TWO DAYS IN THE VALLEY

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Call of the Road

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11 October, 1999

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Dean Winchester was not a man given to introspection.

Dean saw the world for what it was.

The real world - the snarling, crawling, bloody shadow underbelly of the world that made most people break out in cold sweats - and he dealt with it everyday.

If you came across something you didn't understand, you figured it out and you dealt with it.

If something attacked you, you put a bullet between it's eyes and you asked questions later.

It was the only way to survive.

Even at eighteen, Dean understood this.

For the last fourteen years, his father had taught him the value of not thinking too much.

In a world filled with ghosts, demons, phantoms, changelings and a million other creatures intent on human destruction, too much thinking could cause paralysis.

The one split second of hesitation that could get you dead.

Or worse, take the life of someone you loved.

That's why Dean was struggling now.

For the past few months, his focus had been shifting. He found himself dwelling on things – mostly subjects his fourteen year old brother Sam coughed up. Things like… Why are we always on the move? Why can't I just be a regular kid in a regular school? And, worst of all… What really happened to mom?

Dean was ashamed to say that he resented his brother's boldness.

Dean had burned with the same questions at Sam's age – that gawky time when a teenager's trying to figure out just why the world sucks so much – but he'd never dared voice those thoughts aloud.

Because Dean had a greater purpose. And his own understanding and sense of self came a distant second.

Dean had been brought up to protect Sam. To ensure his brother's safety at all costs. Even if that meant shutting up and doing what he was told for most of his life.

And now it was Sam himself who was shattering that well-constructed sense of order that Dean had imposed.

The worst came just three days ago. The three Winchesters had been rooting out a Merelick in South Carolina. A tiny village on the water that had, by all accounts, been plagued by the shape-shifting monsters for decades.

Merelicks were once humans, but had succumbed to cannibalism, and now took the form of animals, attacking with a ferocity and cunning that was almost impossible to counter. These particular Merelicks favoured the forms of large gators, prowling the shallows for unsuspecting fishermen.

On the third night of the Hunt, they'd split up. John had taken the west bank of the beach, leaving Dean in charge of Sam. Prowling through the reeds, with Sam sniffling along behind him, Dean's eyes came to rest on the reflection of the moon on the water.

And he froze.

A memory flashed in, whispering at him from a forgotten childhood…

Sitting in his mom's lap, cuddled up and warm by a lakeside, the three-year old Dean pointed at the large silver disk that seemed to bounce along the water.

"Look, mom! Look!" he'd shouted, "The moon is dancing!"

Entranced, Dean turned to Sam, about to tell him about the scene he'd only now recalled when he saw it. A dark shape, barely visible through the reeds that was rushing up behind them.

Dean's instinct was all that saved them.

Reaching out with his left hand, Dean had flung Sam aside, ignoring his brother's cries as he hit the water with a mighty splash.

With his right hand, Dean cocked the large shotgun he carried, and brought it to bear just as a huge shape shot out of the water with a mighty roar.

Dean got off two shots, before the thing hit him, knocking the shotgun out of his hands and driving the air from his lungs as he crashed beneath the surface.

Unable to draw breath, Dean thrashed and struggled, finally managing to wrench himself clear of the massive carcass that was weighing him down.

He'd gotten lucky.

His shotgun blast took the Merelick on the underside of it's belly, ripping through the tendons and piercing it's internal organs, killing it instantly.

Otherwise, Dean and Sam would both be dead.

Of course, John berated him when they reported back.

Actually, that was putting it mildly. John ripped him a couple of new ones.

Dean was grateful that his brother had stood up for him, painting the events in such a way that Dean came across as a fast-thinking, quick-acting hero.

But Dean knew the truth.

He'd allowed himself to get distracted, and he'd almost gotten his brother killed.

So, the next day, he'd gone to his father and asked for some time off.

The family was on their way to Orlando to investigate reports of a banshee. It was a simple enough case, that John and Sam didn't actually need Dean to get through it.

He just wanted out for a couple of days. Some time on the road by himself, so he could sort through these thoughts and fears that were suddenly plaguing him. And, hopefully, lay them to rest so he could go back to doing his job.

John, for his part, seemed to understand and agreed without argument. To Dean's astonishment, John even offered him the car – a '67 Chevy Impala – saying that he would rent a temporary car to make the haul to Orlando.

So, behind the wheel of the car he had coveted all his life, Dean left his brother and father behind and hit the open road.

He shot straight north, passing through Atlanta, Tennessee and Kentucky in a matter of days.

He slept in sleazy motels and hustled pool in roadside dives.

All the time he just wanted to keep moving – set his compass north and not look back.

Maybe then he could escape the memories that haunted him. The flames that had flared when he was just four years old, and had dogged his path ever since.

His thoughts were sombre and dark as he shot over his fourth state line in four days – just after 10 pm. He was tired, having been on the road since 3, but he didn't want to find a motel. Not yet.

Just some place to unwind and knock back a couple of frosties… that would do just fine.

Half an hour later, his headlights lit up a roadsign, and Dean slowed.

Perfect.

Grinning to himself, he hit the gas again, roaring past the sign that read:

"Now entering Cicero, Indiana.

Careful… don't leave your heart behind…"

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