Chapter 10
I-70 W, Kansas. 11.00 a.m.
Ellie knuckled her eyes, trying to stay awake. She hadn't thought she'd get any more sleep the night before, but her body'd thought otherwise and she'd woken without memory of falling asleep, when pale light peeked around the edges of the curtains. Not enough to be restful, she knew. Just enough to reinforce the sweeping fatigue that was plaguing her now.
They'd left Lawrence a few minutes after seven, heading west and then north, the early morning sunlight mercilessly showing up the lack of sleep on both their faces. Dean hadn't spoken at all. He'd come out of the room, thrown his gear into the pickup's tray and waited for her to check them out.
Since then, he'd kept his eyes fixed forward, watching the road, watching the traffic, ignoring the music she'd fed into the stereo, the shadows under his eyes like bruises. Stopping at Abilene to get gas and coffee sometime around nine, he'd pumped the gas, drunk his coffee and gotten back into the truck without even glancing at her.
She recognised his state of mind, recalling the way he'd been that night they'd waited in the dark for the demons. She thought Sam'd seen it a few times, over the years. Locked down, operating on autopilot, Dean wasn't registering anything that didn't have to do with his immediate task.
Neither of them handled their emotions particularly well, she thought with an inward sigh.
Closing her eyes and leaning back into the corner, she barely heard the solemn, spectral chords pouring from the speaker. She felt light-headed and empty, not entirely certain if she was sleeping or waking or something in between. Her thoughts tumbled aimlessly with the music.
Too many losses, she thought. Too many shocks, piling up on top of each other. In some senses, Dean'd been on lockdown for the last three years, their brief times together not long enough to make a difference in dealing with everything around them.
… don't reflect who we are, but only the place where we're at …
Where had she been, she asked herself? Desperate for a new base, trying to get herself oriented and protected against all comers, allowing her emotions to drive her. In retrospect and knowing her physical state, she could see how and why that need had been whipping at her so relentlessly. She'd set aside what he'd been going through in deference to those nesting instincts. But they'd been apart through difficult times before.
"When you and Jessica were living together, and you had a fight, how'd you get through it?"
The memory of that conversation with Sam drifted into her mind. He'd been mad at his brother, for the moods and the snappishness, had wanted to know why she put up with Dean's brooding.
"One of us usually calmed down quicker," he'd told her, brow wrinkling up. "And talked the other one out of it."
"He can't be calm right now. There's been too much. Too fast. But I can. And one of us has to."
Nothing had changed since then, she considered. If anything, the volume'd kept going up.
"Doesn't it hurt?" Sam had asked.
"It might, if I let it," she remembered telling him. She'd understood then, hadn't let those sometimes destructive mood swings impact her at all. "He's not doing any of this deliberately. He's in pain, and unrelieved pain can make even the mildest person savage."
Not the same, her argumentative side piped up. What he did, he did deliberately, not to hurt but to escape, not even thinking of what hurt might it cause. He wanted to be someone else. He didn't want you.
She could, she decided with a tired sigh, be thought of as crazy; all these internal debates on the one hand and the other hand and nothing coming out of them, ever. Wasn't it Einstein who'd defined insanity that way? Doing the same thing, over and over, and expecting a different outcome? Or something like that?
That boy's as sorry as he could be, you know.
Rubbing the heel of her hand against the slowly-developing ache in her temple, Ellie wondered if travelling in silence was any improvement over talking or having her feelings played by the music strumming her memories. It didn't seem like her thoughts were going to allow her any rest, whatever she tried. He was sorry, she knew that. Regretting what he'd done, wishing it hadn't happened. She wanted to know why what he'd had – what they'd had together – hadn't been more important to him before he'd broken it.
You cut him a pass when he spent years with that woman in Indiana.
Ellie twisted toward the passenger door, her face screwing up with the memory of Katherine's pointed comment.
She'd gone to Richmond, not long after the last of her storage units had been cleaned out and delivered to the house, needing to talk to someone. The older woman had manoeuvred her into the pantry on the pretext of needing more herbs. Katherine's expression had been harsh with worry, which should've set off some kind of alarm, but had somehow failed to – possibly, she considered, because she'd been too busy feeling sorry for herself at the time. Lost and confused; yeah, it'd been going around.
Seb had been down in the basement, poring over his latest shipment of rare books. The pantry'd smelled of drying herbs and cured meats, and the roasted spices Katherine used in her cooking.
He didn't know! She'd protested, not realising that somewhere down deep, that'd occurred to her as well, nested together with a free association of the hostile and wary face of the waitress in the little town in Pennsylvania. It hadn't bothered her then. Or maybe it had, and she'd ignored it.
He knew. Katherine's voice had been steel-edged. He might've been floundering around in his new life, but he knew you were alive, knew he could find you if he wanted to. Why is this any different?
It was different in every way possible, she'd argued then. Sam had been in Hell and the promise he'd extracted from his older brother had been the only thing Dean had left. She'd failed to turn up in time and she'd seen him in Cicero, and maybe he hadn't been happy, but she hadn't seen that, had only seen that he'd been smiling and relaxed. He'd believed it'd been her choice to leave and not return. A million differences.
Why are you taking his side? she'd asked Katherine, the back of her eyes aching with self-righteous anger. Don't I deserve better?
Oh, sweetheart, Katherine had shaken her head, her voice gentling. You know I'm not taking sides. You think you're the only person in the world to face this? That every couple doesn't go through the fire at some point or another?
We've been through more fires than most, she'd told her friend, staring at the floor stubbornly, wishing she'd been anywhere but there.
You have, and you've both come through them, closer and stronger –
You call this closer?
