The week's hunt had been a hard one. Dean had taken quite the beating; those damn demons had been full of piss and vinegar, and Sammy could have been quicker with the exorcism. Dean was glad Sam had gotten there when he did, but any longer and Dean probably would be in the hospital. Of course Sam had been fighting his own set of demons at the time too, so he couldn't really blame the kid. They were holing up just outside of Nashville, waiting for the bruising on Dean's ribs to subside. Sam had taken a wicked cut on the shoulder, too, and Dean was more concerned about that. He wanted the stiches to heal up a little before they got back on the road. Didn't want Sam to pull them out in another hunt, he hated having to stich him up.
It was good to just lay low for a few days, but the bad thing was the boredom. Sam spent hours researching or just reading lore, or working temp jobs, but Dean hurt too much for physical activity and reading lore got boring day after day. And he was still too tired to get out on the road. Sam had gone out for an honest day's work, and Dean was alone. Nothing was on except those ridiculously overwrought soap operas. He'd stopped on one called Days of Our Lives but couldn't stand five minutes of it. It wasn't as good as Dr. Sexy, MD so he turned the TV off. He decided to go for a walk.
He moved slowly, thinking about nothing. It was restful to just be a guy walking down the street on a nice afternoon. A guy who had to walk slowly because of various injuries, but still. There were no monsters to fight at the moment, no pain in the ass little brother to look out for, just Dean in the sunshine on a quiet street. Sam hated the life, always had, but these kinds of peaceful moments made it worthwhile for Dean. This is what he fought for; not just to save other people's lives, but for moments like this.
He paused in front of a pawnshop window. His eyes passed over the deadly looking knives, the tools for working on cars, even the small pile of DVDs. His eyes lingered on a guitar. Of course, he thought, just outside of Nashville the pawn shops would be chock full of guitars. People came here with guitars and a few bucks in their pockets, expecting to be the next big thing by the next week. They had to give up their dreams pretty fast, and once their money ran out, they pawned their guitars so they could buy another meal or buy a bus ticket home. Each guitar in the pawn shop represented an unfulfilled dream. Dean, a hunter all his life, could relate to that. He'd stopped allowing himself to want things, to have dreams, to think of the future, a long time ago. He didn't get to have a future or dreams, but he did his best to make sure other people did. That had to be enough for him, because he would never get more than that.
Looking at the guitar, he suddenly remembered a day, ten or fifteen years ago, when Caleb had taught him how to play guitar. John had been on a hunt, of course, and Sam had been skulking in the house, doing homework. Caleb had taken Dean out to the garage and put an acoustic guitar- much like the one in the window- in his hands. Caleb had spent hours patiently teaching him chords. He'd hummed a tune and Dean had followed along on the guitar, proud of his developing skill. That had been a good day, quiet like this one. Dean suddenly wanted that guitar in a way he hadn't wanted anything in a long time, just to see if he could still play, if he could still pick out a tune, if Caleb's teachings were still with him.
He went into the store, and emerged a few minutes later carrying the guitar. He went back to the motel, eager to try to play again. He played around for a while, trying to remember what exactly it was that Caleb had taught him, but he couldn't clear his head. The ache in his ribs was getting to be too much after his walk, so he carefully put the guitar down. He decided that a hot shower and some Tylenol would help. Twenty minutes later, he came out of the bathroom. He was wearing only a pair of jersey pajama pants and his hair was still damp form the shower, but his ribs hurt less and his head felt clearer.
He sat on the edge of the bed again and picked up the guitar. Closing his eyes, he pulled the memory of Caleb to the front of his mind. He remembered the smell of the garage, a mixture of dust and gasoline. The air had been so still, and Caleb's patient voice had seemed a little muffled in it, but the sound of the guitar had been clear. Dean, always a quick learner when it came to doing things with his hands, had done fairly well. Caleb's praise put a glow in his eyes, and he'd had a sudden vision of himself as a rock star, hero to millions. Without realizing, he began to hum the tune Caleb had been humming that day, and his fingers moved on the guitar, a little uncertainly at first, but with more confidence as the song continued. When the song was over, he started again, this time opening his eyes and watching his hands. After a couple more tries, he adjusted the guitar and tried again, his bare feet braced on the floor as he played. He smiled as he started to sing along, getting lost in the sound of the simple chords and his own voice.
Hours went by as he played with the guitar, trying different paces and different songs. But he kept coming back to Caleb's song, played it over and over until it sounded right to him. Just as he was about to break into a full version of the song, Sam came into the motel room, carrying two paper bags of food and a six pack.
"Hey Dean." He said, tired but satisfied from his day's work. He glanced at Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, and saw the guitar. Dean grinned up at him, pleased. "What's that?" Sam put the food on the small table and sank into a chair. Dean leaned over the guitar, pretending to adjust it.
"It's my guitar." Dean said, suddenly shy.
"You can't even play." Sam teased, not really wanting to fight, but feeling the need to nettle his brother. Dean shot him an injured look.
"Watch me." He said, and started to play. He sang along, his voice raspy and heart felt. Sam recognized Caleb's song; Caleb'd hummed it to himself a lot, and would sometimes pick it out on the guitar. When Dean finished, Sam smiled at him.
"Caleb?" he said. Dean nodded. The smile on Sam's face was a soft one as he remembered Caleb. he took two beers out of the pack, opened them, and offered one to Dean. Dean took a sip, the liquid cool on his throat. He looked up at Sam.
"Play it again, Sammy?" Dean asked, a hint of a smile on his lips. Now Sam nodded, closing his eyes. Dean sang it slower and lower. Sam's smile didn't leave his face as he listened. He joined Dean for the last verse.
"Take a load off Annie,
Take a load for free.
Take a load off Annie,
And, and, and, put it right on me." When the song was over, their eyes met, but neither said anything. Dean smiled at the look in his little brother eyes. Millions would never know that Dean Winchester had saved their lives, millions would never worship him. But Dean was okay with that, because he was still Sammy's hero. and for Dean, that was enough.