Author's Notes/Warning: Remember my weird chapter numbering - I'm using halves to help you keep in mind which two go together, but there will actually be 12 postings in all. Dean's POV here is almost twice as long as John's, but he has a lot going on that John isn't aware of, so I guess it makes sense, huh? The time frame is the same as John's from Chapter 1.
Dean's POV - Chapter 1.5
Dean was stir crazy. He and his dad had holed up in this dark house after leaving the comforts of Bobby's place a few days ago. John, as usual, had left him alone to do a ton of work with no help. He had said something about getting money someone owed him so they'd be ok for a while. For all Dean knew that could be code for "Dad was on a gambling trip and he wouldn't be home for a few days." They were in Reno after all.
Of course Dean knew he wasn't being entirely fair. He couldn't be sure his dad wasn't telling the truth – not until he actually saw the money Dad said he was owed – but ever since Sammy had left and then since Sammy had suddenly gone incommunicado, Dean was looking to place blame. It didn't occur to him to blame Sammy. Sammy was just a kid. Dad had kicked him out while Dean stood quietly by trying not to break on the outside the way his heart was crumbling on the inside.
So Dean said nothing. After he and Dad took care of the stubborn Wendigo that had insomnia, he tried to call Sammy, but it went to voicemail. He tried again when he and Dad were on their way to Bobby's and had stopped at a diner for breakfast. While his dad was in the restroom, Dean had called Sam to apologize for whatever he had done to piss Sam off so that he wouldn't answer his calls. When they were at Bobby's, Dean was trying to be in a jovial mood because Bobby had gone out of his way to get him a pecan pie. Bobby had tried to pass it off as homemade, but Dean had stayed with the man he called "uncle" and eaten out with him often enough to recognize the famous pecan pie of Shirley's Bakery. By the time they got to the house where they were staying, Dean was tired, he was cranky and he didn't want to do anything but sleep for a whole day – if he could get away with it.
Instead, he and Dad unloaded the Impala immediately upon their arrival. Dad ordered Dean to make sure all the weapons were good to go, shells loaded and, in what Dean heard as a sarcastic tone, if Dean could start looking for any news articles on the mysterious and colorful deaths happening in Reno instead of lazing about, that would be the cherry on the sundae. Dean had given his obligatory reply, grumbling internally about his dad's relentless obsession to order him around, not that Dean didn't understand. He did and he took the job seriously. But sometimes all work and no play….
He didn't mind being the good soldier if it meant he got to kill as many evil sons of bitches as possible. Dean did his best to be obedient even when he was warring inside, like he was now. He needed space, so Dean didn't argue when his dad said he was leaving and he'd be back in three days.
When Dad took off, Dean looked around the quiet, empty house full of nothing but his thoughts about what Sam must have been doing, what Sam must have been thinking to ignore Dean for what? A whole month now? Two years they stay in touch and suddenly he becomes a junior – an upper-classman, Dean guessed – and he can't be bothered anymore?
Dean took the weapons bag to the living room table to start unpacking it. He wanted to see what needed to be stripped and cleaned, and what might be in good enough condition. Of course he knew good enough wouldn't be good enough for his dad, and normally not for him either, but he wasn't feeling normal right now. Still, did Dean want to chance his dad being pissed because he did a half-assed job? Dean slammed the weapons on the table as he brewed about it, and once he hit the box of shells, he decided to take those to the kitchen, find the salt and start there. He'd decide about the weapons later.
Once he was in the kitchen, though, he realized he was hungry. His sullen mood had served to put a damper on his appetite for a few days, but even Sammy agita couldn't kill it for good. He and Dad had done some grocery shopping before they went to the house, so at least he didn't have to go anywhere for a little while, which was just fine by him.
He didn't want to do anything too complicated or that would take too long, so a grilled BLT with cheese would be just the quick meal he needed while he was dealing with the weapons and sorting out other stuff.
The hot sandwich took less time to cook than it did to get the food put away and prep what he needed. As he ate, Dean shuffled between the rooms, making sure he had everything he needed from the weapons bag and returning to the shells in the kitchen so he could fill them with the salt that was stored there. He was making a bit of a mess, but his dad was away for two more days, so he could care about cleaning up at a later time. He filled as many as he could in one sitting before he needed to get up for more salt. It was getting late though. His dad had uncharacteristically called to tell him he was not quite halfway to his destination, so he'd be none the wiser if Dean chilled out for the rest of the night and picked things up in the morning.