Yes. Katherine had radiated certainty and her doubts had multiplied exponentially. What wasn't she seeing? Now you know what he's capable of, and so does he. I doubt he'd ever lose control of himself like that again.
Is that what you think happened?
Katherine had shrugged.
When someone is drowning, they latch onto whatever's closest to keep them afloat, she'd pointed out. It very rarely makes any rational sense. I don't want to see you torn up like this, for the sake of something you know, in your heart, meant nothing. And as for what you deserve … you've been down this road before. If I thought, for even a moment, you would find someone else, someone you loved as much as I've seen your love for him, I wouldn't be saying this, you know I wouldn't. Can you stand to live like this? For how long?
She hadn't had any answers for the other woman, only the images that'd played on repeat in her head, each time gouging a little deeper.
He called here, Katherine'd continued, stepping close and laying a hand on her shoulder. Looking for you. I came away from that call with the impression he would've tried anything to find you.
The CD faded into silence and Ellie opened her eyes, reaching forward to turn it off and switching to the radio. Closing her eyes again as a Midwestern drawl gave the weather report, she curled into the corner and stopped fighting the need for sleep.
Colorado. 2.00 p.m.
Dean got off the 70 at Strasburg, taking SR 79 north to bypass Denver. He didn't want to deal with traffic or lights or anything that might slow him down. Thought and emotion had begun to seep back, loosening the rigidity of his muscles, leaving a generalised ache right through him and a growing awareness of a headache throbbing behind one eye.
Probably not the best way to deal with shit he didn't want to face, he thought, shooting a swift sideways glance at the passenger side of the pickup. Ellie was asleep again, curled up in the corner with her jacket draped around her.
I can't stand you so close.
He knew plenty about pain. All kinds of pain. There'd been times in his life when he'd felt practically constructed of it, and it'd been all that'd kept him moving. Rubbing a hand over his face, he narrowed his eyes at the road ahead. He didn't want to go through that kind again.
Loss of trust – betrayal of trust –was a fast track to despair and that was also something he knew about – had known all along – down to the marrow in his bones. What Sam'd done while he'd been in Hell, when his brother had chosen to believe a demon instead of him … that'd ripped him inside out with disbelief and eaten him alive with endless hurt. The shocking realisation he couldn't look at his brother, could hardly talk to him, because all he saw, over and over again, was that betrayal, had been just as bad in its own way, cauterising most of his feelings about family, about everything he'd once believed. He'd known if he didn't leave, try to find his own way, he would end up losing himself as well as the last of his family.
The loss had changed their relationship forever. He loved his brother, always would, but the trust that had been rebuilt slowly over the years since was not the same. Cas' betrayal had been marginally less desolating, but only in degree. After all they'd been through, he'd believed in the angel. Ellie'd been right. Cas wasn't human and it'd been his mistake to have human expectations of him. Lesson learned.
One person left in his life who he'd trusted with everything he was, almost. Just the one and instead of guarding and protecting her like he'd said he would, he let himself choose someone else. Choose to be someone else, he thought, someone who didn't know her. Didn't love her, didn't need or want her. The fucking magnitude of that lie to himself still had the power to devastate him.
Knuckling one brow, he knew it didn't matter the choice hadn't been deliberated over, hadn't been planned or thought about. It'd happened like a slow motion car wreck, one bad decision at a time, but that was no excuse.
I love you. You're the only person I've said that to, and there's a reason for that. You're the only one I've felt it for.
His hands tightened around the wheel. He'd told her that only a few months ago, had meant it with every fibre of his being, had needed her to believe it too, believe in him with all her heart and down to the depths of her soul. The fuck could she trust him again? The fuck would she ever want to?
"An' here's Tim McGraw with Red Rag Top," the radio dj drawled out, guitar twangy and lean spilling from the speakers. He leaned forward and turned the volume down.
I didn't want to be someone else. The thought slid in, an insinuating clue. I didn't want someone else.
I wanted to not be me. Not be a hunter. Not be Dean Winchester.
What he'd wanted, he suddenly realised, was to not exist, not for that moment, not for a while, maybe. Be someone else, sure. But not because he wanted to be anyone else. He frowned at the distinction he was making. Was there a difference? It felt like there was.
Well you do what you do and you pay for your sins,
And there's no such thing as what might've been,
That's a waste of time; drive you outta your mind
The lyrics seem to shout into the quiet of the cab, and he stared at the stereo for a long second before he reached out and snapped it off.
All the might've-beens were gone, no second chances, nothin' good comin' your way.
Ellie was right, he thought, hands tightening around the wheel in an unconscious stranglehold. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't be within a thousand miles of her, no matter what he needed or wanted or how much. He was making it harder for her. For both of them. He'd tried not to but he was doing it just by being around. They weren't friends any more, he realised, blinking rapidly at the road as his throat closed up. Couldn't possibly be friends any more, because that required just as much trust … it was the first necessary foundation … as loving each other.
Wyoming. 6.00 p.m.
Ellie slept until dusk. When consciousness began to seep back in, she kept her eyes closed, stretching out with her senses. It'd become a lifelong habit, one she couldn't easily shed, that assessing of environment, even a familiar one, when she woke naturally.
The pickup was still on a big road, she thought, hearing the regular rhythm of the tyres over the concrete seams. The radio'd been turned off and muted sounds of engine and tyres filled the small space, a bubble of noise that nothing else seemed to penetrate. The cab was faintly redolent with the aroma of coffee and the indefinable but unmistakable combination of scents of the man driving. She was comfortable and warm, and she didn't really want to wake up, but a rumble from her stomach reminded her that it'd been some hours since she last ate.
