For two straight months, Dean had neglected her, had abandoned her like a sinking ship that carried nothing but ghosts. He left her out in the cold while he sulked in the dark, not daring to look at her, too ashamed, too weak, too afraid of what he'll find inside.
But today, today he needed her.
With a trembling hand, Dean cracked her door open, the familiar squeaking noise almost made him falter. "You should oil these damn doors hinges Dean", Sam would repeatedly tell him, but Dean would snap back, "Hey! Watch what you say in front of her, she's got feelings. Classic cars squeak, get over it." he'd say as he rubbed the roof of the car "Don't you worry baby he doesn't understand us."
He slid hesitantly while holding his breathe, feeling uncomfortable like he was entering some stranger's home. He pulled the metal door and a sense of claustrophobia overwhelmed him. Too terrified to move, he kept his gaze straight ahead, don't look to your right, don't look to your right, don't fucking look to your right.
His trembling hands inserted the key into the ignition ever so slowly, a lump formed in his throat as he heard the rumble he used to call a melody. The interior smelled of leather, salt, and gunpowder, a scent which he relished like a drug. He took a few long breathes through his nose and found himself calming a bit, getting a grip as he rubbed and fisted his hands around steering wheel. The leather seat held his back to keep him from falling, supported him from sliding down the abyss. Funny, he thought to himself, how he left her when they needed each other the most
Hesitantly, he pressed down on the pedal and the engine responded with a rumble, like the car was communicating with him, comforting him with her soothing voice, "I gotcha, I gotcha."
He smiled to himself and whispered "I've missed you girl." His muscles relaxed, his vision cleared, his breathe steadied. He looked and drove straight ahead, he was almost able to smell the New Orleans brewed coffee.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Five hours into the drive, Dean kept going through instructions Bobby gave him, anything to keep him from looking to his damn right. It was a pretty simple gig, haunted cabin a few miles from the French Quarter, just another unrested ghost looking for a cup of revenge. Bobby gave him the history of the place, the ghost's name, the grave's location, even Greg's number. He had everything laid out, this was too easy.
But this wasn't the hard part, wasn't what he drove a thousand miles for...
Keep looking straight! He snapped to himself as his neck was about to look to his right. But he couldn't, the longing was too much, he almost felt Sam's warmth against his right shoulder, almost heard his brother's long legs shuffling against the tight confinement of the car. He gulped and slowly looked to his right with hesitant eyes, terrified of what he'll see there, of what that empty leather seat might hold.
"God Dean get a grip," he whispered hoarsely when he found the seat empty.
He returned to looking straight ahead for a few seconds, then unconsciously back to the right, unprepared and defenseless against the memory that played so vividly.
"I swear, man, you've gotta update your cassette tape collection." Sam said as he dug into at least a dozen cassettes in the box on his lap; some had album art, others were hand-labeled.
"Why?" Dean asked out loud, echoing the memory.
"Well, for one, they're cassette tapes. And two." Sam held up a tape for every band he named. "Black Sabbath? Motorhead? Metallica?"
Dean snorted as he took the box from Sammy, "Well, house rules, Sammy." He said as he popped the Metallica's tape in the player. "Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."
Dean closed his eyes, almost heard Metallica's song playing.
"Come on Sammy you gotta love this music!"
"It's Sam, okay?"
"Sorry, I can't hear you Sammy, the music's too loud."
Dean opened his eyes to bring himself back to the present, God I'd give anything to hear your voice now Sammy.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
7 long hours and two gas stops later, Dean saw New Orleans road sign; he swallowed a lump as his eyes held their gaze on the road sign till it disappeared from view.
I can do this, he thought to himself.
Bit by bit, highway trees disappeared and the city started to show. Rows of colorful buildings and shops started to appear. Neon signs that read "Bourbon Blues" and "Basin Street Jazz Club" captured his attention. You'd love to be here wouldn't ya Sammy?
He continued driving until he reached the French Quarter of the city, the tremble that had left him in the morning started to return with a vengeance when the motel he stayed in with his brother just a few months ago appeared into view.
It looked exactly the same, the exterior was made of red bricks, some pieces were missing but this is what gave it the nice antique look that Sam loved so much, long vines crawled and wrapped around the edges of the motel like they were what held the building straight. The roof was covered in green tiles where birds found it nice to sit and watch the world from below, some seemed to be gawking right at him and he looked away nervously.
He could've picked a motel closer to the grave where the hunt was taking place but Sammy loved this motel; it had an ancient mystique ambiance to it. Across from the building, there was a long brick wall where ads and posters of fortune tellers, witches, and voudists were posted. Sam, being the curious one of the two, loved to read through each one in the early morning while Dean slept, he sometimes even paid them a visit, "Not all those who deal with the Supernatural are evil Dean." Sam would say. The wall was still standing there, staring back at him, waiting for his brother to finish his reading.
