A/N: Thank you so much to SassyGrl23 for reviewing! I hope everyone likes this chapter.
Song: On The Road Again by Willie Nelson
CHAPTER 4
On The Road Again
"I used to enjoy writing before this, you know," she tells him, voice raw with the loss of something.
A bouquet of colored lights flicker past them as they race down the highway, speeding like a bullet to South Dakota. To her, the wide retro interior of the Impala feels like a spaceship. With how fast he's driving and how the glittering flashes pass them by, it's not hard to pretend they're flying through the stars.
He's not really paying attention and for a brief moment it seems as though she is nothing more than the narrator of an audio book churning in the background. But no, it's Willie Nelson who is playing, guitar strings thrumming quietly on the radio. The sound lessens the blow of Dean's silence.
She stops talking. She can see he doesn't care, doesn't care that she's lost pieces along the way too. His own pain consumes him utterly and completely.
"Where are we going, again?" she asks instead.
"My friend Bobby's," he answers. "If anyone knows anything about supernatural woods, it's him."
She nods to herself. Dean seems to have a lot of friends who know a lot about things that shouldn't be real. It's strange to discover a whole community operating in a different, parallel world – a community that she is now part of. All those horrible things, those natural disasters – people everywhere said it was the end of the world and she thought they were lunatics. Turns out they were right.
"You couldn't just call him?"
He opens his mouth, but hesitates. "Well… He's not exactly taking my calls at the moment."
"What? Why not?"
"He thinks what I'm doing is 'self-destructive'," he snorts, gripping the wheel imperceptibly tighter.
"He's probably right."
"Maybe before. But not so much now that I've got someone with a direct line to that oversized melon of his." His. Sam's. She has to clarify this pronoun in her head, but Dean never does. It's all Sam Sam Sam knocking around in there.
"Do we drive all night?"
"Generally. We've got about seven hours to go, but you can get some shuteye if you want. Trust me, I'm used to driving alone." Nowadays. He's used to driving alone nowadays.
"Sleep has become something of a rare commodity in my life."
He casts her a sidelong glance that catches her off guard because it is full of genuine understanding. It says more than a sentence ever could. It offers solidarity. It is the look of a man who hasn't truly slept in years.
Her computer burns a hole in her lap. It carries with it both the vague comfort of a heating pad and the physical reminder of her plight. But it's there, ready, in case she has to record some new outpour.
"You leave anyone behind back there?" he asks abruptly. He can't afford to be slapped with an abduction charge on top of everything.
"Just my parents," she murmurs.
"What did you tell them?"
"I told them I was going on a road trip with a demon-killer I met yesterday to figure out how to stop being a prophet of the Lord," she drawls sarcastically.
He makes a face.
"I told them I was going away for a little while to deal with some personal shit. They're not gonna come looking, if that's what you're worried about. I'm twenty-five, not some teenager running away from home."
"Fine," he replies.
. . .
"Bobby! Open up, it's me!" Dean pounds on the door so forcefully that it threatens to pop off its rusty hinges.
The house is rickety and in the middle of a junkyard; a sense of uneasiness seeps into Claire's stomach and she can't help but fear that maybe she didn't think this through well enough. Is she about to be lured into an axe murderer's lair? Is Dean really who he says he is? Luckily, it's around 10 AM and the place isn't quite as creepy as it could have been, and in any case, she is tangled too thoroughly now to extricate herself.
Bobby takes his sweet time getting to the door. All the while, Dean looks a bit like a kid who's been put in time-out.
"Maybe he's not home?" she tries.
"He's always home."
As if on cue, there is a rustle from within the house. Bobby appears, beard and flannel and trucker hat and all.
"What're you doin' here, boy," he grunts. For a "friend," Claire thinks, he doesn't look very pleased to see him. His sharp, beady eyes flit to the redhead. "Oh balls, she's not pregnant, is she?"
Dean shoves past him, nose scrunched in an affronted scowl. He rolls his eyes and snaps, "No, you dingus."
Claire carefully shuffles past the crotchety man, sticking close to Dean. An acute displeasure at the suggestion is displayed clearly on her face, too.
"Well ex-cah-use me," he drawls, "but the last time you brought a girl here was more than four years ago and she was possessed by a demon. So forgive me if I'm a tad bit suspicious."
"Well, it's your lucky day – she's not possessed and she's not pregnant," Dean retorts with fake cheerfulness.
After slamming the door, Bobby lumbers over to address him face-to-face. "Who is she?" Seeming to abruptly remember that the object of their discussion is indeed a walking, talking person, he turns to her and asks, "Who're you?"
"My name is Claire," she says, sounding unsure as she inspects his dusty home. "Apparently I'm some sort of prophet."
"A prophet?" he echoes in disbelief. His eyes travel from her feet to the very top of her head, sizing her up. "Prophet my ass."
"She's telling the truth, Bobby."
"Well shit. This is how they're makin' prophets nowadays? What happened to Matthew, Mark, Luke n' John?"
"Now we've got the Gospel of Claire," Dean confirms.
