Chapter 13

"NO!" Dean's voice roared out and bounced back and forth between the hard walls. "Sam! SAM! SAMMY!"

He was on his feet and next to the portal's circle before I'd even made it to a sitting position, pounding his fists against it, the wall solid and unyielding, the blood of the circle smearing as he seemed to be trying to punch his way through to that other world.

"Dean, come on," Bobby said, rolling to his knees and looking around. "Crowley ain't gonna stay gone for long."

He looked at me. "You alright? Grab everything, we gotta get outta here."

I nodded and started to pick up all the stuff that I'd pulled out of the pack, putting the bowls and powders and jars back in with more concentration that it probably required. I didn't want to look at the man leaning against the smooth tiled wall behind me, or hear the complete despair in his voice as he snarled at Bobby.

"You bring the Nova?" Bobby asked me, giving up on Dean for the moment.

I shook my head. "The truck."

"That's somethin'," he said.

The walls trembled and we both looked up, seeing a fine, zigzagging crack appear across the ceiling.

"Dean!" Bobby yelled at him and grabbed my arm. "We're goin'! NOW!"

He dragged me along the hall and back through the room where Crowley had painted his attempt at the doorway. I couldn't look behind, stumbling after Bobby and trying to stay upright as the floor shook and a deep rumble seemed to fill the building. But I could hear the hard footsteps and as we reached the stairs, Dean put his hand on my back and shoved me forward.

Giant splits appeared in the walls, spurting dust and weird gusts of air that puffed into us as we ran along the upstairs corridor, heading for the way out. I could hardly see, coughing and choking as the dust got thicker and thicker, coating us from head to foot and impossible not to breathe in.

"Here!" Bobby turned and shouted as he skidded to a halt beside the fire door. The whole building was shaking, and bits of concrete were falling from the ceiling and from the walls. Dean moved past me, hitting the release bar hard and shoving the door open, Bobby and I running after him. My whole face was covered in dust, it was sticking to my eyelashes and I wiped at it ineffectually, forgetting about being able to see and speeding up as a groaning, creaking noise came from the building behind.

The Impala was still on its roof, near the perimeter fence, Bobby's tow truck just behind it. Dean was already through the high chainlink fence, holding the cut section aside, looking past us as Bobby pushed me through the opening and a thunderous blast filled the air.

Turning around, I watched in astonishment as the entire building fell into itself, walls crashing down, roof disappearing, and a massive cloud of dust filled the area, lit up like a storm cloud by the moonlight.

"Christ!" Bobby said, looking back over his shoulder as he eased himself through the fence. "What the hell?"

Dean looked at him stonily and moved back to the car, and Bobby shrugged to himself, turning for the truck.

Despite the tension that increased moment by moment with our expectations that Crowley and a hundred demons were going to turn up any second, we couldn't get the car done any faster than it had to be done. Bobby hooked up his small crane and turned it over, then Dean and I had to crawl under it, running chain and rope wire from the winch and shackling it tightly to the chassis.

Standing to one side when that was done, I watched Bobby slowly pull the car around and line it up, Dean moving around it, checking that it was fixed properly and the tension was even on both sides. His face was expressionless and cold when it was finally done, the car hoisted off its front wheels and firmly locked to the truck.

Bobby gestured to me and I climbed into the cab, squeezing close to him as Dean followed me in. Bobby glanced across me to look at Dean, his face twisting a little as he saw the rigidness of his face.

"We gotta get him back," Dean said abruptly, staring through the windshield with a frozen, fixed expression.

"We will," Bobby assured him, putting the truck into gear and pulling out. And that was pretty much the last thing any of us said for the next six hours.

~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~

With the fuel stop in Nebraska, we got back to Bobby's yard just as the sun was coming up, the pitiless morning light showing up every flawed detail of the house and the junkers that lined the driveway and surrounded the sheds, showing up the lines and shadows in the faces of Bobby and Dean and probably in mine as well.

There was no question of going into the house and going to bed. And incredibly, although I'd been awake and on my feet, terrified, exhausted and filled with aches and pains from injuries I had no idea how I'd gotten, I couldn't have slept. Sam's face, agonised and edged with a light that was not natural kept filling my vision and I tried to keep my attention on what we could do to bring him back, tried not to think of what was happening to him. My thoughts were jumping around randomly, from what I remembered of things that had happened in the show, to the notes that I'd taken about the next season, wondering if there was anything in there to give a clue of how to get into Purgatory or how to get someone back from there.

