Title: Moonstar
Ch. 2: Stained
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Only get pleasure no money.
Summary: Dean is crashing after a string of bad jobs. One last, terrible incident pushes him over the edge. He's on a downhill slide and the Moonstar is the last place he needs to be.
A/N: This is a boring chapter, lots of tension but no action. Be kind.
They had driven for an hour in almost total silence, Dean chewing on the side of a finger and staring through the windshield into the darkness beyond. His facial muscles worked as he clenched his jaw and grimaced, holding an internal argument with himself. He had wrapped a rag around his cut hand after Sam had commented on the bloody steering wheel but would tolerate nothing more.
The night was cold and they were both shivering in their wet clothes. Sam had kicked the heater on, which helped with the shivering but filled the car with an overwhelming smell of blood from Dean's soaked jeans.
Sam watched Dean warily, not sure for what. He was like a toy that had been wound to tightly and might fly apart at any moment. Sam knew what had happened back at the little house had hit Dean hard. Dean would never admit it, of that Sam was sure. Dean would bury this most recent emotional devastation somewhere in his psyche along with all the other horrors he had known and experienced and leave it to fester. Sam had quit shivering some time ago but Dean trembled still.
"We need some money," Dean stated suddenly, the unexpected sound startling Sam. "We can't sleep in the car again, and you need some decent food." He shot his eyes at Sam, then back at the road.
"And you don't?"
Dean ignored him. "We'll stop and change clothes and clean up a little. There'll be a bar soon." And God, I need a drink. He turned the car into a long shallow curve and went back to chewing his finger.
"Dean, do you really think a bar's a good idea right now? And how the hell are you gonna play pool with your hand like that?" Sam tried again. He was so tired even sleeping in the car sounded good. He brushed his hair back out of his eyes and leaned against the door.
"We aren't sleeping in this car again," Dean snapped. "We need money. A bar is the fastest way to get it. It won't take long, and my hand won't be a problem. If anything it oughta help." Dean stopped chewing on his finger and was now worrying his thumbnail.
His eyes kept darting around and it was making Sam nervous.
"Well, I mean after tonight, I thought…" Sam started.
Dean gave him a hard look. "What about tonight?" he growled, a warning. His eyes flared angrily.
Sam blinked. "Uh…"
"It was a job, Sam. No different from any other job we've had." He paused and Sam saw him swallow. "I did what had to be done." Dean's stare returned to the road. His fingers tightened on the wheel and he grimaced at the pain in his hand.
Sam sighed again, folded his arms over his chest and went back to staring out the window. He had not missed that twice Dean had verbally taken total responsibility for the night's occurrences. When it came to the job in general it was 'we' but when it came to the actual events it was 'I'.
They drove another 20 minutes or so, silent again. Finally they could see signs of an approaching town. At the first gas station, Dean pulled in, grabbed some clean clothes out of his bag and the first aid kit.
"I'll be right back," he threw at Sam and headed to the men's room. The glare as he switched on the lights made him swear and shield his eyes until they adjusted. He locked the door, dropped his stuff on the counter and just leaned against the wall for a moment. God, he was so tired… He wasn't sure he could keep on his feet much longer. He didn't want Sam to see him like this and he was so grateful that it had been him and not Sam who had entered that house first. The knowledge of what he had done was twisting in him like a knife. The thought of Sam having to endure such a thing was unacceptable.
Over the last few weeks he had been running on adrenaline. His usual worries over Sam and his father, lack of sleep, proper food and his own self inflicted guilt over the things he couldn't control had worn him down in so many ways he was incapable of realizing his body was trying to tell him he had long overdrawn it's resources. One fucked up job after another, innocents dying who shouldn't have because he wasn't fast enough or smart enough, one more failure piled on top of another, and then tonight-- He ground his fists into his eyes, stomach knotting suddenly, bending him over.
Finally he took a deep breath, willed himself upright, pushing away from the wall. He faced the sink, bracing his arms on either side before looking in the mirror.
His face was blown white by the harsh lights and the green of his pupils was dull and floating in a bloodshot sea. There were flecks and smears of blood on his face and t-shirt.
Her blood. Their blood.
He stared at this reflection for a moment, feeling his heart start to race again. He closed his eyes against the images jumping out in his brain, pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead.
Her hand stretched out to him, imploring him to help her, help her baby.
Close your eyes….
Almost frantically, he ripped off his t-shirt, throwing it on the floor. He turned on the water full tilt with the same desperate motions. Grabbing a handful of paper towels he soaked them, roughly scoured the blood from his face, hands and arms, leaving scratched red skin behind, hampered by his injured hand.
