Dean paces the Kansas City motel room back and forth nervously, every hand or pocket full with a different cell phone. God damn it, why wouldn't Sam call? Dean runs his hand through his sandy brown hair, squinting his glowing green eyes in frustration, making wonderfully wise looking crows feet crinkle around them. He rubs his furrowed brow and sighs. He knew he shouldn't have let his brother go out on a hunt alone. But Sam insisted, and him being a grown ass man and all, there wasn't much he could do. Dean knew the Men of Letters bunker had become to feel small and constricting to both of them, now that hunting had become more of a hobby than a career.
With Crowley dead and his many demons either killed or sealed in Hell, Metatron killed and the angels mainly all back in Heaven, there just wasn't as much to worry about. Sam and Dean were still, slowly adjusting to the feeling of NOT having to live in constant anxiety, panic, and dread. Demons, angels, every thing the brothers had worked so hard to defeat were, for the most part, gone. For the first time, a plan of the brothers' had actually worked without something worse arising. Sam had healed well after the trials and boom! No more King of hell, no more Apocalypse or asshole angel trying to take over the world. It was almost unnerving to Dean, feeling calm and at ease was not easy to get used to.
Occasionally, the rare ghost, witch, or creepy "other" would pop on their radar and they'd thoroughly enjoy the hunt. It would feel like old times, just him and his brother, before things got shitty, or at least, obscenely, constant end of the world scenarios shitty. Now, it was fun and it felt free, but was sporadic enough for Dean to find himself, at times, straight up bored. He wasn't sure what Sam had to prove, going out alone this time, but he figured Sam was bored as hell too and possibly sick of Dean at this point. Hell, Dean knew Sam wanted to stretch his legs, and that he was clearly yearning for that cookie cutter life he has given up on. It was finally within grasp for both of them, but neither of them knew how to be normal, even in the slightest.
Dean sighs, a cell phone in each hand, wishing Sam would just call and let him know he was ok. He wasn't even sure what Sam was hunting or if it was something way over his head. Why wouldn't he just call? Dean wishes he could pray to Castiel like old times, but his former angel was more human than ever, in a different state, and technologically challenged at that. Not only couldn't Cas answer his prayers, but he couldn't even be bothered to charge his damn cell phone. Dean imagines hearing the shudder of feathers behind him, the flutter of strong, invisible wings, the sound of Castiel answering his prayer and appearing out of thin air the way he used to. A tingle runs up and down Dean's spine at the memory, and he shakes his head side to side vigorously, trying to literally shake the longing for Castiel out of his brain. This was his usual technique, which only worked about half the time.
No Cas, no Bobby to help. No Sam in sight. Dean begins to wonder if this thing, whatever it was Sam was hunting, was beyond what Sam could handle hunting alone. Dean's anxiety, anger, and frustration all begin bubbling to the point where he wants so badly to smash a phone against the wall but knows he shouldn't. What if Sam calls one of them? Dean nearly drops them all when one starts to ring. His heart feels as if it has jumped into his throat, but when he sees that is was just Garth calling, he lets out a heavy sigh. Garth being one of the last hunters left alive, and a friend at that, he really was Dean's last resort to get any help finding Sam, which is why he'd driven the four hours from the bunker to Kansas City, where Garth had demanded he go for help.
"Dean, you know I've got a family now. I want to, but I just can't go out on a hunt with you right now. Damn, I really want to, bro! But I do know someone who can help you, so breathe, man, just breathe!" Garth croons. "Who?" Dean demands. "Woah, calm down man. This hunter I know really well, Dean! Totally trustworthy, and she can help you way more than I can, trust me!" "She? A female hunter? Garth, who the hell is this chick? Do I know her?" Dean barks. "No, no, you don't know her man. But she'll know you, I'll send her that awesome selfie I took of us after we solved that one case. Remember that?"
"Yes, Garth, I remember," Dean groans. He hates selfies. "She's meeting you tonight at 10. This bar called The After Dark," Garth explains. "And why can't you tell me who this chick is? What's her name, what does she look like?" Dean rasps. "Oh, come on Deano," Garth whines. "Let a guy have a little fun! A little mystery! She'll find you at the bar, she'll help you find Sam. You'll live happily ever after." "Thanks a lot, man" Dean replies, ending the call.
God damn it, Garth. What did he even mean by the last part? Who is this chick and why hadn't he ever met her before? The questions swirl around his head as he pads into the 'bedroom' part of the motel room. Dean kicks off his gray sweats and peels off his too tight and fraying AcDc t-shirt, which he can scarcely believe he'd owned for 20 years now. He rifles through his bag to find his favorite dark denim jeans and black button up, a little fancier than his typical hunter attire that he'd brought 'just in case'.
He stretches his tan, muscular limbs before stepping into his jeans, sucking in his stomach and shaking out his legs as he struggles to get them zipped. After buttoning his shirt, he strains slightly to roll his shoulders and then shakes out his arms. Dean doesn't know whether to be frustrated or damn proud, but bored as he had gotten recently, he'd begun lifting weights daily and now every bacon burger he consumed had started turning to muscle. He sure as hell didn't want to buy a new wardrobe, so he attempts to ignore the tightness of his 'dress clothes' and focus on the positive. Damn, I look good, Dean thinks as he checks himself out in the full length mirror. Can you see my package in these jeans? Are they too tight on my junk? He wonders, letting out a stiff little laugh aloud. He had no idea why he was dressing up, or who the hell he was trying to impress. It was time to get Sammy back.
