Anthology series of Dean helping people outside of hunting. I figure, criss-crossing the country for years on end, he'd have ample opportunity to do so and he'd never ignore someone in need.
The Impala's speakers vibrate as For Whom The Bell Tolls booms out, straining the 35-year-old sedan's audio system. Dean grips the steering wheel with two hands and drives, knuckles white, blistered palms digging into the cracked leather. He should stop, get a room, address the burns, take a shower, but he can't do that, needs to, has to-
-a distant howl, piercing shrieks, reeking of pain and terror-
-get away. For whom the bell tolls… Certainly not for him.
-utter blackness. She's in here, Dean can hear her crying out. They're in here too, he can smell them. Can't see a damn thing-
For whom the bell tolls… he read the book, because of this song. Popped into a Missoula library sometimes last year, decided he was in the mood of Hemingway, and made off with the familiar title right under Mrs. Bookman's nose. He'd liked it, found it… familiar; the uncertainty, the tenuousness of the fight, the failure, often even in winning. Like he said, familiar. He'd failed today. Yesterday, whatever. Failed so freaking bad, there isn't a wisp of triumph to hold onto.
- the stench is getting unbearable. Dean stops, breaths, and senses, the hairs on the nape of his neck prickling. He swings around and clicks on his flashlight, flamethrower at the ready-
His hands are shaking. They're not supposed to do that. Dean adjusts his grasp on the wheel and tries to keep from screaming, though he has no idea who for. He can pull over and howl if he wants, take out his frustration on Baby's frosted windows, headbutt a tree, hurl invectives at the sky, at whatever, or whoever is up there. No one will be any the wiser. But those kinda theatrics ain't his style. That crap would mean acknowledging, remembering, thinking about... This – hurtling along a backroad at 81 mph with the windows down while snow swirls and Metallica blasts- this is more his speed.
The track ends and Dean is forced to sit in heavy, earsplitting silence, only for it to be replaced by the devastating opening riff to Fade to Black. Not this, anything but this, not now, nope. Dean freezes despite himself, heat and pressure building in his eyes, before springing into action. He single-handedly ejects the cassette, flings it in the general vicinity of the backseat, and replaces it with Master of Puppets, as the car zigzags across the deserted road. He skips straight to the titular song and raises the volume as high as it'll go. That's better. Loud, angry, calming. His hot breath billows around him as he regains control of both the car and himself.
-One down, one to go. He's gotta find her. She's not crying anymore, why isn't she crying? Why isn't she… No, don't go there. "I barbecued your buddy here!" Dean yells with the audacity he reserves for the times he feels none. He wonders if it understands him at all. "Coming for you next!"-
His hands no longer hurt. Can't feel them, can't feel much of anything. There were slashes too, with the first one, Dean doesn't remember where. The snow keeps falling, drifting into the car, dusting the left half of his jacket.
-He rounds the bend to yet another passage in this filthy, godforsaken, labyrinthine cave, and there it is. It's… It's holding something in its rotting arm. Her. It's holding her, why the hell is it doing that? It's not supposed to take children, not supposed to hold them - what the actual…- it's not supposed to understand the concept of human shields-
-Bare, creeping aspen branches, glistening asphalt, cracked, faded road lines, all blurring-
-It turns. Dean takes in her face, hanging, her limp, thin body, her tiny fingers… It's all wrong. She can't- She was just wailing, just… It can't- But he's gotta deal with it before he can deal with her. It'll be on him in a few seconds. Dean makes the decision to light it up. Thing about wendigos is that they're incredibly flammable, so he's gotta move it before she's engulfed too. The flamethrower hits the ground with a clank and Dean leaps forward-
-Hammett's solo. He speeds up, grinning hideously-
-It's still clutching her, even as it goes up in flames. His hands are burning, her hair is burning, the wendigo's burning. Everything stinks. "You son of a bitch," he mutters, ripping her out of its grasp with enough force to land him on his ass. Panting, he lays her down. "C'mon, c'mon…" No pulse, no freaking pulse. Dean starts CPR-