Opening her eyes, she turned her head, squinting against the fading sunset to focus on Dean. The soft light had painted his skin in shades and tints of mauve and gold, catching the glints of red and gold in his hair and the three-day stubble over his cheeks and along his jaw.
The rigidity, of posture and expression, had gone, she saw. His hands were relaxed on the wheel, guiding the vehicle with barely a touch. As if he felt her scrutiny, he turned to look at her, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other.
"Where are we?" she asked, turning away to look through the windshield. She wasn't sure what to make of his expression; the barely-there smile had seemed full of regret. Trick of the light? Or something else?
"Passed Douglas, uh, 'bout fifteen minutes ago. We're coming up on Casper."
In his voice, there was a shadow of that smile, she thought, something like sadness? It was a murky undertow beneath his conversational tone. The lack of tension in him made her wonder if he'd made some kind of decision.
"You hungry? We need to stop soon; tank's almost empty."
She nodded, pushing herself higher against the back of the seat and stifling a yawn. If something had happened, he'd let her know, she thought. In the meantime, she needed food and a bathroom.
"Starving."
Dean took the first exit to Casper and found a fill-up at the next intersection. They pulled in and when he got out to get the pump, Ellie unfolded herself from her corner, grabbed her bag and headed for the building's restroom. She felt tired and grimy, still groggy from sleeping so much, and not getting much respite out of all those hours.
When she came out, she saw Dean in the brightly-lit take-out restaurant next to the station's store. Her stomach rumbled again and she veered across the asphalt, pushing through the glass doors. He was leaning against the counter, apparently engaged in debating the pros and cons of the meatball sub with the young man serving.
"They're messy," the guy said, tall, thin and pale-skinned in the brightly-coloured franchise uniform. His hair, long and a lank, dark brown, was held back with a hairnet and a straggling goatee looked as if it was reluctant to grow. He pulled off the thin gloves he wore for serving and tossed them into a trash can. "Messy to make and hell messy to eat."
"Well, yeah, you're not going to have one if you're wearing a suit or about to go to a funeral, dude, but c'mon, the taste outweighs the mess by a hundred to one." Dean allowed, brows drawing together. "And what d'ya think these were invented for?"
He grabbed a handful of serviettes from the holder and waved them in the guy's face.
Walking up beside him, Ellie hid a smile at the attendant's affronted expression.
"Meatball and Italian sauce?"
The young man straightened, smiling at her. "Yeah, no accounting for taste."
"I'll have one too, thanks."
Rolling his eyes, his mouth turned down as he pulled another pair of gloves from the box. He was muttering to himself as he made up the second sandwich.
Dean grinned at her. "Good choice."
"Just had a craving." She leaned on the bench top beside him. "Do you want to keep going tonight?"
The grin disappeared and he gave an uncomfortable shrug, turning to study the cleaned grill behind the counter. "Uh, yeah. You know, I was thinking, maybe it'd be better if we split up here."
Like a sucker punch, the unexpectedness of the suggestion took the air from Ellie's lungs and turned everything upside down.
Split up? Now? Here? She felt as if she was being yanked in several different directions at once. Why was he doing this? Was this what he'd decided while she'd been sleeping? The reason for that undertow of regret?
Thought and emotion swept through her with dizzying speed, a tornado dropping out of a clear sky, disorienting and making her heart thud hard against her ribs. God, get a grip, you have to say something.
"Uh, I was just thinking, you know, we could grab a couple of rooms and get some sleep tonight, and I can, you know, get a car in the morning," he continued, edging closer. Ellie could hear a thread of concern in his voice now, could feel his gaze sharpening on her profile.
"It's just a day's drive and you, uh, could take it easy, you know, not on anyone's timetable."
Glancing away, she struggled to keep her expression neutral, to regain control over herself before he saw.
"Sure." The single word emerged and despite the way it'd rasped through her throat on the way out, she thought she'd sounded more-or-less normal. She forced a shrug with what she hoped appeared a casual indifference. "You, uh … yeah, that sounds fine."
Her throat hurt. No wonder he'd been relaxed when she'd woken. He'd had it all planned out, and that shouldn't've come as a surprise, she realised. After the previous twenty-four hours, she couldn't blame him.
"Yeah. Okay," he said. "Uh, good."
Lifting her head to hide the effort it took to draw in a deep breath, she studied the menu above the grill. Her throat and chest were on fire and she needed to get somewhere else, somewhere private where she could get several lungfuls of air.
"I – uh – thought it'd be easier, you know," Dean added a moment later, that undercurrent back in his voice. She couldn't look at him. She didn't want to see what he was feeling and she couldn't stand the thought of him seeing anything of what was churning and agitating inside her.
"Yeah, much easier," she said, swinging away from him. At the end of the counter, a revolving glass case caught her gaze and she headed for it. "Oh, hey, they've got, uh, dessert."
Travelling separately would be a good idea, she told herself. It might take her a couple of days to get home, the way sleep had been coming and going, but that was a small price to pay for not having to hide what she felt, every second.
"You want pie?" she asked, staring at the individual serves of several different kinds of dessert going round and round in the case.
"Pie? Uh, yeah, sure." She heard his steps, coming up behind her. "What kind they got?"
"Apple, blueberry or cherry." She would choke if she tried a piece of any of them, she thought. "And lemon meringue."
"Blueberry," he said, walking toward her. "You gonna have a piece?"
"Um, I'm not that hungry," she said, glancing at the fridge. A drink. She could definitely use a drink, she thought, walking over to it and staring sightlessly at the rows of soda, juice, energy drinks, flavoured milk, water, still and carbonated. She couldn't have the sort of drink she needed right now, she remembered.
"Two meatballs," the attendant said, putting the wrapped sandwiches on the counter. "Anything else?"