Bobby and Dean unhitched the Impala, managing to push her back under the cover of the big shed, and I walked into the house, dumped the backpack on a chair in the dining room and made a fresh pot of coffee, pulling out bacon and eggs and bread from the fridge, the simple chore of making something to eat mindless and relaxing in a weird kind of way, and I didn't look at the way my hands were shaking.

They came in fifteen minutes later, and I set plates in front of them, poured coffee and took the chair at the other end of the table.

"Recap what we know about Purgatory," Dean said tersely through a mouthful of food.

Bobby glanced at me and shrugged. "We got the dragon's book, which is light on rituals but heavy on the more lurid details of what's in there. We got Ellie's ritual on opening the portal and we got the stuff to do it, but that's gonna need another lunar eclipse, which ain't until December."

Dean stopped chewing and stared at Bobby. "That's six months!"

"Yeah."

"What else?" He bit the words out, staring at the older hunter.

Bobby was silent for a moment, looking down at his plate. I knew exactly what he was thinking. I'd already been through my folder and there wasn't anything else on Purgatory that we didn't already know.

"I can't find anything else that can get us in there, or Sam out."

"Bullshit!" Dean said, his fist slamming down on the table top and making the plates and cups jump. "There's always a way, right? What we have to do is find it!"

"Yeah, no argument, son," Bobby agreed tiredly. "But we need help with this, we need people who've spent their lives looking at these myths –"

"Other hunters?"

Bobby shook his head. "No, if there're any hunters out there who know about this level of crap, they're keeping themselves well-hidden. No, we need –"

"Academics," I said, looking at him. "Professors, researchers."

Was it just one of those coincidences that Sam had told me that I'd been just that kind of person in his alternative life? I didn't know. I couldn't even begin to imagine how things were happening, what was controlling them or if any of this even meant anything. Cas had wanted to send me home and I didn't know why the angel had been so vehement about it. The little foreknowledge I'd had was pretty much used up now.

"Right." Bobby nodded.

Dean looked from him to me, his expression souring. "Half the crap people like that think they know is wrong, Bobby."

"Yeah, an' the other half ain't," Bobby argued. "You an' me'll keep going through what I got and what Rufus had," he said, a bit more pacifically. "Terry, start ringing the colleges and universities and see if you can nail down whatever experts you can."

Dean nodded, stabbing at the bacon on his plate. "Monsterland, you said it was."

Bobby was silent. Dean lifted the fork and looked at him.

"We gotta get him out of there fast."

"I know."

~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~

It's like the backside of your worst nightmares. It's all blood and bone and darkness, filled with the bodies and souls of all things hungry, sharp, and nasty.

That's what Bobby had said about Purgatory, back when they'd hunted the dragons, and I couldn't stop hearing his voice saying it over and over in my head. I was sitting at the small kitchen table, a stack of books beside me, the phone close to hand.

Finding the country's most highly-esteemed professors in the mixed subjects of Anthropology, Mythology, Sociology and Primitive Archaeology was no easy task. There were about a dozen I'd found with a pretty universal consensus that they were the ones who'd know what they were talking about. Bobby had given me a list of hunters who'd verified eight of those names, as resources they'd gone to and had gotten help from.

Two were in California, one at UCLA and the other at Stanford. One was at Columbia, in New York, there was another at Harvard and one at Yale on the east coast. The closest was tenured at the University of Virginia in Richmond, but he was on sabbatical, visiting Europe for a year. The seventh had died the week before in a car accident. The eighth had been committed to a mental institution two months ago with delusions. Dean thought that one was the most likely to have actually known or seen something but the administration had told me that Dr Miles Rochester couldn't have visitors.

I was waiting on call-backs from the two from California and the one from Columbia. They specialised in the cross-over between Christian-based religious mythology and anthropology and primitive mythology. They were, Bobby thought, the most likely people to have the information we were looking for – a myth or a legend or even a rumour – of a way in.