Dean woke up with a headache. He had spent some time last night getting into his dad's favorite whiskey and his alcohol-induced state had inspired him to look for a picture he had of Sammy and him back when Dad had first allowed Dean to start driving the Impala – but only when Dad didn't need it. He was almost a car owner and he had been proud, Sammy proud right along with him.
Dean couldn't think straight enough last night to remember where the picture was so he had ransacked the living room where a lot of his dad's things still sat. He had taken his stuff to the small room he claimed earlier on, and – failing to find the photo in the living room – he went back there to rummage through everything he had until he finally remembered it was in his wallet all along, safe and sound.
The rest of the night had been spent with Dean trying to decide whether or not to contact Sam. He started texts, then deleted them. He pressed Sam's number on the speed dial then closed his phone. He got angry at himself for being such a stupid girl about all this in the first place, but this was the longest he and Sam had been out of touch. Longer even than when Sam had run away to Flagstaff for two weeks and Dean had torn apart the world looking for him. This was worse because he was pretty sure Sam knew Dean was trying to reach him and chose to stay silent.
So Dean got up late that morning, holding his head, trying to figure out what had happened and what he needed to do. Research, that's right. His dad had told him to start looking into the weird deaths of some people who had been found in the homes of other people. They had had some kind of paint on their faces or something? Dean fully intended to comply with the order, he just needed a minute to clear his head.
He stumbled into the kitchen and it was a wreck. When did he do this? He stopped to look around, momentarily confused that maybe someone had broken in and created this disaster. But he saw the fixings for the BLT he had eaten, the rounds on the table and oh, some on the floor now. How had he used more than a single plate and pan last night?
Shaking his head, Dean set out for a glass because he needed water and to find the laptop. Maybe he'd even go one step further and take a run like his dad would surely have ordered if he saw the state of this kitchen….wait. The state of the whole house it seemed.
"Shit," he muttered to himself. He padded into the living room and saw the stuff strewn about in there too. He pushed aside the med bag he and Dad carried along so he could sit on the sofa and dig out the laptop. He blinked himself further awake, waiting for it to boot up. "People found dead in other people's homes," he muttered to himself. "Did these people know these…other people?" Dean clicked to enter the screen password, which Sam had created mixing some weird combination of letters and numbers that only Sam understood. Damn. Sam.
His head fell back on the sofa as he looked up at the ceiling trying to get his head back on straight. He blinked again at the light streaming in behind his head, then turned, noticing the window before turning back to notice the room. The sofa was in front of the window. "Damn. Gotta move this," he noted. "Be nice if I had help," Dean started then stopped himself.
"He isn't doing this," he reprimanded himself. "Sam isn't sitting around wishing he had help moving furniture, wondering what the fuck I'm doing and neither am I." He shook his head again looking back at the computer that had finally settled down and he started to search for the deaths that had brought him and Dad to Reno. He found some focus as he searched sites average people never knew existed, but Dad, Bobby and even Sam had figured out all sorts of backdoor search methods over the years and thank God Dean learned them too instead of assuming Geek Boy would always be here to handle the research drudgery.
Dean looked around. He needed paper and he remembered the notebook they kept in the bag with the laptop. He peered over the arm of the sofa to find the bag, stretching until he could put his fingers on it and pull it over to the other side of him, pushing the med bag even further down the sofa. The laptop cord was in there. He had plenty of battery for now so he set the cord aside. The notebook was there as well as a pen somewhere.
Dean set to work writing names, addresses, dates, whatever he could find; six cases in all so far. Maybe there were others? He searched for a full hour before his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten yet.
He looked up at the kitchen, then back at the laptop, not wanting to stop his flow. He was in the zone. Dad would be proud. And Sammy.
He drummed his fingers on the laptop, considering the quickest thing to do. "Eat out," he decided out loud. And since Dad had taken the car,"I could use a run."
Dad had called while Dean was on his way back from the diner that thankfully wasn't more than a couple of miles up the road. Whoever owned this little hideaway had made sure it wasn't too hidden away. Dad was checking in, he had said. Since when? Dad was acting a little strange, but who was he to judge? Dean knew he wasn't exactly Mr. Rogers right now either and he was glad he had another day on his own. He had gotten the research started. He had packed a ton of salt rounds. He needed to start cleaning weapons, but first, he needed a shower.