-Is he still in Minnesota-
-"C'mon. C'mon, sweetheart, c'mon. Come back…" Phoebe, her name's Phoebe. "C'mon, Phoebe, just breathe, okay?" She's been missing for a week. "Please. C'mon, Phoebe, you gotta… You gotta breathe." She's three years old. He's breaking her ribs. The wendigo is smoldering three feet to his left. Her fuzzy pink jacket is singed. "Come on, baby, you gotta… you gotta… just… Please. Please." Maybe if he had a defibrillator… But there's no defibrillator, it's just him, a dead monster, and a little girl, in a cave eight miles from anything. "Come on, dammit!"-
Someone's laughing maniacally; Dean looks around and it stops. He's gotta get a grip. Maybe a change of game plan is in order. Maybe he's gotta switch to Plan B, maybe Plan B should've been Plan A all along. Where the hell is he anyway? Might be a while before he reaches civilization, before he can put Plan B into action. B for booze. 'A' works too. Heh. Would 'C' work? Sure, cooler. Dutch courage. Ethanol. Firewater. Grog. Hooch. I… Inebriant. He could do this all night. J…
Dad would… Well, he would and wouldn't get it. He's a rock. Been about a decade since a hunt threw him, since he talked about anything in that way he used to. And Sam… never mind him being incommunicado, Sam wouldn't get it either. If he was around, he'd hone in on the burns and cuts, use them as further fodder for his anti-hunting crusade. Another lecture about getting out of the life, about doing something normal, about quitting before it kills him. Nights like these, even Dean thinks about it, but not because of a few scrapes and scratches or the constant risk of death, those are occupational hazards, ones he's been aware of since he was six and Dad arrived home with a gash the length of his Ka-Bar across his chest. No, it's this other crap that'll get him, destroy him in the end. It's the scorched hair and the bloodless skin and the colossal weight of a dead child in his arms that'll do him in.
Bobby would get it. Bobby'd listen in silence and pour him a drink, because if you truly get it, you know there's nothing else to be done, but Dean couldn't stand the thought of Bobby's sympathetic eyes boring a hole through him right now. Distraction, not dissection.
Onward, it is then, towards the potable, the quencher, the rye, the spirit… With a destination in mind, Dean's calmer. It's past one and two is the legal 'last call' in Minnesota, far as he can remember (and he is still well in Minnesota, he suspects he's been driving in circles for a while), but that ain't much of a problem. The places he frequents aren't too concerned with the law, in fact, there's a roadhouse just outside of Fargo that's perfect for his needs. Rough, biker-ish. Nice night for a fight. All he needs to do is get off this back road.
He lowers the volume and speed and cranks his window up. Barely a minute later, he passes a woman on the shoulder. For a moment, Dean thinks he imagined her - he hasn't passed a car in damn near an hour – but he reminds himself that hallucinations have never been his flavor of crazy. He continues driving for a few seconds, wondering what kinda entity she might be before he screws his head back on straight; ghosts and spirits don't generally wear parkas. That's when he hits the brakes and executes a wild U-turn. Cruising slowly, the frigid February winds chilling him to the bone, Dean scans the tree line, finally spotting her further back from the road, a green Chevette half hidden in the shadows behind her. You don't see one of those every day. She stares him down apprehensively, her hands jammed in her pockets. Dean doesn't blame her.
"Hey. Can I help?" He tries his damnest to sound harmless. After a lifetime of trying to master threatening, though, he's unsure of his success. And he's got no idea what he looks like, hasn't chanced a glance since… well, since. And to top it off, his voice sounds weird, not that she'd know, with no baseline. She doesn't answer right away and Dean realizes Metallica is still playing. That certainly doesn't contribute to the Mr. Nice Guy image he's trying to cultivate, but then, neither does his leather jacket and ringed finger and slightly imposing vehicle. Oh yeah, and it's in middle of the night. Thank God he hasn't had anything to drink. Dean shuts the music off just before she takes a step in his direction.
"You got a working cellphone?" Strong Minnesotan accent.
Dean rummages through his pocket and retrieves his phone. "No signal. Sorry. We're pretty far out."