He gulped and looked away, found a parking space and turned off his car, the sudden disappearance of his baby's soothing made him feel alone once more. He opened the door slowly and stood up on weary legs, the humid ocean air caught him by surprise, felt refreshing yet nauseating at the same time. The constant hits of flashbacks and the non-stop driving had him fatigued and exhausted.
His phone rang and he knew who it was before looking. He had already ignored Bobby's three calls during the ride. He made a mental note to call the old man later as he picked up his duffel back from the back
With tight lungs, he headed to the main office to check in, suddenly, his legs were brought to a halt, as if the vines from outside crawled in and wrapped around his feet, pinning him to the ground. Shit, he whispered to himself. Right ahead of him, was the same receptionist from a few months back, he remembered her, very well to say the least. She looked exactly the same like she hadn't moved from her spot since the last time he saw her, he closed his eyes as he recalled the dialogue.
"Name's Mardi, ya know, from Mardi Gras" she'd say with a flirty thick New Orleans accent as she'd step a bit too close into Sam's personal space while they booked in, "your name's Sam eh? I've always had it hard for Sams."
What? that didn't even make sense! Dean would grimace at the ridiculously poor pick-up line.
Apparently, Mardi had eyes for his little brother, and for some unknown reason, Sam found her flirty behavior cute, even had the decency to flirt back at her like some damn Casanova.
"Mardi, well I haven't heard of someone called Mardi, so I can't say I have it hard for that name, but I'm sure willing to start with yours."
Oh you gotta be kidding me, the boy needed some serious Romeo tutoring! Dean would think as he grimaced even more.
"Suck it up big brother, you're just jealous she likes me." Sam would say as they entered their room.
"Jealous!?" Dean would retort and make a disgusted face, "Dude me being jealous is the least of your concerns she's as old as Ellen! But hey, I see what you're doing and I get little brother, I really do." Dean would say as he patted Sam's shoulder in a sarcastic way of comforting him, "You lost hope with all the women your age since they all unsurprisingly come to me. So now you're going for the older women theme, gotta say I like this new approach of survival Sammy."
"Whatever Mr. Perfect." Sam would say as he jokingly shrugged Dean's hand off.
Mardi would pass by their room whenever she found a reason to just so she could get a glimpse of Sammy the hot shot. Her cheeks were always red, either from the heat or from being flushed by Sam's presence, Dean wasn't sure.
"Hey Sam, got ya some towels, know how New Orleans weather makes ya appreciate a cool, refreshing shower"
"Hey Sam, got ya some newspapers if ya like." They both laughed hard when they found her number written on one of the pages with a little doodle of a Mardi Gras mask next to it.
"Hey Sam, we got some breakfast service if ya interested." And she'd do that for lunch and dinner as well.
"Hey boy you gonna stand there playin' statue?" Mardi said from afar, jolting him back from the memory. She was a bit overweight, hair red as fire and curly tied in a messy bun. Her neck was filled with beads of all colors and sizes Dean wondered how she could hold up her head with the weight of them. Her cheeks weren't as red, which explains it, Sam wasn't here to get her all flustered.
He walked towards her desk and bent his head down to keep his identity hidden in case she remembered him.
"I'd like to have the room farthest to the right if it's empty please, think it's 323." He said hurriedly.
"Boy I'm right here" she said when he kept staring at the floor.
He winced and lifted his head slowly, please don't remember.
She gave him a smile, "Yeah that room's available. Hold on, do I know you?" She said as soon as their eyes met.
Fuck.
"Nah," he said trying to hide his nervousness, "don't think so. I get that all the time though. I just have a common f…"
She jumped in, "Oh wait wait I know!" she said as she smacked his shoulder with his credit card. "You're that detective that investigated some creepy crime that happened downtown, boy what happened to you?" she asked as she looked him up and down, "I can swear you were twice this size!"
Dean just held his breath, he knew what was coming and had no time to prepare.
She glanced at the empty space beside him before looking back to his face, "Where's yer partner? What's his name.." She said as she held her thumb and pinky between her forehead to extract the right name, "Sam!" she said gleefully.
Dean almost faltered when she said it. "I don't know what you're talking about, you have me confu…" he said as he looked down again.
"Oh don't gimmie that crap," she said as she smacked him with the card one more time, "I'd recognize your eyes anywhere. Where's he? He left?"
"S.. something like that." He said, barely keeping it together, maybe this whole thing was a bad idea.
"What got another job? Maybe He found a girl and they are off making beautiful babies together, chere? ran to some love escapade?" Mardi asked with slight worry.
"No, listen can you just book me in I'm a hur…"
He accidentally landed his eyes on her again and her blue curious eyes seemed to lock him in place, pinning him and extracted all she needed to know. His eyes were his biggest weakness and always gave him away.
"He dead ain't he?" She whispered as she covered her mouth with her hand, "How? What happened?" She jumped in.
I had got him killed, Dean thought to himself.
"Listen lady you gonna check me in or do I find myself another motel?" Dean snapped, failing to hide the shake in his voice.
