Thanks so much to everyone for taking the time to read, and chocolate chip cookies for those who reviewed! So we're back to Dean's POV once again, hope everyone enjoys. Hugs, Ember
Chapter Five
When Sam said he wanted to leave for Bobby's first thing in the morning, he wasn't kidding. No sooner had the sun risen, and he was packed and ready to go. Which is great, right? It had to mean he's a little better than last night. Yeah, not so much. He slept the entire drive to the South Dakota border leaving me to talk with chatty Earl the tow truck driver from Hell.
Earl collects bottle caps and state spoons – I didn't even know each state had its own specific spoon, but apparently they do. And he's an Elvis fan – damn is he ever an Elvis fan. For the first hundred miles he entertained me with impressions of the King, and the second hundred miles, we listened to every Elvis song ever recorded – some of them twice. Yet the real sick part about this whole screwed up situation is that I am paying to be entertained by Mr. Sideburns . . . well, technically Henry Finkle is, but that's so not the point.
Bobby met us at a truck stop near the border, and together we rigged the Impala up to his tow truck. And by 'we' I meant Bobby and myself as the moment we pulled into the trucker diner, Sam sluggishly exited Earl's truck, limped to Bobby's vehicle, got inside and went back to sleep.
At about this point I'm getting a little pissed off – No, scratch that, I was well beyond pissed about a hundred and fifty miles ago. Sure he's injured, and sure he's probably sore as all hell, but I feel as if there's another reason he is avoiding talking to me. I'm not sure if it's because of the Impala or maybe the woman in the other vehicle dying, but either way, his continued avoidance of me is wearing thin on my nerves.
"So how's he doing?" Bobby asked, startling me from my thoughts. He nudged his head toward where Sam sat in the tow truck. "He looks like hell . . . you both do."
"I really don't know," I responded with a heavy sigh. "Ever since Jess died he's been distant and driven just like dad. It's like all he can think about is killing that yellow-eyed sonuvabitch." Glancing at Sam slouched on the passenger's seat with his head resting against the side window, I shrugged. "But this is different. He's blaming himself for this woman's death, and the accident wasn't even his fault."
"I'm sure that's normal." He placed a hand on my shoulder, and gave me a reassuring smile. "Give him a couple of days, and I'm sure he'll realize the accident wasn't his fault."
"But it's not only him," I muttered with a shake of my head. "It's . . . I don't know, I just keep getting this gut feeling like I shouldn't have left Grand Forks. It's like I've forgotten something important, and it's driving me crazy."
With a lift of his brow, he asked, "We're you two hunting anything?"
"No." I shook my head again. One of the first rules of hunting – if you have a bad feeling about something, there definitely might be something supernatural involved. "We haven't been on a hunt since that whole bug thing in Oklahoma."
"You're probably just tired, Dean." Pushing up the brim of his trucker cap, he eyed me for a moment. "It looks like you haven't slept a wink in days, and what with searching for John and now Sam's accident, you're both running on empty."
"Have you heard from him?" Sam was right, if anyone knew where their father was at the moment, it would be Bobby even if they weren't on the best of terms at the present time.
"John?" He shook his head, and turning his back on me, he headed toward the driver's side of the tow truck. "You of all people should know if your dad don't wanna be found, he won't be found."
Conveniently he had evaded the question which led me to believe he knew more than he was letting on about my father. I watched as he slid behind the wheel and started the engine. While I tried to figure out a way to get him to spill what he knew about my father's whereabouts, I followed at a slower pace.
As I was about to nudge Sam to move over so I could sit down, I heard a weak, muffled voice call to me from behind. I swung around and searched the entire parking lot, but no one even glanced in my direction. My heart skipped a beat then took off at a frantic pace as a surge of panic rushed through me, raising the hairs on my arms, and sent a shiver racing the length of my spine.
"Dean?" Sam called out to me, and startled, I nearly jumped out of my skin. "You alright, dude? You look like you just saw a ghost . . . although since we see those on a fairly regular basis, I'm pretty sure that wouldn't have you looking so freaked out."
Before responding, I took one last look around, certain someone had called my name. "Yeah, m'okay." I shook off the feeling, and slid onto the seat beside Sam. Once I'd settled in my seat, Bobby started the engine, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed toward the salvage yard. "How about you?"I asked after a moment's hesitation, fearful of what his answer might be.
