The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.
To my knowledge, this is a brand spankin' new pairing. I scoured the internet trying to find someone else who had done it first, and to no avail. Please let me know if you've got any advice on writing them together. I'm shooting in the dark over here.
Sam Winchester hadn't stopped driving since his brother and Castiel disappeared in a flash of Dick. The Impala was in working condition after Meg's stunt, or at least decent enough to drive. He'd watched Dean rebuild her enough to know he'd pop out the dents and buff the scratched paint, but that could wait. It all could wait. All Sam needed was to get as far from ground zero as possible, to leave the aching loss rising in his chest amongst the battered and broken vessels of Leviathan. But every familiar city, every highway, had left a trail of memories for him to find. Hunts from his childhood, cross-country drives with Dean, places he and Jess had planned to travel to after graduation. For a moment, Sam would smile fondly, but soon the warmth of nostalgia would fade into the bitter chill of reality. Everyone he had ever loved was dead, and he'd keep driving until the day he was prepared to face that fact.
The first week of mindlessly crossing the country crawled by at a snail's pace. Sam hadn't paid attention to where he was going, hadn't actually looked at a road sign in days, and when he realized he'd only made it so far as Louisiana, his heart dropped. Louisiana wasn't far enough. It held ghosts of his past too difficult to deal with. He had to keep running, but Baby begged to differ and threw off one of her tires just outside Shreveport.
Sam was sitting on the hood of the Impala, a beer in hand and the cooler opened at his feet, when a truck parked behind him on the shoulder. He turned toward the truck as the engine died, watching as the Goliath behind the wheel stepped out of the vehicle. Sam could only imagine what comments Crowley would have made at the guy's expense - it wasn't often you found someone larger than Sam.
The man stepped forward after closing his door, taking a long look at the Impala before speaking. "Kansas, huh?"
"Not for a long time." Sam took a long pull from his beer, dropping the empty bottle back into the cooler. It joined four others, leaving only one buried, unopened, in the quickly melting ice. "It's just an old plate."
The man walked toward the front of the car, his body casting a massive shadow across Sam and the hood. "Yeah. So, saw your tire back the road a bit. Need a spare?"
Sam tucked his chin against his chest, exhaling sharply through a small grin. "Yeah, the trunk stores... other things."
The man rolled up his sleeves as he walked back to the bed of his truck, pulling a jack and a tire from beneath a ladder and a few 2x4s. "Here," he dropped is bounty on the ground at the Impala's passenger side, "it's too big, but it'll get you to Bon Temps just fine."
Sam slid off the hood and wobbled on his feet, the five beers rushing to his head. He grabbed the tire iron from the backseat before sitting near the front axle. "What the Hell is a Bon Temps?" He struggled removing the hub cap, watching the iron and the cap spinning in tandem. The more they spun, the larger his annoyed sneer. He threw the iron to the ground, flinching subtly as it screamed upon hitting the asphalt.
"Move." The man, after grabbing the tire iron, stood over Sam until he scooted back. He made quick work of replacing the tire as Sam reclined in the nearby grass, the overwhelming heat weighing him down. His eyes were half shut, his face relaxed into an almost smile, when the man appeared looming above him with brake dust streaked across his shirt. "It'll be an uneven drive, so take it easy. I'm headed toward Bon Temps if you want to follow me into town, get yourself a tire that fits proper."
Sam leaned up on his elbows, staring at the tall, dark and beastly man hovering above. "I really shouldn't drive. Baby's been through enough today without me wrapping her around a tree. But thanks-" Sam paused, searching for a name he couldn't remember whether he knew.
"Alcide."
"Sam."
"Well, Sam, you're gonna turn left about half a mile up the road. That'll take you straight into Bon Temps, and Delmont's yard is on the right. Can't miss it. Just leave my tire there, tell him I'll be back for it later."
Sam continued staring at Alcide with glazed eyes, the dreamy sort of look a man got when confused. "I'm sorry, but what was your name?"
"Alcide. And sober up fast, kid. Swampland ain't no place for your kind at night."
"My kind? What the Hell does that mean?" Sam sat up, anger radiating off him. He was used to, could even appreciate, the "you must be antiquers" comments when Dean was around. But Dean wasn't around anymore. Another wave of nostalgia crashed over him and turned sour as it receded.
"You're the prep school jock who hasn't worked a day in his life kind. You got lady hands, kid. Can't even change a tire."
"You," Sam got to his feet, standing face to chin with Alcide, "you suck. No, you're all the suck. These hands," he held them at shoulder height, "could squeeze the life out of that tree trunk you call a neck."
Alcide laughed and cuffed Sam on the shoulder, knocking him slightly off balance. "That's real cute and all, but take it easy. You'll hurt yourself." And with that, Alcide turned on a heel and got back in his truck, throwing the jack in the bed on his way. Sam was breathing dust before he knew it, his view of the truck obscured by the cloud the tires kicked up.
"My kind. What a dick." After packing up the cooler, Sam laid across the backseat for a nap. The air inside the Impala was stifling and humid, but it beat the skin-cracking heat outside.
The sun was low in the sky when Sam awoke, his skin damp with sweat and sticking to the leather interior. He peeled himself off the seat and climbed behind the wheel while trying to remember where what's his face ("Seeds, maybe?") said to go. Something about a left turn? He started off down the dusty road, the cool air freezing against his damp forehead, and followed the old signs directing him toward Bon Temps. Bobby had taught him enough about French to recognize it as the town Seeds had mentioned. Sam ran a hand over his face at the thought of his old friend and mentor, his fingers coming to rest in a loose grip on his chin. No, Louisiana definitely wasn't far enough.
Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!
Thanks, dolls.
Chelsea