"Easy boy easy." Mardi said, suddenly seeing the whole package, she could've sworn she saw him tremble.
She continued the registration silently, Dean refusing her further eye contact by staring resolutely at the floor. He grabbed the room's key, thanked her with a nod and left feeling suddenly the urge to breathe.
Mardi from behind shook her head sadly, realizing with a sympathetic sadness that he had inadvertently paid for a double room.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He opened the door, the room seemed exactly the same, like they had just left it yesterday.
I'm here Sammy he said as he sat on his bed and stared at the empty one in front of him. Suddenly feeling drained after his conversation with Mardi, he tilted to his right till his right side rested on the bed, boots still on the ground.
I'm here Sammy he said again as his eyes kept staring at the bed.
"It seems that Mardi's still got a crush on ya, she was worried that you ran off with some girl." He said with a laugh.
He would've stayed in this spot forever, he thought about touring the city but the encounter with Mardi alone was enough to drain him.
He was about to drift off when his phone rang again and he picked up, knowing who it was without looking at the screen.
"Dean?! Is that you?" Bobby said frantically.
"Yeah Bobby, I'm here." Dean said, unknowingly missing the old man.
"Well why didn't ya call like I told you to ya idgit?! I was worrying beyond my wits boy!"
"Sorry Bobby." He didn't know what else to say.
"Yeah sure, listen I told Greg to ya down at the graveyard by midnight alright?"
"Sure Bobby, I'll meet him there and then." Dean said with an exhausted sigh.
"Son you get something to eat first Dean, you can't hunt like this!"
"Kay Bobby I promise. I'll call you when I'm finished." He said as he shut the phone, not waiting for a reply.
He was about to drift off, body yearning for sleep after all those restless nights, but he knew what nightmares waited behind those lids, the feeling of mud brushing against his soles was still fresh in his mind.
He rose listlessly to his feet, trying to find the motivation he needed to push his weary body further and grabbing a change of clothes, stumbled to the shower. Maybe the water would revive him?
Once showered Dean felt a little bit more awake but he knew what would sharpen him more. He needed a shot of caffeine so headed for the nearest coffee shop right next to the motel, the one Sammy had fallen in love with.
He looked down as he placed his order, afraid that the waitress might remember him as well and asks for Sammy. He took the coffee, paid the money without bothering to take the change.
Once he was outside, he took a sip and closed his eyes relishing the taste. "You're right Sammy, best coffee made by mankind." Dean nodded as if Sam was right there with him.
He lifted his head and stared walking towards his car. Night loomed over but the city seemed to be coming to life by then. After a quick stocktake of the trunk to check he had all he needed, he got in his car, and headed to the graveyard where Greg was to meet him there. It was not even close to midnight, so he'd be early for their rendezvous but Dean found it impossible to sit still. The atmosphere of the city and the memories it stirred in him were welcomed but also disquieting and he just had to keep moving.
While driving, he spotted the old bookstore Sam used to camp in, it was a tiny square of a building which he could see through since the walls were mostly covered in windows. He stopped the car unconsciously, mission gone to the back of his mind, and marched towards the bookstore, not seeing anything but the place, his vision seemed to have tunneled and left nothing but the view of the bookstore.
He went in attentively, the smell of ancient books hit him with force.
"That's the smell of knowledge" Sam would say after taking a long breathe
"You hit your head too hard back in college Sammy," Dean would joke back.
He spotted a shelf of books and traced each binding, his strong fingers gentle on the old leather, did Sammy read this? Maybe he read that one? Or that one? The memories pummeled his brain threatening to overwhelm him and yet he couldn't disengage from them.
He kept walking aimlessly between the shelves, until he finally found it, the spot where his little brother spent hours reading, an oversized old leather chair, the hide covering it mellowed to a warm bronze by years of use. It had probably been there since the bookstore opened. Dean felt a sense of misplaced anger with he noticed that someone else was occupying the seat now, wanted to tell him to move away from this spot, wasn't his, was Sam's!
"Looking for something in particular?" An old lady's voice intruded his frustration.
Dean almost stumbled backwards, she was right in front of him, when did she show up? Losing your hunter motor skills Dean, nice, he thought to himself.
He looked at her again, she had long thin grey hair that reached her waist, wore round glasses that were too big on her face and she seemed to need to push them back up her nose every few minutes.
"No," he said, feeling nervous. "Just looking around."
"Alright, well if ya need anythin' ya just let me know."
"Yeah thanks." He looked back at the spot and noticed that the guy who was sitting there left. Feeling slightly relieved, he took a few steps, looked at the empty spot with both dread and yearning. He took a gulp and brought himself down the comfy leather chair with tight muscles. As soon as he sat down, he could almost sniff Sam's smell, sense Sam's warmth, hear Sam's long fingers ruffling through the pages. He chuckled to himself, "Hope you don't mind me taking over your favorite spot Sammy," he said to no one.
