The Road Ahead.

Disclaimer: Still not. I suck at scheming...


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Chapter 2.

Typical. The moment he decided he wasn't going to bother his brother with his issues again, his father had to go and sent him coordinates that led him to California.

He'd arrived in Jericho just a few hours before and had immediately searched for a motel. The same hotel his father had rented out a room for the month, as it turned out.

"You guys havin' a family-reunion or something?"

The moment he'd fully realised the meaning of those words, he'd felt the immediate relief of the weight leaving his shoulders. His dad was fine. Had just been caught up in whatever hunt he was doing here and he'd sent the coordinates because he didn't want to focus on anything else. He'd probably been in the middle of a stake-out, which were known to last for hours and hours. Or he'd been busy tracking the monster-of-the-moment and he didn't want to tip it off by making any sort of sound.

Obviously, he needed Dean there for one reason or another. To help him out with the research. Talk to the locals. Whatever. But it wasn't serious.

Yeah, his dad was fine. He could probably be found slumped over the table, Jim, Jack and Jose for company, or stretched out on the bed, sleeping it off.

Both the hunt and the liqour. He was fine.

He had almost convinced himself and he had actually been able to hold onto that thought right up until he'd walked (allright, broke and entered) into his father's room.

He wasn't slumped over the table or sprawled over the bed.

He wasn't fine.

The walls were covered with pieces of paper, print-outs and newspapers and there were halfeaten burgers and half-empty cups of coffee everywhere but the man hadn't been there in days.

At first, he figured he was still just caught up in the hunt, would return soon enough to pour himself the inevitable drink and gruffly let Dean know he was fine, killed the bitch and then scold him for worrying so much over a forgotten phonecall when he should be focusing on the hunt instead and, for God's sake, didn't he know better?

Then he'd noticed the fact that his father's duffelbag was gone, there were no clothes draped on the bed or over the chair and there were no personal items left anywhere.

Except...

The journal.

His father's journal. The one he would never leave behind, would never leave on a hunt with, would never forget.

His single most valuable possession.

Left on the table, underneath a stack of newspapers.

With Dean's name written on an empty page, linked to another set of coordinates.

The weight settled back onto his shoulders.

Where, for fuck's sake, was his father?

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He crossed the border into Nevada without noticing. He'd been driving for hours, staring straight ahead. He hadn't once stopped for food, for coffee, for a bathroombreak and he hadn't turned the radio back on. He'd stared ahead and drove the car. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't know where his brother was. He had absolutely no clue, whatsoever. And he didn't care. He wanted to find his brother, he knew. He knew because he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. He knew because he could feel a tug somewhere in his body ( maybe it was his heart), that meant 'Dean'. He knew he had to find his brother. It was some sort of cerebral instinct.

But he didn't care right now. Right now, he would just drive. He would drive and, somewhere, sometime, he'd rent out a room for the night at a random motel and sleep and get up and drive again.

He would find his brother.

Eventually.

Right now, he needed this.

He needed this search.

To be numb, to be still.

He needed to not be anything right now.

So he stared ahead and drove.

And he didn't cry.

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Okay, so Joseph Welch had cheated on his wife.

Not that he'd admitted to any such thing. He had done nothing more than begrudgingly answer all of Dean's questions with a sigh because he had already answered the exact same questions just a few days ago to another guy.

"Said he was writing a story, or something, about my wife's death or whatever"

"Right, well, we're working together. And I just need to check the facts, you know. Make sure he doesn't quote you saying something you never did. 's for your own benefit, really."

His father had been here, asking the same questions.

This didn't surprise Dean. In fact, it's what he had counted on. Not that he was now any wiser on his father's whereabouts but this job was as good a place as any to start and try to catch his father's trail. And, no matter the circumstances, this case needed solving, those people needed saving and business was business. And if there was one thing his father had taught him, it was never to neglect the job.

So, he had sorted through all his dad's information, researched, tracked down Constance' husband and asked the same questions.

And probably drew the same conclusion.

Being a skilled liar himself, Dean knew when he was being lied to and Joseph Welch had been lying through his ass when he'd said he and Constance had had a happy marriage.

He could say and believe whatever he chose to; he had been unfaithful to his wife and, in reaction, she had not only killed her children and then flung herself off a bridge, she had also taken up the habit of killing innocent by-drivers. Or, as innocent as they came, anyway. And now Dean was going to have to put an end to it.

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Death was quiet.

