2.
"Now I've thrown something far,
And it haunts me like a curse.
I'm like a stone falling hard,
And it's only getting worse."
'Competition Smile,' The Gin Blossoms
It's weeks later when the phone rings again. The hour is closer to dawn than it is to midnight, and she's felt sick all night. Not sick like she ate something that disagreed with her, but sick like something bad would happen soon—or had happened already. Her stomach churns and she feels the mix of anxiety and fear that leaves an almost sweet taste in her mouth, like she has eaten too many root beer floats and then been forced to run wind sprints in the summer heat. Her eyes have been closed since she went to bed, but she keeps thinking something bad has happened—it's definitely already happened, she decides. She just doesn't know whom it happened to. Jo knows whom to suspect; the Roadhouse is rough but her mom is more than capable of dealing with anything that could happen. And even though Ash has that demon-tracking software he can barely negotiate the table setup of the Roadhouse, so unless he pisses off a hunter he's never in too much danger. That leaves the Winchesters, and Dean to be more specific. Sam is too careful to get hurt.
She answers quickly. "Hello?" she speaks clearly into the phone, but again, no one answers her. This time however, she can hear crying—male crying—in the background, muffled by walls and the connection. And then there's that same slow, steady breathing she heard the last time he called. Jo puts it all together instantly and she asks worriedly, "Dean?" But there is no response, just the sound of breathing and crying. "Dean Winchester, you answer me right now!" She commands, her voice shaking a little.
"What the hell am I going to do?" the hollow voice asks.
Oh, shit. Her heart drops at the tone and she closes her eyes tightly for a moment. Something's got Sam. Jo flashes back to when Sam was possessed and told her about how her father died. She thinks suddenly, terrifyingly, that Dean is in the same situation and has to make the same choice. And she prays to God that if He has any mercy at all, He wouldn't do that to Dean. Because if Dean had to…had to kill Sam…she was sure that she would hear two gunshots—one for Sam and one for Dean. She could feel it in her bones.
"What happened?" she asks. Dean starts and stops so she asks again. "What happened, Dean?"
"He had to kill her." Dean says, and Jo is confused. But he must have realized that she doesn't know what he's talking about because he quickly explains himself. "We were hunting a werewolf, and Sam found a theory in Dad's book. He thought we could break the cycle by killing the wolf that bit the girl—you know, sever the blood line."
"That doesn't work." Jo speaks before she can stop herself.
"I know!" Dean says angrily. "But Sam wanted to try. And I let him, and the girl didn't turn the first night, but the second she did, and when she came to after it was over and she realized what she had done, she asked Sam to kill her. And I let him do it instead of doing it myself. So now what the hell am I going to do about Sammy? He's a God-damned mess!"
Dean spits out the last sentence bitterly, and Jo knows that Sam isn't the only one torn up. She knows that Dean has been hurting for years—she saw it in his eyes when he forced her to stay behind so he could find Sam alone. Since his dad died, he's let his darker self take over. Sam had called her once, and she heard fear in his voice. Sam was scared of his own brother. Not scared for, but scared of. That's when she knew Dean was in danger of losing himself. But now this call confirms a theory that Jo's had for a while: that Dean is a much more complex person than he lets on; that he struggles with his ethics as much as he struggles with the supernatural. She realizes that he doesn't have fun on the job anymore—Dean no longer gets any satisfaction from making the world a little safer, and his gallows humor has become all gallows and no humor. And what can she say to that?
The thought makes her remember the hunt for H. H. Holmes. Jo feels it was the first time she really saw who he was. His expressions and tones are permanent waves in her memory: the contrast between his devil-may-care attitude toward hunting in general and the ferocity with which he opposed her hunting. He said he was twisted. And the way he laughed through the deliberately understated phrase prickled her skin. So she bucked herself up and dared him to elaborate. And when he didn't, she began to understand how serious he was. Instead he bit his lip, shook his head, and tried another angle. He said she had options, and it was clear that what he really meant was that she still had part of her family left. Jo couldn't hold his eyes, could only glance up for split seconds and try to appear bored by his lecture. She decides to play it safe tonight. "Dean, you had to kill this girl. She wasn't herself anymore—"
"Oh, but she was!" Dean cuts her off. "She was herself, until the moon came out. And then she killed, but come morning she was scared and wondering what happened. She didn't have a clue about what she was doing. It made no sense."
"Dean, she was supernatural, she was possessed by evil. And you tried to find another way."
"I don't need a damn morality lesson." He bites out. "I know what needs to be done. I'm not worried about my conscience."