"Yeah, blueberry pie." Dean waved a hand at the glass case. "No, wait a sec – uh, lemon meringue."
Ellie extracted a bottle of juice from the fridge. "And this."
Putting the bottle on the counter, she dug around in the pack for her purse.
"I got it," Dean said, suddenly beside her.
Years of practice in short-circuiting reaction stopped her from visibly startling. She grabbed the sub and drink, and nodded somewhere in his direction before heading for the door.
He caught up to her at the pickup, putting his sub and pie on the driver's seat. "Uh, I'm gonna – I won't be long –"
"Sure," Ellie said, fiddling with her food. If they were going straight to a motel, she'd eat it there, she decided. In some kind of comfort. Or at least, where she could have a shower straight after. The goatee guy'd been right about the mess of a meatball sub. Despite the wrappings, the sandwich's aroma was leaking out, along with a small quantity of thick Italian sauce.
The driver's door clunked shut and she turned her head to watch him walk back across the lot.
She would prefer to finish the trip on her own. It would be easier, she told herself firmly. Easier to control her emotions. Easier to look after herself. Easier to avoid thinking about him, about them, about all the might've-beens that'd been invading her sleeping and waking hours in the last couple of days.
Dean looked around the liquor store, going to the fridge for a six pack and hesitating by the bottles of spirits on the way back to the checkout.
It was better this way, he thought, his gaze drifting over the various brands and types of whiskey displayed without registering them. He'd done enough damage, he didn't need to be here, adding to it.
The arguments that'd seemed simple while he'd been driving felt flat and empty. All he had to do was give up, this one last time. Walk away.
He picked up a bottle of Blue, brows drawing together at the price. Worth it, the voice in his head remarked sagely. Would go down easy and not kill you by morning. Not that there's enough booze in the world to make this seem any better, but what the hell, it's worth a try.
Turning for the checkout, he wondered what his brother was doing, alone at the cabin. Probably geeking out, making up files for jobs, enough to keep them busy for the next six months.
Like his reasons for leaving, the thought felt vacant and emotionless. He was doing the right thing, he reminded himself. Doing the only thing he could that might actually help her. Putting the beers and bottle on the counter, he dug in his back pocket for his wallet.
"Big night planned?" the woman behind the register asked, ringing them up.
"Uh, no." Dean looked at her as he set a couple of hundreds on the counter.
In her early thirties, he thought, she was attractive and she knew it. Glowing auburn hair barely showed dark roots, tousled artistically around an oval face. Her makeup was obvious but applied skilfully enough to make her light-green eyes and full mouth seem larger and brighter. She was healthily curved, her rack pushing out the pale green shirt and a warm olive-toned cleavage showing no tan lines. There was nothing wrong with her.
"No," he repeated, half under his breath. Not a big night. A quiet night. Alone.
"I like a man who knows the good stuff," she said, smiling at him and showing very white, even teeth against the wine-red lipstick. She picked up the cash and put it into the till.
"Uh huh." He took the change she gave him, nodding awkwardly as he picked up the beers and bottle. He didn't want a conversation and nothing about her stirred him, not even a passing curiosity.
"Have a good night," she said as he turned away.
"Uh, yeah, thanks," he muttered, tucking the bottle under his arm to push through the door.
He'd never in his life had a problem getting laid, some lucky and out-of-his-control combination of genetics and attitude that'd appealed to most of the female population, of any age. That ease with the opposite sex, when it was just about sex, had made him careless, he knew, not all the time, but sometimes, with the women he'd had. He'd told himself they were using him, same as he was using them, but that lie had never really stuck, not with most of them. In the dark, when there were no words, just touch, it was hard to hide from the need that leaked or spilled out.
It hadn't been until he'd met Cassie that he'd even thought about it, what he did and the effect on those he'd been with. She'd caught at him with her differences; beautiful, smart, articulate, opinionated, passionate about her life and her dreams … the opposite of most of the girls he'd gone out with and slept with and left behind.
He slowed his pace, glancing at the pickup next to the pumps. He could just make out Ellie sitting inside it, against the street lights behind the vehicle.
He'd thought he'd been in love with Cassie. Had thought he'd had his heart broken. Before he'd left Cape Girardeau, saying goodbye to her, he'd meant every word of what he'd said, about seeing her again. It'd been some time later he'd realised she'd been right. There was no future for them. He hadn't loved her and his heart hadn't been broken. Only his pride in opening up to someone and having who he was thrown back in his face.
She'd shown him one thing, he thought, walking around the rear of the pickup. She'd shown him a glimpse of what he really wanted, the sort of woman that could get under his skin and make him think, react, feel.
Pulling open the driver's door, he pushed his food across to the centre of the benchseat, tucking the whiskey bottle in between the six pack and the paper bags.
"You not eating?" he asked Ellie, seeing the bag unopened on her lap.
"Uh, no, I thought I'd wait until I got a room," she said, glancing down at the food. "More comfortable that way."
"Right," he said, turning the key and starting the engine. "I, uh, saw a place on the way in, didn't look bad."
"Anything's fine," she said, turning to look out the window.
There was a stiffness in her, he thought, as he eased the pickup out of the gas station. She hadn't reacted the way he'd thought she would. Turning right, he headed back toward the interstate. The motel had been a couple of streets before the on-ramp, he thought.
After Ohio, he'd kept his promise to himself, sticking to women who showed their interest instantly, were simple and straightforward and unlikely to make him feel even the slightest bit curious about them. He'd been doing fine that way. Not wanting what he couldn't have. Not needing anyone. Not hurting. Keeping it all to the physical release and the emotional release he needed but never shared.
He slid a sidelong glance at Ellie, the streetlights outlining her profile and turning her hair to flame as they passed under them.
