Interstate 65
.
Check it out. Going out on the late night.
Looking tight. Feeling nice. It's a cock fight.
I can tell. I just know that it's going down
Tonight.
At the door we don't wait 'cause we know them.
At the bar six shots just beginning.
That's when dickhead put his hands on me.
Growing up Dean had been fed a steady diet of cock rock. That's what had always played at the auto shop when he'd spent time there with Dad; it's what had always been playing in the Impala whenever they went out anywhere. In high school he got into the usual teen pop. He still had a soft spot for the nineties. In college he was introduced to a lot of different genres; it was part of the curriculum. Nowadays Dean listened to and loved all sorts of music, but he had a rule: only classic rock in the Impala. It's what she was used to. To play anything else in her was kind of like . . . a violation.
Midnight. I'm drunk. I don't give a fuck.
Wanna dance by myself. Guess you're outta luck.
Don't touch. Back up. I'm not the one.
Buh-bye.
The radio was playing Pink. And Dean didn't give a fuck. It was even giving him some raw satisfaction to sing along – yell the lyrics – at the top of his lungs.
"I'm not here for your entertainment!
You don't really wanna mess with me tonight!
Just stop and take a second!
I was fine before you walked into my life!
Cause you know it's over before it began!
Keep your drink, just gimme the money!
It's just you and your hand tonight!"
At first, anyway. But there was something else underneath: something hollow, corrosive and nauseating, and eventually his voice gave out and that was all that was left.
A few times as he drove his glance fell on the paraphernalia next to him: the holy water, the EMF monitor, the exorcism ritual. Then he gathered them up and slung them in the back. He didn't want to look at them. He didn't want to see them. He didn't want any of that shit.
He just wanted his fucking life back.
His eyes began to sting and he swallowed. Stupid.
And then he found his gaze repeatedly straying to the empty seat instead, and the sick ache swelled in his chest again.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
He kept driving until he eventually found himself parked outside a late night bar just off the highway. He closed his eyes and wiped a hand down his face, took a deep breath and let it out again. O.K.
"So, Mr. Winchester, do you think there's any better way you might have handled that?" Dean murmured, and in his mind he sounded like his old University counselor. 'Cause that had been a real smart move, hadn't it? Yeah, real smart: go head to head with the mass monster killer. Dean was lucky he hadn't gotten himself full on ganked.
What were you thinking, Winch?
Dean opened his eyes as a wave of nostalgia and longing hit him. Winch. When was the last time he'd heard that? He missed it, along with all the people who'd called him by that name and the simple life he'd had with them. He found himself pulling out his cell phone and he started to pan through his contacts, stopping when the highlight rested on the number of his old college buddy, Jimmy.
Oh, yeah, that made sense. He runs away from Sam and the first person he wants to call is the last asshole who dragged Dean into all his fights with him and got Dean beaten up on a regular basis. What was it about Dean and guys who have TROUBLE stamped onto them in great big, uppercase, gothic script letters?
But with Jim it had just been the regular kind of trouble: the kind a smart mouth, too many beers and a love of mischief gets you. It had been about cuts and bruises and, at worst, being kicked out of college . . . never about life and death . . .
Hadn't he known, though? Hadn't he known from the moment he'd first seen Sam put down those two hustlers outside Jack's Bar back home that Sam was dangerous? Still Dean had kept rattling the cage, rattling the cage, waiting to see what would come out, and then he was surprised when the first thing it did when it smashed through the lock was to grab Dean's throat. What had he expected? Sam didn't fight for the hell of it, he didn't trade punches; he fought when he had to and took out his opponent fast and hard. Dean was lucky not to be in hospital right now.
He was about to close his cell, but he hesitated for a few moments, let the highlight skip down to the bottom of the screen where it hung over Penny's number. Dean had few numbers left in his contact file these days, and he knew who was next on the list, hovering just beyond the bottom of the screen. One click would bring his name into view. Dean wasn't going there. Not yet, anyway. He needed a time out, space to take a few, think about his next move. He closed the cell, replaced it in his pocket, got out of the car and headed into the bar.
Because, obviously, what Dean really needed right now was more alcohol.
The bar was dark and heavy with timber, and it smelled of beer, sweat and testosterone. The glare of a couple of video screens penetrated the gloom and the sound of sports commentary competed with a general hubbub that occasionally erupted with shouts, jeers and laughter. The few women in the bar were hovering close to groups of men, several of whom were congregated in one corner. Dean could hear the crack of billiard balls colliding as he stepped up to the bar and ordered a double. After paying for the drink he stared gloomily at the last lonely bill that remained in his wallet and reflected that it could use some company. His attention gravitated toward the corner.
Dean had always had an aptitude for pool, and he was a better player now than he'd ever been, but it wasn't just about playing the balls; he knew that now. He needed to be smart. He moved quietly into the orbit of the players and watched in silence at first, feigning mild interest. Gradually he began to respond to the better shots, casually cheering and applauding. Once his presence had been acknowledged and accepted he began to respond to the poorer shots as well, sympathetically at first then, just occasionally, mocking. It wasn't long after that he was invited to participate, challenged to do better.