She holds her temper because she knows he's not mad at her. Jo feels her instincts stir: she wants to be there so he can find solace in her. She wants to help him through this grieving process that is so new and hard for him; to soothe his guilt and regret. Instead, she finds a comforting voice and says his name, "Dean…Dean, I know." He's quiet again, and his breathing sounds like a breeze rustling fields of wheat. He may not worry about his conscience, but she does. She wants to apologize for blaming John—and him by extension—for her father's death. He didn't need that. She wonders what is already weighing him down; what vow he made that has him so beaten and ready to give up.
His voice is softer when he speaks again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" He trails off before he can finish his explanation but she understands what he is saying. She hears him force out a frustrated sigh, and then he speaks again. "Things are f— er, really screwed up right now." She smiles when he catches himself to keep from swearing like a sailor around her. "I just wanted…I don't know what rumors are out there—what you've heard through the Roadhouse or your mom or…whoever. With Sammy being possessed and having those visions, and me being on just about everyone's hit list because of something either I did or Dad did…just don't believe everything you hear."
"Okay." She replies, because she thinks he needs to hear her say it.
"Good, good." He pauses again, and she can picture him scrunching his eyebrows as he tries to figure out what to do with Sam and what to say to her. "Call me if you need to know something—or call Sam."
"I will." Jo promises. Dean doesn't answer and Jo realizes that it's quiet on his end of the connection. She can't hear anymore crying and wonders what has happened with Sam. "Dean, what's going on now?" she asks.
"Nothing."
"Where's Sam?" That question seems to rouse him, and she can hear shuffling and scraping coming over the phone.
"He's still here. He's just shaken up." Dean sounds in control again, a little more distant. "We've just got to get out of here, that's all."
"Where to?" Jo asks before she can stop herself.
"I don't know…we're in San Francisco right now. What the hell is good to see around here?"
"The Golden Gate Bridge." It's all Jo can come up with.
"Seen it." Dean's tone suggests that it wasn't a pleasant memory.
"The trolley system?" She wished she could help more.
"What am I, ninety years old?" Dean scoffs.
"You do act like a bitter, surly killjoy." She shoots back.
"I'm never letting you pick my vacation." He says, and the tension lifts a little. "Maybe we'll go to Hollywood—I did tell Sam I wanted to see it. I don't know, Jo. But whatever happens, we'll probably drop off the map for a little while. Take a breather from all the crap that's going on and try to have a little fun."
"Oh yeah?" She asks.
"Yeah."
"Well, you two could use a break."
"I'm just tired of it all." The cryptic statement leaves her with a twisting, uneasy feeling in her gut.
"Dean," She begins, not sure how to phrase her thoughts. "I know you're a hell of a ways from Duluth, but I'm here—I'll do what I can for you."
"Well, if that's the case…" He trails off suggestively.
"Dean," she says in a no nonsense voice.
He stays quiet a moment, and when he does speak his voice lacks the playfulness she thought it would have, "I know."
"Dean…" she senses that he's becoming jittery, and realizes he wants to get off the phone. She can't really blame him for his aversion to opening up, but she wants to. He needs to let someone help him instead of swallowing his emotions. But Dean will never do that. She realizes that he actively cultivates his image: an intriguing alchemy of the cocky hell-raiser and the strong-silent type that compels her to at least try and comfort him. So she offers what she can. "Call me—just sometime in the next week or so. I won't tell anyone, but someone needs to know where you are just in case." It's lame, and transparent; but she can't think of anything else and she really wants to know he's all right.
"Sure," Dean answers. "Look, I've got to go—we've got to get out of here before the cops show."
"Bye." She says.
"I'll call sometime. Bye." He hangs up then.
She can feel the quiet again. Funny how conversations with him always ended that way: surrounded by silence until sounds normally un-noticed filled the vacuum. This time it was the rapid, mechanical ticking of her watch. The screen of her phone illuminates her nightstand, and she watches the second hand sweep along to its staccato rhythm until the light fades and she is once again covered by the near-velvet darkness of night. She stares into it, trying to find sleep.
When she wakes later that morning, the sun is bright and she's surprised to see that it's nearly eleven. She checks her phone, but there are no messages and no missed calls. She hopes he and Sam are okay, and sends thought waves at Dean: please call; please just call me. Because damn her, she wants to be there for him.
"When the wild life betrays me,
And I'm too far from home.
Will you be there to save me?
Will you shelter my heart 'till I'm strong?
Or will you just hang up the phone?
