Rewind to the beginning
1. The day John left.
(Pre-pilot.)
.
Dean is alone. The state of being alone is familiar now, has become overly familiar during the last months and years.
He waits until the heavy rumble of the GMC fades into the distance, taking with it the whisky-bruised dark eyes and solid presence that keeps him grounded. He shuffles his feet, the grit of the parking lot grating under the soles of his boots as the silence moves in. It presses around him, magnifying the dull thump of his heartbeat in the empty cage of his ribs. Dean swallows, dry tongue catching on the roof of his mouth as he rubs suddenly numb fingertips against the leather of his jacket cuff.
Alone. Again.
The sky above him is huge, oppressive, and he backs up a couple of paces until he feels the solid bulk of the Impala behind him, the chill of metal cool through his jeans. He breaths in then, a hard suck of air, the first since the GMC growled into life. It makes his ears buzz, his vision pulsing with the quick rush of oxygen.
He slides quickly into the driver's seat, slamming the door with an injured squawk of metal, fights briefly and loses the battle to keep his eyes away from the empty seat beside him. There is a scattering of dust particles on the leather, as though whoever keeps the car interior clean doesn't wipe that seat. Perhaps it doesn't need wiping because it's always empty. Perhaps the person cleaning doesn't want to wipe away anything important, like the last remaining trace of Sam engrained in the leather.
Dean pulls an enormous bag of M&Ms from the glove box and deposits its plastic bulk on the empty seat. It is too small of course, and it definitely doesn't have ridiculously long legs or brown bangs, but it's better than nothing. He takes out a tape and drops the case onto the seat, leaving it open like a gaping mouth so that it takes up more space.
A quick flick of long fingers, dull silver catching the light, and rock music floods out of the speakers. If he turns it up far enough that the right-hand speaker begins to vibrate a little, if he guns the engine like so, then the silence is driven back, kept at bay just outside the windows.
Dean presses the gas pedal, leaves a fan of grit behind him as his baby responds, bouncing over the lip of the parking lot and onto the highway. He winds the window down an inch, leans his knee up the door and lets the revs climb up to a steady growl.
They speed into the gathering darkness, the Impala anchoring him to the earth as she devours the highway. His fingers tap out a beat against the wheel as he lets the soothing rumble of the engine spread through his frame. He has a job to do. While there is a hunt, there is no need to think about empty seats and silence.
Dad has something he needs to do alone. He'll call soon. Or text. Or something.
In the meantime, Dean will hunt and drink beer and shoot pool and lose himself deep in the warmth of a willing girl and try to forget for a few minutes that he is alone.
Chapter 2... ' The Stanford decision' follows soon