He rested his tense neck against the leathery back, his fingers clutched at the sides of the chair as if to place his hands where Sam's were once upon a time. He closed his eyes, the "scent of knowledge" lulling him to sleep, the feel of the leather texture, the sounds of pages being flipped, it was all the peace he needed, never felt so relaxed...
He could die here...
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
An annoying sound broke off his peaceful escape, bit by bit, he registered that it was his phone ringing.
"Yeah" he said, irritated at whoever it was, surprised at how groggy he sounded.
"Hi is this Dean?" a stranger's voice asked.
"Yeah who's this?" Dean asked tensely.
"It's Greg, Bobby gave me yer number, hope ya don't mind."
"No problem, I'm not sure if Bobby told you, but we're going to meet at the grave at around midnight."
"Yeah he told me, I just wanted to check since it's almost 11 and I haven't heard from ya yet."
Dean couldn't stop himself, "It is?!" he jumped in. He was sure it was around 8 when he came in. He looked around and suddenly noticed that indeed, the lights were dimmer and it was just him in that chair. Had he dozed off?
"Kay I'll be right up" Dean said as he hung up the phone, still a bit confused. He stood up slowly, muscles aching from the odd sleeping position. He took silent steps, worried that someone might spot him.
"Slept well?" someone said from the back, Dean jumped and twisted around in alarm.
"Calm down son, you needed it." it was the same old lady.
"Sorry I dozed off." He said, he couldn't help but to avoid her eye contact. He and his brother were always there, she either didn't remember him or didn't want to push it.
"Rest your shoulders boy" she said as she brought her hand and pointed at his shoulders, "You gonna pop it out of its socket if ya keep carrying all that" she said while she pointed at the empty space above him, like she saw an invisible package.
"Yeah okay." Dean said as he walked backwards, wanting to leave as soon as possible. She read him like an open book and it made him feel uncomfortable.
He got out, climbed into the car and started the engine. He was about to leave when he saw her through the window watching him, no, more like staring right through him. She lifted her right hand towards her left shoulder, then did a sweeping motion, like she was dusting the weight off, then pointed back at him, asking him to do the same. He got the message, gave her a nervous smile and drove off.
Halfway through the road, Dean realized that him sleeping in that chair was the first time in a long time where he dozed off without any nightmares, he let out a sigh.
"You really are here aren't ya Sammy" he whispered sadly as he looked at the familiar empty space to his right.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He reached the graveyard with no complications, wanted to get this done so he could be free to explore the Quarter at his leisure tomorrow. He walked up to the graveyard's gate, feeling Sam's absence more and more with each heavy step. Sam should've been there to walk right to next to him, he looked to his right again and all that greeted him was the cold slap of wind.
As he neared the door, he saw Greg standing there, he looked like an older version of Bobby but hair a bit longer that almost covered his ears, he had some beaded necklaces around his neck but not as much as Mardi's. He wore a cap and wondered if he influenced that fashion on Bobby or if it was the other way around.
As Dean approached, the old man yelled, "Hey there, I can tell you a Winchester from 5 miles away."
Dean almost tripped at that, he continued walking and said, "Yeah? Knew my Dad?"
"Met him a few times enough to figure what the marine was all about." He said as Dean reached him and they shook hands.
Dean just nodded his head, didn't know what to say. Sam was the one good with making small talk with new people while Dean inspected the area. Without his little brother there, conversations were just plain awkward.
"So," Dean started as he cleared his throat. He knew this was a simple hunt that he could've done with both eyes closed a few months ago, but now, he was missing the confidence and energy that once oozed out of him. He knew he was rough around the edges; he hadn't fired a gun or fought a ghost since before Sam's death, the alcohol made him lose his sharpness, and the hunger he ignored so well made him feel weak and weary.
"Are ya gonna say something after that 'so' of yours?" Greg pushed on.
Dean frowned, cursed himself for his lack of fluency.
"Sorry" Dean blurted, "Just been a long drive." He said as he gave a weak smile which Greg looked at suspiciously, Dean was almost able to hear his thoughts, Did Bobby just sent him hunter or some rehab drop-out?
"So," Dean tried again and ignored Greg's criticizing eyes that made him want to just drop everything and leave.
"Here's how it's going to go down. I know this might sound weird, but to stop the ghost of Philip Jackson from hammering down your cabin, I'm gonna dig in his grave then salt and burn his corpse. You can handle that?" he asked anxiously.
"Yeah don't ya worry 'bout me son, I saw enough crazy shit in that ol' cabin to last me a lifetime. Salt'n burnin' some bones don't seem so strange ta me no more. Sides, I saw Bobby doin' it a few times, never asked him what the heck he's doin' but I know it's for a good cause."
Dean nodded and continued, "Kay, you're gonna stand right there," he pointed at an area a few feet away from Philip's grave, "while you stay on guard with this gun," he handed him the rock-salt gun wearily; Sam should've been holding this.