When the wild life betrays me…"
'When the Wild Life Betrays Me,' Jimmy Buffett
He never expected his next call to her to be like this. After Sam has done the job—killed Madison—he stays in the living room and cries his eyes out. And Dean is left to wonder where the hell everything went wrong. It seems pretty obvious: he should've never played along with Sam's stupid request. Just do the job and be done with it. But since he pulled Sam into his quest for the Demon, a lot of gray area has taken the place of his black and white world. Especially after hunting with Gordon. Dean shakes his head; he doesn't want to end up like that man—so angry he can't see the forest for the trees. He has been trying hard to make the distinction between supernatural and evil, but it's hard. For so many years he's put his conscience on hold, and he gets the feeling that sometimes his brother sees him as one cold-hearted bastard. It's not that he doesn't wrestle with right and wrong, but when he's working a job he looks at everything in an objective way. It's difficult, and sometimes it sucks, but Dean knows there's time to second-guess after the job is done.
Then along comes Sam, and he's got this naïve sense of right and wrong, good and evil—something Dean's sure Sam's had all his life and was nurtured by his years in college. And Dammit, Dean can't just look at a problem objectively anymore. He begins to think of repercussions or alternate courses of action, and things become muddled. Which is what happened tonight. Sammy gave him those puppy-dog eyes and pleaded and Dean cracked; and it ended up being a thousand times worse than if Dean had forced them to do the smart thing. Sam would've hated Dean if he'd killed Madison, but that would've been better than having Sam broken in her living room after having to kill her himself.
He falls to the floor and leans against the counter, trying to keep quiet. Trying to get himself under control and figure out what to do next. He takes in a shaky breath, holds it as he counts to ten, then releases it slowly. He wipes his eyes and feels like a fool for letting his brother get put in this position. Dean pulls the phone out of his pocket and pushes the speed dial for Jo's number. Sam's still crying and he can't stop concentrating on it.
Her voice breaks into his mind. "Dean Winchester, you answer me right now!" Jo sounds worried. Why is she worried? He hasn't even been able to say anything yet.
"What the hell am I going to do?" He asks, and he's angry because he can't control his emotions and he's never been this weak in all his life. He tries to talk, but his throat closes on the words before they can escape. It's a helpless feeling, and Dean remembers now why he doesn't like emotions. But the tone of Jo's voice calms him and he explains what's going on. He doesn't mean to snap at her, but he's angry and frustrated. Jo tries to reason with him, but he doesn't want reason. He already knows the logic behind everything. He just wants…he needs a way to help Sam and he can't because he doesn't know how. If it was him, he'd drink himself to oblivion. He'd find another hunt—something evil that he was sure needed to be killed. Maybe even make a pass at a hot chick. What he did didn't really matter, as long as he could get his mind off of this for a little while. He's sick of Jo's reasoning and cuts her off angrily. "I don't need a damn morality lesson. I know what needs to be done. I'm not worried about my conscience."
She's quiet and he's suddenly afraid he's alone. Now what's he going to do? He can't help but think that he's the most self destructive person he knows. Give him enough time and he'll alienate everyone around him. He'd done it to Sammy when he'd left for college, he'd done it to Cassie, he was sure he'd just done it to Jo. Just like his father had done something to all those people who used to be 'like family.' Well, like father like son…Dean always wanted to be like his dad; now he feels he picked up all the bad habits and none of the good, and the thought makes him feel like a shit.
But then Jo speaks again. "Dean…Dean, I know." And her voice is so soft that he wants to tell her everything. He has to take another couple of deep breaths to steady himself because for a moment he remembers that his mother used that same tone. He wonders how long it would take to get to Duluth, but he knows he's got to find a way to help Sammy deal with this.
He tries to apologize, but the words get stuck again and he feels like less of a man for that, so he ends up rambling in an attempt to sum up what's been happening, and tries to make her understand that she can trust him—and Sam.
"Dean, what's going on now?" She asks.
"Nothing," he tells her, because everything is finished. The job is done—he's just cleaning up the mess. Then he wonders if she meant something else. Was she worried about Sam? Or him? How much had she heard from her mother and other hunters?
"Where's Sam?" Jo asks, and he thinks she's reading his thoughts.
Dean crawls across the floor and peaks around the corner into the living room. Sam is still on the floor in there. He's quiet now, leaning on the couch and looking up through the window. Quiet is much easier for Dean to deal with than weepy. "He's still here. He's just shaken up." Dean is already developing a plan: clean up the mess, check out of the hotel, and disappear somewhere. "We've just got to get out of here, that's all."
"Where to?"
He hasn't gotten that far, and the question stumps him for a moment. He answers honestly, and asks if she can think of anything.
"The Golden Gate Bridge," She suggests.
Not the best way to forget about the werewolves. "Seen it." He tells her.
"The trolley system?"
Surely she's messing with him. "What am I, ninety years old?"
"Well, you do act like a bitter, surly killjoy." She teases.
He smiles at that, and tells her about his short-term goal of going to Hollywood. He leaves out the part about Lindsey Lohan though, because that's highly inappropriate. And to be honest, she lost her appeal when she became a skanky alcoholic. If he wanted that he'd stop in the first bar he saw. Jo agrees that he and Sam could use some down time.