Outside, Dean was working on the car. He and Bobby had gone through every single one of Bobby's books that even had a passing mention of the place, and Bobby was at his desk, going over them again.

The phone rang beside me and I jumped at the sharp sound, snatching it up and picking up a pen, pulling my notepad closer.

"Singer Salvage," I said nervously, hoping that it was going to be one of the call-backs, preferably with all the answers we needed.

"Can I speak to Therese Alcott, please? This is Lauren Saunders, I'm returning a call," the cool, quiet female voice said.

"Speaking," I answered. "Dr Saunders, I'm working on a project involving the mythological aspect of Purgatory, and I was hoping to get some information from you."

"Purgatory?" she said, a little surprised. "I don't get many requests for information like that. What kind of a project?"

"Actually, it's for a film script," I ad-libbed frantically. "Uh, we want to get as much of the story set in the established legends as possible, and I've spoken to a few people who research this…um…area and your name kept coming up."

"That's flattering," she replied. "It's not a very well-known mythology, I'm afraid, but I'd happy to meet with you and show you what I've found."

I made a face. "Would it possible to send the information?"

"I'm sorry," she said, and she sounded sincere. "I'm working on a reference text and I can't let any of the information leave the office until it's finished. I could summarise what I've found, if that would be a help?"

It wouldn't, I thought. We needed to see the sources that conclusions had been drawn from, not just an opinion already formed. I tried to think of how long it might take to get to California from here and my mind blanked out.

"Um…I think the more detail we could get, the better the script would be," I said, a little fatuously to my own ears. "Can I call you back tomorrow to make an appointment if the writer can schedule it?"

"Yes, of course," she said easily. "If you don't mind telling me, what aspects of Purgatory are you interested in?"

"Uh, well, all of them, really." I rubbed the end of my fingers over my forehead. "Any information on getting in and out again would probably be the most helpful."

There was a short silence on the line. "Getting in and out?"

"Well, you know, mythologically speaking," I said, biting my lip at the slip. "The film is about someone rescuing someone else from Purgatory."

"Well…" She seemed to hesitate slightly then continued. "There are legends about the entrances and doorways to the other planes. The Celts had one, and one of the Native American people had one as well."

"That's the sort of thing we're looking for," I gushed in relief. "Something that's been around for a long time."

"I'll speak with you tomorrow then?"

"Yes, thank you very much for returning my call!"

"My pleasure."

The call ended and I put the phone down, leaning back in the chair and closing my eyes. This lying to people was not easy. Especially when I had to lie to someone and make it sound like it was rational. I mean, could you make a query about a mythological place sound like a perfectly reasonable thing to ask? Trust me, it's not a simple thing to do, and I didn't think I had much of a natural flair for it.

"Nice job of lying."

I jumped again at Dean's voice behind me, turning to see him leaning against the open back door. He sauntered over to the fridge, pulling out a beer and twisting off the top.

"What was that about?"

"One of the professors, in UCLA," I said, looking down at the few notes and many doodles I'd covered the page of my notepaper with. "She's happy to talk about her research but only in person. She's writing a text book about it and I guess she doesn't want copies of the source material out there before she's ready to publish."

There were a couple of minutes of silence, then he said, "Anything in Rufus' books?"

I looked at the stack beside me. "I haven't finished going through them yet."

"It's a long drive to LA," he said neutrally. "We'll eliminate everything here first."

Nodding, I pulled the next book from the pile and opened it. "Sure."

I didn't look around as the door closed behind him with a gentle click. None of us had really slept much, and I knew Bobby was worried about Dean, worried about the fact that he'd mostly stopped talking, spending a lot of the daylight hours in the shed working on his car, and most of the night-time hours reading through the books and making notes, trying to follow them up with the few hunters Bobby was still in contact with.

He'd spent his life protecting his brother, not just because his father had insisted on it, but because it a part of him to do it. It was hard for him to protect Sam when his brother was in a different dimension.

~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~

Usually, I never fall asleep when reading books or even watching TV. When I'm too tired to concentrate on something, I just close it and go to bed. It might've had something to do with the hours already put in, I guess. Or it might've been that I hadn't eaten much that day. Who knows? I didn't feel my eyelids closing at all.

