Disclaimer : I don't own Supernatural, and this idea has probably been done before. I'm trying to steer clear of other stories involving Dean and Hell.. which is HARD, because there are a lot of good authors on here, and I really want to read. -sob- Alas, I don't want to be influenced, or accidentally copy someone's ideas, so I'm staying away for now. -sniffle-
A/N : Thank you to all of you who expressed interest in more of this! I really appreciate the reviews and the compliments. I'm sorry I get so much enjoyment out of making you guys sad, but I can't help it! And I promise, I can't guarantee a happy ending, but I'm NOT going to kill Dean.
Reviewers automatically get my delicious Impala shaped cookies!
--
Once, he was human. Long ago, he lived. He knew he had enjoyed life, but he couldn't remember what it felt like. He couldn't remember a lot of things at first. Some memories he'd held on to - important things, like Dad, and Sam - but others escaped him. He lived with a sense of confusion, as if there were things just beyond his grasp, waiting patiently for him to catch up.
He wandered around aimlessly for almost a day, totally lost after that first night. It was well into the next before it dawned on him to find a convenience store. At first he couldn't bring himself to go in. There were too many people, pumping gas, buying things, in and out the front door that jingled every time someone pushed it open. So he'd waited, waited until it was too late for normal people to be out.
He'd gone inside, feeling the clerk's eyes on his back as he headed for the restrooms in the back. As he'd hoped, there was a map tacked up between the doors marked Ladies and Men. A quick glance cataloged the name and location, but it didn't tell him much. He was nowhere he knew.
The eyes of the clerk were still on his back, so he slipped into the men's room, locking the door behind him.
One look in the mirror told him why. He was filthy, clothes stained with the demon's blood, and whatever he'd picked up curled behind the dumpster. If he smelled, he wouldn't know it; he could still smell sulfur, only sulfur. He looked at his reflection, but the second his eyes met the mirror image, the scrutiny was too much, and he had to look away.
He made half hearted effort to clean up, emptying the towel dispenser as he tried to wash and dry both his hair, shirt, and face. The rough white paper came away black, so he didn't give up until they came away mostly clean.
Feeling exhausted by that little activity, he stepped out of the bathroom.
He wanted to bolt for the door with the suspicious eyes that followed him as he moved around the small store. The clerk probably thought he was going to try to rob her, but he had more important problems.
First, he had just come back from the dead.
Secondly, he was starving.
A quick search of his pockets surprisingly revealed a ten dollar bill. It was crumpled, slightly damp, and he found himself wondering what the fuck it was doing there. His hand automatically went to his back pocket, but there was no wallet waiting.
Almost hesitantly, he looked over the selection in front of him. It didn't take him long to select a bottle of soda and a bag of peanut M&Ms. What took a while was getting up the guts to make the long walk to the counter, place the items on the counter, and wait, under scrutiny, while the clerk checked him out.
She muttered a total and he shoved the ten at her. His heart was pounding, and he kept his eyes fixed on the rack of candy displayed at the register. When she handed his change back, he'd already grabbed his food, and was out the door in a matter of seconds.
He beat a hasty retreat, going several blocks before he finally sought shelter in the form of an alley. He didn't like knowing there was only one way out if trouble came calling, but as he pressed his back against the dead end wall, he didn't care. It was comforting to know there was only one way in, too. No sneaking up behind him.
He tore into the M&Ms, stuffing a handful in his mouth, ravenous. He didn't wait to taste them before following with several more handfuls. He washed them down with swigs of soda, but it didn't taste right. Still, he ate, half afraid this earthly pleasure would be stolen from him if he didn't.
Moments later he was bent over, emptying his stomach of the first food he'd had in who knew how long. He stayed there, bent over, one arm over his head to brace himself against the wall. Letting his forehead rest against the cool brick.
He left the empty wrapper and mostly full Coke sitting on the ground.
It all tasted like ash.
--
He spent the night curled up on the front steps of a church. Unlike the alley, it offered no comfort. If anything, it made his skin crawl. Still, he somehow knew it was his best bet. Cops would chase him off a park bench, or out of the doorway of an office building, but they'd think twice before doing that at God's house. No, if you were homeless, God was just the guy to turn to.
He clutched Ruby's knife, and waited for dawn. But when morning finally came, he found himself wishing for the darkness again. The sun was too bright, the streets too crowded as they came alive with people. He watched from the church steps as the first few came and went, people heading to work, mostly. When they came out in full force, though, he retreated.
He didn't know where to go, so he spent the day walking. After last night, he wasn't hungry, but he knew he still needed money, and a few bucks and change wouldn't get him anywhere. With his stomach still queasy, he went about solving his problem.
