Author's/Underhill's note: So! Fifth chapter! Thank you people who reviewed and subscribed; I honestly didn't think anyone would read this, so it's a pleasant surprise. I hope I don't disappoint. Also, disclaimer blah blah I don't own Supernatural's glory blah blah rated m for language and other stuff blah blah blah blah.
"He used you, Dean. Fucked you and left you cold on the ground." The knife twists, deep in his chest.
He would never leave me voluntarily, Dean tries to scream. Cas would never do that. Cas lo—… Cas cares.
"I know what you're thinking, Dean. But angels don't have feelings. They don't have souls. Even demons once had souls. But him? You're an ant. A mud monkey. To him, you're no better than us. He doesn't care, Dean." The knife twists again and Dean's lungs flood with blood...
Dean jolts wake from the dream. His first night on the road and already he is having nightmares. He hadn't bothered with a hotel room, doesn't have the money for it and doesn't trust people again yet, so he'd pulled over on the side of the road to grab a few hours. He is glad for it now, despite it being cold as fuck, as he slams the door open and falls out onto his hands and knees. He pukes what little food he's managed to eat onto the ground.
Great, he thinks. He gets back into the truck and starts driving again. Sleep is overrated.
Earlier that day:
First thing Dean does after waking up is find the road and follow it until he finds a truck stop, complete with gas station, diner, and a large parking lot full of lots of cars and big rigs. He breaks into the nicest looking car and steals four twenties out of the glove compartment, making sure no one sees him. Despite his hands shaking, he manages to get in and out without leaving a trace.
"Pie, please."
He's in the diner, seated in a back booth, and the waitress is standing over him with a pen poised over her notepad. She raises an eyebrow. "What kind, honey? We got lemon meringue, apple, b boysenberry, banana cream-"
"All of them," he says, hand fisted on the table around the cash.
"…Excuse me?"
"I want a slice of each," he says. "And a cup of coffee. Hell, make it two cups of coffee, and a coke." He hasn't had pie or caffeine in ten years-TEN YEARS-so he'd take as much of each as he goddamn wants. When she gives him the up and down though, taking in his dirty clothes and derelict appearance (hey, you trying lying dead in a field for six weeks and see how you look), Dean opens his fist and shows her the money. "I'm good for it. Just, rough night."
"I'll say." But she smiles a little, so he counts it as a win. "Alright, seven slices of pie, two coffees, and a coke, coming right up." She flips the notepad closed. When she comes back with his order she pats him on the shoulder and says, "Feel better, hon," before sliding an order of eggs and bacon in front of him along with the pie. "On the house." She winks. "Don't tell anyone."
When Dean eats his first bite of apple pie, the sound he makes is downright pornographic. "Oh God," he moans. Out of everything he's endured, missing pie is probably the worst. Which is saying something.
He leaves a big tip before leaving. He cleans up a bit in the bathroom, stocks up on road food and steals a car, an old junker of a truck that the owner will probably be happy to collect the insurance money for.
It's good to hit the road again. The farther east he gets-closer to Bela and farther from Sioux Falls-the lighter he feels.