The nurse in the trunk wouldn't shut up, wailing and crying and begging, and Sam stood over her, staring down at her terrified eyes, hearing again his brother's voice, filled with loathing and disgust, the message on his phone playing over and over again, refusing to leave him alone. Maybe he was a monster. Maybe he'd always been a monster.

I stood to one side, seeing Ruby's smirk, out of Sam's eyeline, behind his back.

"Sam, you don't have to do this," I said, taking a step closer to him. "Ruby's lying to you, she planned all of this to free Lucifer, not to stop him!"

He couldn't hear me, of course, it was a memory but I couldn't stop myself from trying to reach him, stretching out my hand to touch his arm, feeling my fingers close in the cloth of his sleeve.

"Sam, come on, Dean's waiting for you," I said, trying to stop that arm from rising, the light flashing off the blade, straight into my eyes. "Sam! Don't!"

The knife plunged down, straight into her throat and I turned away, heaving helplessly as blood splattered over the side of my face…

…the car and the nurse and Ruby vanished and flames jumped over the ice, Sam was hanging from the ceiling, hooks piercing his arms and ribs and sides, stretching him like a carcass in an abattoir. I could hardly look at him, there wasn't an inch of his skin that wasn't torn or burned or unmarked.

You can't lie in here, Sammy, the deep voice that filled the room but seemed to come from nowhere said. Can't lie to yourself or to me.

Lifting his head, I saw Sam's eyes, filled with blood, rolling around as he tried to see his tormentor.

No.

His voice was almost the same as it was in real life, except that it sounded cracked and hoarse and was barely a whisper.

Laughter filled the cage and on the hooks, Sam's skin started to blister and peel away.

Sam! SAM! I screamed at him. Don't listen. It's not real!

Real. Real. Real.

You made the choices, Sam, all of them, all on your own. Can't hide from that, can't run.

SAM! NO!

"SAM! DON'T! NO!" I shrieked and a hard hand gripped my shoulder and shook me. The vision of the cage disappeared abruptly and I sat up, knocking the book I'd been reading from the table, staring around at Bobby's kitchen without taking in what I was seeing.

"Terry, wake up!" Dean's voice said from somewhere close by and I turned my head.

"What?"

"Nightmare," he explained, a little redundantly I thought as I realised where I was and what had happened.

I dragged in a breath, putting my hands to my face and feeling a damp sweat on my skin, in my hair. My stomach was churning uncomfortably as flashes of images kaleidoscoped in my mind.

There was a soft squawk as Dean pulled out the chair at the end of the table and sat down and I opened my eyes again, rubbing them a bit to buy some time to get those flashes out of my head.

A glass was pushed against my hand as I let it drop to the table and I looked at the inch of Bobby's rot-gut whiskey in the bottom of it, shaking my head.

"It'll help with the shock," Dean said quietly, his tone almost gentle.

"It'll make me sick," I said, pushing it back to him. Even the fumes were agitating my insides more than I thought wise. I got up, holding onto the back of the chair when it seemed possible that my legs weren't actually going to support me, and waiting until they felt stronger. Then I walked over to the sink and got a glass of water, drinking it down in several big gulps.

"What was it about?"

I looked down at the sink and refilled the glass, not sure if I should answer that or not. It wouldn't help Dean to know the things that'd happened to his brother in Hell.

"Monsters…you know, the usual nightmare suspects," I said, turning around and carrying the glass back to the table. I waved a hand at the books pile up next to my chair. "Mostly from reading about that stuff."

It was a much better lie than I'd managed with Dr Saunders, I thought, a little ruefully.

"You were calling out Sam's name, screaming it out," Dean said bluntly and I realised that my prevarications hadn't fooled him at all.

"How long have you been dreaming about him?" he asked when I didn't answer. There was something in his voice, something other than just the question and his worry about his brother and it made me look up at him. His face was as closed up as ever, giving absolutely nothing away.

"Since the dream root," I said, a bit unwillingly. I didn't need a lecture now.

"You should've said something," he said, looking away. "Bobby's got stuff to help you sleep without dreaming."

"I didn't know I was going to fall asleep."

He didn't have a comeback to that and I finished the water, feeling it settle my stomach down. What I felt instead was a huge exhaustion, and I wondered if 'Bobby's stuff' would let me sleep without dreaming.

