Chapter 6 to The Mark
"Now You're Messing with a Son of A Bitch"
Author: Wakingsparrow
Author's Note: Going home to see my family for my birthday was such an inspiration of ideas. They live in the middle of no where…it was very foggy in the morning and I took a walk though soggy fields and woods. That afternoon I wandered around the meadow and breathed in fresh air and was serenaded by at least 30 types of birds. My homestead is fantastically free of highways, sirens, helicopters, raving drunken homeless men, and gun shots. Naturally because of this lack of noise, I was unable to sleep more than two hours at a time the entire duration I was there…hahaha…But anyway! This isn't the chapter I wanted it to be, but I feel like I have a decent foot hold to start climbing the mountain.
I know exactly where I'm going with the Sam and Dean flashbacks now and I have to admit, I am extremely excited. Just trust me on this one. I think it will be worth the intermittent italics of the chapters.
Please let me know what you think!
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…
Dean stalked away from the bar to the Impala and dug his flask from the inner pocket of his jacket. One night, one friggin' reprieve from this God awful job is all he'd wanted. Yeah, people were drying; people die everyday. Why should he have to become the judge between which actions are right to end it and which ones aren't. Bickering with Mr. 'president of the debate team' Sam always ended up with Dean wanting to occupy where ever the nearest source of liquor was. Couldn't he just have one damn moment he could take a step back from it this time? He'd been sober as grave stone for the last week and a half.
He sighed and breathed in the earthy forest breeze that surrounded the parking lot. Fact of the matter was, both Sam and he were on hanging on to a thread when it came down to this case. It was like they were running around a rat maze that consisted only of dead ends…terrible solutions to fix an even more horrible problem. Dean had to get away from it tonight, it was too much for him to try to wrap his brain around.
His vision swam off kilter as he took several deep swallows of searing liquid. The burn eased the throbbing of his head slightly, so he tilted it back up to his mouth. Just as he heard the back door lazily clink shut from his exit, it banged back open with a vengeance. A striding set of foot steps approached him and he took another hurried hit off the flask before he wouldn't be able to again.
The Sasquatch slammed a hand on the driver's side door, blocking any optimism of escape. Even in the subdued light, eye contact was again made and the damp air of the night seemed to evaporate into dust.
Dean couldn't help but shift under the vicious gaze.
Without an audience around, his brother's words became barbed and unbridled. "Whatever. You want to hide away from this like a coward, that's fine. Guess, what? It's still going to be there in the morning - just now you'll be puking in the toilet and feeling like hell!"
Dean practically snarled as he pushed himself off the car with his elbows and circled the man.
"How dare you say'm hiding like a coward! That girl - holed in that motel room-" He shot out his index finger in the completely wrong direction of where they were staying, but he could care less, "is the only person I've been able to think 'bout since we figured out what's causing the attacks. Are you going to tell me that some people are jus' unlucky? As stuck up shit creek as we are, even though they did nothing ta'serve it?"
The older Winchester visibly seethed and imbibed a hearty amount of his flask in one go, not caring at this point if his brother would use it against him.
He coughed briefly and ran his hand though his clammy hair before continuing. "I'm sick of the fucking guilt, S'mmy. So what if I want to feel something...ANYTHING else for a change. So what if tomorrow I end up drivin' the porcelain bus! It's something ELSE!"
He was breathless and scarlet faced now, the veins in his forehead pronounced.
"What are we supposed to do, Sam? Kill her?"
His giant of a brother stood silent, eyes cast onto the concrete.
"Tell me what we're S'POSED TO DO!"
...
Cool water streamed down Dean's body as he attempted futilely to massage out his deafening memories and what was left of the nauseating alcohol in his system. Hot showers were the last thing a sane person would take in this weather. One could only pray that the cistern was shielded enough in the ground from the summer to take off some body heat. There was no way he was going to roll onto the highway without air conditioning and not have at least a little more preparation, especially if he was going with some child A Mordel… he bit at his cheek with contempt and scrubbed soap from his hair briskly.
He couldn't even believe Bobby would ditch him now, not after all the weeks of research they'd done to come up with a credible job. Dean gnashed his teeth for what seemed like thousandth time. Yeah, okay, he got that the older man answered the counterfeit phone lines like a skirt clad secretary for at least five other hunters. This was different though, this was exactly what they had both needed…
As shower became increasingly lukewarm and steamed the crooked mirror, he knew the break for relaxation was over. He toweled off, grabbed toothpaste and aftershave from the cabinet, clothed himself, and made his way through the book piles downstairs.
Bobby sat on the paint-chipped steps of the porch with a thick folder next to him, attentively petting the scruffy stray the Impala's arrival had frightened off earlier. He cooed something baby-like as it nudged his hand for more attention and he stroked down the burred fur with a small beard-obscured smile. Usually Dean would have had a hundred mocking quips on the tip of tongue, but his sentimental wounds were still stinging with so much betrayal, he opted to stay silent as he let the screen door ricocheted behind him.
"You ready?" Singer heaved himself up with a grunt and handed him the archive of documents, pretending he hadn't just been preening the cat that now rubbed a figure eight between his muddy boots.
"Yeah, sure." Dean mumbled dismissively and thumped down to the walkway, tossing his duffel bag through the open back window of the Chevy. He looked around momentarily before popping open the trunk to double check that the stockpile of weapons were carefully concealed. "Where's the kid?"
"Kid's right here." The dark haired hunter rounded from his hiding place behind his dusty pickup and toed out a glowing cigarette butt. "Your hair doesn't look as good as I though it would since it took you an hour to curl iron it."
Creak, slam. That mouthy little bastard was violating his baby's passenger seat just as quickly as that, boot up on the dashboard, mulling over a map of the western states. He was going to throttle this guy and toss him into a ditch. A steep one, with lots of nettles. That's the end of it. Dean shot Bobby a severe glare as he eased into the driver's seat and brushed off the steering wheel, but the man wouldn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
"Just take 29 down to Omaha. It's basically a straight shot from there, boys." The graying man tapped the ebony hood reassuringly and made his way back to the farm house. Dean could have sworn he saw him smirking as he turned away.
The engine roared to life and he dug though his box of tapes with conviction. The other man glanced over at him and concealed a snort with a wheezing cough.
"Get your feet off the leather." Dean deadpanned uncouthly.
The younger complied, hiking the map up to create a thin wall between them as they sloped downwards to the onramp of the high way.
Dean didn't bother to blare the song that garbled under the purr of the Impala until the chorus.
"…Time's come to pay your dues…
Now you're messin' with a - A son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a - A son of a bitch…
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch
...
Talkin' jivey, poison ivy
You ain't gonna cling to me
Man taker, born faker
I ain't so blind I can't see
...
The rustling of paper was heard and Dean glanced over through the blinding sunlight to find golden brown eyes glowering a him, the upturned corner of lips challenging him back.
Suddenly the mouth changed into a small 'o' and began whistling off-tune along with the song. Sylas's head bobbed away slowly with the beat of the cowbell to stare at the fields flying by, fingers tapping obnoxiously on the rawhide upholstery of the door.
The chorus resounded patronizingly with the calculated tone deaf accompaniment. At least the thrumming of flesh against leather stayed true...
Now you're messin' with a - A son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a - A son of a bitch…
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch
...
It was going to be a long drive.
...
I giggle at Dean's attempt to insult...I can't help myself. R&R!