Regrets collect like old friends Here to relive your darkest moments I can see no way, I can see no way And all of the ghouls come out to play
And every demon wants his pound of flesh But I like to keep some things to myself I like to keep my issues drawn It's always darkest before the dawn
"Whisky dry." The girl muttered, her auburn hair mused as she ran a careless hand through her locks.
"Any preferences?" The bar tender asked, his eyebrow shooting up in question.
"Johnnie Walker Black Label, if you've got it."
"Yes Ma'am," the bartender smiled. "Dare I ask?"
Taking the proffered tumbler the girl shook her head as she quickly took a sip of the amber liquid. "Just one of them days, you know?"
Kicking off her heels the woman rested one foot against the bar stool, her other leg daggling in the air. Quickly removing her jacket the woman revealed a severely cut black dress, thrusting her phone into her bag she took another swig of her drink.
"Can't be any worse than his day." The bar tender nodded towards a man at the end of the bar. "He's been there since noon."
"Day drinker huh?"
"Sure looks that way."
The woman sighed, her eyes drifting to the array of spirits on display along the back wall. "You know what, leave the bottle."
"You sure?"
"The lady asked you to leave the bottle," the man from the other end of the bar suddenly interrupted.
"I'm not driving," the woman reassured. " And trust me, you don't have to take responsibility for my liver."
The bar tender raised his hands in resignation, before quickly ducking under the bar.
The woman raised her glass, her blue eyes creasing at the corners as she gave the closest thing to a smile her heart would allow. "My name's Grace."
"Dean."
Swiveling round on her stool Grace eyed the man opposite her; one calloused hand griped his glass whilst the other propped up his chin. He was dressed practically, worn jeans and tough looking boots. Everything he wore screamed anonymity; there was nothing particularly ostentations about his dress, nothing particularly memorable about his haircut. But for all his efforts to bleed into the background, he failed on all counts.
But it wasn't just because he was in possession of such phenomenal bone structure. There was a casual assurance about him, self-possession that seemed to border on egotism but somehow managed to stray closer to confident than cocky.
Despite his day drinking habits he was clearly an attractive man, suddenly shuffling in his seat Dean's shoulder blades rolled back, his muscles shifting under his shirt as he glanced towards Grace. The woman flushed a deep scarlet, embarrassed at having being caught out; quickly facing the mirrored wall she knocked back her glass. She didn't want to know what people would think of her if they cared to look at her. Chipped nails, blood shot eyes and messy hair – a train wreck. Wincing into her glass Grace sighed, she wasn't about to get lost in her own head, not when things lurked there, not when the memories were too real, the grave too fresh.
"You alright there?" Dean questioned, his voice a comforting growl.
Grace gave a small laugh, "Oh I think I fit most peoples definition of 'Not Fine', but that's a conversation best saved for my shrink.'
Dean snorted.
"You don't believe in psychoanalysis?"
"I'm one of those 'Fix My Own Problems' kind of guys."
"How's that working for you?" Grace suddenly shot back, her voice whip like, cracking through the silence that had fallen between them.
"I've been drinking in a bar since noon," Dean conceded, a small smile playing across his lips. "But let me save you a couple hundred bucks, what's got you drinking a whole bottle of Black Label?"
"A little personal don't you think?" Grace replied, her eyes still fixed at the wall opposite her.
"You spill your guts out to a stranger every week, how am I any different?"
"Well, normally alcohol isn't involved and somehow the shiny degree from Yale helps. No offence."
"None taken, but you seem to be avoiding the question."
Grace sighed, "I buried my father today."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Dean muttered the phrase, the words never sounding emptier, the words never sounding as useless.
"Thanks," Grace whispered, her voice coming out as a chocked sob.
"If you don't mind me asking, why aren't you with your family?" Dean asked, his eyes trained towards the wooden surface of the bar.
"My dad took off when I was ten, I didn't want him to have a paupers funeral. So I took a plane out to middle of nowhere Nebraska and buried some deadbeat drunk I hadn't had the pleasure of knowing since I was a little girl. Somehow I thought it would hurt less…"
"I'm sorry." Strangely the words were no longer perfunctory, the hunter actually meant it. For a second he was dragged out from his own grief long enough for him to feel something for the woman sitting next to him.