He had to get the blood off…..
Quickly, he kicked off his boots and skinned out of the stiffening, rank smelling jeans. He could barely stand to touch them and the stench of blood was making him sick. Thoughts crossed his mind about leaving them in the trash but he knew better. He used more wet paper towels to get the dried blood off of his legs. He was gasping for breath, almost hyperventilating. Dizziness swept over him and he fell back against the wall. Doubling over, he cupped his hands over his mouth and nose and breathed into his hands, forcing himself to calm down. "Jesus", he groaned. What the hell was going on with him?
After a moment he reached out and braced himself against the sink again as his head slowly cleared.
He reached out shakily for his clothes. Sam was gonna be banging on the door in a minute if he didn't get his ass back out there. He pulled on the clean jeans and t-shirt and then grimacing, carefully unwrapped his hand. The water stung like a bitch and he hissed as he tried to wash the blood and dirt from his palm. It was a frigging deep cut and every motion of his hand reopened it. He dried it and tried to get antibiotic ointment smeared on it with unsteady hands before the blood welled up again. He finally settled on squeezing a line of ointment down the gash and packing gauze over it. He quickly wrapped fresh gauze and tape around his hand and tossed what was left back into the first aid kit.
He yelped as a loud rapping drummed on the door.
Sam's voice called out. "Dean? You've been in there for forty-five minutes. Are you okay?" Not desperate, but definitely edgy.
Dean gritted his teeth and tried to slow his heart. "I'm fine! Jesus, you gave me a freakin' heart attack!" he yelled, voice echoing in the bathroom. "I'll be right there! I had to fix my hand."
"Do you want some help?"
"I got it! " He snarled. He leaned against the wall and awkwardly tugged his filthy boots back on. He yanked open the door and almost fell over Sam standing right by the opening.
"Shit, Sam!" Dean snapped. "Do the words 'personal space' mean anything to you?" He stormed past Sam and threw the bloody clothes in the trunk along with the first aid kit.
"Sorry for getting concerned," Sam said reflexively, following Dean. "How's your hand?"
"Fine," Dean replied, predictably. "How's your leg?" He noticed Sam had changed to a clean pair of jeans also, during Dean's absence. Sam looked as tired as Dean.
Sam shifted uncomfortably. "It's okay. Dean, I still don't think this is a good idea…"
Dean turned and glared at him. "Sam, we are not sleeping in this car again!" Dean repeated. "Now, you can come in with me or sit in the car, but I'm gettin' us some money." Dean threw himself back into the driver's seat and started the engine. Sam sensed Dean might actually leave him so he got in and slammed the door as Dean shot off.
As Dean had expected the outskirts of Pottsville sported several honkeytonk type roadhouses. He chose one called Earl's Place with a good number of older cars and trucks still parked around it. Best of all it had a neon sign that proclaimed 'Pool'.
Dean slid into a parking space and stopped the car. He turned to Sam, rubbing his hand over his eyes before speaking. "You can get something to eat while I set up a game." In answer to Sam's frown, Dean cocked his head toward the bar and smiled crookedly. "I swear, just long enough to get us a room and a couple of square meals. I'm tired and hungry too, Sam."
The understatement of the decade.
Sam sighed again, he always seemed to be sighing around Dean. "Fine. But no longer than that and you have to get something to eat too, I won't eat if you don't." It was a rather childish threat but one that he felt would hold some power over Dean. "The last fucking thing you need is to pour a lot of beer into an empty stomach." He climbed out of the car and followed behind Dean, limping slightly, into the garish noise of the bar.
Sam found a table in the back of the smoke filled room, rife with whining country music, sweaty, overweight men in cowboy hats and sweaty women packed into too tight clothing. Couples two stepped on the small dance floor and lined the bar clutching beers. It was all happening at Earl's. Sam hated it, but Dean was right, they needed money. He just hoped Dean kept his drinking to a minimum so they could get what they needed and get the hell out.
Dean came up to the table with two beers and set one down in front of Sam. Dean's was already half gone. There was none of the usual pleasure in Dean's face at the prospect of fleecing a few locals. He was there to do a job.
"I ordered you some food. It'll be here in a minute." Dean had to raise his voice over the music. It wasn't that hot in the bar but Dean's face glistened with a sheen of sweat.
"What about you?" Sam frowned and pushed the beer around on its sweaty ring.
"I'm gonna check out the table action. I'll be around" He sipped some more beer and then aimed himself at the three pool tables in the back, disappearing into the crowd.