She nods once, glances down the road, as if waiting for a nice, homely, grandma to come moseying along and bail her out. Dean gives her a minute. Kinda wishes he could just hand her a gun, give her the means to protect herself from evil old him. He'd estimate her to be in her mid-30s, no more than 120 pounds soaking wet, and that's with her oversized parka thrown into the deal. Least I ain't sporting a mustache, Dean thinks.
"Car die on you?"
She nods again, still maintaining that five yard distance.
"Is it alright if I check it out?"
"Are you a mechanic?"
"No, not really. But I'm good with cars."
She takes a step back, gives him another once-over. "It's okay. Don't want to trouble you."
Dean rubs his eyes and sighs. "Please, just let me, alright? It could just be an air filter, or the battery, maybe I can fix it on the spot."
She perks up at that, and nods, shivering slightly. Dean finally gets out of the car, trying to ignore it when she backs away to stand beside the rear doors, hands still stuck in her pockets. Her right arm jerks and it occurs to him she might have something hidden away there. He truly feels for her. What an awful position to be in. Once the hood is popped, though, Dean puts her out of his mind, assessing. Alternator, good. Carburetor, fine. Filter, just okay. Belts in fair condition. It's not the battery either. Probably a fuel problem, not something he can fix here. A flash of movement from within the car puts him on alert as he closes the hood. He squints and finds a little face staring back at him. Oh. So it's not just a woman he's dealing with, it's a mama bear. Well, mama deer, more accurately.
She's positively glaring at him now.
"I don't see the problem. Whatever it is, it ain't an easy fix." Dean elects not to mention the kid for now.
She nods, glances down, glances into the car's backseat. "You can move along now."
"Come on, I can give you a ride."
Her eyes don't leave his. "I'll wait for morning. Thanks."
"Look, this is just, it's… it's freezing out here, ma'am. Come on. You can't stay out here with the kid."
She wavers, stares off into the trees, more fidgeting.
Dean takes a step back. "Look, if I… If I wanted to hurt you… I…" He doesn't need to go on. Their positions are obvious. He has her by nearly a foot and a good sixty pounds, never mind muscle mass and the deadly arsenal in his trunk. "We gotta be near some city… uh," he searches his mind, trying to conjure up the map he's got stashed in the glove compartment.
"Grand Rapids," She provides. "We're about a half hour out."
"There you go. How about it?"
She's not there yet. Man… something must have happened to make her this cautious. Alternatively, he's just that shifty looking. "You know what?" Dean ventures, making up his mind on an idea that's been percolating. "Here you go." He places his keys on the hood of her car, figuring she'll be hesitant to accept them from his hand. "I'll stay here, look after this hunk of junk, and you can take my car and get the kid somewhere warm. Alright?"
He's pretty sure his baby'll be fine with her; she doesn't seem the car-napping type. He'll be cold and miserable but there's a certain appeal to that; it'd be a fitting end to this hellish day, a deserving one too. Besides, the half a bottle of Jameson in his duffel should make the night tolerable. Least the kid and woman won't be freezing their limbs off, borderline hypothermic. That alone is worth the trouble. God, if he can… It'll never make up for it. It'll never put things right, but this kid's someone he can actually help, and damned if he ain't gonna do everything in his power. There's something familiar about the woman too, some despair, some hidden worry… She seems at the end of her rope and he truly just wants to help her.
Dean can tell she's thrown by the offer, could tell they've turned a corner. Sure enough, a second later, her hands emerge from her pockets, and she brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Okay. It's… I'll accept a ride, okay? It's just… I gotta be in Rochester by noon tomorrow." She sighs, glancing at her car. "Are you sure it's not the battery?"
"Pretty sure. We can try a boost, if you want, but…"
"Please?"
They try the boost. No dice. She sags, looks bone-tired.
"Hey, y'know, I can try to tow it. Save you a couple of hours tomorrow…" It certainly isn't ideal, but Dean thinks it's doable. He knows the Impala's limits, he's pretty sure she can handle the load for a little while.