Not even Cassie'd prepared him for the woman sitting beside him.
He looked back at the road, blinking when the street and traffic lights ahead kaleidoscoped suddenly, keeping a fixed, open stare on them until they returned to normal.
She hadn't tripped his radar, hadn't rung his alarms. He hadn't really thought she'd ever be interested … his early impressions, built over the first couple of years he'd known her came back in a tumbled mass. Intelligent and ruthlessly competent; he remembered watching her interrogate the demons, her knowledge as formidable as her skills. A sharp and bright memory of her, standing in her motel room door, hair damp and piled haphazardly on her head, wrapped only in a towel, telling him she was going on a date. The way she'd looked in Chicago, beaten up and wounded and still indomitable, staring down Uriel, telling Cas he needed to look harder at the orders he'd been given. That melting-hot summer in New York City, and he'd seen her differently again … beautiful and worldly, her confidence in herself like stainless steel armour, worn easily and impenetrable …
Hell, he thought, fingers twisting around the wheel, he'd figured he was out of his league the first time he'd pushed his way around Ellen's bar to talk to her, and back then, she'd never shown any signs of thinking of him as anything other than a hunter, an ally, a comrade in their battles against the dark. He hadn't guessed she was the one he'd been waiting for all those years; even when his emotions had been stirred, he'd tried hard not to look at them or think about them or her or what he might've wanted and had kept buried, even from himself.
"You must be running on fumes by now?"
He started at her voice, bringing him back to the present like a slap.
"Uh, yeah." Glancing left, he winced inwardly as he wondered if any of what he'd been thinking about had shown on his face. "S'been … a long trip."
He wasn't sure if that'd come out the way he'd meant it, her silence filling the cab for several long moments.
"I'm sorry I haven't helped with the driving," she said, her gaze cutting away again.
He turned his head to look at her carefully, surprised by the apology, belatedly realising his comment might've sounded like a rebuke.
It hadn't taken much to figure she wasn't in the best shape for a long-distance haul. He'd watched her drop off – once right in the middle of saying something, for fuck's sake – too many times in the last couple of days to want her behind the wheel and he knew, from personal experience, once that level of fatigue'd been reached, it was better to give in to it, catch the needed zzz's and let the body recharge without further pushing.
"That's – uh, that's okay. Ellie, that wasn't a – a complaint. I like driving."
He waited for a moment, wondering if she would offer an explanation. It could've been the dreams, he thought, sneaking another sideways glance at her. Keeping her up or waking her through the night, but they'd pulled longer stints of wakefulness together before without this kind of reaction, and he'd never seen her fall asleep, going out like a light, or sleeping so deeply, the way she'd been doing this trip.
The desire to press her on it was strong and he swallowed against it, forcing himself to forget it. In a short time, he'd be gone. They were talking, she was looking at him, listening to him, and he wanted to leave it that way between them. His brows drew together as he realised he still had a tiny bit of hope … maybe … for sometime in the future.
"You called Sam?" she asked, and he let out the breath he'd been holding. Hope hurt worse than giving up. He needed to work out a way to let go.
"No. Figured he'd have called me if he had a lead on something. I told him this would take a few days," he said, conscious he was talking too quickly, not sure why his stomach felt too small and filled with nervous knots all of a sudden.
He turned the corner, and the motel was ahead of them, the Vacancy sign glowing redly in the darkness. He wished he'd picked one further away.
The pickup bumped over the speed hump in the drive, and he headed across the asphalt parking for the brightly-lit office.
Ellie stared blankly through the windshield as Dean pulled up out the front. Her stomach was fluttering, her mouth dry.
Need food, she told herself, opening the door and getting out. That's all. Food, a hot shower, and a lot of sleep.
She followed Dean into the office, smiling mechanically at the middle-aged woman who stood behind the desk.
"Well, evening, travellers. I'm Madge. What can I do for you folks?"
"Two rooms," Dean said, reaching for his back pocket. "Thanks, uh, Madge."
"That be adjoining or separate?"
"Separate," he answered before Ellie could say anything. There was a traitorous prickle behind her eyes.
It definitely should not have felt like he was abandoning her, she thought, biting down on the inside of her lip to keep her face expressionless.
This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be left alone? Not have to deal with the way you feel, what you want?
She'd wondered a few times, over the years of knowing him, what it would take before he found it too hard, before he gave up. Now she knew, she thought. Pile on enough hurt and both of them would give up and turn away. It was kind of funny, in a very non-funny way, when she considered all those times she'd been afraid of pushing him, thinking he'd leave, not want to be forced into all those conversations, and all it'd taken was just telling him a lie.
"Room Nine for you, dear," Madge was saying, and Ellie looked up, reaching out automatically to take the proffered key, wondering if she'd missed anything significant. She looked down at the desk. The registration book was there, open and filled in already.
"It's a nice quiet room," the woman continued, smiling.
"Thank you."
"You're in Thirty." Madge turned to Dean, handing him his key. "Sorry they're not closer together; we had a party of ten come in just an hour ago and they've taken up the middle block."
"No problem," he said, pocketing his wallet and the key. "Thanks."
"Checkout's not till twelve," Madge said, gesturing toward the rooms expansively. "Clean towels are in the bathroom, and there's a full selection of beverages in each room. You two look like you've done a long day's drive."
"Yeah, we have," Dean said, turning for the door. "Guess we'll, uh, see you in the morning."
"You have a good night's sleep, dear. Sleep tight."
Ellie smiled at her and turned away. Dean held the door for her and she inhaled deeply as she stepped out into the night air, dizziness hitting her and forcing her eyes to close for a moment. That was just a lack of food, wasn't it? She wondered if she was close enough to the door to put out a hand and steady herself.