"You saw what happened to him, didn't you?" he asked. "In the cage."

The one thing that had stood out about Dean through all the seasons I'd watched the brothers, was how hard he found it to ask anyone for anything. Looking at him now, I wondered at the effort it must have cost to get the question out.

"Yeah," I said. "I saw what happened, some of it, anyway."

"How bad was it?"

"Do you really want to know that?" I asked him. "What good can it do you?"

His gaze fell to the floor and he shook his head. "I have to know."

"So that you can torture yourself with it?"

He looked up then. "So I can help him with it."

"It was very bad," I said, not wanting to go into more detail than that. Dean hadn't been able to share the load when he'd come back from Hell. Hadn't been able to tell his brother about it. He'd said that he couldn't make Sam understand what it'd been like. I thought that Sam knew now, and he could no more talk to his brother about what had happened than Dean could.

"What happened?"

"The only way you can help Sam with that is if he tells you himself," I said, looking down at my glass. "You know that."

"He won't," he said, with a finality that seemed bleak.

I thought he was right about that. They couldn't talk to each other anymore.

"How did you get him out? Of the memories?" he asked a moment later, and I wondered how he'd known I had.

"I told him you'd forgiven him."

I swear I did not know I was going to say that before it came out with a splat in that silent and cold kitchen. I'd been trying to think of a way to tell him a lot more subtly, trying to figure out a way to even bring the subject up in a conversation, since the moment Sam and I had climbed into Bobby's truck and headed south.

His eyes darkened as he looked at me. "Why?"

"Because that's what he needed to hear."

"Wh-what – that's not –"

Looking at the confusion on his face, I realised that this was another missing link between him and Sam. "He thinks he's let you down too many times, Dean."

He got up then, and walked to the dining room and I thought he was just going to leave, but he stopped and turned around.

"I went back for him, every single time," he said abruptly. "I never cut him loose."

"I know."

He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something more, then closed it again, his face kind of closing up.

"Upstairs bathroom cabinet, bottle's marked Ambein," he said, turning away. "Get some real sleep, we'll go early in the morning."

I blinked at the order, glancing down at my watch automatically. It was one a.m. and I wondered how early 'early' meant. I couldn't ask that because he'd already disappeared out of the dining room and I could hear his boots on the stairs.

I picked up Rufus' book on alternate dimensions and set it back on the table, getting up and turning off the light, walking through the dark dining room to the hall. The bottle was in the cabinet and I swallowed half the recommended dosage on the label, mainly so that I wouldn't be a zombie in the morning. It didn't occur to me until I was climbing into my bed that it'd been the most he'd ever opened up to me.

Every thought I'd had about the brothers had been overturned since I'd gotten here. I probably shouldn't have been surprised, I mean, at home they'd been fictional characters, interesting, downright fascinating in many ways, but without the…fullness?...roundness?...of real people. There are always things missing from a fictional account. Here there wasn't. Both of them were that bit harder than the show had portrayed. Dean's eyes were a much deeper green than Jensen's. And Sam had the three claw mark scars over his right cheek, from the shadow demon attack. And…I don't know…they were…

~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~

Early, I found out, was very early. The tablet had dragged me down fast and I didn't remember anything from the rest of the night, no dreams, no nothing. I woke up groggily for the second time with Dean's hand shaking my shoulder.

"Come on, get dressed, we're going," he said, staying just long enough to see that I didn't roll over and go back to sleep then leaving the room.

He'd been right, whatever was in the tablets, it'd worked. The clumsy, cotton-wool feeling that came after waking was going to take a while to rid of, I thought, stumbling against the dresser as I pulled on my jeans.

I heard the argument as I came down the stairs.

"It's not a good idea, Dean and you know it," Bobby's voice was low and growling. "She's not backup –"

"I don't need backup! I need someone who can talk to people without being threatening," Dean said to him. "Sam – Sam used to do that, wheedle info out with his emo vibes."

"And if Crowley decides to send some demons after you?"

"He won't see us," Dean said shortly. "Carved these into us for a reason and she's got them too."

I came into the dining room and looked at them, Bobby leaning on the counter, his face pugnacious, Dean sitting at the small table, one hand curled around a cup of coffee.