Greg took the gun from Dean slowly, tracing the metal piece and Dean wanted to hurt him, with that movement, he was erasing Sam's trace!
Get a grip Dean he chastised himself.
"Don't worry son I got yer back." He yelled back as Dean walked away
He didn't know what to say. A few months ago, Dean would've thanked Greg, would've found the energy to talk with him, maybe asked him about how he met Bobby, or even how he met his Dad, but now, all he wanted to do was to get this over with so he can leave.
He nodded again, that's all he seems to be doing these days, nodding. He walked towards the grave. Greg stood behind him with legs slightly parted like an Old West gunslinger, getting too carried away in the role.
Dean reached Phillip's tombstone, licked his dry and chapped lips as he bent towards his duffel bag and grabbed his shovel with shaking fists. He took a breath and looked around, You should've been the one protecting my back little brother, he thought with a sad smile, but since I couldn't protect yours, I can't ask you to protect mine.
He began digging, the first shove a bit harder than usual due to the loss of muscle. He dug the dirt out and dropped it in a pile on the side.
Shove, dig, and drop
Shove, dig, and drop
Shove, dig, and drop
Sweat formed on his temples and rolled down his cheeks, mimicking the patterns of tears.
Sammy
As he reached halfway through the grave, the weather suddenly turned cold and puffs of clouds echoed each breathe he let out.
"Hey Dean, is it normal to get cold all of a sudden?" Greg asked from above.
"Yeah." Dean said between panting breathes, not bothering to comfort the old guy further.
"Well that's reassuring" Greg said sarcastically.
Dean felt bad for the man and was about to say something when the shovel hit something hard, "Okay I reached the coffin," he shouted", "Keep both eyes open, shoot anything that floats ya hear?!"
"Got a bad feelin' bout this boy!" Greg let out.
The wind grew extra cold but Dean didn't pay attention, he wanted this damn hunt done, he wanted to get out of here and go search for that damn saxophonist, the one that haunted his dreams of happier times when Sam's foot had tapped in rhythm to the bluesy tones and they had smiled together as they lifted a glass to salute the mellow tones.
He tore open the wooden coffin with his shovel and covered his nose with the side of his shoulder as the smell of death hit him hard. He grabbed the salt can from the inside of his jacket and poured down a generous amount over the corpse. This was easier than he thought; all he had left to do was burn the body. He was surprised Phillip didn't make an appearance till now and wondered for a moment if they dug up the wrong grave.
On cue, a shot resonated through the air.
"Dean!" Greg's voice shouted from above. "I saw the damn ghost! I shot it but I missed, it just disappeared."
Dean tensed and went faster, he poured all the salt followed by the bottle of gasoline which he left on the edge of the grave.
"Hang on Greg I'm almost d..." Another shot tore through the silence trailed by sounds of struggle.
Dean's head shot up "Greg?" but he got no answer, he started to climb out of the grave so he could set it on fire. He reached the surface in time to hear Greg's strings of curses, "missed the slick bastard again!"
Sam wouldn't have missed, the back of his mind thought.
"Keep both eyes open, I'm almost finished here." Dean said as he grabbed his box of matches. He was about to scratch the small stick when Phillip appeared again, but this time from an area that wasn't within Greg's vantage point. Somehow, it sensed who the real danger was, it chose to ignore Greg and headed straight to Dean who was defenseless and unprepared.
Sammy was Dean's last thought before the ghost went and slammed him into a tree. He let out a grunt as wood collided with bone.
"Greg!" he coughed out but Greg grew panicked, he twirled and started shooting rock salt aimlessly. "Dammit Greg focus!", he was gonna use all the bullets!
Realizing that he was on his own, Dean punched the ghost square in the jaw, gaining benefit from the ghost's corporeal abilities.
Philip shot his face back at Dean, anger and despair resonating from its hollow eyes that almost made Dean's heart falter, it tightly grabbed Dean from his jacket and started to rise off the ground.
"Let go you son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, pushed and shoved against the ghost with no use as he felt his legs dangling in mid-air, an evil sickening grin traced on Philip's face.
"Greg! Greg shoot it!" Dean yelled from above.
He heard Greg's famous repeat of curses, "Dammit Dean I ran out of bullets!" he yelled back.
Well then freakin load it! Sam would've!
"Oh God! Dean!" Greg said as he realized that the young hunter was being lifted too far off the ground.
Dean kept trying to shove the ghost away as he kept being lifted higher and higher, "Let go! Greg! Light the coffin! Do something!" but Greg was too far away to hear what he's saying.
You're on your own Dean, he thought again, he had do something or else he was gonna keep getting higher and pop his head like a freakin balloon.
Somehow amongst the chaos, he remembered the knife he had on the inside of his boot. He managed to bend his leg towards his back and reached it with the tips of his fingers as the ghost kept rising, he smiled back at the ghost.
"Wipe that filthy smile off your face you son of a bitch" he said as he stabbed the corporeal ghost square in the chest.