"That's not what I meant!" Sam called after him, but Dean was already gone. Shit.
Having no choice Sam settled back in the chair and had a drink of beer. He was exhausted, his head was starting to hurt and he was on edge over Dean's current emotional state. He had recognized when Dean had thrown himself into survival mode. It allowed Dean to put any feelings about his actions into a place where he could ignore them so that he could overcome the normal problems of eating, sleeping and, as much as it galled Sam at times, looking out for Sam, with no thought spared for what Dean might need.
Sam knew what Dean had done this evening had rattled him to his foundations no matter how justified his actions might have been. It had certainly rattled Sam.
An over-painted waitress suddenly slid two plates onto the table in front of Sam, popping her gum. He jerked back in surprise.
"Sorry, darlin', " she laughed, with mismatched teeth gleaming. "Didn't mean to scare ya! You need another beer?" Her hair was piled a foot high and hung in glossy tendrils around shoulders. What ever color it was supposed to be did not exist in any spectrum Sam was familiar with.
Sam shook his head emphatically. "No, I'm good, thanks." He studied the plates, greasy cheeseburgers and overflowing mounds of fries. Why wasn't he surprised?
She clicked her tongue at him and bounced her eyebrows. "I'll just bet you are," she crooned with another smile. She turned and headed back to the bar, her broad hips jouncing.
Sam rolled his eyes. Could this evening get worse? He took another drink of beer and looked around. He gradually found his attention wandering to the cheeseburger. It actually smelled pretty good. He didn't want to admit it, remembering his threat to Dean, but he was starving. Hating himself, but God only knew when Dean would come back, he picked up the burger and took a large bite. He didn't quite moan but his eyes rolled back in his head as he chewed.
"Hey, wake up Sleeping Beauty,"
Sam came to with a start, his head pillowed on his arms. "What?..." He blinked at Dean seated across from him. When in the hell had he fallen asleep?
Dean's face was lined and weary, he wasn't even trying to look otherwise. He pushed a small pile of bills at Sam. "385 bucks, minus the bar tab. And the $20 tip for Marilyn Monroe there to let you sleep." Dean nodded his head at the brassy haired waitress who winked at him.
Sam fought a yawn that threatened to tear his head in half and knuckled his eyes. "What time is it?"
"1:45. They're gettin' ready to close down." Dean hiccoughed softly, belching silently against his fist and cleared his throat. He could barely keep his eyes open but he didn't look particularly drunk.
Sam frowned at him. "Did you ever eat?"
Dean shrugged, avoiding Sam's eyes. "Yeah, well, they say beer is liquid bread. You 'bout ready to find a real bed?"
"You promised you'd eat. How much did you have to drink?" Sam sounded slightly petulant.
"Three beers and a whiskey shooter…I think. " Dean closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. He actually had no idea how much he'd had to drink. He wasn't exactly drunk but he sure as hell wasn't exactly sober either. He definitely had a headache and his stomach wasn't very happy with him but at least they could get a room now. He had actually snatched a couple of bites of his cheeseburger on a trip back to check on Sam, who was out cold, but they had gone down like lead and he had opted to forego the rest of it.
Sam stared at him. "You think?" The bandage on Dean's injured hand was blood soaked. There was no point in saying anything, so Sam didn't waste his breath. He'd wait until they got to their motel and redress it for him then.
Dean yawned and left his head resting in his hands. "That's what Bubba said it was…can we go now, please, 'cause frankly, I feel like shit. Marilyn says there's a cheap motel a little ways down the road, but you're gonna hafta drive. I'm gonna be doin' good to get to the car."
Dean wasn't lying, drunk or not, it was all Sam could do to maneuver him to their car. The food and brief nap had given Sam back a little energy for which he was grateful. He guessed if one of them was going to continually be an idiot the other had better take care of themselves so they could watch out to make sure the idiot didn't hurt himself. Even if the idiot was doing what he thought was best.
He eased Dean into the front seat, making sure he wouldn't hit his head on the window when Sam closed the door. Dean was out before Sam even made it to the driver's side, arms crossed, forehead mashed against the glass. He moaned softly with each exhalation and shifted restlessly, muscles twitching, as Sam watched.
Sam finally turned on the ignition and left Earl's Place and Marilyn Monroe behind, searching ahead for the promised cheap motel.
Sorry to end it there, I couldn't continue without this chapter becoming extraordinarily long. I know it wasn't very exciting. It picks up in the next chapter. At least I hope it does……