He could try panhandling, but people were wary of his appearance, taking a wide path around him, or moving to the other side of the street altogether. He was glad, it kept him from having to do the same.
Besides, he swore. I will never beg again. Ever.
So he settled for the next best thing. He stole. It was only fifty bucks, but it felt like much more. He'd taken it from a woman's purse, watching as she walked her son to the water fountain at the park and lifted him up to drink. She was only a few feet away, and he guessed she figured she didn't need to worry.
It made him uneasy, stealing money, but she was well dressed, the purse designer, so he figured she could spare it.
But realistically, he knew fifty bucks wouldn't get him anywhere either. He needed new clothing, an actual roof to spend the night under, and - despite what his stomach said - he would need to eat again.
It was all gradually coming back to him, so he wasn't surprised when his boots carried him in the direction of a bar that night.
It was all gradually coming back to him, so he wasn't surprised when his boots carried him in the direction of a bar that night. He watched from a safe distance as people came and went, but could not make himself go in. The scent of beer, smoke, and sweat clung to the bodies that came through the doors, and even from across the street he could smell it.
That, too, was familiar, and he could almost feel a pool cue in his hands. It was all muscle memory, and he knew all he had to do was go through the motions, drink a little beer, talk a little smack, and he'd leave with at least enough to last until he figured out what to do.
He shivered and stuffed his hands in his pockets, suddenly noticing how chilly it had gotten. Sparing a glance at the jeans, t-shirt and light jacket he wore, he felt sudden relief. Dirty, disheveled, stained, there was no way he could go in there.
He needed another plan.
He stayed where he was, just watching, for over an hour before he found what he was looking for. It was late, but the party was still going on inside. No one was hanging around outside, and the door opened, spilling out one patron before slamming shut, and staying that way.
The man was very large, and very drunk. He stumbled towards the alley behind the bar, one hand fumbling with his zipper.
Already Dean was in motion. He followed, as silent as his boots allowed. He caught up with him just as the guy was zipping up, and fearing he might lose the element of surprise, struck out.
The well placed blow would have put most men out like a light. But as pain shot through his fist, he realized the man was not going down. Instead, he whirled around with an indignant grunt, and Dean's stomach sank. He didn't even look fazed, just pissed.
Before he even knew what happened, the man's fist - which seemed the size of his own head - was rushing towards him. He took the hit on the cheek, knuckles grazing his eye, the force of it spinning him, and went down hard. His forehead impacted the ground hard, and he tasted dirt and blood. Stars exploded in front of his eyes and the knife he'd hidden in his belt bit into his hip as he tried to drag it out. The pain went unnoticed as panic bubbled up in his chest as he realized he'd unintentionally given this man his back.
Trying to recover from the sudden shock, he twisted to his back, hands grappling for the knife.
The man might be drunk, but it didn't show, as he stomped over and delivered a swift kick to Dean's ribs. In response, he exhaled sharply and his hands automatically went to guard the offended area.
"The fuck, man?" the guy shouted, rearing back to kick again.
This time he caught the kick with half of his hand, and cried out. He willed the man to take his shots and just go. He would endure them, and as much as it hurt, he told himself it would be over soon.
But then the man was looming over him, grabbing him by the shoulders and lifting him up, pushing him brutally up against the brick wall.
Something inside him snapped, and he found himself fighting back in an adrenaline fueled frenzy. He didn't know if he was even landing any punches, didn't care. He was being overpowered, and he needed to stop it.
He heard a strangled scream, and it took a minute to realize it was coming from him.
"The fuck's wrong with you?" he heard the guy say, just before he shook him, hard.
His head connected with the wall, and his already splitting headache intensified. Managing to get his hands on the guy's chest, he shoved him back with the last bit of strength he had. He felt his legs buckle and he slid down the wall, one arm holding the knife out in front of him.
The man took a step forward, anger written on his face, clearly not thinking much of the knife.
"Hey!" a sudden voice shouted from the far end of the alley.
The man looked up, surprised, then back down, before making fast tracks as the dark figure at the opposite end broke into a jog.
Dean tried to press himself further back, willing the wall to swallow him as the person came closer. He held the knife out in front of him, making a very obvious threat.
"Hey, you okay?" The voice came down at him from a figure still hidden in darkness.
He knelt, and Dean froze. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything, because the guy in front of him looked so much like Sam his chest felt like it was going to cave in. His heart, already racing, leapt into his throat, and the name formed on his lips before he remembered.
He sat up straighter, head swimming, thrusting the knife outward, knowing it was a half assed move even as the knife missed it's target.
The man who was not Sam opened his eyes wide, narrowed them immediately after, then spoke -
"Cristo."
Dean raised the knife again. For a moment, he was steady.
Then, the knife dropped, and so did he.