Driftwood
AN: After agitating to my beta for a while about writing in the third person instead of first, this was her suggestion – what Dean went through over the six months when Terry went back to her old life at Cas' insistence. It's a test for me, so I hope you like it and if you do, let me know! Again my thanks to BlackIceWitch for her cover art for this story which I think is awesome, and for being a wonderful beta. Any mistakes left over, all mine!
Chapter 1 When You Were Gone
Dean skidded to a dusty halt less than two feet from the angel and demon, looking wildly around, Sam beside him doing the same thing.
"We had a deal," Crowley was snarling at Castiel.
"I brought her down," the angel said with a straight face. "That was the deal."
"You sent her back!"
"She asked to go," Cas disagreed, looking past the King of Hell at the demon cloud hovering over the yard. "I had no choice."
"This isn't over," Crowley promised him, swinging around, his black coat flying out. He gestured sharply at the cloud and it too wheeled around, flowing back over the fence and trees and powerlines to the east as the demon vanished mid-stride.
"The hell's Terry, Cas?!" Dean asked abruptly.
"She's safe. In her old life," Castiel told him. "She knew she didn't belong here. She didn't want to die."
"No," Dean said, looking at Sam for confirmation as he felt his doubt growing. "She wouldn't have just given up like that, right?"
Sam didn't answer. Dean saw his brother's uncertainty. Terry had been swept into their life, their world. Only one thing had held her here and he'd thought it'd been enough but what the hell did he know? He hadn't made any promises. He hadn't said anything.
"She asked me to take her home, Dean," Cas said quietly. "I had to do it. Crowley wants her soul, but not for Hell."
"What the hell's that mean?" Bobby interjected, reaching them. "What good's her soul to him?"
"It's a source of power," the angel said, his gaze on Dean. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, her choice, right?" Dean said, looking at the yard's gates. "She'll be safer there."
"Dean –" Sam was looking at him, he could feel his brother's concern boring into his back.
"Car needs an oil change," he said, turning for the workshop. "See if you can find us a job."
He walked across the yard and made himself get into the Impala, start the engine and drive her carefully into Bobby's shed, catching sight of the small group standing and watching him in the rear view mirror.
She would be safer there. Crowley couldn't get his hands on her there, he thought, turning off the engine and getting out, looking around for what he needed. Hell, if he'd known about that choice, he'd have sent her himself. It was better this way.
He realised he was staring at the oil drum without moving and started toward it, pulling off his coat automatically and rolling up his sleeves.
Definitely better this way.
~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~
One week later.
The house was quiet and dark, but still full of reminders. He'd never even seen the damned room he was sitting in before she'd gotten here and rearranged Bobby's entire place. He got up from the sofa restlessly, picking up the bottle and swigging a mouthful from the neck as he walked to the window.
Gone was good. Gone meant he didn't have to worry about what might happen. What would happen, he thought bitterly. Gone was better than dead (like Ellen and Jo and Pamela and Ash and Rufus).
Stumbling over something between the sofa and the low table, Dean looked down, seeing the small leather backpack lying on the floor, half under the table. He put the bottle down and dropped back onto the sofa, lifting it up and opening the flap reluctantly. Even not here, it was still hers and his curiosity, fanned by something deeper, was battling with the sense that he had no right to look at what the bag held.
A scattering of stuff fell out onto the table when he tipped it up. The notes that interleaved the bulging journal lay loosely over a set of keys, a silkily soft, old leather wallet, a couple of small notebooks, one fallen open, the handwriting neat and slightly slanted. There wasn't much of the bag's owner lying there and he wasn't sure if he was relieved about that…or disappointed. Opening the wallet, he looked at the driver's licence in the clear window. The room was too dark to make out any detail. Most people's licence pictures looked like crap anyway. Still, he angled it to the window's dim glow, letting it fall when he realised he was trying to see detail that wasn't there.
