title: shadows on the wall (part 1 of 2)
rating: strong PG-13 for violence, gore, and naughty language.
characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby (no pairings)
category: Gen, drama, preseries, hurt!Dean, minor AU
word count: 4,160 total; 1,560 for this chapter
disclaimer: not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.
summary: Sam is off at college, John isn't answering his phone, and Dean's time is running out. Stanford-era AU.
notes: Sweet Charity fic written for the awesome muffaletta, who was cool enough to let me use one of my own plot bunnies, and also kind enough to share with y'all. Thanks to girlfan1979 for the beta.
more notes: This chapter was written exclusively during the wee hours of the morning, while I was suffering from insomnia. This is sleep deprivation talking. It lends authenticity, I suppose.


Dean drove as long as he could, until the edges of the road rippled like snakes and the Impala started drifting lazily along with them.

Sometime after noon, he stopped at a motel just outside of Wright, Wyoming. Tripped on the curb, stumbled past the neon sign with half the letters burnt out, and somehow managed to pay for a room. His words came out jumbled, dripping into each other like melted plastic, and he had to hold onto the counter to stay on his feet.

The old lady behind the desk didn't bat an eye, just handed a key to Dean while the ceiling swung in lazy circles overhead. She'd probably seen people in worse shape and figured it wasn't any of her business.

The single bed, adorned with puke-green spread, looked musty and dingy and awesome. Dean tossed his duffel at it, missed. Sat down on the cracked, yellowing tile floor, gun gripped in his right hand. No way he dared go close to the bed; even a chair was too risky at this point. He was already starting to blank on the important stuff, like why he couldn't let himself get too comfortable.

He couldn't forget that. Had to make himself remember.

Shadow crawled up the walls like giant spiders, and the water spots on the ceiling warped and spun into a bizarre kaleidoscope. Dean closed his eyes, snapped them back open. Don't fall asleep, dammit. Don't.

His eyes burned like he'd gotten a faceful of powdered glass. His chest still hurt, a deep throbbing ache that seeped red and wet into his shirt. That was good. Pain was something he could hold onto. For a while.

The caffeine pills had stopped working some time ago, but he still took them because he was scared of what might happen if he stopped. He'd nearly overdosed on them once. His heart had tried to jump out of his chest, right out through muscle and bone. His eyeballs had flitted around in their sockets like scared rabbits and he'd shaken so hard he could barely hold his phone.

Phone. Phone, good idea. Help was on the other end of that phone, had to be. Hadn't answered yet, but would. Would.

"Dad..." Dean's voice trailed away. He shook his head, tried to focus. "Dad, I need...I can't stay 'wake, Dad." He heard the words coming out, wasn't sure they were really his.

" 'S waitin'," he said, as if he hadn't said it a dozen times already. "Waitin' for me, Dad."

Shadows crawled on the walls. Maybe it was there with them, watching.

"Dad," he said, voice twisting, shattering into powdered glass that burned his eyes. "Y' gotta...help me."

He didn't remember putting down the phone, but next thing he knew it was on the floor beside his hand. He stared at it, drifted, forgot why he wasn't supposed to close his eyes. His fingers loosened around his gun. If he could just rest...

Dean, Kathy Rylan said.

His head flopped back and he stared up at her. Graying hair, blue dress, eyes not so kind anymore. Hole in her chest where a heart should be, blood still drip drip dripping.

" 'M sorry," he said, words breaking on an exhausted sob. " 'M so sorry."

She tilted her head sideways, fixed him with that stern librarian's stare. You said I could go to sleep. You said you'd save me. You promised.

"I know." Dean slammed his head back against the wall, thump thump thump thump, a heartbeat of penance and desperation. "I know, I know, I know."

Kathy leaned closer, blocking out the shadow-shapes squirming over each other on the walls. She smelled like the burnt chocolate chip cookies she'd served him at the beginning. And blood. Always blood, everywhere he went.

You let me die, she whispered. I hope it gets you.

" 'S gonna," Dean said. "Think 's gonna." He looked down, reached for his phone again. When he looked back up, she was gone. The TV was melting, black glass puddling on the floor, squirming into long oily black snakes like Medusa's hair. Creepy bitch, that Medusa.

Dean stared at his phone. Already called Dad a dozen times, twenty times, thirty. He needed one person, just one person who could fire a gun. Thought of going to the front desk, asking that unconcerned woman for help. 'Scuse me, could you take this gun and shoot the red-eyed fugly that shows up soon as I fall asleep?