"I feel like someone drove a knife through my forehead." He let out a half-hearted laugh that ended in a grimace.
Mentally I kicked myself for being angry with him for sleeping all the way to South Dakota, and also for listening to him. He wasn't up for the drive, and my gut told me we should have stayed in Grand Forks a few more days, but instead of doing what I knew was right, I let him talk me into the long trip to Bobby's.
"Here," I fished through my pocket, yanked out a bottle of pain meds, and handed him a couple, "When we get to Bobby's I want you to take it easy."
Sam gave a subtle nod and then glanced over his shoulder. When he looked back, his brow was furrowed and the pained expression in his hazel eyes seemed almost pleading. "I'm sorry about the Impala . . . I ruined your car and I . . . ." his voice trailed off, and I was almost absolutely certain he was going to say he had killed the driver of the other car.
"Don't worry about it, Sammy," I uttered around the thick lump that had formed in my throat, "I can fix it."
A sad, heartbroken frown tugged at the corners of Sam's lips as he shrugged, and my heart clenched painfully. He wasn't going to let it go. He was bound and determined to make the accident his fault, and thereby add the woman's death to the long list of deaths that haunted both of us. "Yeah, the car maybe – but not every thing's so easily fixable."
I wanted to tell him he was wrong, and that things would be better in a few days, but the words refused to form on my lips. He was right. Some things couldn't be fixed – hunting the Yellow-Eyed demon wouldn't change the fact that our mother was dead nor would it take back all the years we he had lost with dad. Hunting in a sense was like someone placing a tiny band-aid over a gushing mortal wound – Sure it might help for a short while, but it really won't matter in the slightest, and in the end we'll both be dead. So yeah, just like a useless band-aid, and truthfully when you looked at that way there's really no point in it.
Not knowing what to say to each other, we both fell silent, and for a while Bobby tried to make conversation to our mumbled responses, but he soon gave up, and focused all his attention on driving back to the Salvage yard as quickly as possible. With only one stop to fuel up the tow truck, use the restrooms, and stock up on snacks, we made it back to Bobby's in near record time – a true testimony to how awkward and uncomfortable the trip was for him as well as us.
After moving the Impala into the garage to work on, the three of us made our way to Bobby's house. With a groan, Sam dropped onto the couch while Bobby hurried into the kitchen under the guise of making a quick dinner for everyone. I could have stayed with Sam – and maybe I should have, but I couldn't stand the strained conversations alternating with silence any longer.
"I'm gonna go take a shower," I said to no one in particular as I doubted either Sam or Bobby was listening, and with that I grabbed my duffel and headed into the bathroom.
Muscles sore and aching from the long drive, I stretched and rolled my neck to work out the kinks. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, and realized for the first time exactly how tired and worn out I looked. Bracing my hands against the sink, I leaned in for a closer inspection. Dark smudges rimmed my eyes, and the three day's growth of beard I'd neglected to shave only served to emphasize how haggard and drawn my face looked.
"Bobby's right, I look like hell." Running a hand through my hair, I shook my head, and turned away from my reflection.
As thoughts of how long it would take to repair the Impala filled my mind, I peeled away my clothing and stepped into the hot shower. For an otherwise craptastic day, this moment was sheer heaven, and I fully intended to use every last drop of hot water. Sure it was selfish on my part, and no doubt Sam wanted to take shower, too, but I think I'd earned the right to have one good thing happen today – and if that one good thing happened to be using all the hot water Bobby's house had to offer, well, I could live with that.
The heated water cascaded down my shoulders, and massaged away the dull ache in my back. With a contented sigh, I tilted my head to the side, and allowed the spray of water to work at the kink in my neck. As the water began to slowly cool, I made quick work of washing my hair and then my body.
A smile lingered on my face as I stepped from the shower, toweled dry and dressed in a pair of clean jeans and t-shirt. The shower was exactly what I needed. I could face Sam again, and hopefully I could convince him the accident wasn't his fault, and we could move on. Sure it was a pipe dream, but it was a damn good shower and I was feeling optimistic.