So you accepted the guilt for what you did in Hell, you embraced it and submerged yourself in it because it justified not even allowing yourself to think about any of things that were hurting you, pretending to yourself that you didn't need to think about them, that you couldn't have them…
When she'd said it to him, he'd felt himself withdraw and close up and he'd left. Driving aimlessly and without a destination through the night, he'd known that it was all true. It'd taken some time to admit to it, but that had been more because she'd known it, had seen it, somehow.
He'd wanted to tell her that he'd thought about it. Had wanted to tell her that he was trying not to feel that way. And Cas had shown up.
He walked into the hall and stood there indecisively. He'd tried sleeping. Behind his closed lids, memory came and drove sleep away. The whiskey had muted his senses but nothing else.
Dean, if there's anything about me you like, anything at all, could you tell me what it is, right now?
Closing his eyes against the sound of that voice in his head, he swung around and walked to the front door. He couldn't stay here. Not for Bobby and not for Sam. He needed to be doing something.
The Impala started up straight away, the engine's deep rumble as it pulled out of the auto yard both comforting and familiar, and he turned right, heading south without a destination.
~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~
Two weeks after that.
Dean was cruising, one hand on the wheel and the other tuning the dial for something other than the farm report to listen to. His breakfast sat comfortably in his stomach and the full night's sleep after days of not much at all had given him a sense that maybe, just maybe, he was doing the right thing. Catching the tail end of Back in Black, he left the station as it was and looked back at the road.
"And now for the news of the weird – two very odd murders, to be exact. Mediums are dying in Lily Dale, the most psychic town in America. So if you want to know your future...stick to that nine hundred line, 'cause is it me, or should those guys have seen it coming?"
Most psychic town in America? Lily Dale was nine hours in the other direction and he made the u-turn efficiently, the engine roaring with its comforting familiarly through his hands and feet.
~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~
The Good Graces Café sported a profusion of ferns with a backdrop of varnished pine. Looking at the blackboard on the far wall as he walked in, he could feel the desire to roll his eyes strengthen. "Special of the Day: You!" it proclaimed in large, colourful, chalk lettering. Under that was "Soup of the Day: A State of Bliss".
His brother liked places like this. He usually couldn't find anything to eat on the menu. It was a bad idea. He was hesitating at the short flight of steps when a man materialised beside him.
"Hello!" Tall and lanky, radiating what had to be a forced bonhomie, the cheery grin of the middle-aged waiter was nauseating at this time of morning. "First time at Good Graces?"
"Yeah," Dean allowed warily.
"Well, we're a hundred percent locally sourced, biodynamic, and you get a free affirmation with every order," the waiter babbled at him, nodding enthusiastically at each point. The accent sounded more Californian than New York and Dean noticed that the waiter's eyes were creepily focussed on something just past his right shoulder.
"Think I'll source a taco joint," he said, backing a step away from the dude.
"All right," the waiter said agreeably, turning to another customer. Dean exhaled with a sense of danger just missed and started to turn back for the door.
"Just coffee, black, extra shot."
He stopped, recognising the voice. Sam. Taking a step to one side, he looked around the multi-level room and saw him sitting at a table, eyes glued to a file in front of him.
"You always wear a suit to get your palm read?" he asked, walking over to the table. Sam looked up, his expression flattening out. Ignoring that, Dean nodded and reached for a chair on the other side.
"Yeah. Not surprised you caught this one. It's on every morning zoo in America. You mind?"
He pulled out the chair and sat, not waiting for an answer to that. He could see his brother debating the correct course of action and decided he didn't want to see any of the possibilities.
"So, I, uh, I went to the scene. Wires, speakers, enough EMF to make your hair stand up. Don't even think about getting a reading. Oh, and, uh, if this hadn't have been two psychics that bit it...I would have just chalked this up as being, uh, dumb and accidental. And I know, I know. This whole town's supposedly calling ghosts. But that takes some serious spell work and some serious mojo. The only books this lady had were Oprah crap. When was the last time you actually saw a real psychic? Huh? Pamela? Missouri?"