"Ellie?"
Opening her eyes quickly, she stared at him. He'd somehow managed to get out of the office and to the pickup before her, holding the passenger side door open. It had to be low blood sugar. That and the after-effects of being taken unawares by his decision. Her eyes were grainy and sore, prickling at the backs.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm good," she said, getting in. "It – um, low blood sugar, I think."
He gave her a dubious look as he closed the door and walked around the front of the truck, but didn't say anything when he got in. The engine rumbled into life and the truck tooled slowly across the lot, Dean parking precisely in the slot in front of her room.
Turning off the engine, he looked across at her. "I'll give you a hand–"
"No," she cut him off, shaking her head. "It's – uh – I got it."
Lifting her bag from the well at her feet, she pushed the door open and dropped to the ground, turning back to pick up her food and the bottle of juice.
Dean leaned across the seat, the truck's keys in his hand. "Here."
"Thanks."
If she didn't get into that room and close the door right now, he'd be watching her cry again, she thought, swinging around and closing the passenger door. Her emotions were rising, threatening to overwhelm her scant control as it was.
Behind her, the distinctive squeak of the driver's door opening and the clunk when it shut suggested she didn't have much time.
"Ellie," Dean said from behind her as she tried to push the room key into the lock. "I'm – this isn't – uh –"
The key chattered around the plate before it finally slid in and she ducked her head, closing her eyes briefly before turning to face him.
"No, that's – it's really fine. I understand," she said in a rush, her gaze flicking up to him and swinging back to the door. She twisted the key and pushed it open.
"You – you're right – this is – um – good – uh, yeah, better this way," she added, staring into the dark room, wishing he'd just leave and feeling her throat close up with that thought. "Well, goodnight."
"Yeah." His voice was flat. "'Bye."
She heard him walk away, the scrap and clank as he pulled his gear bag and duffel from the tray, and she stepped inside, closing the door before she hit the lights.
So much better this way. Better than feeling how they were together, better than wanting that and knowing she couldn't have it again. It was better that he'd made the call. She wasn't sure she could've, not any more.
She dropped her pack on the end of the queen-sized bed and put the food down on the small table. The smell of the sub was infiltrating the room, and she pulled it out of the bag, unwrapping it then putting it back on the table. It'd been his favourite, really, she thought, staring at it. She wondered if she'd bought it just for the familiarity of the smell. She couldn't face eating it.
Picking up the bottle of juice, she cracked the lid and swallowed half in several gulps. He'd wanted to go. I thought it'd be easier, he'd said, and didn't that say it all? It would be much easier for him.
The unfairness of the thought stopped her, and she put the bottle back on the table. Did you really think he might just find a way to fix things, she wondered? There'd been times, more than a few, over the past few days that it'd felt like something possible.
Moving to the bed, she undid the straps of her pack, pulling out her bathroom bag and a clean tee shirt.
Not possible, she thought, brows pinching together. Possible to regain trust – through what? Spending a couple of days together?
The salt canister fell onto the bed and she looked down at it, sighing as she picked it up and pulled off the lid.
I trusted you. I thought I knew you. I believed in you.
She had. But, she considered, moving slowly around the room and tipping the line of salt over the window ledges and threshold, she was also acutely conscious she hadn't trusted him completely. Hadn't known him completely or believed in him completely. He'd spent his entire life giving up what he'd wanted and needed for others.
You can't hold everything in a fixed position, she'd said to him once. Life isn't like that. Change is the way it all works.
The salt container fell onto the carpeted floor with a soft thump, spilling crystals in a sparkling mound as her eyes filled. Leaning against the wall, the desolation held in check for the last hour broke through and rose like a geyser.
What had changed in her? In him?
Dean walked along the path to the other block and climbed the stairs to his room, dropping the bags as he pulled out the room key. He'd thought she'd be glad to get rid of him, had thought it would be relief he'd see when he suggested splitting up, but whatever that'd been, it hadn't been relief. He stared at the door knob, brows pulling together as he tried to recall exactly what he'd seen.
She'd been … what? He couldn't quite define the way she'd kept moving away from him. Not deliberately, he thought. It hadn't looked especially deliberate, but he hadn't gotten a good look at her face, he realised. She'd been moving or looking at something else. Her voice'd sounded alright. He knew her tells. He was pretty sure he hadn't seen them.
He looked down at the key in his hand, pushing it into the lock and turning it. The door swung open and he picked up the bags in one hand and felt for the light switch.
Those reactions had set off the prickle at the back of his neck, he recalled, knocking the door shut with the bags and walking across the room to the bed. He'd tried to make the idea sound better – for both of them. He dropped the bags on the floor and carried his food, the six pack and bottle to the table, the smell of the meatball sandwich bringing a low groan from his stomach.
I can't stand you so close.
He was doing the right thing, he thought, unwrapping the sub and pushing the sodden paper to one side. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her more pain, and it wasn't getting easier to hold back, it'd been getting harder, the longer they'd been together.
The meatballs were still faintly warm as he bit into the end of the sandwich, chewing automatically.
She would've said something if she'd wanted him to stay. They had enough history, she would've known it would be okay to say something, if she wasn't good with the plan or whatever. He took another bite, barely tasting the filling.
Fuck, it'd been hard enough to say it. If she had – had wanted him to take her home – and she'd said that, could he have said no? But she hadn't. She'd agreed it was a good idea. Better to go their separate ways. Not pick at the scabs of wounds too close and recent.
The temperature in the room dropped and Dean startled, looking around when he saw his breath emerge in a white fog in front of him.
"What're you doin', Dean?"
Bobby materialised next to the table, his cap pulled down low over his brow.