As I opened the door to head back out to the livingroom, a sudden wave of nauseousness overwhelmed me, and I hastily gripped hold of the door frame to balance myself. Bile rose in my throat, and swallowing hard, I took several slow, deep breaths. With every thought I had centered on not having to hug the porcelain god, it took several long moments before I heard Sam practically shouting at Bobby in the other room.
"I've looked everywhere I could think of, Bobby, I couldn't find him, and now you're the only lead I've got."
Leaning out of the doorway, I craned my neck to hear Bobby's response, but heard nothing until Sam spoke again.
"No, I've left him message after message, and he hasn't returned my calls."
Again Sam went silent, and although I felt slightly guilty for eavesdropping, I crept down the hallway so I could hear what Bobby had to say about my father's whereabouts. But just as before the only voice I heard came from Sam.
"People don't just disappear without a trace, Bobby." Sam's voice rose further in anger, and with it my nausea returned full-force. Stomach churning, I clamped a hand over my mouth as I swallowed desperately against the acrid taste at the back of my throat. "Something had to have happened to him. So with or without your help I've gotta find him before it's too late."
With every intention of telling Sam to back off, I trudged on shaky legs the remaining distance to the livingroom, but stopped short when I glanced around the room and found it empty. "Sammy?" When he didn't respond, I made my way into the kitchen, and my eyes narrowed in confusion when once more there was no one there.
"Sam, where the hell are you?" I called out as I walked the short distance to the windowsill, ducked my head and looked around outside. Eyes widening in disbelief, I watched as Sam followed by Bobby exited the garage and made their way back toward the house. "I'm losing my freakin' mind." I shook my head, and then swung to look around the room again. "There's no way in hell they were just right here and then a few seconds later out there."
Confused and searching for answers, I went back to the livingroom and took a look around. Bobby's entire house was safeguarded against ghosts and demons along with almost every other supernatural entity, so whatever I had heard couldn't have been any of those things. But it was Sam's voice. I was almost positive it was his voice. But it couldn't have been if Sam was outside with Bobby. "It's just not possible. I would have heard the door shut – I would have heard something. God, I feel like I'm losing my freakin' mind."
"Are you talking to yourself, Dean?" Sam asked from the doorway, and I cringed when I turned and saw a smirk settle on his bruised features.
"No," I said with a slow shake of my head, and then looked from him to Bobby, and my mouth dropped open. The older hunter held a shaky hand against his head as blood seeped out from beneath his fingers. "Bobby, you're bleeding, what the hell happened to you?"
"It's my fault, Dean," Sam quickly supplied before Bobby had a chance to respond. "The Impala slipped on the lift, an' it was just a damn lucky thing Bobby wasn't completely under it at the time or else . . . ." His voice trailed off as moisture gathered in his eyes. He shifted to look at the older hunter. "Bobby, I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault, ya idjit," Bobby muttered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It was an accident – the weight must've not been distributed properly, and it – "
"Wait. Wait. Wait," I held up a hand to cut him off, "What the hell was my car doing up on the lift?"
"I-I wanted a better look at the damage I'd done to your car – Dean, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking."
"NO, you definitely weren't doing that!" My voice rose several octaves as the image of Bobby being crushed to death by my car filled my mind.
"Dean, let it go," Bobby interjected, trying to diffuse the situation before Sam or I said something we would regret. "He didn't mean for anyone to get hurt. It was just an accident."
"No, Bobby, he had no business messing with that lift, he doesn't even no how it works – Hell, he could've killed you or himself because he's so caught up in blaming himself for that woman's death!" Storming the distance to him, I jabbed Sam hard in the chest with my index finger. "That damn accident wasn't your fault, so let it go."
"But it is my fault, Dean," Sam argued, and my own anger dissolved as a lone tear snaked a path down his black and blue cheek. Angrily he swiped the moisture from his face as he went on to add, "If I'd just let you drive to the diner last night, your car would be fine, that woman wouldn't be dead . . . and now Bobby . . . ." his voice trailed off yet again, and I winced at the pain I saw so clearly etched in his hazel eyes. "You know what, just forget it." Pushing past me, he limped toward the bedroom we shared while calling back over his shoulder, "It's not like you'll understand – you save lives . . . but people die because of me, so how could I expect you to understand how I feel."