She nods and they get to work attaching the chain. No longer determined to keep her distance, Dean finally gets a good look at her, even learns her name and all. First Regina he's ever known. The boy, sporting the yellow windbreaker that caught his attention, emerges to watch the process. Dean doesn't have it in him to muster more than a grim smile. And then things just go from bad to worse. When they're ready to roll, he meets a third member of the family; a little girl, dozing, wearing a frickin' pink coat, of all things. One of those puffer stuff. Karma is well and truly a bitch. Does every girl in northern Minnesota own a pink coat? Dean swallows down the bile, watching Regina carry her to his backseat. She's got no idea. No idea that just five hours ago, there was a dead baby, much like her own, lying right there. This night needs to end.
They're underway for five minutes before he realizes that the heat is off. Must've been off his entire joyride, or, well… the opposite of that. He cranks it up and watches as the kid instantly falls asleep against his sister. The going is slow, with an extra ton or two straining his engine, and Dean can't keep his eyes off the rear-view mirror. He notices Regina watching him and feels the need to explain himself.
"I like kids," he says with a modest laugh. Then he realizes what that might sound like to a hyper-vigilant woman. God, is there anything he's allowed to say? "I mean… y'know. Not…" And… he's just making it worse. He has a tendency to do that.
Dean's not all that great with people. Sure, one-on-one with a hot chick, or a middle-aged waitress, or any waitress, for that matter, he can turn up the charm, but that stuff barely counts. Waitresses, by definition, are easy to talk to, and the women he approaches tend to be the friendly, laid-back sort. When he's masquerading as a fed, a repairman, a crackpot conspiracy theorist, sure, he can chat up just about anyone, but when it's just him, no badge, no uniform, no front of any kind, things have a way of getting awkward. He'll put his foot in his mouth, commit an unforgivable social faux pas, crack an ill-timed joke, or say something just plain weird. It's worst in crowds, with guys his age, and professional types. Rich people in general are… difficult; Dean has no idea what makes them tick. The only people who take to him with zero effort are crotchety, grizzled dudes who aren't in the habit of showing it.
"It's…" Dean sputters on, never quite knowing when to give up. He just can't stand leaving it at that. "I looked after my brother a lot, growing up."
Regina doesn't exactly soften, but she gets closer to a smile than she has since he met her. They make it to a more central road after twenty minutes of slow going and he grins at her obvious relief being back in civilization.
"So what's in Rochester?"
She responds with her head resting against the window, staring listlessly at the passing cars. "The Mayo clinic."
Oh. Oh. "You, or, uh…"
"Nathan. Lymphoma." She doesn't look back, but the way she says the name leaves no doubt as to who Nathan is. God, no wonder she's a mess. Sick kid. That's just… fantastic. Dean glances at the mirror again. Poor kid. Poor mom. Poor sister. Serious illness is one of the few things he's not familiar with. Dad's got high blood pressure and Caleb's got Type 1 diabetes; that's about as close as he's gotten to disease. Caleb's got it all figured out, has a meticulous system for hunting, and Dad… well, what middle-aged guy doesn't have high blood pressure? Dean imagines for a second what it would be like if Sam had cancer.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"Yeah…" she mutters. "You want to know the strangest thing… besides for my boss, you're the only person I've told."
"You serious?"
"As a heart attack. Pete Borgeson, the kid I used to babysit, and you, a baby-faced, leather-wearing hooligan. For all I know, you could be an axe murderer, and I'm putting my life in your hands."
Her voice wavers dangerously. "Come on… this face, a hatchet man?" Dean jokes.
She laughs, a little too violently, and doesn't stop. Dean chuckles along, hoping her crying laughter doesn't turn into just plain crying. Wasn't too long ago he was right where she is, he knows how thin that line can get. Luckily, she's got enough grace to stop when the tide shifts, wiping her eyes with a cough. Shortly after, Dean spots a decent motel and pulls into the lot.