"Morning," I offered, keeping my gaze on the floor as I walked across the dining room and into the kitchen, heading for the coffee pot.

"You going along?" Bobby asked me as I reached the counter and found a clean cup.

"I gave Dr Saunders a whole back story for the information, Bobby," I said. "Film script research, the lot. She's expecting a writer's assistant."

He grunted noncommittally and turned away, opening a drawer and pulling out a silver chain. He handed it to me with a grimace.

"Put it on. Those scars'll keep you from being noticed, but you need that to stop from being possessed," he told me, sending a look Dean's way.

The chain held a small silver medallion, worked to the same design as the one I knew was tattooed on Sam and Dean. I slipped the chain over my head and dropped the pendant down the front of my shirt, feeling it warm up against my skin.

~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~

They dedicate their lives
To running all of his
He tries to please them all
This bitter man he is
Throughout his life the same
He's battled constantly
This fight he cannot win
A tired man they see no longer cares

I looked out the window beside me as the lyrics of the melancholy song flowed over me, each line pointed and achingly related to the man who was driving. It was probably just tiredness but I could feel my chest getting tighter.

"Too loud?" Dean asked.

I shook my head, the song was a quiet one for Metallica and I liked it usually. "Driver picks, that's the rule, right?"

"Right."

What I've felt
What I've known
Never shined through in what I've shown
Never be
Never see
Won't see what might have been
What I've felt
What I've known
Never shined through in what I've shown
Never free
Never me

I closed my eyes and in the blackness behind my lids, scenes from the first three seasons played out involuntarily, scenes of the two brothers, scenes of their lives.

From the moment Dean had called his father, his voice cracked and filled with a mixture of panic and fear and longing, on the way back to Lawrence, that had been it for me. The tough-guy mask had been stripped away and I'd seen him so vulnerable and so completely without armour and that…defencelessness had changed something inside of me.

I guess it was the same for the millions of fans who watched the show. Nothing special about me. That moment changed the way I saw the show entirely, moving it from a fun and interesting story about family and hunting and the underlying ominous feeling of destiny, to the only way I could know this character, this person who could fight evil and yet be so afraid, of himself, of the way he felt and what he did. The season's episodes kept building on that revelation and I got more and more addicted to the knowing of Dean Winchester.

I know how lame that sounds, believe me. I mean, fictional character, right? Talk about unrequited! I worked for the show and I talked to and joked around with the actors, and trust me, they aren't the characters, not even in the little things really. Jensen wouldn't know a carburettor from a distributor, to be honest with you. And while he likes classic rock and a lot of the bands Dean likes, he doesn't like them with the same passion.

It was just Dean and Sam. Fighting their upbringing, fighting each other, fighting themselves…fighting a destiny that seemed too big for anyone to face. Romantic, I know, but it hit me somewhere inside, a place I hadn't even known had existed and it changed my whole view of everything.

Here, they weren't exactly the same. Here, the blood was real and the monsters and the ghosts and the armies of Heaven and Hell were not special effects and good lighting. Here, I was sitting next to a man whose entire life had been about fighting the darkness and who'd just lost his brother in another dimension that the only things we knew about it was that it was filled with things that could and might kill him.

If you're a long time fan of the show, you might've felt the overwhelming desire to just hug them and tell them they were doing the right thing, they were good people and they deserved to have some peace in their lives. But sitting here, next to Dean, I have to tell you that there was no way in hell anyone could do that with him. He radiated a 'go away' vibe like you wouldn't believe, closed up and inside himself, and even starting a conversation about how long to the next gas stop was a daunting prospect.

I hadn't thought of what it would be really like, here in this world. I'd been thinking about what I knew from the show, mostly. The reality was that I was a stranger to them. I knew a lot about their lives, but they hadn't shared those things with me. I knew, to some extent anyway, what had driven them, their choices and their feelings, but it hadn't come from them. And I knew that I couldn't help, not the way I'd thought I could, with just telling them that it wasn't their fault that things had turned out the way they had, that they'd done the best they could.

We passed into Colorado and the sun was shining right into the car as it got lower, the mountains getting bigger and closer with every mile under the wheels. It was seventeen hundred miles to LA and I wondered how long Dean would drive for. I'd offered to take a shift, but he'd watched me fumble through the cotton-wool hangover of the sleeping tablet for most of the day and had curtly declined my offer.