Eerily calm.

It came in and took what was loved and left you on your knees while your world spinned out of control.

And it was quiet.

So he was quiet. He was completely unaware of anything, even as all his senses seemed to be on high alert. Every single muscle in his body was tensed, poised. As if on the verge of convulsing.

And at the same time, he was completely numb.

He noticed all the trees he passed, read all the signs but he wasn't really aware of them. It was as if...as if death itself was holding onto him, pulling on one side, while life held tight on the other side and he was being pulled in two directions.

He was aware of both of them, could feel them on his body. Was strangely aware of every step he took, while he walked towards the receptiondesk of a highwaymotel. Felt every single step jar his entire body.

His psych 101 would probably tell him that was because his entire focus was on his physical status, so that he didn't have to think. And that, eventually, his mind would start working again and he'd experience it all again and he'd remember it all and then he'd break down.

He knew all that.

It changed nothing.

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He drove his car back to the motel. It was still light out and, true to form, she only seemed to operate in the dark.

He shook his head in frustration at Joseph and Constance and the apparent inability of some men to remain faithful and the apparent stupidity of those men to fall for a dead chick and pressed down on the gas.

He wanted a shower and a beer and a good night's sleep.

And he wanted to kill that bitch.

And Dean Winchester had his priorities straight.

She was going down.

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He felt his body follow every step, he felt the metal of the doorknob pressing into his palm and he felt the muscles of his mouth pull as he answered the receptionist's inquiring questions.

He felt nothing.

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There.

By the side of the road, right in front of the abandoned house, was a car. Damn ugly too. Ford Fiesta. Whoever it was in there almost deserved to die, for buying such a piece of white-picket-fenced crap.

He parked his car on the same side of said road, got out to make a selection out of his trusty array of weapons, and started walking to the vehicle, where, so far, no scary sounds or actions had been occuring. Or so he hoped.

He was nearing the car and on his way of reaching for the handle when he heard a scream. A male scream.

Sounded like Constance Welch had found another unfaithful husband to wreak revenge on.

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The silence was screaming.

He had never noticed before how loud everything was when you made no sounds at all. The sound of keys turning in the lock. The sound of the shower running, the sound of a bag being put on the table. It was deafening.

He felt every noise pierce his body. Felt every action burn his skin.

And he found it oddly comforting.

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Idiot.

Stupid, Ford Fiesta-driving, idiot.

The guy had only stared at Dean as he fired at Constance, or what used to be Constance, and yelled at the guy to "leave the damn car and run!"

Dean had eventually had to grab the moron by his coat with one arm, while firing at Constance with the other and pull him out of the driversseat. The man had stayed on the ground, mouth slack and stared as his rescuer had gotten in the car himself.

Constance had immediately latched onto Dean, seething in anger, and he had, admittedly, been in quite a pinch when the guy had suddenly had a moment of clarity, jumped up and screamed at him that she apparently wanted to go home "or something...whatever." The distraction had sufficed. The ignition had still been on and he had clamped his foot down on the gas and let the car sear forward, right through the frontdoor and into what once had probably been the livingroom. The rest had of the action had been one big blur.

Constance had roamed around, talking about never being able to go home, then the ghosts of her creepy-ass children had come down and had taken her with them in a whirl of earth and wind and water and fire and the next thing he knew there was a 45 year old mug in his face, asking him if he'd mind helping him get his car back out, so his wife wouldn't notice.

He had driven the car right back outside, clapped the guy on the shoulders, advised him to surprise his wife with a new car and walked back to his own set of wheels.

Now, he sat with a cold beer in his hand, holding it up against a gash across the left side of his face and stared at the coordinates in his fathers journal.

There hadn't been another sign of the man and it seemed there was nothing to do, but to look up where this set would instruct him to go, and to go.

He couldn't help the slight sense of panic that once again came over him.

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He stared at himself in the mirror.

There was nothing to see.

Nothing different.

Only proved once more that looks could be deceiving because he didn't feel like he used to. He didn't feel at all. Nothing but the silence and the absolute and utter nothingness. And he had never felt that before. He had never been like this before. He had never before been nothing.

So why did he look the same?

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A weary sigh escaped his lips.

Blackwater Ridge Colorado.

New job it was then.


I don't intend to follow all the hunts we've seen on tv or anything. I just need to borrow some stuff for reasons that will later on become clear.

Share your opinion? I'd be forever in your debt...