"Hey, good to see you, Bobby," Dean said, putting down the sandwich as he felt the heat drain out of it.
"Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talkin' about."
"Alright." He looked at the ghost. "'Cept I got no fucking idea what you're talking about."
"You think it's a good idea to leave Ellie alone here?" Bobby growled, drifting across the room. "Didn't Missouri tell you to watch her back?"
He was beginning to feel at a distinct disadvantage, being seated as Bobby floated around him.
"Me being around is worse than her being on her own," he said, getting to his feet and picking out a bottle of beer from the pack. He knocked the top off and swivelled around to keep the hunter's spirit in view. "And she doesn't want me around, to watch her back or anything else."
"You feelin' sorry for yourself? That it?"
"What?" He stared at the ghost.
"Made yerself a big mess, and you can't figure out how to fix it, so you're going to give up? Walk away?" Bobby stopped on the other side of the table, pushing his cap back. "You've done some dumb things, boy, but this is gettin' close to the top of the pile."
"Hey!" Dean stared back at him. "I – she – goddamn it, I been trying my ass off for the last two days to work out what happened and why! I thought – it seemed like –" he broke off, slamming the bottle down on the table as he dropped his gaze.
Pulling in a deep breath, he looked back at Bobby. "Doesn't matter what I do. She doesn't want me near her."
"Yeah, it hurts. I get it. Doesn't make a good reason to throw in the towel," Bobby said, his tone moderating. "Look, it's important, Dean. You need to be around, look out for her."
"Am I talking in fucking Swahili here, Bobby? She hates me. Hates me anywhere near her." Staring at the old man, Dean shook his head. "The hell – you get a goddamned vision or something?"
"Not like that, son." The ghost turned away, fading to translucence for a moment. "She doesn't hate you, Dean, an' you're gunna have to trust me on this. I jes' know you need to watch out for her."
He fritzed out for a moment, reappearing with a muttered curse. Looking at Dean uncomfortably, he added, "I can't tell you why, s'not my place."
"Jesus," Dean said, dropping back into the chair and staring at the wall. "You and Missouri."
"Yeah." Bobby reached out to the table, closing his eyes. After a moment, Dean felt the formica and steel chilling under his arm and the ghost was more solid.
"You seen how it is with her, didn't ya?" Bobby said, his eyes opening and narrowing beneath the shadow of his cap. "Sleeping like the dead and dropping off and havin' dizzy spells? You think it's a safe bet she make it all the way home on her own?"
"C'mon, Bobby – it's Ellie we're talking about here. She can handle a few hours' drive, and she says she's fine."
"You believe that?"
No, Dean thought, brows knitting up in a scowl. Not for a fucking minute.
"No."
He got up again, pacing across the room. He'd seen her when she'd come out of the motel's office, eyes shut and swaying slightly. Low blood sugar, she'd said. Needing food. Rest.
"You know, she didn't have to come on this trip, even with me poking at her," Bobby pointed out. "She could'a just stayed in the house until I gave up."
Dean stopped moving, turning around to face the ghost. The idea had occurred to him, but he'd shoved it aside, not believing it. "You think she wanted to?"
"I don' know if the feeling was that definite, but I'd take a guess that on some level, she wasn't exactly averse to it." Bobby shrugged. "She loves you, Dean. Even now. That kind of feelin', it don't get squashed so easy."
Dean bowed his head, running his hand over his jaw. "That's not enough."
"You don't think so?"
Lifting his gaze, he met the spirit's. "She couldn't've been more plain about how she feels, Bobby."
"An' you never considered there might be somethin' other than bad feelin' causing that?" Bobby suggested, one brow rising. "I been watchin' you two. Mostly, all I could do. Considerin' everything, you were gettin' along alright."
Considering everything. Considering he'd destroyed her trust, killed their relationship then invaded her grieving privacy, forced her into his company for three straight days … was that everything? Considering all of that, it was a fucking miracle she was even talking to him.
"Bobby, I can't –" He looked around for the ghost and slowly registered the room was warming again. "Damn it."
Picking up the bottle, he gulped down a mouthful, taking the next pull more sedately when he realised the beer'd been nicely chilled. He glanced disinterestedly at the remains of the sub and wrapped it back up, tossing it into the trash can and swinging around to pace the length of the room.
Of course he'd fucking noticed how tired she'd been, he thought. He hadn't wanted her to take a shift behind the wheel because she'd been dropping out too quickly and easily.
Did that make it better he was leaving her to drive another nine or ten hours on her own? The voice in his head wondered in a snide tone.
He stopped in the middle of the room, bowing his head and huffing out an impatient exhale.
She wouldn't be going all out, he argued with himself. She'd stop for the night, maybe around Billings or Butte. She'd take it in manageable stages. She was a long way from being stupid.
And if she isn't thinking all that clearly, what with the tiredness and the emotions that've been right at the surface, most of the last few days? Or are you pretending now you didn't notice the way her eyelids have been red and puffy, the way she turned away most of the time, hiding her expressions, hunched up, you weren't the one holding her last night, wiping the tears off her face?
He'd thought – a lot of the time – that it'd been him, being there, helplessly watching her that'd caused most of her pain. He'd even considered the sleeping to be a defence mechanism, a way to get away from him in the confines of the truck.
Then there's always a chance, that irritating voice continued with relentless determination, she could run into a levi or a demon or just a garden-variety monster? She'd be fine, right? 'Cause she told you so. S'kinda funny that you were the one got all bent out of shape after that vampire job in New Orleans, worried an' all about her being on her own.
He walked to the edge of the bed and dropped onto it, looking down at the beer with a blink of surprise, lifting it and taking another slug.