"Thanks…" Grace sighed, as she raised an unsteady hand to pour herself another glass.
"Hey, maybe you've had enough to drink…" Dean muttered, his hand reaching out to cover hers. She hadn't noticed that he'd moved.
"You were defending my right to a whole bottle of scotch a couple of minutes ago," Grace replied somewhat mutinously.
"Well, you can't hold your drink and I don't want you doing anything stupid."
"I told the bartender I'm not driving…"
"Then I'm taking responsibility for your liver." Dean quickly folded Grace's jacket over his arm before sliding the woman's bag over her shoulder. "Where are you staying?"
"The motel across the way," Grace answered before she could realize her mistake. Sliding off her bar stool and attempting to ease her feet into a pair of heels she fixed Dean with a stare. "You better not be a serial killer."
"Bit late for that don't you think?"
"You're telling me…"
Dean gave a small chuckle, before leading the woman towards the exit.
He could feel Grace leaning against his side, her warm thigh pressed up against his, the smell of lemongrass and bergamot drifting from her hair. Fumbling with her keys she gained access to her room, it mirrored Deans, down to the brown carpet.
"Classy establishment, huh?" Grace muttered, her head jerking towards the silhouetted ladies over the bed.
"I've seen worse."
"I don't envy you," Grace laughed. Bending down she pulled off her shoes, but stopped short of throwing them across the room, the pendant of her necklace swinging against her chin. "What are you doing here Dean?"
"Kind of personal don't you think?" Dean countered weakly, his green eyes shifting from her gaze.
"That excuse isn't going to fly Dean."
Falling onto her bed Grace removed her tights before squeezing a pair of sweat pants on under her dress. Leaning against the dresser Dean let his eyes wander over Grace's form, his gaze quickly flicking away as she somewhat unceremoniously removed her dress and pulled on a worn tee shirt, Stanford emblazoned across the front.
Something tightened in Dean's chest. The gaping wound that served for his heart throbbed. A whole chunk of his body had been cut out, ripped from his ribcage and for a second he didn't know if he could breathe. Everything had been compromised, the world might have survived but he didn't know if he could. He had got what he'd wanted; everything was the same – save for one thing. Dean's hands gripped the dresser, his knuckles white as he attempted to find the words that were constantly lurking, only half acknowledged, barely comprehended.
"My brother died yesterday."
The words were suddenly expelled from his mouth, hanging in the air, before they sunk to the floor, the weight of them too much for him to bear. Already he could feel the pain pulse across his chest, everything hurt. It was worse than the beating he'd received at the hands of Lucifer; it was a pain that transcended words. The world had collapsed around him, his life had been upended and the one constant he would normally look to was gone. Sam was gone. His brother. His family. The one person that he had loved so completely, so unfailingly, so unflinchingly was gone.
Grace nodded mutely. She didn't know if it was the drink or because now she was really looking she could finally see behind the veneer to the broken shards of a man held together by glue and malt whiskey. And within seconds she was on her feet, her eyes seeking permission before she pulled Dean into a hug.
"I'm sorry." Grace offered, her voice hoarse. Squeezing tighter she pulled Dean flush against her, fingernails gripping at the material of his shirt as she tried to pour every ounce of compassion she had into the one simple act. Finally she felt his arms snake around her waist, his weight falling against hers, laboured breaths filling the air as something damp tickled her neck.
Grace could feel Dean's ribcage shaking against hers, and her heart broke. Dean had lost his brother, and that in itself was awful. But what kind of life was it when you ended up taking the comfort of a total stranger in a seedy motel room?
Grace bit her lip, her hand rubbing across Dean's back, but were they really any different? She had her shrink, and Dean? For tonight Dean had Grace.
And I am done with my graceless heart So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart 'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn It's always darkest before the dawn
Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back So shake him off, oh whoa
A/N: The song at the beginning and end is Shake It Out by Florence + the Machine.
I just re-watched Seasons 1-5 and was such mess during the finale, literally the whole thread relating to the Impala had me in tears. In short I had too many feels and this was a product of that.
For the purposes of my story Lisa isn't really in the picture.
Hope you like what I have to offer (it is my first foray into the fandom despite having watched the show since its inception), please be kind.