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No longer did work involve salt rounds and shotguns and holy water. In the bed of his truck, he carried hammers and drills and gloves and helmets. He dropped Ben off at school on his way to work and ate dinner when he came home. He watched television and played golf and slept in the same bed every night. Life, for Dean some might say, had become boring. For him, life had become safe and ordinary.
He was happy. Except when he fell asleep.
In sleep, his dreams were a constant reminder of the life that he had left behind, and ultimately of the brother he had left behind. His dreams tortured him with guilt. They taunted him. But most of all, his dreams left him doubting the choice he made, the promise to his brother to make no attempt to save him.
As of late, his dreams left him feeling threatened. It was as if a ghost stalked through his psyche, only giving teasing glimpses of itself, taunting him. He could hear it speak to him, a voice whispering in his ear, though coming from no discernable mouth.
This intrusion had kept him on his guard. He could hardly say that it didn't worry him, the idea of some creature picking through his memories and thoughts while he slept. Its menacing words "I am coming for you" and "I will not be stopped" lingered his mind long after the nightmare ended and the day began. He wanted to know what those words meant; he wanted to be prepared.
That same night, after Ben had gone to bed and he had kissed Lisa goodnight, Dean sat up in bed and mentally prepared himself for whatever his subconscious had to throw at him. Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, he gave himself one of those pep-talks he used to recite before a job, a hunt. Whatever he saw, whoever he saw, he wouldn't lose his nerve.
Sliding down into his sheets, nestling his head into his pillow, Dean closed his eyes and waited for sleep.
The sun shone in a cloudless sky. Dean stood on the sidewalk, facing a familiar house. He knew where he was, but he didn't want to admit it to himself. He wanted to turn around and walk away, but his feet were planted on the cement. It was as if the house was challenging him, daring him to come inside.
But he swore he wouldn't.
Suddenly, the front door opened, seemingly of its own volition. Dean could feel his heart pound, the sound echoing in his ears. He stared at the open door. Everything went still. He couldn't even feel a breeze.
The house was quiet. Nothing else moved. Nothing, until, and Dean couldn't even be sure, he saw a shift in the shadows through the open door.
Then, the voice, clearer, a woman's voice, spoke.
"Dean Winchester, I am here. I will not be stopped. I am coming for you."
A figure walked past the door. Its face was obscured by shadow, coming into view for no more than a second. Dean took a step forward.
Again, the voice.
"I am here, Dean. For you."
Dean tore into the house. His eyes darted from side to side as he frantically searched the rooms of his old house in Laurence. Everything was the way he remembered. The old furniture and family pictures sat in the rooms and hung on the walls. But there was no one.
"Where are you?" he shouted into the empty house, "Where are you?"
He heard a door slam upstairs. He darted up the stairs, blood pumping through his veins, the sound rushing in his ears. He stood in the hallway, circling around, his eyes searching for any hint of movement, any sign of a threat.
"WHERE ARE YOU?"
The voice spoke again. If Dean didn't know any better, the voice seemed to plead with him.
"I am here, Dean. I've always been here."
"Then show yourself! You can't be afraid of me!"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a door down the hall open, only just. The door to Sam's old nursery. A ray of light shone as a line of yellow on the floor. He watched it intently, waiting for the glimpse of a shadow of whatever waited for him inside. With careful steps, Dean walked towards the door. He put his ear to the crack and held his breath. He heard nothing. He put his hand on the door.
"Dean, I am here!" the voice called out to him.
Dean charged through the door.
His eyes flew open. He was back in his bed. It was still night, the moon shone in from the window, casting a blue shadow across the bed. Dean clenched his fists in frustration, stifling the irritated growl gathering in his throat.
That was enough.
Dean pulled himself from bed, being careful not to wake Lisa as she slept peacefully beside him. He walked down the stairs to the kitchen phone. Not even bothering to turn on any lights, Dean stood in the darkness.
He held the receiver in his hands for a few hesitant moments, unsure of whether or not he should make this call. The thought of one more dream urged him to press the green, glowing TALK button and dial the number ingrained in his mind.
He held the receiver up to his ear. The time had never occurred to him, to make call at such an hour, but he knew there would be answer anyway.
Sure enough, after a few rings, Dean heard a click and then that familiar, gruff voice.
"Hello?"
Dean couldn't speak for a few moments. It had been nearly a year.
"Hey, Bobby."
The voice on the other end of the line was silent for a few moments, "Dean? Dean, is that you?"
"Sorry to call so late."
"You think I care, boy. How are you? Dammit, son. You gotta wait a year to call me?"
"I know, Bobby. I am sorry. It's been . . . It's been different."
"You can apologize later. What's going on, Dean?" Bobby's voice was heavy with concern.
"Bobby, I think . . . I think something is after me."
Bobby went quiet.
"Like what?"
"I don't know, Bobby. I don't know what it is."
"I think you best come here, son."
Dean placed the receiver back on its perch. He was going back. Not just to Bobby's, but to that whole life. He hadn't even thought about hunting anything for months, and now, just like that, he was thrust back into the game with his own safety at stake, no less. This wasn't what he wanted. But since when did Dean ever get what he wanted.