The ghost grimaced and disappeared,which left Dean tumbling gracelessly to the ground, he landed straight on his left leg, pain exploded through his being as he heard the unmistakable sound of muscle tearing.
"Nhhguh" Dean let out through closed eyes as he held his leg and braced himself against the pain.
Dead had the urge to gag from the agony lacing through his leg, but had to keep going, had to burn the damn corpse, and where the fuck was Greg?
He crawled towards the tombstone; it seemed like he was mimicking his life these days, mentally crawling through each day since Sam's death. The dirt between his fingers and around his boots reminded him of the mud in his dreams. He reached the grave and the matchbox, he was able to scratch the small stick but each one got blown with the damn wind.
He was about to try again when the ghost made a reappearance, Dean stared in alarm, once again defenseless and unprepared.
Where are you Sammy?
"Want to go up up again?" Philip said with the same disgusting smirk as it pointed skywards.
Shit.
Dean braced himself, there was nothing else he could do. He didn't have a gun and the pain from his injured leg left him too weak to offer much by way of retaliation. He felt the ghost approaching as the air around him turned to ice. He unsurprisingly felt himself waiting; maybe he did want to go up up, maybe he did want the ghost to drop him down and finish off his life for good. He was lifeless either way.
He closed his eyes, sensed the ghost inches away from him, waited for its unmerciful grip when a gun shot once again echoed through the wind. It was enough to shock him out of his suicidal trance; he opened his eyes and noticed the ghost disappeared again.
"Sammy?" Dean yelled at his savior yearningly, was it Sammy? The pain in his leg and lack of sleep played with his mind.
"Dean snap out of it! It's Greg! You alright?" Greg said as he shouted from where he was standing, "Who's Sammy? You want me to call Sammy?" Greg asked frantically, he was clearly panicking by now.
Dean was jolted back to reality by these words, number's unlisted Greg he whispered to himself.
He struggled to his hands and knees and worked on the damn match again. Just as Philip reformed, the match decided to help out and it ignited in his hand. He threw it into the grave and reared back as the coffin burst into flame Philip's smirk turned into a grimace of pain, his scream echoing through the surrounding woods. Greg rushed to Dean's aid and pulled him away from the grave. All went silent except for the ticks of fire burning and the two men's panting breathes.
"You okay?" Greg asked Dean, who still stayed on his four limbs gazing at the fire, entranced by its color, would have threw himself in it if i weren't for Greg's hard grasp on his shoulders.
"Dean?" Greg asked again, shaking him slightly enough to break Dean's gaze from the fire. Dean at Greg in shock, he almost forgot he was even there. He noticed the hands resting on his shoulder and shoved it away, "Mm fine" he said.
He mustered all the energy he had left within him and climbed stiffly to his feet. He winced in pain as weight landed on his injured leg but he had to keep moving.
"We're done here."
"That's all you gotta say? We're done?! You almost got yerself killed! You shoulda made us both more prepared son! I had to run to the duffel and search for bullets! I didn't even know if I'd find any there." Greg shouted.
"Well they wouldn't have run out if you didn't go ballistic on them!" Dean said back.
"Not tryin' to blame anyone here hunter." Greg said firmly.
Dean felt bad, he was harsh and careless, he knew he should've given the old man the complete run down of what'll happen. Heck he should've given him some extra bullets.
"I'm sorry; I haven't been in the game for a while now. You did well; you saved my life back there." It ain't worth the save he thought to himself.
"Yeah? Good to be a hunter? I could be your partner." he said jokingly.
"NO!" Dean shouted a bit too aggressively as he took a few steps back. Nobody could ever replace Sam! His brother. No one!
If Sam was here, he wouldn't have been lifted 20 feet off the ground, he wouldn't have been feeling this terrible pain in his leg, he wouldn't have had to crawl in the damn dirt to reach the grave, he wouldn't been having these damn suicidal thoughts in his aching mind.
But Sam wasn't here, and it was Dean's fault, and it was his job, it was his responsibly, it was his failure, and he's paying for it.
Greg let out a sigh, "Dean, listen, just wanted to thank you for.."
"Don't" Dean cut him off as he raised his hand, he took the gun from him, if a bit roughly, he limped towards the grave where the fire almost ebbed away, shoved all the tools inside his duffel bag and headed towards the car.
"I'm heading back, let me know if you face any more trouble." Dean said as he walked past him, not even bothering to shake hands or looking back.
"Sure." Greg said as the young hunter limped towards his car, he didn't push it or try to call back on him, he knew the hunter wanted to leave before he fell into pieces, the limp grew worse with each step.
"Damn stubborn Winchesters" he whispered to himself.
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Dean thought he'd never reach the car, but he somehow did. He stood shakily trying to compose himself, holding on to her edges panting, rested his forehead on the roof, trying to absorb some strength from the cold metal. He climbed tiredly inside, slowly lifting his leg in between gasps of pain. He rested his back and closed his eyes as he tried to take steady his breathing.