He laughed at the idea, high-pitched and hysterical. Wouldn't work, even if she was crazy enough to listen. It needed to be a hunter, someone who knew what they were doing. This bastard was fast. Had Kathy Rylan's heart out before Dean could get off a shot.

He'd grazed it, second try. The iron had hurt it, marked it. But it had marked him too, shallow swipe of razor claws across his chest. It had marked him, had gotten inside his head, and now all it had to do was wait.

His first solo hunt. You can handle this, Dean, Dad had said, all quiet assurance. Oh, he'd handled it, all right. Done a first-rate job. Should get a fucking medal.

Dean, Kathy Rylan said.

"I KNOW!" Dean smashed his head against the wall hard enough that the room flashed white for an instant. It was kinda nice, made the shadows go away until his vision came back online. By then, Kathy was gone again.

God, he was tired. It would be so good to close his eyes, just for a minute. He couldn't even remember what he was fighting for. Did he have anything to fight for?

Sammy, his brain said reflexively, but Sammy was gone, making his own way in the world. Didn't need Dean. Hadn't in a long time.

Dad. Dad who wanted to hunt alone now. Dad who wouldn't answer his damn phone the one time Dean's life depended on it.

He wasn't coming. The certainty cut, right down past the jagged slashes in Dean's chest. He stared at the phone and tried to swallow, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Dad wasn't coming.

So who would?

He pulled up his contact list, hit the call button when he scrolled over Bobby Singer's name. South Dakota, the junkyard, wasn't far from here. He might've even been headed there before he forgot where he was going.

Four rings, then Bobby's gruff voice on the old answering machine, the kind that still used a tape.

"Bobby," Dean said. " 'S Dean. I'm in Wright, Wyoming. I, uh...I got somethin' after me. Can't shake it, don't know where Dad is. So if...if you could come...it's got me pinned, Bobby. I can't run anymore. Could use your help."

His phone beeped, indicating a low battery. He ended the call and went back to his contact list, blinking at the blurry letters on the screen. Saw Sam listed near the bottom, and he shouldn't, he shouldn't, but if Bobby didn't show up, this might be his only chance. He called before he could change his mind.

Hey, you've reached Sam. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you. Sam sounded bright, normal, happy like he'd never been when he was hunting.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, as clearly as he could. "I jus'...jus' thought I'd call. Been a while." A year and four months. "I wanted to say..." I'm sorry. I miss you. "Not mad at you anymore. You did what you had to do. Got away from all this shit."

Dean's head took a sudden dive forward, and he jumped. Opened his eyes wide and stared at the shadowed walls. "Anyway," he said. " 'M in Wyoming, and things aren't...going that great. So I..."

He paused. His phone beeped again, weaker this time.

"I'll talk to you later, Sammy."

He closed the dying phone and put it down, then flexed his stiffening fingers around the gun. Sunlight slanted through the gap in the curtains and fell in a wide stripe across his legs. He stared at it, felt himself start to let go.

No. No. NO.

He reached up and dug his fingertips into the longest gash, felt it reopen around his nails. Couldn't hold back a muffled yell, because it hurt. That was the point. He couldn't sleep if he was too busy hurting.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, bleeding slowly. No more than a few hours, probably, though it felt like days.

He wouldn't fall asleep. He wouldn't.

"Dean?" A voice said from the direction of the door. Dean looked up, squinting. It was twilight, and the room was dim.

Quick footsteps crossed the room, and then a hand settled on his face, long fingers curling around his jaw. "Dean, hey. Are you okay?"

His eyes tracked slowly and rested on a familiar face: longish brown hair, worried hazel eyes. He blinked. No fucking way.

"Dean, say something," Sam pleaded.

"Sam?" Dean said. "Sammy...you came?"

"Yeah, of course." Sam laughed a little. "You scared me, man. But it's okay. I'm here now."

"You're here," Dean said. His chest hurt and he was so tired, but Sam was here. Sam still came for him, after everything.

Sam smiled, and his pupils glowed red. That meant something, Dean was sure of it, but he couldn't quite remember what.

"Go to sleep," Sam said softly, patting the front of Dean's jacket. "I'm here. It's okay."

Dean closed his eyes.


(TBC in chapter 2...which will be posted tomorrow.)