The sleek Impala was a welcome sight. It sat alone tucked in the far corner of the parking lot, illuminated only by the rising moon and a smattering of stars. The minute he caught the first glimpse of the shiny, though rain-splattered, midnight-hued paint, Dean felt the memory of his arduous journey temporarily fade. In a way that most people would find strange, the Impala was comfort. It was a metal and chrome security blanket. It, more than anything else, represented home. If he could have, he would have broken into a jog the minute he cleared the tree line. He settled for minutely increasing the speed of his hobble, though not without a low growl of frustration.
Reaching the car, many long minutes later, Dean rested his makeshift cane against the back quarter panel and hop-shuffled to the trunk, extracting the keys from his pocket as he moved. His fingers had just closed around the handle of a flashlight when he heard another car pull into the deserted lot. Dean looked up, squinting to see in the gloom, automatically stiffening when he saw the reflective law enforcement decals on the doors. He bit back a groan when the vehicle pulled behind him and stopped.
Extracting the flashlight, he closed the trunk and placed the large silver-cased light face down on the trunk lid, freeing his hands. Dean waited tensely, silhouetted in the headlights, as the police officer got out of his vehicle and walked toward him.
Brody Ellison cautiously approached the stranger. "Son, this park closes at dusk. May I ask just what you're doing here after dark?" The hulking cop loomed in front of Dean, hand resting on the butt of his gun. He was at least as tall as Sam, but broader. Much broader. His voice matched his build, deep and throaty. Not nearly as comforting as the deep rumble of the Impala.
"I'm not doing anything." Dean had to work hard to keep the sarcasm absent from his voice.
"Well now, this here park has been rather notorious for attracting druggies, dealers, and prostitutes—even in a small town like this—which is why we started closing it from dusk to 7:00 in the morning."
Dean huffed out a breath and ran a hand over his forehead. "I'm not a druggie. Or a dealer. Or a male prostitute out pimping myself."
The cop eyed him from the toes of his boots up to the top of his head, taking in the mud-splattered, threadbare jeans with the holes in the knees and the wrinkled, damp-looking jacket and shirts visible underneath. "What's your name?"
"Wayne. Dean Wayne."
"Okay, Mr. Wayne. So what are you doing here in the park after dark?"
Deciding for once to be straightforward and honest as possible, Dean said, "Actually, I'm looking for my dog. He's lost. Been out here all day looking. Just came back to the car for a flashlight." He pointed to said item which rested on the trunk lid.
"Shit, boy. You think I'm gonna believe such a lame excuse."
"Look, I'm telling you the truth," Dean unthinkingly took a step forward to emphasize his words. "Ahhh!" In the time he'd stood still, Dean's bad ankle had stiffened and his leg betrayed him, crumpling when he tried to put weight on it.
Brody rocked backward in surprise when the man before him started to fall, but his hands shot out, locking around his elbows to support and steady him.
"Hey, easy there, son." Brody's first thought was the man was drunk or high, but he smelled no telltale whiff of alcohol or any other illicit drug. Twenty years of experience on the job had given him an instinct about such things, and something told him this guy wasn't impaired in that kind of way. He did, however, look a little shaky in addition to being unsteady on his feet.
Dean resisted the urge to shove the cop away and grudgingly accepted his help in keeping him on his feet. Once he was balanced, Dean muttered, "I'm okay—I'm okay. My—my ankle—I twisted it this morning out in the woods."
Ellison looked down to see that the younger man was indeed favoring his left leg. Another full length perusal had him finally noticing the smears of mud and a variety of scratches on the man's pale and weary-looking face. His hands too sported several scratches. Brody actually was starting to believe what this guy was telling him, but he still felt a small smidgen of skepticism. "So—you're telling me you've been out searching for a dog in the woods all day on that ankle?"
"Yeah. Used that as a cane." Dean cocked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the large branch he'd leaned against the car.
"All this for a dog?" Brody arched his right eyebrow.
"Look—it's my brother—my brother's—dog. Sam left him with me while he went over to Lally for the day to take care of some business. He's due to return the day after tomorrow. I HAVE to find Sammy before then."
"Wait. Your brother's name is Sam? And the dog's name is Sammy?"
Dean silently cursed his slip of the tongue. Exhaustion, the beginnings of mild dehydration, and pain were taking their toll.
"Uhh—family joke. When we were kids, every pet we ever got we named Sammy. He just kinda kept that going when he got the dog a few weeks ago." Dean felt like he was rambling and snapped his mouth closed.
Brody nodded, finding himself actually liking this kid. "And how did the dog come to be lost?"
The elder Winchester rubbed his hands over his face, smearing more dirt across his cheeks and quickly gave the cop a sanitized version of what happened with Dirk.
Peering closely at Dean's face while the man shared his story, Brody could now see some bruising underneath all the scratches and dirt. He also saw the man shiver as the chilly wind suddenly picked up, rattling the near-bare branches of the trees.
Dean finished with, ". . . so he got scared and took off for the woods. I have to find him. My brother'll never forgive me when he comes back. I just needed a flashlight so I could go back and keep looking." Dean reached for the light resting on his trunk.
"Now you know I can't let you stay here through the night."
Dean expected that answer and his fingers tightened on the metal flashlight.
"Dammit, I have to keep looking!"
"I know you want to. But, son, it just ain't safe to be out in those woods in the pitch dark. A flashlight's gonna do you no bit of good. And you could very well bang yourself up even worse than you are now. Then where will you be?"
"But . . ."
"Tell you what—you look about done in. Why don't you go on over to the diner and get something to eat—some coffee to warm up, tell whichever waitress you get that Brody Ellison sent you and I'll pick up your tab. Eat, take care-a that ankle, get some rest. The park opens at 7:00 in the morning. I'll be here to unlock the gate and I'll even help you look since my shift will be over. Deal?"
The throbbing in Dean's ankle and head was now merciless. He looked at the cop's implacable countenance and knew he had no choice but to agree. At least for now. He felt momentary defeat settle on his shoulders. "Deal."
Brody stepped around the younger man and grabbed the makeshift cane, handing it over with a good-natured warning. "Just remember—we patrol the area throughout the night. I don't wanna see this classic beauty anywhere near here until morning. Got it?"
Defeat settled in a little more comfortably. "Yeah, yeah—I got it." Grabbing the flashlight, Dean waited for the police office to move his car, and then hobbled to the driver's side and slid into his seat. A glance in the review mirror told him that the cop, Brody Ellison, was watching him. He started the car, backed up, and headed toward the parking lot exit. As Dean turned right and pulled away from the park, a final glance in the mirror showed him Ellison pulling the gate closed and locking it.
With a grunt of frustration, Dean slapped a palm down on the steering wheel and punched the accelerator down just a little harder.