing a hand over his face, breathing steadily in hopes to calm his queasy stomach.

"I'm persistent. Come on, let's head back to the motel." A smirk grew on Caleb's face, though it didn't fully reach his eyes. "Maybe we even catch the runt red-handed surfing porn."

Dean sighed again. He didn't want to go back not yet anyway but his body betrayed his determination. He emptied the rest of his whiskey. "That would be a new one. You know the kid, when he's surfing something it's more than likely some boring BBC documentary."

Reaves laughed. "Don't be so sure – I've heard they have some interesting stuff."

"Like you would know." Dean stood, not prepared for the sudden wave of lightheadedness, the combination of the flu and a lot of whiskey not really working in his favor. He swayed, stumbling against Caleb.

"Easy. I've got you." Caleb steadied him, the concerned expression back on his face. He lifted one of Dean's arms over his shoulder, feeling the younger man leaning into him. "Come on, let's get going."

End