"I can get a room," he offers, sensing Regina's hesitancy at leaving him alone with the kids. She quickly digs into her bag in search of money, but Dean shoots her down. The feebleness of her protest tells him all he needs to know. He sensed something familiar about her minutes after meeting her and every new piece of information gleaned reinforces that understanding. She's clearly a single mom, and she's struggling, isolated, and strapped for cash… Dean has been there, both as the child and as the adult in the equation. She's the kinda person people look down their nose at for not having their act together, not understanding that circumstances differ, that some people are dealt a crap hand, that luck doesn't mean winning the lottery, it means growing up with two parents, it mean a roof over your head and a full stomach, it means a safety net when things go pear-shaped. While things have improved for him, with the various scams and hustles, Dean hasn't and will never forget what it's like being desperate.
He returns with the room key and helps her move her stuff and she even trusts him to carry Nathan. Dean deposits the kid on the queen bed and makes himself scarce, leaning against the Impala and yawning. What a night. And yet… he hasn't thought about the- about Phoebe in over an hour. He can't stop, she's still there, waiting for him, whenever he pauses. He needs to keep going. Dean stares at the Chevette thoughtfully.
Regina emerges from room 21 and approaches him, sans parka this time, just jeans and an oversized sweater. She hugs her shoulders against the cold. It's snowing again. "I need to thank you. I know I've been less than-"
"It's alright. I get it."
She nods and turns to go back in. She's too serious for Dean's liking, but then, who the hell isn't serious when their kid has cancer? "Hey, uh… I think I know what's wrong with the car. Like to take a run at it, if you'll let me."
"Do you know what you're doing?"
"I've got experience with Chevys," Dean smiles, patting the hood to his right.
"Okay. Okay, I'll get the keys."
It's a hectic few hours. Dean hauls the Chevette a ways off to work on it. Seems like he's gotta take apart half the car to reach that fuel pump, which, as he suspected, is shot. Since his trunk is only so big and he doesn't keep spare fuel pumps between the machetes and the silver arrows, he's gotta locate an auto shop, break in, and swipe a replacement, which he does, as well as a couple of essential tools. Dean leaves a fifty behind to deflate the cost, it being a mom-and-pop shop and all. He'll return the implements tomorrow.
By the time he finishes, the sky's a mess of blues and oranges, his face and hands are sweaty and grease-stained, every joint and muscle in his body aches, and the Chevette's engine starts with a glorious growl. Dean takes her for a short spin, filling up her tank and picking up breakfast for five. He hasn't eaten in fourteen hours. Regina's huddled beside the Impala when he returns, picking at her scarf, probably worrying if she'll ever see him or her car again... If she'd been aware that his car is his home, job, and most trusted friend all rolled into one, she'd have no reason to fear him trading in his classic beauty for her 16-year-old jalopy. He pulls up alongside and gets out with a genuine grin.
"She's good to go," Dean proclaims, patting the hatchback's roof fondly. She's a piece of crap, but he likes her anyway. Cars are awesome. There's something about them, old ones, in particular, that appeals to him; their solidity, their smell, their jumbled, corroded hearts… "Filled her up too, so you can hit the road right away. And…" Dean reaches into the passenger seat, retrieving the bag from Cecilia's, a delightful, homey diner, with an equally delightful patroness. "…Breakfast! Mmm? Just gotta take what's mine, hang on…"
He's too busy digging out his bacon and eggs and coffee and pancakes and steak-and-cheese sandwich and double helping of strawberry cream pie, which, incidentally, sounds awesome, to notice Regina tearing up. By the time he looks over, she's got a hand over her mouth, her eyes are screwed up, and she's trembling, staring in the general direction of his boots.
"Oh… I didn't…" Crap. He's no good at this. Maybe he can just skedaddle… "It's alright, really. Not a big deal. C'mon…"
She shakes her head, whatever that means, and Dean risks a hand on her shoulder which he quickly removes due to sheer awkwardness. If she was a different sort of woman he'd hug her or something, but she ain't the kinda gal who'd appreciate a gesture like that, so he does his part by standing there clumsily, looking at anything but her until she can pull it together.
"I'm sorry," are her first words, when that happens. "It's… It's been a rough few weeks."
"We've all had those," Dean smiles, relieved it's over. "Don't sweat it."
"You have no idea how much this means to me." Her gray eyes are way too trusting when they meet his. Where's that taciturn, cautious woman of the early morning hours? He wants her back. "I wish I could do more than just thank you."