Hadn't thought of it quite like that, he admitted to himself. He'd been thinking of how to make it easier – for both of them, the quickly added thought a touch defensive – to cut them loose from memory and emotion. There'd been times when it'd seemed just within reach, what they'd had, only just a little beyond arm's length and feeling his hope disappear after each of those times had been a torment straight out of Hell.
Looking at the bottle in his hand, he flinched internally at the prospect of going down to her room and telling her he'd changed his mind. Best case, she'd think he didn't think she could make it home under her own steam. Worst … she'd think he was trying to crowd her again, trying to change her mind, change her view. His breath gusted out in frustration. A simple 'Yeah, I'm worried about you, sue me' wasn't going to cut it.
He got to his feet, staring around the bland room in mute frustration. He'd felt the same way at Lisa's, stressed out of his head with how to protect Ben but not frighten him, not drag either of them into his life, not knowing if the best way to keep them safe was staying or going. Not wanting to go, but not knowing either if he wanted to stay.
Turning, he walked the length of the room again, staring at the floor. First Missouri, then Bobby, tellin' him he had to look out for Ellie, neither of them sayin' why. He couldn't work out if they'd seen something – or knew something. She wasn't injured. She didn't seem to be sick, exactly, either, he thought, remembering her appetite. He lifted the bottle, tipping it up and swallowing moodily.
How the fuck was he supposed to look out for her when no one would give him any goddamned answers?
Walking to the table, he put the beer on it with more force than necessary, ignoring the foam that rose. If she yelled at him, well, he'd been yelled at before; he could probably take a bit more.
He grabbed his key and coat before he could come up with any more reasons why this was a bad idea, yanking the room door open and stepping outside.
Nut up, he told himself as he went down the concrete flight of stairs, conscious his heart was galloping inside of his chest like an out of control racehorse. If she told him he could take his good intentions and stuff 'em where the sun don't shine, he thought he'd grab a car in the morning and follow her. Discreetly.
His mouth felt like Death Valley, he thought, trying to work some saliva up. Why'd he have to ask for separate rooms? He slowed his pace as he passed several brightly-lit and noisy rooms, wiping his hands on his jeans. Mouth's dry as a desert and palms were doing an impression of Niagara Falls, he thought sourly, stopping in front of Room Nine. Lifting his hand, he knocked lightly on the door.
She could be asleep already, he thought, when there was no response. A fast look at his watch made him wonder. It was only nine o'clock. But she'd been tired. They were both tired. Maybe he should do this in the morning.
Shuffling in place, Dean half-turned from the door, glancing back at the stairs. Would it be any easier then, he asked himself derisively? Wasn't like he was gonna get a lot of sleep with this hanging over his head. He knocked again, rapping firmly against the panel.
Through the wooden door, there was the sound of the chain being removed and he took a step back.
Ellie opened the door. The light was behind her, and her hair, loose in a glowing spill down her back, shadowed her face, but he read the tension in the hunched set of her shoulders, the too-casual tilt of her head. "What's wrong?"
For a moment, he froze, his mind hijacked simultaneously by the sight of her – her hair was loose when she slept; it smelled like summer and felt like silk, making him shiver when it slipped over him – and by the equally inappropriate and crowding thoughts of trying to explain both Bobby and Missouri insisting she needed help; his worry about her meeting something she couldn't deal with, his disbelief in her airy assertions about being fine.
An ill-timed bubble of laughter tickled the back of his throat and he swallowed against it, hard. The laughter morphed abruptly into a tightness that squeezed his airways, making it impossible to breathe. Dean ducked his head, glaring at the pavement and willing the mercurial fucking emotions to let him go.
"Uh, I –" he mumbled to his shoes, shoving aside memory and thought in an attempt to think of a single reason good enough she'd buy the change of plan.
Fuck it, just say something, anything, he thought, lifting his head and catching her gaze. He cleared his throat, relieved that at least his chest no longer felt like he was being held in a vice.
"I – well, I was thinking, about – uh – you know, and I – uh - changed my mind." Unconnected words tripped and stumbled out of his mouth and he shook his head, sucking in a shallow breath to start again.
"Uh, we should – I should – uh, I'll drive you home. I – Yeah, I – uh – need to pick up the Pacer, and I can get back to the cabin easier – and – uh – okay?"
Bracing himself internally, he waited for her response, wishing he could see her eyes clearly. Her shoulders dropped, the tension seeming to run out of her, and she sighed, nodding at him.
"Alright. Thanks – thank you."
The huskiness of her voice distracted him for a moment, then what she'd said infiltrated. Was she thanking him? He replayed her response to confirm it. For what? Not being as big a dick as he'd very nearly been? Had she been that worried about driving home alone?
"Okay, then." He tried to think of something else to say, something that might lead to a conversation, a conversation that might tell him what the fuck was going on. His mind was a blank. "Uh, good."
"You want to leave early?"
Early. He nodded. "Yeah. I guess. It'll take eight or nine hours."
"Meet you at six, then?"
Six.
The fuck was wrong with him, he wondered, he was having so much goddamned trouble comprehending every word?
"Yeah. Six."
For a long moment they stood there, neither speaking. Dean was conscious she was looking at him, waiting for him to say whatever it was he wanted to say and he wanted – very badly – to say something, ask her what she was feeling, what she'd been thinking, if she was alright, but the words'd dried up.
"Uh –" he tried again, looking around at the parking lot for any kind of inspiration. "Yeah. Okay."
Not fucking helpful.
"'Night," she said, taking a small step back from the door.
"Yeah, 'night," was the only response he could come up with. He watched her close the door, wheeling around and heading back for his room when he heard the lock click into place and the rattle of the chain.
Genius.