Doing better was easy but knowing when to drop shots, and making it convincing, took just as much skill. Balancing charm and diplomacy while goading his opponents into errors of judgment was even trickier; accepting small losses and smoothing over the wins to milk the table for as long as possible all needed concentration and focus. Dean's wasn't perfect, and toward the end he started fumbling odd shots he hadn't intended to, but he stayed at the table long enough to make a tidy profit. Unfortunately he couldn't resist the temptation to win a little bigger on his last game, and he pissed off a few people when he walked away.
Smart move, in retrospect, would have been to buy drinks for the players with his winnings. Who knows why it didn't occur to him. Maybe the whiskey was beginning to get to him, cloud his thinking a little, but at one time he'd have done it without thinking. Maybe it had been too long since he'd last had money that was his to give away – unequivocally his, not just a share of somebody else's winnings doled out to him like an allowance. He was feeling pleased with himself and with his haul, maybe a little too pleased.
He was feeling a little light headed, too, as he approached the bar. Now that he didn't have the game to draw his focus he was definitely starting to notice the effects of the drinks he'd been putting away. Didn't stop him ordering another double, though.
He'd attracted the attention of most of the women in the bar while he'd been playing and one of them moved in as he upended the contents of the glass down his throat: a curvy, denim-clad brunette - all big brown eyes, red lips and cleavage. She struck a coquettish pose at the bar, leaning on her elbow and resting her head against her knuckles.
"So, where did you appear from all of a sudden?" she asked. "I haven't seen your pretty face round here before."
Dean assumed an easy grin and tried to take her comment for the compliment she presumably intended it to be. "Oh, I get around," he assured her.
"I'll bet you do," she replied archly. Evidently that was meant as a compliment as well.
Still, Dean was more inclined to be sociable than nitpick the subtlety of her approach so he asked her name and offered to buy her a drink. Before she could reply Dean was hailed by the last guy he'd beaten at the pool table: a tall thick-set mook with lank hair and a two day growth that was masquerading as designer stubble.
"Hey, Buddy!" the guy yelled, though his tone was inconsistent with a friendly overture. "She's with me!"
Dean arched an eyebrow and turned an inquiring look toward his new companion. "He yours?" he asked, tossing a nod toward the interruption.
She shrugged and twisted her lips into a provocative smirk. Dean had her number; he'd met the type before: women who enjoyed stirring trouble and watching men fight – not remotely worth fighting over. Any other night, Dean would have apologized politely for his mistake and walked away.
He relaxed back against the bar and trailed his arms along it in a gesture that simultaneously included the woman in his space and made his body an open invitation and challenge. "I think the lady can make that choice for herself, Pal," he said, wearing a grin that could have cut glass.
"You smart-ass fuck - !"
As the dick lunged forward Dean dodged to one side and let the man's own momentum carry him into Dean's fist as he buried it in his gut. Then, as the guy jack-knifed and pitched forward, Dean helped him on his way with an elbow between the shoulder blades and a swift kick to the back of the knee. He collapsed like a pack of cards and lay on the floor whimpering.
And Dean stared down at him, lips parted with surprise and shock. That easy?
Only trouble was, as Dean soon realized when others started looming round him, murmuring angrily . . . the guy had friends.
Sam startled as a bird thudded against the window, and clung to it fluttering precariously. There were other bird noises now, he noticed, and the darkness was drifting into grey. Until that moment he hadn't realized how long he'd been inside his own head, going over it all, trying to figure out what he'd missed. He glanced at his watch and felt something sink inside him. It was a physical thing that ache, that burn. It had weight and mass.
He'd have been back by now. If he was coming back. He'd be back by now.
The irony stung. How many times had he inwardly fumed at Dean's mercurial mood swings? Now he realized he'd been counting on them, telling himself that once Dean calmed down he'd see things differently, that he'd return prepared to take back everything he'd said in the heat of the moment. But he hadn't. Because he'd meant it. All of it. Every word. And the worst of it was that Sam wasn't even sure he was wrong.
It had been easy – real easy – at first, to blame Dean. Because there'd been no warning. None. Just Dean being a jerk, like always, like he always had been, everywhere with everyone. And Sam wasn't supposed to get mad, because it didn't mean anything, it was just Dean teasing, just in fun. Fun for fucking Dean, anyway. Well, Sam had had a gutful of Dean's games, Dean's jokes, never serious, about anything – until suddenly out of nowhere he's so fucking serious he's like hurricane fucking Katrina on legs.
Hints? What hints? Dean had changed? Started meaning it? When? Why? Sam hadn't noticed anything different. More often, maybe. More crass. But still just Dean's usual crap. Until suddenly he was right in front of Sam, and he wasn't joking any more. He wasn't grinning or winking, he was just there, all wide eyed and open and holding himself out to Sam like a fucking gift. And something in Sam just crumbled.