"Hell, sign me up for Bible study." There's something extraordinarily disquieting about the appreciative way he's eying her shorts and Claire suddenly feels naked.
"Cut it out, ya old perv," he says, cuffing Bobby on the back good-naturedly. "She's not just any ole prophet – she's my prophet. Well, mine and Sam's."
"I'm not yours," she snaps fiercely, finding her voice. "For whatever god-forsaken reason, my visions are centered on the Winchesters," she explains.
"Yeah, that's what I meant." His tone is innocent, but his wolfish smirk is most assuredly not.
Now it's her turn to roll her eyes.
"Alright you two, enough with… whatever this is," Bobby scolds crankily, gesticulating between them. "What brings you to my neck o' the woods? And if you say you need help finding Sam, so help me–"
"I've got a lead," Dean interrupts. "Claire, she's the key."
"What in the name of all that is holy are you talkin' about?"
"Claire's been having visions about Sam, and the visions are changing. Sam's not in Hell anymore."
"That's impossible."
"Until a couple days ago I thought prophets were impossible. But I'm tellin' you Bobby, she's the real deal. I've read what she's written, and there's no way she could've known half the stuff she does if she wasn't."
"Ever think maybe she's just psychic?" he suggests dryly, as though this is the obvious explanation.
"I did think that, but she's not. She's a prophet – Cas confirmed it."
"Okay… Still… That don't mean she's got a live feed on Sam. Maybe she's just seeing where Sam thinks he is."
"My most recent vision was much different than all the ones before it," she tells him. "In the others, Sam was in extreme pain. But not in this one. I'm sure of it – he's not in Hell anymore."
"Well then where hell is 'e?"
"I don't know," she admits. "In a forest somewhere."
"A forest?"
"That's why we need you, Bobby," Dean interjects. "Is there any lore on supernatural forests? Maybe forests as gateways to Hell?"
Bobby shuffles over to a weathered bookcase and begins pulling out several thick, leather-bound texts.
"An assload," he grumbles in reply. "Forests are right up there with cemeteries on the list of most supernatural places on earth."
"Yeah, well, wanna give us the highlights?"
"The two places that come to mind first are Clifton, New Jersey, and a place called Hellam in Pennsylvania. They're both in the woods and they're both flooded in urban legends about being gateways, but I don't know how much truth there is to the myths."
"They worth checkin' out?"
"Maybe. But Dean, if your brother was wandering 'round the woods in Jersey, don't you think he'd've found a way to contact you by now?" Bobby's tone is pleading and Claire gets the distinct impression that the two men have circled around this issue before.
Dean purses his lips, as he tends to do. "I dunno. But I gotta check out every lead I've got – I'm not gonna let him rot down there, even if he asked me to. I ain't givin' up on him."
"So you've said," Bobby sighs. He looks warily at Claire, as though he doesn't want to air out their dirty laundry in front of her.
"These visions are mostly centered around Sam?" he asks her.
She nods. "Dean too, sometimes, when they're thinking about one other."
Bobby stares at Dean in mild alarm. "She sees my dreams," he states bluntly. It only takes a glance for him to tell what Bobby really wants to know. "She knows what happened in Detroit."
His features slacken in surprise. Try as he might, he could never get Dean to talk about what happened. This stranger knows more than even he does, than anyone should. He briefly wishes he could pick her brain to see how his surrogate son is holding up. Poorly, he imagines, but he'd like to know just how poorly.
From the first moment Bobby rejoined Dean after Detroit, the only thing on the kid's mind was saving Sam. There was no grief, no mourning, just pure, blind determination. Bobby was there for some of it, but he'd been pulled offstage before the climax. He asked him what happened after – just asked him to recount the events – but he wouldn't utter a word. It was only I gotta save Sam, I gotta save Sam chanted over and over again until he'd convinced himself that saving him was possible and that doing so wasn't directly defying his last wishes. Each incantation was like a brick, and together they formed a wall that kept the darkness inside from swallowing him up.
Bobby let him build the wall because he was afraid it was the only thing holding him together. If Sam was truly gone, it didn't really matter whether or not Dean was honoring his promise to him, so long as he was alive. And if this was what it took to keep him alive, so be it. He just couldn't bear to be a part of it. Dean seems to forget that he had loved Sam, too, and poking at the memory of him with a stick isn't a healthy way to deal with his loss.
He appears to be functioning now. At least he's not alone. The girl will probably keep him from putting a bullet in his brain, he thinks.
"So what, now you're gonna jet off to Pennsylvania?"
"Looks like. Check the hospitals and the prisons, like always, and if there's nothin' fishy we'll move on to Jersey and do the same."
"And if that don't work?"
"I got a plan B. There's some big-daddy demon named Crowley that's plannin' on buyin' a condo somewhere in the continental US – he probably already has, by now."
"So?"
"If he's the new boss, he probably knows what happened to Sammy."
"And you're gonna find him?"
"If push comes."
"And you're goin' with him?" Bobby asks Claire.
"Yeah."
He turns to Dean. "You're takin' her with you?" He asks the two questions as though they're unrelated, which she finds peculiar.
"Yeah. If the visions change, I need to know."
"How many you get a day?"
