Gypsy Soul to Blame

SPOILERS for seasons 2-3, namely 3x2,"The Kids Are Alright". Title from a line from "Colder Weather" by Zac Brown Band. No copyright infringement intended. For entertainment only.

Dean sits in the bar, nearly empty despite the fact that it is past midnight on a Saturday, downing shot after shot of the hard stuff, hoping the emptiness will fade to nothingness. He knows Sammy is waiting at the motel, no doubt minutes away from dropping his demon deal research to haul his ass back home. Home… what a joke. Dean laughs bitterly at the thought and orders another drink. The bartender (super hot, dark hair, full, pouty mouth… definitely his type if he even cared at the moment) gives him a skeptical look, deciding whether or not to cut off this gorgeous stranger who has already had more than he should have; shrugs and pours another shot. "On the house," she says. "Looks like you could use it. Last one, though," she adds with a smile. Dean nods (is it a not? Shit, it's been fucking forever since he's been this drunk. Maybe not since Sam had left for Stanford) and downs the drink.

"Care to tell me what's wrong, hun?"

Great. The chick is being nosy. Dean would have rolled his eyes if he was able to, but instead manages to shake is head. "Nope," he slurs, and thankfully the young girl doesn't push. Instead, she pulls out her pad and pen and scribbles a number.

"No, thanks."

"It's for a cab," she responds, unoffended by Dean's presumptuous remark. "From the looks of things you are in no shape to drive. And it'd be a shame to total your ride. My dad used to own a '67 Impala."

"Yeah?" Even when drunk, Dean can always talk about Baby. It's as natural as breathing for him, and for a few minutes he forgets the pain of leaving Lisa and Ben. Ben: the little boy Lisa insisted wasn't his, but for some reason just felt like his own flesh and blood. He forgets of how he regrets leaving them, of how he'll never get to see the boy grow up, the taste of Lisa's soft kiss. The two talk for almost an hour, the pretty waitress sharing of how she had always watched her dad work on his Impala. "Tried working on it myself, but never could get the hang of it. Let's just say I admire from a distance." Dean tells of his own dad, how he had taught him all he knew about cars. "Totalled mine in an accident a year back. Rebuilt it from scratch."

For a moment, Dean is silent, picking up his empty shot glass and setting it down again, as if debating ignoring the bartender's advice and ordering another drink regardless. And then, to his complete surprise, he finds himself talking.

"I knew this girl once. Hot, too. Sorry," he quickly apologizes, noticing the girl's mock outrage at the comment. "Her name's Lisa." Dean closes his eyes, remembering. "About nine years ago we had a fling, best weekend of her life. And that was it. I left Monday morning and never saw her again. Yeah, yeah, I'm a dick, right?"

"No," the young woman smiles. "If she was cool with it."

"Yeah, she was. But a month or so ago…" Dean sighs again. He has been trying to deny it. Hell, the last few weeks he's indulged in women, more alcohol than usual, all in effort to hide the fear he has of the future. And he's probably way too drunk to even talk about it; but somehow Dean manages to collect his thoughts, and tries again. "A month or so ago, I found out I only have a year to live."

The bartender's eyes widen in surprise, finally understanding the excessive drinking. "Jesus! I'm so sorry!"

"Don't be." Dean is never one to go for the pity party. "My own fault." The girl opens her mouth to protest, but wisely chooses not to pursue the fact further. "So I happen to be in town, run into her. And she has a kid."

"Yeah?"

"And he just turned eight."

"Fuck. So you think he's yours, huh?"

"Says he's not," Dean says, picking at a napkin. He's shredding it into tiny pieces, something he's never done before. It's surprising how many nervous ticks he's picked up in the last four weeks. "But she seemed ok that I was around, open for me to stick around, help with the little guy."

"Well, that's good."

Dean snorts. "Really? This time next year I'll be pushin' daisies."

"You don't know that for sure."

Dean sighs. "Yeah. I do. And I can't stick around just to kick the bucket a year later. Not fair to the kid. Besides, my brother and I kinda have a family business. Can't really leave that, you know." Dean feels a single tear slide down his cheek and quickly brushes it away, hoping his new friend didn't notice in the dark, smoky atmosphere. She smiles sympathetically at him, even when, in his drunkenness, Dean forgets about their conversation and starts to hit on her. "I think you need to go home," she says sweetly, reaching for the phone. "I'm calling a cab for you, should be here soon. And don't worry, nothing'll happen to your ride. I'll see to that."

"Nah, motel's not far," Dean answers, and gets up, tossing a wad of bills on the counter. "Thanks…."

"Mary," the girl answers, and Dean finds himself smiling despite the moisture once again threatening to spill tears. "Mary. That was my mother's name."

And before she can reply, Dean turns and leaves the bar, feeling, for the first time in weeks, a sense of peace.