He'd switched from Metallica to Bad Company about twenty miles back and in the soft, dusky light that seemed highly appropriate.

Tell me that you are not a thief
Oh, but I am…bad company
It's the way I play, dirty for dirty
Oh somebody double-crossed me
Double-cross
Double-cross
Yeah…we're bad company
Kill in cold blood

The track finished and the next one came on, the distinctive guitar high and sweet telling me which song it was before Rodgers warm and slightly rough voice made it out of the speakers. I love Bad Company but I have to say I was also slightly surprised that Dean played them, they had a lot of love songs on their albums.

I live my life the way that I choose
I'm satisfied nothing to lose

I don't ask no favour
I don't know the reason why
If I don't ask no questions
I, I don't get no lies, I don't get no lies

Now you give your love tenderly
Every way that you move is closer to me

The stereo snapped off as Dean hit the button and silence filled the car. I looked over at him, his face stony again.

"Too slow," he said suddenly. "Puts me to sleep."

"You want something else?" I looked down at the battered cardbox box that lay on the seat between us, filled with cassette tapes in dusty, oily, cracked plastic covers.

I didn't think he was going to answer, then he shrugged a shoulder and nodded. "Sure."

Looking through the tapes, I pulled out a very hard-worn tape, opening the plain black cover gingerly. Popping out the Bad Company, I slid the new tape in and pressed 'Play'.

The first soft beat count on the high-hats filled the interior and I saw his shoulders drop slightly, his hands relax on the wheel. The bass and snare came in together, and his thumb tapped the beat out on the steering wheel as he glanced at me.

"Good choice."

The hard edge had disappeared from his voice and I leaned back into the corner between the back of the seat and the passenger door, listening to Brian Johnson's raw, scratchy snarl with a disorientating flash of my past life and show memories intertwined. They'd been unable to justify the copyright costs for this music for the last season, giving up on pretty much on the rock backgrounds entirely. It was good to hear it again, but it was better to see the corners of his mouth tuck in as he mouthed the words, eyes narrowed against the sun's glare.

~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~

"Single's all I got left," the motel manager said apologetically, and Dean nodded, not looking at me as he handed over a credit card and picked up a pen to fill out his registration details. He took the key and we walked back to the car, getting in and driving around the block of rooms to the rear.

When he opened the door, the double bed sat in the middle of the room, but there was a sofa to one side, as well as the usual tiny table and small kitchen counter with coffee-making facilities.

"I'll take the sofa," I said, dropping my pack on the floor and walking over to look at the bathroom.

"No, I –"

I turned back to him, waving my hand at it. "Don't be ridiculous, you won't fit on it."

He gave in and dropped the canvas duffle he was carrying beside the bed, pulling out a container of salt and prising off the lid.

I looked in the bathroom. Twelve hours of driving on top of the now-gone sedative and I couldn't have cared less if I'd slept on the floor. I wanted a shower, something substantial to eat and as many hours as he was going to let me have in sound, dreamless sleep.

"You hungry?"

Looking back out, I nodded. "Starving."

"Preferences?"

A whole bunch of things popped into my head, but the reality was it didn't matter so long as there was a lot of it. "No, anything's fine."

"That's a change," he muttered, pulling his keys from his pocket and heading for the door. He stopped and looked back at me. "Lock up and don't break the salt lines."

I resisted the impulse to stick my tongue out, feeling the slightly out-of-it punchiness from too long sitting in one position clouding my judgement.

"Right."

He looked at me for a long moment, obviously wondering if he could trust me with that single instruction, then turned away, opening the door and closing it behind him. I waited to hear the engine starting up and the door swung open again.

"I said lock up!"

"Okay!" I told him, walking over to it. "Give me a sec!"

"No," he snapped. "Nothing else will. You do it the way I say, every single time."

"Alright."

The door slammed shut again and I turned the thumb bolt and put the chain on. See what I mean? They barely showed Dean's ability to make anyone feel like a complete idiot on the show. Here I got to see it on an hourly basis.

It was nine o'clock and already I knew it was going to be a long, long drive to California.

~o-o-o-0-o-o-o~