She's somewhat taken aback, but answers, "Usually around two. One while I'm asleep, and then again at some other time. I didn't get one last night because I didn't sleep, I think."
Bobby lets this sink in, before starting, "There's another elephant in the room that we haven't talked about." He pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect, before continuing, "If Sam really ain't in the pit, what in the hell busted 'im out?"
. . .
They eat lunch in Sioux Falls and leave immediately after. It will be at least a two-day trip to Pennsylvania, and in Dean's mind, they don't have any time to spare.
He seems at peace when he's driving, Claire notices. It's one of the few times she's seen the misery filter out of his face. He looks… free.
She hopes he doesn't catch her watching him.
A problem she had previously overlooked is quickly becoming apparent: she is spending her every waking moment with a man she hardly knows.
From what she's gathered (namely, Bobby's immediate assumption that she was pregnant), Dean is a womanizer and she doesn't want him to think that she finds him attractive because that could open a whole new can of worms. They need to keep things strictly professional. It doesn't matter that he's handsome, that she finds it hard to stop staring at him, or that his cockiness somehow inexplicably morphs into charm. It's obvious that these qualities have served him very well – it could never be said that Dean Winchester was born entirely unlucky. But Claire has too much respect for herself to fall prey to these traits.
However, the waitress at the diner thought they were a couple, which means other people will likely assume the same. Her flaming hair and pale skin pretty much ensure they're not mistaken for siblings, so this leaves a short list of other possible relationships they could share and a long list of possible awkward situations they could find themselves in.
And they're gonna be sharing a motel room. Constant contact in close quarters is guaranteed to lead to some uncomfortable encounters.
Her motel room fears are realized sooner rather than later. After hours of driving, they have to stop to fulfill their basic needs: eat, sleep, bathe, etc.
They stop in Madison, Wisconsin.
One room. Two beds. The woman at the front desk looks perplexed but doesn't ask questions.
Dean recalls all the times he and Sam were mistaken for a gay couple and decides that maybe there is one thing he doesn't miss about his brother after all.
"No cleaning service for us," he tells the clerk, only causing her confusion to mount. Claire doesn't notice that the name on his credit card is Steve Jobs, and apparently, neither does the clerk.
Dean travels light, and Claire wouldn't have expected any less. She had tried to do the same, but inevitably he complains about the amount of stuff she has as soon as he opens the trunk.
Nevertheless, he carries her overstuffed knapsack into the room for her like it's second nature. To not draw attention to the weirdness of it she just says thanks and he nods.
He lets her use the bathroom first, and when it's his turn she hears him grumble, "What is all this shit," from behind the closed door. It occurs to her suddenly that while he probably has a lot of experience with women, he might not know that much about the day-to-day stuff. It was only ever just him and Sam.
When he emerges from the bathroom, the lights are still on but she is already asleep. Her features are relaxed and he can't help but think she looks a little like a more angelic version of Anna because every aspect of her complexion is nearly the same but just a bit lighter. Her hair is stunning. No bottle could ever produce such a vivid, golden red.
Perhaps uncharacteristically, Dean stops himself from ogling her further. He pretends he doesn't notice that the covers have ridden down and he has a prime view of one slim, creamy thigh peeking out from her pajama shorts. He's tired.
After such a grueling trip, he doesn't need booze and she doesn't need pills to fall asleep. They quickly find unconsciousness.
…
…
…
…Until she wakes screaming at three in the morning.
Dean leaps out of bed, half-asleep and pistol ready, before he realizes what is actually going on.
Thankfully it was motel policy to place a pad of paper and pencil next to the bed. Even in the absolute dark, her hand flies across the small page.
When the episode is over, the pencil lands noiselessly on the carpet and she clamps her shaking hands over her ears, putting her head between her knees. Before reading what she's written, Dean replaces the gun under his pillow and crouches down in front of her. Not just her hands are shaking – her entire body is trembling violently. He places his hand lightly and platonically on her kneecap in an uncertain attempt to steady her.
The bleariness has left his eyes as he peers up at her through her curtain of hair.
"Hey," he whispers. "You're okay. It's over now." His fingertips are warm as they move a fraction of an inch against her skin. She's still shaking and whimpering, so his hands move to her shoulders and hold her, grip her, make her see what is real.
This feels suddenly familiar. Bony shoulders were once broad and sturdy. Shaking was once thrashing. Visions were visions, headaches were headaches. Sam was once the one sitting on the edge of that bed.
"Just take a deep breath," he tells her, remembering what he used to tell his brother. "In and out." He sucks in a breath through his nose and exhales loudly and evenly, guiding her, showing her how to do the same.
She finally stops hyperventilating and her body begins to still under his palms.
"Thanks," she gasps almost inaudibly.
He stands takes a step back. "Don't mention it."
Her eyes are so vast and wide and the way she's looking up at him fills his stomach with an unpleasant sensation. He can't identify what it is, but he doesn't like it.
They read the message together. It's short, like the one she had the last time she was with him.
There are monsters here.
A/N: Pretty please review! Hopefully everyone was in character, and if not please don't hesitate to let me know!