Dean feels the familiar heat in his face, the one that has him biting his lip and avoiding eye contact. "It's.. don't worry about it." He presses the food into her hands, just to have something to do. He's no stranger to thanks, in the business he's in, but he's never quite gotten used to it and her gratitude, in particular, he finds stifling and saddening. He didn't do anything, just fixed her freaking car. Not like he cured her child. The kid's still sick and Phoebe's still dead and a fuel pump installation doesn't change any of that. He's gotta get outta here before he says something he regrets.
She seems to sense his mood because she honest-to-god smiles. "Sorry I called you a thug."
"Did you?" Dean chuckles, shifting.
"More or less."
"You gonna make it in time?"
She checks her watch, suppressing a yawn. "If I hurry, yeah, I should. Gotta wake the kids."
"There's coffee in there, if you need it."
"Of course there is," she mutters, looking down. Dean's kicking himself for doing that to her again until she looks back at him with dry eyes. "I'd love to shake your mom's hand."
So would I, he almost says. Instead he smiles again; a little strained, but passable, he thinks. There are worse things, far worse things, than losing a parent, Dean's learned. The image of Phoebe's parents will haunt him forever; the mom's face shattering, the dad's silent despair… Life is hideously unfair. "I gotta go," he mumbles, making for the safety of the Impala. "Good luck, y'know… I hope the kid's okay."
Regina nods and heads for the room and Dean suddenly remembers a question he wanted to ask. "Hey, did you have something in your pocket last night?"
She smiles sheepishly, and pulls a five inch Phillips screwdriver out of said pocket. Dean frowns at the ineffectiveness of the tool; self-defense is no joke, especially to a woman. She was legitimately scared of him last night. He'd wager she's had experience with aggressive men. "Hang on…" He sifts through his trunk, grateful that the car is parked at an angle not allowing her a line of sight.
"Here you go. Pepper spray and taser. Both standard police-issue." Pepper spray is oddly effective at slowing chupacabras and the taser he sorta picked up along the way. Never used it, but he figured it might come in handy. It's nothing Regina couldn't find on her own, but she's stressed and strapped for time and cash. And overwhelmed, staring at the weapons. "I can't…"
"Look, say the word and you got yourself a real gun."
"What? No, I don't want-" But she stops in middle of protesting to seriously consider his offer. It's tempting, Dean can tell, and he wonders briefly if there's a dad in the mix, if it'd be better if there wasn't. He finds a scrap of paper while she weighs her options. "No, I can't. The kids…"
"I get it."
He shows her how to operate the taser and hands her his Other Cell number and escapes to his baby before he's gotta listen to any more thanks. His hands are burning again. Dean's got no idea if that's good or bad. Feels good. His side stings too; guess he knows where he was slashed now. He needs a place to crash but this motel is too close for comfort. There was a lodge near Cecilia's, something to do with an animal; he'll head there. In the meantime, Phoebe's back, slipping out of his not-quite-shut memory hole to roam free. Gonna be a while before he can bury her. Dean glances at the rear-view mirror for the thousandth time tonight/yesterday/today/who cares, half-expecting to see a pint-sized ghost shooting daggers at him. Almost disappointing, finding the back seat empty... He needs another case, one without a child. Needs to eat, needs to sleep, needs a shower, needs to disinfect his wounds, needs that boy to be okay. Needs a do-over of the last 24 hours.
The Moosehead looms to his right. Dean zips by it, switching his music on instead. Disposable Heroes. Perfect.
He raises the volume, shuts off the heat, opens his window, and drives.
A/N: I think something that gets lost in the drama of the show is just how incredibly good people the boys are. We analyze their every word and action, we nitpick and dissect their faults, but there's nothing they wouldn't do to help another person. They're not prejudiced, they're not political, they're just two, old-school guys who are there for people on their worst day, never asking for acknowledgement or thanks, and doing all this after unimaginable horror and loss. Just wanted to get that off my chest.
Oh, and another thing. Watching the first couple of seasons and hearing Dean talk about how tired he is, how the job gets to him, how he's barely holding it together, hurts. A lot. Anyway... thanks for reading. Comments are always appreciated :D