The obnoxiously cheerful waiter materialised again, this time standing between them. "And what can I get for you?"
"Uh, pancakes, side of pig. Coffee, black," he told him, looking at Sam.
"Fantastic. You are a virile manifestation of the divine," the waiter gushed adoringly, spinning around and heading for the kitchen.
"What the hell did he say to me?" Dean looked after him, brows drawing together.
"That was your affirmation," Sam told him curtly. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Around," he answered. "Got a ghost in North Carolina."
"Hunting. On your own," Sam said, his face and voice expressionless. "And you couldn't let us know."
Dean looked away. "It was a – a spur of the moment thing."
"Right."
"What do you think of this?" he asked, waving a hand toward the window and street, hoping that the blatant change of subject would get them past the awkwardness of the moment. Sam might let it go for now, he thought, but not forever.
"I think if we're working this job together, then I want to know what happened."
"Don't make this into a federal case, Sam."
"I'm asking what happened," Sam repeated patiently, with the air of a man prepared to wait until Judgement Day.
"Do you want order some herbal tea?" Dean asked him sarcastically. "Maybe dim the lighting? We could hold hands and look into each other's eyes?"
"We used to talk about this stuff."
Looking at the table top, Dean let his breath escape in long exhale at the non-reactive tone in Sam's voice. He was right. They'd never been all that great at it, but back in the day, they'd actually tried to hear each other out. Back when trust had never been an issue. Back when all they'd had was each other.
"I didn't have this much scar tissue back then," he pointed out, keeping his tone light. The anger was still there, hiding for the moment under Sam's long-suffering look. He'd been a dick to leave without saying anything, but at the time, he couldn't have said a word and he had a feeling Sam already knew that. "I, uh, I'm sorry. I just needed some time to – uh – think, that's all."
"No one thought you –"
"Can we skip this bit?" Dean asked. He'd apologised, wasn't that enough? "Two murders in a town full of fake psychics."
He hadn't needed time to think. He'd needed to get away from the sympathetic looks, from having to see his brother with Lauren, from Bobby's thoughtful expressions whenever he'd looked at the current level of the bottles on the old-fashioned sideboard next to the TV. He'd had to get away from not sleeping and the ache that seemed to be present no matter what he did, from turning corners in the old house and the raw expectations that hadn't gone away, even with time.
The ghost in Raleigh had sure seen his lack of attention. He'd had to focus on the job and that had been better than drinking. It'd left him tired enough to sleep.
"Alright," Sam said, pulling out a couple of photographs from the open file. "Looks like a cursed necklace."
~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~
Two days later
Dean rubbed his brow, visualising what Sam had just told him. "In the bed? They were in the bed?"
"Yeah," Sam confirmed, grimacing slightly as he drank his coffee.
The café was full, low conversation, the clink of china, colour and movement all around them. Dean scanned the room, mentally comparing this scene with Melanie's home two hours ago and made an effort to push those thoughts aside.
"Ugh. I can't believe he was boning her," he said to Sam, one side of his mouth lifting up as he saw him wince.
"Dean," Sam groaned.
He was saved from having to justify the bad joke by the waiter's appearance at the table.
"Can I get you anything else?"
Looking down at his cup, Dean nodded. "Uh, just a refill." He looked back up at the waiter as the man opened his mouth. "And if you affirmate me, I'm gonna punch you in the face," he added threateningly, seeing his brother suppressing a smile from the corner of his eye.
"All righty then," the waiter said with an uncertain smile. "Coffee, coming up!"
"I can't wait to get out of this frickin' fortune cookie," Dean grumbled. For a second, he felt the guide's hand on his arm again. I'm sorry, I don't normally do this during business hours, but do you know an Eleanor... or an Ellen? She seems quite concerned about you. She wants to tell you – pardon me – if you don't tell someone how bad it really is, she'll kick your ass from beyond. You have to trust someone again eventually.