"I'm just tired of it all." Dammit, he meant for that to come out with a smirk—like he is tired of being on the road and just needs to recharge his batteries. Instead it comes out worn—almost haggard, if a voice can sound like that.
"Dean," She says seriously. "I know you're a hell of a ways from Duluth, but I'm here—I'll do what I can for you."
He wishes he could make her understand how grateful he is for her, but he knows he can't—at least not over the phone… Besides, she's become worried again; he can feel it in her voice. Dean doesn't want her to worry—he and Sam will be fine. So he answers her in a provocative tone, "Well, if that's the case…"
"Dean," She scolds him.
The smirk is erased from his lips. "I know," He matches her seriousness, hoping she understands that he's glad for her help. Damn! He needs to talk to her face to face—apologize for what happened between their dads, apologize for treating her so bad when all she wants to do is help him, maybe even set things right between them. But there's absolutely no way he could do that right now, and he needs to check on Sam so they can get the hell out of here…
She asks him to call her, and he tells her he will—he would've called anyways—before he hangs up. He takes a deep breath, then gets to his feet and makes a lot of noise. "Come on Sam—we gotta jet." He says loudly before entering the living room.
Sam looks at him, his eyes still red from crying. "Where're we going?"
"South," Dean tells him. "Get up, now, let's go. Grab the gear."
"What about Madison?"
"I'll handle that."
"But—"
"Get the gear, Sammy." Dean commands him. "I'll clean up."
Sam leaves the living room, and Dean takes a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wipes at the door knobs, window sills, and counters. He's sure that they've left prints, but he's cleaned all the obvious places. Sam comes in a moment later, the duffle slung over his shoulder. Dean nods towards the door. "Go, man. I'm right behind you."
"What about the body?"
"I'm pretty sure someone heard the gunshot—we've gotta be gone before the police show up." Dean glances at his watch and realizes they've been here almost ten minutes. "We get to the hotel, pack up, and leave. Got it?"
"Yeah," Sam's out the door, and Dean's right behind him. He uses the handkerchief like a glove as he pulls the door mostly shut, then wipes at the door knob one last time.
When they make it to the hotel, Dean has Sam check out while he throws their two bags into the trunk beside the duffle. Dean picks up Sam, finds the I-5 freeway and turns south. Dean drives the speed limit the whole way, and they get stop for a few hours at a rest area in the middle of the night. Dean parks in the middle of the tractor trailer rigs and they catch a little sleep. They wake up when the truckers start their engines, and Dean maneuvers the Impala out from between the big rigs and over to the small building that houses the bathrooms. When he finishes in the bathroom he starts cleaning the trash from the car. It's not much—a couple straw wrappers and a few empty bags.
Sam comes back and grabs Dean's souvenir cup from Bob's Gas 'n Grill. "Can we toss this?" he asks.
Dean shakes his head, "I'm saving it."
"For what?" Sam wrinkles his brow.
"Just am." Dean takes the cup from Sam. He rinses it out in the bathroom and sets it in the on the floor behind his seat when he comes back. "You ready?" He asks Sam.
"Yeah," Sam yawns. "Where're we going?"
"Hollywood," Dean grins. "I hope to God they've got a Waffle House there."
"May have to make do with an IHOP." Sam says.
"That'll work—we'll stop at the first one we find." Dean gets in and starts the car. "We've only got an hour or so before we get there." He tells Sam. The morning sun is bright, and it looks like it's going to be a beautiful day.
They reach the city limits at seven thirty in the morning, and pull off the freeway to avoid the worst of the traffic. They don't go too far into town, and by eight thirty they're sitting in an IHOP and waiting for breakfast. They're almost done when Dean catches sight of a clock. "Crap," he grumbles to himself.
"What?" Sam asks.
"Nothing."
"Not nothing," Sam says with a small smile. "You look like you're trying to do math in your head."
Dean ignores him and catches the attention of a waitress passing by. "Could you tell me what time it is?"
The waitress glances at her watch. "Eight fifty-four."
"Thanks," he smiles and lets her go. Add two hours…that would make it ten fifty-four. Dean stands up and tells Sam, "Don't let them take my breakfast, I'll be right back."
"Where you going?"
"Nowhere—personal business."
"Another phone call?" Sam teases lightly, and Dean wonders again if he's figured it out.
He knows that Sam watches him walk out the front door, and Dean waits until he turns a corner before he fishes out his cell phone. He should call Jo so she knows where they are and that they're okay. He promised her he would, and he figures keeping that promise is the first step to becoming a good man.
Finisimo.
Feedback is appreciated.