Chapter Ten:
Packing.
Dean didn't even have the ability to shout at his dad.
Getting into the car.
How was this happening so fast? Was Sam okay? Should he talk to Sam? He watched John setting the last of the boxes into the truck of the impala.
The engine, revving.
They pulled out slowly. Had John already sold the house, or would they get an eviction notice in the mail?
The trees were green blurs.
Dean could feel each breath dragging in, then out, then in again. He watched the trees of their neighbour drift by. He hadn't told his work he wasn't going to be coming in again.
The freeway.
Nobody knew. School was tomorrow. Nobody knew anything and school was tomorrow. He turned his head, seeing Sam was leaning his head against cold glass. His eyes were red. Dean lifted a hand to his face, pulling it away slightly damp. His eyes were red too.
Classic rock music. Bumps in the road. Sam by his side, his father humming. Everything so perfectly familiar driven like a stake through his heart. He closed his eyes.
Oh, God. Nobody knew.
He pulled out his phone.
He hadn't even been able to shout. He'd been too stunned. Too shocked. Too incapable of anything but compliance, as per usual. He watched the side of his father's head for a full minute before turning back to his phone. His fingers danced over the keyboard. What did he say? What could he say? Oh, sorry, by the way it turns out I'm leaving right-freaking-now.
I'm so sorry I didn't know it was happening but my dad had already packed up.
He sent the message before he could second guess himself, then pressed his head against the window, trying to drown in the sound of classic rock. It wasn't working this time.
"Where are we going," Dean said, his voice scratchy in desperation to not come out as whinny.
"New York," John declared, clearly please with himself. "I met a man out in Miami. He had a business idea that could actually work but he lives in New York. He offered me a job. Dean, this could be it - this could be it."
"I hope so," Dean replied, feel his phone vibrate against his leg. He grabbed it.
What? When are you going? Should I come over? Do Charlie and Chuck know?
Dean bit hard at his lip to keep from speaking out loud.
We're gone.
The response was almost immediate.
I'm sorry?
Dean shook his head. He didn't want to have to do this. Not with John sitting beside him.
We're gone. We left. I didn't even have a moment to use the bathroom, everything happened so fast.
He turned his head, feeling the phone vibrate again but not being able to look. What could anyone say? Sorry covered it. Useless. Pointless. He finally found the courage to check his phone.
Oh
No period. No inflection. It was worse than anything Dean had come up with. Just… oh.
Cas I'm so sorry.
He sent back, staring at his phone this time, waiting for the message. It buzzed, the message icon displayed on screen, but he couldn't open it. He stared at it until he forced himself to keep going.
It's not your fault.
Dean shook his head.
I'm so sorry. I don't want to leave.
The phone was vibrating nearly consistently now.
Where are you going?
New York.
Silence. Buzz.
That's far.
I know.
Silence. Buzz.
You're not going to lose me. You're not going to lose Chuck or Charlie. Remember?
Dean sighed. Right. Of course. Because hope and good will could solve every single problem. Not like his dad was a crazy person. Cas would move on quickly. Easily. Dean wasn't some god-sent perfect boy, he was just Dean. And Cas was too friendly not to make new friends. Charlie, Chuck, they'd all be fine. They were all stable.
"Phone's buzzing a bit," John commented, eyes still locked on the road. "Leaving a girl behind?"
Dean shook his head.
"No girls," he replied. John nodded, as if not really interested, and went back to driving along the forest-lined roads.
~break~
It was approximately three days of continuous driving before the freeway fell away and they were turning on streets with tall skyscrapers and bright, neon lights. Dean had never been to New York before, but the moment he rolled down the window, leaning out to see the street better, he regretted it.
He'd never get it. The cigarette smoke, the harsh sounds, the shouting, the gasoline smell. New York was romanticised so often, and yet it looked like another bum city from the seat of the impala.
He played with his phone as his dad fought through city traffic.
The last message received was still open, from nearly four hours ago, now.
It's been three days and we're still texting. Clearly, we're not going anywhere.
Dean scowled at it. How could Cas know? How could Cas know anything? Did he have half a dozen boyfriends who moved across the country spontaneously?
Then Dean was scowling because he didn't know if it were better if he was the seventh boyfriend Cas had long distance, or the only and the others hadn't worked.
Then he was scowling because he'd continued to refer to himself as his boyfriend, as if that was happening. God - They'd barely spoke since everything happened, Dean didn't even know if they were, or would have, dated. If they were a thing. If he even had a right to feel so protective and scared.
He quickly sent a message back.
Thanks. Three days, a lifte time to go.
If Dean and Cas never met again, he thought bitterly, why was it useful to keep texting? Wouldn't it be better if they never met again to be allowed to move on? It would certainly be less cruel to them both.
He stared at his phone.
Would this just hold him back?