"I can't do this Sammy," he whispered as he hid his face between hands covered in dirt, the smell of death, smoke, and mud filled his nostrils.
"Not without you I can't." he said again. "It should've been me." He whispered against his palms.
He slowly traced his fingers off his face, leaving dirty trails across his cheeks.
"IT SHOUD'VE BEEN ME!" He yelled as he hit the steering wheel a few times till his fists hurt. He needed a drink, he needed a drink or he was gonna do something he'd regret, he didn't trust his logic at this point.
He started the car and headed towards the French Quarter. The words should've been me played repeatedly in his head like a freakin mantra.
He reached the bar across from the motel and parked carelessly. He walked in not giving a damn about the dirt that covered him or the smell of smoke that followed his figure like a freakin grey cloud. He looked like a man who just rose from a grave, the limp in his gait grimly emphasizing the effect.
The bar tender eyed him wearily but Dean didn't give a shit.
"Give me a bottle of whiskey." He said as he sat on one of the empty stools, placing both hands on the table, it only thing keeping him from falling sideways.
"You alright son?" The bartender asked as he traced Dean's appearance.
"For cryin' out loud can people stop calling me 'son'?!" Dean yelled, regretting it but too exhausted to really give a fuck.
"Easy now, here's yer damn whiskey." The bartender said as he gave him the bottle and a glass.
Dean didn't bother with the glass, he took the bottle with a fluid motion and gulped furiously, his Adam's apple trying to catch up with the liquid pouring down like a water fall.
He gulped and gulped, the sting of the drink making his eyes teary, but he didn't give a shit.
He dropped it for a few seconds to take a breath, then repeated the process again, this time, the sting wasn't so bad, the euphoria starting to fill in his mind.
As he drank, he noticed a band in the back packing their equipment, his eyes landed on the saxophonist who was in the state of gently placinge his saxophone in its bag like it was his child. It was almost 2 AM and the band was leaving, no he ain't, he'll play first. Wasn't it a freakin night city? Dean justified to himself.
"Hey!" Dean shouted, "Play a tune." He pointed drunkly at the saxophonist.
"Sorry kid, come back tomorrow." The saxophonist replied without bothering to look at Dean.
"I'm not gonna be here tomorrow. This is my last day here." Dean said back, and by here, he was sure he didn't just mean New Orleans.
"Unfortunate for you." the guy shot back, sounding as irritated as Dean was.
Dean dropped the bottle roughly, which caused a few eyes to lift up. "Listen man, stop acting like a damn Yanni and play the damn tune." Dean said, voice barely balancing between anger and desperation. People around the bar traced the conversation, like they were watching a tennis match, wanting to see who was gonna lose it first.
"Go to hell!" The man said, sounding more pissed by the second.
"Tried that but they sent me the fuck back!" Dean laughed at his own dark humor.
"Whatever boy, I ain't playing." He said more furiously as he was about to walk out the door.
"Beat it kid!" The guitarist said, supporting his partner.
Dean saw red, he won't let them leave before the damn saxophonist plays him a damn tune, Sammy loved it, so he was gonna fucking hear it!
He stormed to the stage and was about to give the reluctant musicians a piece of his mind, but he never made it. Four guys held on to Dean which caused him to go wild, he started punching aimlessly, the drink , the hunt, the pain, it all messed up with his fighting skills.
"Let me go!" Dean shouted, sounding more panicked than pissed.
"Snap out of it kid you'll have someone killed!"
And with these words, Dean's legs grew weak. I did already, you don't understand, he wanted to tell them. You don't understand.
"Woha easy kid easy…" They said as they dragged him out, legs barely moving. He didn't struggle much as they got him out of the bar and placed him gently on the sidewalk.
"You rest here and come back inside when you've calmed down okay?" one guy said, somehow sensing the pain the young man was going through, it was melting out of him. He placed a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder but it was shoved right away.
Dean stayed there in the cold, trembling from the pain in his leg and in his heart; he held his head between his hands and shook against it all. He couldn't do this; he started rocking back and forth against the wind.
"Sammy", he said, "Sammy I can't do this!" he said more loudly this time as tears began to fall down his face.
It had started to rain, adding melancholy to his misery. People around the dark streets ran for cover while he just sat there, rocking back and forth as rain soaked his clothes. "I can't fucking do this." he whispered to himself as he clutched his arms against the cold, tears losing their tracks in the rain. Maybe if he sat there a bit longer he'd drown in this storm, he won't fight it, won't bother to swim, he'd welcome the darkness with open arms and beg it to take him to Sammy.
In a state of absolution, he titled sideways and rested his right side across the sidewalk, this is it he thought, this was how the infamous Dean Winchester would end, drowning pathetically in a puddle of tears and rain on some sidewalk. He was about to drift off, surrender to the numbness when he noticed it amongst the sheets of rain, the large brick wall that had signs and ads on fortune tellers, witches, and vodists, the wall that Sam loved to look through.