He shivered. Yeah, he knew someone called Ellen. Knew an Ellen who'd been dying to kick his ass when she'd been alive. He had trusted. Too many times. It wasn't that easy to keep offering himself and getting knifed for his trouble.
Everybody leaves you, Dean. You noticed? Mommy. Daddy. Even Sam. You ever ask yourself why? Maybe it's not them. Maybe, it's you.
He'd known it wasn't his mother, known it was another dick angel trick, to break him down, to make him quit…it hadn't stopped the pain from twisting inside, and it had broken something. Something he hadn't been able to look at back then. Something he'd thought might've been healing, very slowly, over the last few months. Something that was going to stay broken now.
"Dean," Sam's voice cut through that thought and he looked up. Sam was looking at the door.
Melanie stood there, head turning as she searched the crowded room. Dean lifted his hand, and she saw them.
"I'm gonna go, um... do something outside," Sam said, getting up.
Watching him walk for the door, passing the dark-haired girl, Dean forced his expression to stay neutral. He got up as she came up to the table.
"Hi."
Smiling at him, she said, "Hi, you didn't stick around so I could say thank you."
"Have a seat," he said, waving a hand at the chair opposite. "No reason to thank me."
"You saved my life," she said, sitting down and looking at him quizzically.
Shrugging and looking at the cup on the table, he said, "Yeah, but not your friend's."
"Sometimes, things aren't as clear as we'd like them to be," she told him. He looked back at her. "You and Sam seem a little better."
"You could tell that from the walk up?" he asked, surprised.
"Take it or leave it," she said with another smile. "Also guessing you're not so keen to come visit here again, so...this is goodbye. Wish we'd met on a better week."
Belatedly, he saw that she meant that. The realisation brought no other feeling than a vague dissatisfaction. She was all wrong. Too tall. Her eyes were brown. She knew nothing about him, even with the psychic flashes. She never would. He looked away.
"I don't have better weeks," he told her, a little abruptly.
"Oh."
He heard the disappointment in her voice and forced himself to look back, smile a bit. "But hey, who knows right? Can't tell the future."
She relaxed a little and reached across the table to take his hand. "Hmm."
His teeth clamped together at the light touch and he closed his eyes, willing himself not to snatch it back.
"Finally," Melanie said, her voice deeper and rougher.
Opening his eyes, he saw her looking at him. "What?"
"Would it kill you boys to at least try to stay in touch?" Melanie asked, staring at him.
"Wh- Ellen?" He frowned, pulling back a little on his hand. Melanie's grip tightened.
"I don't have much time," she said. "You got the message, Dean. Don't keep it all inside."
"I –"
"Oh," Melanie said, cutting him off as she released his hand. "Did I vague out on you? Sorry."
He drew his hand away. "That's alright. You see anything?"
"Well," she said. "Your palm's a bit weird. Both life and love lines are broken up by your job."
He smothered the desire to laugh. It wasn't that funny.
"See, here?" She leaned a bit closer to his hand. "Twice you've given up love for your job. And you've been closing to losing your life four times." She touched the points where the career line crossed the major life lines.
Not to mention the times he actually had, he thought with a fizzing spurt of sour amusement.
"What else?"
"This line here," she said, pointing to a short curved line under his index finger. "Not many people have that. It's called the Ring of Solomon."
"Yeah?"
She glanced up at his dry tone. "I've only seen it twice actually. It marks the ability to give up your needs for the greater good," she told him, her eyes searching his. "Give up what you want to save the world."
Drawing in a deeper breath, Dean looked down at the small line. "Can I get it removed?"
She laughed, but her expression was doubtful. He smiled, to show her that he was just kidding. Not that he was, but people invariably took the things he said to them the wrong way. She smiled back, relief in her eyes, and looked down at his hand again.