He checked the time on his phone again as he drew closer to the house. He had gotten up so late and spent so much time on the computer that his breakfast run was actually a lunch run and it was getting on in the day. He dug his hand in his pocket for the house key and pulled out a scrap of paper. Ohhhh yeah, he smiled to himself. He had a phone number. That diner – Quick Time Diner – had had some friendly people in it. Flirty waitresses who looked like Michelle Pfeiffer and gave him extra servings of apple pie with whipped cream, heavy on the innuendo. He had something to take his mind off Sammy for a while – well, other than the hunt – and he still had a night and a day before his dad would be back.
"Be-lin-da," he chanted to himself, his thumb stroking the paper as he considered his options. Putting the paper between his teeth, he dug out the house key and let himself inside, tossing the key on the coffee table. He plopped down on the still unmoved sofa to punch in her number. Landing on the laptop cord, he muttered his disgust, grabbed the cord and tossed it across the room. Belinda was off before the dinner rush. He had asked her what there was to do in town and she'd laughed. "You're in Reno, sugar," she reminded him. "Oh yeah," he replied, "and when in Reno…." He winked, she laughed, he made a new friend and just like that, he was off duty. Not even sidetracked by his dad's call to see what he had found so far.
That night and that next morning, it was all Belinda, all the time. He had some money so there was gambling and drinking and yes, even work as Dean carelessly mentioned the deaths he heard about and Belinda said she had heard about them too. Even knew one of the homeowners whose home had been the site of a murder. It was such an invasion because they had gone away and hired a housesitting service to watch their home. They figured a licensed company that checked out with the Better Business Bureau would be safer than anyone else. They could always sue if something happened and insurance would cover them too.
Remembering the hunt for a moment, Dean took note of what she said and promised himself to check into this service to see if they all had that in common. But first, he had watched Belinda talking about the crimes. They were in a casino, at her favorite slots game and he sat next to her watching her play, smelling her perfume, listening intently. He heard her but eventually got lost watching her pouty mouth moving, wondering what it would be like to taste those pink lips. Eventually she forgot what she was talking about, distracted by green eyes, muscles, tight thighs that seemed to get closer and open further for her to fit into. What were they talking about?
Dean came home a little later than planned. The next day later. Much later.
"Shit," he hissed. Dad's car was in the gravel drive next to the house. He stood there a moment contemplating the best course of action. He could pretend like he was a teenager and try sneaking into his room on the side of the house, like he had been there all along. But he hadn't taken the time to even check that out first. "Shit, shit, shit," he grumbled. Dad would have expected him to know all the access points by now. Somehow he'd get reamed for not knowing that.
He looked around himself, feeling exposed in the late afternoon, the alcohol he and Belinda had shared even earlier this afternoon, still kicking his ass. He'd get a better handle on all that as he got older, but for now his body was still going through the motions of someone who had had a lot too much to drink for the past 24 hours.
For all Dad knew, Dean was out investigating. "Yeah," he told himself. "Looking into the case. Talking to people. Belinda is people. Good people. Mmmm, Belinda. Focus, Dean!" He wiped his hand down his face, taking a whiff of his breath in his hand, shrugging when he didn't think it was too bad. He looked at the time on his phone. "Damn it!" He had missed a call from Dad. Too late now. He headed into the house, past the squeaky screen door, closing the main door behind him with a heavy thud.
He picked through the clutter on his way to the kitchen when he didn't see evidence of John in the living room. He wasn't exactly in a rush to have his ass handed to him, so he walked carefully toward the center room, looking around him as he went realizing that all the time in the world to clean up had rapidly turned into time's up.
His dad was already looking his way when he made it to the kitchen entrance and Dean sucked in a breath, feeling slightly ambushed. He couldn't decide if his dad looked pissed, super pissed or ready-to-lunge-across-the-room-at-him pissed, so he greeted Dad and hung back, waiting. Dad would only glare at him, that Winchester Glare that told him to be prepared because anything could happen.
He thought he'd diffuse the situation by playing a little dumb about the time, his words slurring a little more than he had hoped they would, his hand finding a grip on the wall that not only held him up but held him in place when he felt like running. Running was never a good idea when his dad was mad.
He had tried to make good by starting to clean up the salt rounds, but he wasn't doing a very good job since his senses were slightly dulled and his grief for Sammy a little more on the surface than he'd like. But Dad had granted him a reprieve and sent him to bed.
"Go on, boy, get out of here and we'll deal with this is in the morning."
And he was grateful. He knew Dad wasn't done with him, but he was grateful to crawl back to his room, the scent of Belinda still on his clothes and thoughts of Sammy cluttering his brain. He shut the door carefully and fell into a dreamless sleep.