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CH 3

There were four Motel 6s that the priest could have been talking about, John discovered after searching a phone book. Four Motel 6s stretched out within a twenty mile radius, leaving John with no way of knowing which one the hunters might be at. He thought about calling each one, just to ask about vacancy. By law, motels wouldn't give out any identifying information, but hunters always stayed at the least busy place they could find. Less chance of getting seen or remembered. John had managed to find some change scattered in mud near a storm drain, but every pay phone he passed by was out of service.

The change rattled uncomfortably in his pocket. John would touch it every now and then, spinning the coins between his fingers. His stomach growled, but John grimaced. He didn't have enough money to buy the meal he desperately needed. He was also aware that he was dirty, and smelly; peoples' faces soured when he walked past them, but there wasn't anything John could do about it. He had no options available: Nowhere to shower, no new clothes to change into.

John walked with his back hunched over, the wind whipping at it his face, to the first of the motels. He passed a public library and paused in front of it.

He was alive now. For reasons either benevolent or malicious he did not know, but still he was alive, and he had a job to do. He could use the computers inside to make fake identities and get some new, desperately needed credit cards, but that would take weeks. He needed money now.

There was only option John had at the moment to get money fast. He continued walking.

It was only four in the afternoon, but the bar was fairly busy with the typical after lunch crowd still loitering around. The smells were familiar and loosened something inside John he hadn't known he'd been holding onto. The familiar smell of beer and cigarette smoke was relaxing; country music was playing lowly on the loudspeakers, glasses being slide across the bar.

The quaint, familiar clacking of pool bars breaking.

A group of college aged boys were playing a game. Tall, suavely looking boys. They immediately reminded John of Dean in nearly every way. How they held themselves, the loose roll to their shoulders, those self-assured grins. All Dean.

God, he missed his boys. He hoped that when he found these hunters, they'd lead him to Dean. He wasn't sure if he should be mourning Sam, but he held onto the small, unlikely hope that Dean had been able to save his brother after all.

Somehow, he ended up right next to the pool table. He watched the boys play for a full minute and decided they were decent.

But they were still boys, and John was better.

"See something you like, grandpa?" One of them asked, tall and blonde, a near burnt cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

"You boys interested in a little game?" John asked. He dug his hands into his jacket pockets. He estimated he had less than two dollars in change. He pulled it from his pockets and placed it onto the edge of the table with a clatter.

The three boys leered at each again.

"You really have to up the stakes, grandpa," the blonde one said.

"That's all I have."

"Lousy, redneck bum," the dark haired one said. "Why don't you get a fucking job?"

John's eyes hardened. "If you guys don't think you can beat an old bum, I understand."

"Now just wait a fucking minute, grandpa—"

"This," John tapped the stack of coins, "is all I have. I play and I lose, I lose everything. You, though, lose by not playing. Pride, that is. Because you were too chickenshit to play a simple game of pool with an old bum, ain't that right?"

The boys were short tempered like Dean too, John found out. But he knew he had them, with the tight set lines of their mouths and the burning hatred behind their eyes. "So tell me boys…what's your pride worth?"

John walked out of the bar fifty bucks richer, and the crumpled fives and tens burned a hole in his pocket. His stomach rumbled loudly too, and with his hands stuffed deep inside his pocket, curled protectively over the money, he made his way to a Burger King. It was nearly empty, with just an elderly couple in the far booth, and the bored, teenaged cashier at drumming her fingers on the counter top. He read the dusty, overhead menu and discovered that even though he'd been dead for seven years, some things hadn't changed.

When he got his food, he felt self-conscious sitting at the table, staring at it. It was too much food, he thought, but then his stomach growled again and his mouth was already salivating. He bit into the burger and then he couldn't help himself and began to gorge himself on the burger, and fries, and onion rings, using more ketchup than appropriate. He licked it off his fingers and took large gulps of his soda with his mouth still full of food.

His last meal had been seven years ago, and it had been shitty hospital food. He was at the very least entitled to acting like a pig when he finally got to eat some real food.

The elderly couple stared at him the entire time, faces pulled in disgust. John made eye contact with them, glaring, as he chewed into the meat of his burger.

He worried he'd spent too much money of the meal, but in the end his hunger overrode his frugality. He would have to be more careful with the remaining money, but in the meantime he was going to relish every bit of this meal. A first meal, he thought wryly.

He felt immensely better having food in his stomach. Warmer too, straight from his head to his toes. He threw his trash away and went back outside, prepared to start his search for the Motel 6s over again. Except, however, right as he was leaving the building he heard a familiar rumble of an engine, racing down the narrow city streets. John's eyes were immediately caught and locked onto it.

It was an Impala. Moreover, it looked just like his Impala, the one he'd given to Dean. Only a handful of those specs had been made; and considering his Impala would be over fifty years old by now, the one he saw racing down the road looked brand new.

It couldn't be, John thought. It was probably someone else's. A handful was still more than one, and more than likely it wasn't his Impala, but another.

Still. It would irresponsible not to at least check it out.

He ran. His feet hit the pavement hard and each step sent electricity up his spine. His arms were pendulums, used to spring him forward. For a moment, there was only the sound of his feet on the hot concrete and the blood that pumped in his ears, like a tidal wave. He couldn't see the Impala anymore, but he could hear its roaring engine and tracked it down, thankful for once of the congested traffic he'd seen in this city.

He saw the black, shiny car parked in a diner. He approached it slowly, and suddenly was afraid all of this was a dream. As soon as he touched it, everything would shatter. He would close his eyes and when he opened them again, he wouldn't see a cruddy parking lot with his car in front of him. He would be back on the rack and Alastair would be leering over him, tongue curling around a hot knife, prepared to stick it back in the bleeding hole in John's gut.

John gulped and suddenly he was going to be sick. Bile crept up and burned his throat and the world was spinning. He was so dizzy, he fell forward, bracing himself against the side of the car.

He clamped his eyes shut. He didn't want to go back to Hell.

Behind him were still the sounds of traffic.

He peeled his eyes open like scabs. The car was still there, solid underneath his fingers. He caught sight of his reflection in the window. Did he always look that haggard? Or was that Hell carved into his skin?

John peered in. Through the window, he could see the far door and the carvings of DW, SW in the door.

Tears pricked at his eyes. He sniffed and swallowed them down, tasting salt in the very back of his throat. This was his car. One of his boys had driven it here.

He heard someone walking behind him.

"Hey, can I help you, sir?"

John knew that voice. He couldn't believe it. He straightened up, spine and shoulders stiff and turned around slowly.

Sam's eyes widened and he dropped the brown paper bag he'd been carrying.

God, Sam had grown so much. He looked much older, more mature in the face and how he carried himself.

Sam was alive.

His baby boy…

"Hey, son," John said, smiling through his tears.