"This is interesting," she added, tracing a fingertip along the deep crease that ran from below his index finger to the edge of his palm. "There's an overlap here, see that? It's broken but it picks up exactly parallel to the first line? Like a second chance."
Looking down at the line, Dean gently pulled his hand free. "I doubt it."
She looked up at him. His tone had been curt. "I'm sorry."
"No need," he told her, shifting back in his chair dismissively. "That's not right anyway," he added, not sure why he felt compelled to tell her. "The second time, I didn't give up."
"Oh." Melanie looked at the door uncomfortably. "I should be going, I've got a client coming," she said, getting up from the chair. "Thanks, and take care of yourself."
He nodded, getting up as well and leaving a bill on the table. "You too."
Giving her a minute's head start to leave the café, he closed the hand she'd held into a loose fist, as if that would erase what she'd seen. There were no second chances in his life, and he hadn't been the one to give up.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the obnoxiously cheerful waiter hovering and he walked for the door. He wanted out of this town, the sooner the better.
Sam was waiting by the Impala and Dean watched in surprise as his brother threw his bags into the back seat. Sam caught the look.
"Thought it was about time to do Vegas," Sam said casually.
Vegas, Dean thought. It'd been two years since they'd been there on their agreed sacred vacation from the life. Most of the trips lasted three or four days, enough time to wipe out whatever funds they had and leave him with a hangover that took at least two days to work out of his system. He wondered if he could work up enough enthusiasm to fool his brother.
"Sure, Vegas."
"I rang Lauren, told her we needed some family time," Sam said, opening the passenger door. "Just like old times, right? No shop-talk, no hunting."
"Yeah, I remember," Dean remarked, getting into the driver's side. "Why?"
Sam glanced across at him. "We could use a vacation."
Starting the car, Dean looked up and down the street for traffic and pulled out, considering the idea. It might be what he needed. A few days off, no responsibilities, a bit of blackjack, shooting craps, hanging out with his brother…he couldn't see anything to argue about with that.
"Sounds like a plan."
~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~
From Lily Dale, the drive was more than two days, and Dean thought of everything Sam had talked about over that time when he saw the distant mirage of the desert city, hovering against the darkness.
He'd been surprised, a bit, at Sam's honesty. After the last couple of years, he'd gotten kind of used hearing only what his brother thought he could handle, the secretive streak in Sam that had manifested early in his wacked-out childhood, abandoned as the road unwound in front of them.
He had forgiven Sam for choosing Ruby, for thinking that the blood could somehow make evil into good. He couldn't tell him that the trust that had been blown to bits at that time wasn't back. He wasn't sure it would ever come back. He understood what had driven his brother, and he understood that Sam would be looking for some way to make that right, maybe for the rest of his life, but it wasn't something he could give freely again with the way he'd felt, about himself, about his family.
"I thought I'd destroyed any hope of being brothers again, you know," Sam had said, and he'd been able to feel his brother's worried look, lasering the side of his head. "It wasn't until Terry told me that you'd forgiven me that I realised I had another chance."
It'd brought Sam out of the Hell memories, and he couldn't be happier about that. He'd wondered how she'd known that would do it. She knew more about the two of them than even the superfans of Chuck's books, but at the same time, in other ways, in the day-to-day ways, he guessed, she didn't know them all that well. It was confusing, that disparity. It suggested things that he knew now weren't actually true.
At night, in his dreams, she talked to him. About his past. About hers, sometimes. He tried to hold onto those dreams, but they always turned into something else after a while. Something he'd learned to dread, the demon cloud over the yard and Crowley's threats and Cas saying he was sorry but she'd wanted to go.
He wasn't having much success in the attempts to convince himself that it was better this way. He could say it out loud all day long and at the back of his mind he could feel the stab of loss and of betrayal and some part of him, standing there bewildered, like a kid who's just lost everything he dreamed of, not knowing why or how it'd happened so fast, in the blink of an eye it'd all been gone.
~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~