He trudged up the stairs, already feeling utterly defeated. Even if he destroyed whatever was preying on him, he knew it had already won. It was able to pull him away from the life he was making with Lisa and Ben, and pull him back down into the life of death and demons that he grown up with.
He passed Ben's door on his way back to his room. The door was slightly ajar. Peering in, he saw Ben's sleeping form, peaceful and content. Dean sighed and suddenly felt very much like his own father, leaving without reason, without a good-bye.
He walked into his room where Lisa sat up in bed, looking at Dean with that same concern.
"Dean?"
Dean couldn't even find the words.
"You have to leave."
It wasn't a question, and it killed him to know that she understood. No one should have to understand something like that.
"Lisa, I am sorry," he replied helplessly.
She wasn't angry, or if she was, it wasn't with him. She only looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.
"I wish you would tell me, Dean," she said pleadingly.
"I would, Lisa. Believe me, I would. But this time . . . this time, I don't know what it is."
"And that's why you have to leave."
"I'm going to Bobby's."
Lisa pulled herself from under the covers and walked to Dean, who still stood with guilt weighing on his shoulders. She took his hands in hers and held onto them, almost clinging to him, begging him to stay, but knowing he couldn't.
"You've been there for us, Dean, always."
Dean moved to protest, but she cut him off, not even letting him begin.
"No, Dean, you have. And if going to Bobby's now means that you can be there for us tomorrow, I guess that is just a sacrifice that Ben and I are going to have to make."
Dean didn't say anything. The idea of anyone sacrificing anything for him, especially Lisa and Ben who had already sacrificed and given so much was something to which Dean could never truly reconcile himself.
Dean swallowed a sigh, closing his eyes in an effort to calm himself. She wrapped her arms around him and he felt her icy fingertips on his back, the cold permeating through his shirt, shocking him back to reality.
"C'mon," she said softly, "Let's get you ready."
At this point, Dean felt it was almost impossible for him to leave. For the first time in a long time, he felt the burden of being protector. He'd nearly forgotten how it felt, so suffocating and stressful.
After all that happened, saving people almost wasn't worth the risk. There was always too much at stake. But this was for his family. His family. He repeated that to himself. The mantra that he had lived by for nearly thirty years: Protect your family or die trying.
With a heavy nod of his head, he moved to get dressed. Hardly even caring, he pulled on a pair of worn jeans over his boxers, flung on a shirt that he grabbed off the floor of the closet. He grabbed the keys to the truck off the dresser and headed downstairs. As he descended, the aroma of fresh coffee brewing wafted through the house. No one had ever made Dean coffee before a hunt. No one had ever made him anything, except maybe nervous.
He made his way down to the kitchen where he saw Lisa, sitting down with an open thermos standing on the table by her elbow. Her hand was clenched in a fist, covering her mouth. Her eyes were lowered and her breathing was unsteady, despite her best efforts to hide it. It tore Dean up inside, knowing he was the one to cause her such unease.
"Hey," he said quietly. She lifted her eyes to look at him.
He sat down across from her at the table, unsure of what to say. It was silent for a few moments. Dean couldn't bear it. He inhaled and blurted out without thinking, "I'm coming back, you know."
Lisa only blinked.
"I know," she said, as if trying to convince not only Dean, but herself. Dean reached over and grabbed her hand. He felt his body heat escape into her frigid fingertips, a sensation that he still couldn't get used to. He rubbed his thumb tenderly against her skin. It seemed to soothe them both, if only for the moment.
"I'll be ok. So will you and Ben. I promise." She nodded. She rose from her seat, her hand drifting away from Dean's, and went to the coffeepot. She carried it to the table and poured the hot brew into the thermos. Dean watched with loving fascination as she spun in the lid on, sealing the heat inside and placed the small cap on top. Dean stood and walked the short distance between them. As Lisa handed it to him, he met her lips with a small kiss. It was a good-bye. For now.
He exited the house. The streets were dead. He was used to late night drives. Walking toward his truck on the street, he stopped in his tracks. He looked at the rickety, old truck parked on the street. It would never make the trip to South Dakota. Not in the time he needed it to. He thought for a moment and looked behind him at the closed garage door.
He entered through the side door. He flipped the switch and the light flickered to life. A cloth covered mass stood among the ladders and tool boxes and half empty cans of paint.
He ripped off the cloth. There she was, brilliant and commanding, as though not a day had gone by.
The Impala. Dean's first love.
He pulled the garage door open, moonlight flooded the garage, swathing the jet black paint of the Impala in blue light.
He pulled the handle and the door swung open. The leather upholstery, the wide steering wheel, the familiar knobs and buttons, everything about this car, his old friend, beckoned to him. He slid into the driver seat, pulling the ring of keys of out of his pocket. He flipped through the small pieces of metal until he came across the one that would start up his old car and his old life.
He held it between his index finger and thumb. He placed the key in the ignition and with a flick of his wrist and the engine rumbled to life.
He pulled out of the garage and took to the road.
He drove in silence for several hours, his box of tapes left untouched. This trip in his beloved car was laden with unwanted and dangerous thoughts. Of the family he was leaving behind. Of his destination and all that it implied. Of how alone he was at that moment, nothing but his memories and trunk of ammunition to keep him company.