It seemed like a more pleasant place do perish next to, a place that held some trace of his lost brother rather than on some on foreign cold sidewalk. His body held on to that irrational excuse and found the strength to limp towards it, left leg screaming with each step but he was mute to it all. The rain increased, and his eagerness to perish increased along with it.
He reached the wall and traced the papers with trembling hands. It was a soulful, desperate gesture as if tracing the letters could connect him to his lost sibling, some of the letters melted with the rain, leaving smudges of ink on Dean's finger tips.
"Sammy" he whispered, "who should we visit first huh?" he said, choking against the tears or the rain, he didn't know which.
He walked and kept on tracing papers and he reached the end of the wall where piles of empty boxes were left. Perfect place to drown, he thought to himself.
He was about to sink in that corner when he saw a paper behind the other ads, pinned right at the end of the wall to make itself invisible. It seemed to be there for ages since all the other papers were mostly in white while this one had a brown tinge to it, perhaps its color was what grabbed his attention. He was about to look away when his eyes caught a few words that almost made him falter.
He had to be sure if he read it correctly, he peeled the paper out and gasped, coughing against the rain as he saw the words more clearly now, "Time Travel Expert."
He held it between his hands and kept staring, trying to fathom the words and description:
You made a mistake, an error, a crime?
A glitch that burns inside your chest?
Have no fear, I can bend your time,
Undo the past for your desperate request.
A few months ago, he would've read this and laughed, probably would've shown it to Sammy and joked about the failed poetry attempt. But now, now he clung to these words like a lifeline.
He read it a few times, wondering if it was the alcohol or maybe exhaustion that was messing with him, making him see words that weren't even there. Was this even real?! He knew that 80% of the people Sam and he visited were fake wannabes, real Supernatural dealers never exposed themselves and posted their ads like some freakin labels searching for customers.
But that's the thing, this did somehow strike him as legit. It didn't have any decoration like all the other ads did. It just had these words along with an address of a person named Marcus. Dammit, desperation was clouding his practical judgment. I could go back! I could go back and save Sammy!
His inner self screamed at him to go with this, it knew what Dean was planning to do if he wasn't distracted by this damn wall, Dean was on the tip of the bridge and waiting, just waiting for that slight shove that'll knock his lights out.
"I have nothing to lose right?" He said out loud as he kept staring at the paper, thumbs tracing the corners of the material while rain still poured down, making a small puddle gather in the center of the paper.
"Sam, I got nothing to lose right?" he asked again against the rain, pausing a bit like he was waiting for Sam's answer, thunder responded and that was enough to push him forward.
The whisky oozed out of his skin, his new found determination forced it out of him. The so-called expert's house was in the French corner so he'd walk there, his pained limp making his pace slower than usual but he'd crawl there if he had to. He didn't have time to lose, he was working on one battery and he was afraid that if he stopped for a break then he'd fall for good.
The rain kept falling, showering him down and rinsing his face, hands, and shoulders from all the dirt.
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Eventually he found the house, it was quite small and was squeezed between two other big houses. It was an old wooden construct. It's shabby, dilapidated state making it appear abandoned, and a slight feel of alarm ran through him. What if the expert left? What if he was no longer there? What if this was some kind of joke?!
He reached the steps and held on to the rail, his left leg barely working by now. He knocked on the door, shivering with a debilitating mixture of fatigue and anxiety as he waited.
Knock knock knock.
Nothing. He tried again, he knew it was almost 3 AM but he couldn't wait till morning, not sure if he would be able to live another day in this state.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
He was about to kick the door when he heard some movement and the light on the side window lit up.
"What the heck?!" he heard someone say.
He knocked again, "Open up please! I need your help!" not bothering with how frantic he sounded.
"You know what time it is?!" Someone said from the back as his voice grew nearer, he heard footsteps approaching and braced himself while he listened to the locks as they were being opened, way too many locks.
The door opened and an old man's face appeared, from his posture, Dean was able to tell that he was wary of visitors, especially at this dark hour.
"You Marcus?" Dean asked anxiously.
"Yes! You better be havin' a good reason why you knockin' at this time boy!"
"You posted this on the red brick wall," Dean said as he lifted the paper with a trembling hand, his body was hunched and his breathe came out in puffs of clouds, eyes weary yet burned with desperate determination.
"What…" Dean swallowed, "What do you know about time travel?"
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Author's Note:
Tada! We're finally here! Gotta admit that this chapter was a bit too heavy, had to get all these different scenes out before I made it to the turning point. I'm so happy I finally reached what this story's all about.
An endless string of thanks goes to DeansBabyBird (Bev) for her unconditional support with this story, she's the best guide there is and I'm so lucky to have met her. Her feedback can turn plastic to freakin gold! Love ya loads Bevz!
To all you readers, let me know what you think so far, I'd very much appreciate your reviews :)
-Nada