It didn't matter, though, Sam had eventually acknowledged. None of that mattered. It wasn't even the point. The point was it shouldn't have happened. It wasn't supposed to have happened, ever. Sam should have said no. He did say no. But he didn't mean it, and Dean knew it. He should have meant it. He just . . . he wasn't prepared. He'd never expected it to be an issue.
The point was, Sam was the one who'd crossed the lines. He hadn't meant to. Not the first time, anyway. That was an accident. He just hadn't been paying attention. He was just so stunned and confused, lost in the pounding in his own head and the fire in his blood, that he hadn't noticed that Dean had changed . . . again . . . until suddenly Dean was flailing and yelling and . . . panicking . . .
Sam had never seen Dean panic before. Except . . . maybe that first night, when Sam had knocked Dean to the floor and pulled a gun on him . . . . . .
He'd seen him afraid – after all that had happened, all the creatures they'd fought, all the injuries Dean had sustained, who could blame him? But Sam had hurt Dean, or he'd frightened him, or both, and suddenly Dean was yelling and shouting and fighting like Sam was the enemy . . . and that's how Sam had behaved.
And Sam knew better than that. You don't argue with someone who's panicking. You don't confront them. And you don't fight out of anger. Not that Sam had never been angry in battle before . . . but he hadn't been in battle. He'd just acted like it. He'd treated Dean the same way he'd treat a vampire or a skin walker, because he was angry, and because that's all he knew. Bottom line: Sam had ceased to be a friend the moment he'd put his thumb on Dean's windpipe.
No wonder Dean had walked. Why would he stay after that? Sam was deluding himself when he'd said Dean needed him. Everything Dean had said had only been an echo of the things Sam himself had been thinking for a while now. Dean had already learned everything Sam could teach him, and it wasn't enough: it couldn't protect him from the one thing that mattered. Sam couldn't protect him from that, he never could. All Sam had ever done was put Dean in harm's way. In all these months the demon hadn't shown itself, and who knew when or if it really would. Sam could get Dean killed next week.
Or maybe a fight could go too far, Sam could go too far. Dean didn't trust him any more, and he was right not to. Sam didn't trust himself, not around Dean. Dean could push his buttons in a way no one else ever had, make him angry in ways nothing else did. It wasn't safe.
The voice of Saul Whitman whispered in Sam's head:
He'll turn you into a monster . . .
Sam was already a monster, had been for a while. Maybe always. Dean was better off getting away from him, starting again in some small town, keeping his head low; leading that safe life he'd talked about. It was better that way.
Sam stood up and started collecting his things together. As he opened his backpack and started loading his stuff into it he realized it was poorly organized. Six months of exposure to Dean's careless ways had impacted on Sam's discipline. He'd gotten into some bad habits. Better to start again. He emptied the contents of the bag onto the bed, organized it into logical piles, and then started repacking it.
He picked up his sketch pad first. He was sliding it into its place in the pack when he hesitated, pulled it out again, flicked through the pages and let it fall open at the portrait of Dean he'd sketched that evening by the lake, so long ago now. He stared at it for a while, falling into it, letting his fingers trace over the lines of the mouth, the lips, following the curl of the eye-lashes. Just lines of graphite on a sheet of paper, and still that face had radiance – the face of a dream Sam had once, before he'd met Dean, before he even knew who he was.
Sam's eyes prickled. He sniffed and wiped at the corners of his lashes with the heel of his hand. He moved to put the pad away, but before the pages closed he found himself falling back on an old childhood habit and prayed to whatever power there might be in the universe that could watch over Dean and keep him safe.
He was momentarily distracted by the flutter of departing wings. He glanced up at the window but the bird had gone, and by the time he returned his attention to his backpack he'd already packed the sketch pad in the bottom.
It was better this way, for both of them. It would be a relief, even, to have his ordered routine back again; not to have to worry about Dean, not to have to consider him, not to have to deal with the noise and chaos that came with him, not to be continually assaulted by Dean's presence and the exhausting struggle against the feelings that presence aroused in Sam.
When he'd packed he went around the room performing his last minute checks, sweeping up the salt, throwing away litter and the detritus Dean had left in his wake: a forgotten toothbrush, an empty can of styling mousse, empty pie boxes, the uneaten pizza, a broken guitar string, screwed up bits of paper, napkins, beer mats with snatches of lyric on them. He caught a few lines of one as it dropped into the waste bin:
A suffering soul trapped in a mind of steel
An empty heart afraid to feel
Can't think what to do with all that fire and rage
Except to lock it in an ice-cold cage
So what would it take to set you free?
Tell me, where's the lock, and where's the key?
Before he left he took one last look around the dark, silent room with its cheerless drapes and worn bed covers, at the ubiquitous partition with its decorative birds, cold and lifeless in their metal cage.
After he'd settled the bill he called Dean. He didn't expect him to be awake yet but it made it easier not having to speak to him. He just left a message on the voicemail, apologizing and wishing him well. Then he hoisted the pack onto his back, picked up the duffel filled with his sundry weapons and headed out onto the road.
He'd done this before: walked this road, by himself.
Seemed harder this time.
