Grief had a funny way of sneaking up on a person.
One moment, Dean was fine – coasting down an empty post-apocalyptic highway, a bullet hole in his leg and his new pal brooding up the shotgun seat – the next, he was struck by a sense of longing so intense it stole the very breath from his lungs.
Before he knew it, a single tear escaped from his eye. He attempted to wipe it away discreetly, but unfortunately his companion had already taken notice.
"You alright?" Daryl asked quietly.
"It's nothing," Dean said gruffly. He tugged at his nose with a forced casualness. "Don't worry about it."
Brow furrowed, Daryl gave a small nod and returned to his silent contemplation of the window. He'd angled his body away, like he was offering Dean a moment of privacy, not making a big deal out of it.
He was a good one, that Daryl. He knew when to leave things well enough alone. Some things were better left unspoken.
Several moments passed as they drove on in silence.
"It just feels like a part of me is missing, you know?" The words tumbled out of Dean in a quick rush. "It's never gonna be the same," he felt compelled to share.
"Life's a bitch," Daryl mumbled his agreement, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he stared out the window.
Dean released a long, shuddering sigh. "My Baby's gone, man. And the world just keeps on spinning. It ain't right." His mouth wobbled, and he paused for a moment to collect himself.
It was always the little things that reminded him – the scent of leather, the wind in his hair, the way the light hit the road just right. Whenever it happened, Dean would find himself plunged into a world of sorrow, feelings and memories he'd worked so hard to suppress clawing their way to the surface.
"You would've liked her," Dean sighed wistfully.
Daryl shot him a strange look, brow furrowing. "...Her?"
"She was so damn beautiful," Dean said, voice soft with reverence. He stared out at the road ahead, watching the world rush by in a blur of asphalt. The hum of the engine beneath him seemed hollow. "They just don't make 'em like that anymore. Well… I guess they don't make 'em at all."
His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "She had these – these curves, man… sleek, smooth… every time I put my hands on her, it was like magic. Real magic, not that witchy bullcrap. She fit me like a glove, you know? It was like we were made for each other. And the way she purred… God, you'd feel it in your bones."
By now, Daryl was looking downright confused. And was he… blushing?
"What?" Dean asked, frowning.
"Ain't Cas a guy?" Daryl asked hesitantly.
Dean blinked, momentarily thrown. "What? No, not Cas – Baby. My car."
For a moment, Daryl just stared, processing. Then, slowly, he nodded. "No, I get it." A shrug followed. "Had a bike like that once."
They spent the next few minutes in awkward silence, counting corpses on the side of the road. Finally, Dean glanced over, clearing his throat. "Why the hell'd you think I was talking about Cas?"
"Just figured. Way you've been going," Daryl mumbled, stealing a glance at Dean. After a beat, he glanced over again, almost shy, like he wasn't sure if he'd overstepped. "Ain't none of my business if you are."
Well, I'd be damned.
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of Dean's lips. "Well, you're not wrong," he said, oddly touched. "But hey, thanks for the, uh, understanding." He paused, waiting for the line of Daryl's shoulders to relax before flashing a crooked grin. "Ain't that big a deal, man. It's usually the angel thing people get hung up on."
"The what?" came the puzzled response.
Whatever witty retort Dean was building up to was cut short when a man leaped into the middle of the road, waving them down frantically. Instincts kicked in; Dean swerved sharply, the tires screeching in protest. Meanwhile, the guy quite literally capoeira'd himself out of harm's way, hair flipping like he was in a freaking L'Oreal commercial.
"What the fu–"
Suddenly, Daryl let out a strangled yell and yanked the wheel, wrenching it sharply to the side just as an explosion lit up the rearview mirror. The shockwave sent the car skidding off the road in a chaotic spin of metal and dirt.
Whoosh, went the airbags.
Not cool, went Dean's brain.
There was no time for a concussion, even if his ears were ringing like Cas was whispering sweet-nothings to him in unfiltered Enochian. Groaning, Dean fumbled for his seatbelt. Where the hell was Daryl?
Oh, already outside, yanking Dean's door open. "We need to move!" Daryl growled, his voice barely cutting through the high-pitched buzz in Dean's skull. He grabbed Dean's arm, pulling him out of the car. "Sonuvabitch's reloading."
"Wait," he grunted, making for the backseat. Only – his duffel bag was stuck. It somehow got wedged in tightly in the footrest, and no matter how hard Dean yanked and pulled at the damn thing, it didn't want to budge.
"Dean, leave it!" Daryl shouted, trying to pull him away from the car. Dean fought him off, growling in frustration as he wrestled with the bag.
With a final, exasperated grunt, Dean gave up on freeing the whole duffel. Instead, he fumbled to open it, yanking the zipper wide. His fingers managed to close around Dad's journal, but the compass – the very thing he needed to find Cas – slipped from his grasp just as Daryl's arms hooked under his armpits.
"No, wait!" Dean protested, but Daryl was already dragging him away from the car. "Let go, goddammit!"
The force of the second blast sent them both hurling through the air, intense heat scorching their skin. Dean hit the ground hard, face-first into the dirt, the impact driving the very breath from his lungs. Groaning, he held himself up on shaky arms. For several disorienting moments, the world spun around him, obscured by a haze of flames and smoke.
"You alright?" Daryl groaned, looking a little worse for wear himself.
"Peachy keen," Dean grunted, wincing as he rolled to his feet.
Coughing through the acrid smoke, Dean automatically checked himself over. His skin felt singed in places, but there was nothing torn or obviously broken. Nothing he couldn't handle later.
Wiping soot from his eyes, he stared at the burning wreckage in dismay. By some miracle he'd managed to keep hold of Dad's journal. Losing that, and the few precious family photos he'd kept tucked inside the worn leather cover… God, it would've killed him. The relief was bittersweet, however.
Dean had lost the compass. He'd lost the damn compass.
And shit, the hex bags, too. Oh well, guess they were doing this on hard mode after all.
Tucking Dad's journal into his jacket, Dean drew out his handgun. These bitches went and made this personal.
I'm getting that rocket launcher, Dean solemnly vowed.
No one came looking for them, but Dean and Daryl didn't stick around. As they moved through the dense woods, Dean glanced over at Daryl. "Did you get a good look at them?"
"Saw two assholes up on that bridge. At least one of 'em packing heavy." Daryl's clipped voice was all business in the front, side, and back. "There's gonna be a few more hiding out of sight, probably."
"We'll wait for sundown," Dean told him.
They circled back through the woods. Dean's leg hurt like a mother, but he pressed on, fueled by adrenaline and sheer spite. Neither one of them even thought about running away, but it was clear to both that they had to keep moving. Or, at least, put distance between them and the wreckage. Heavy artillery had a funny way of drawing out the dead.
Actually, Dean was sort of counting on that. Nothing like a few friendly reanimated corpses to flush out the campers from their hidey holes.
"Hear that?" Daryl frowned, holding up his hand.
The distinct crack of gunfire echoed through the woods, bouncing off the trees. It was impossible to tell where it had come from; Could be something, could be nothing. Those days, it was impossible to tell.
Something else rustled ahead. In an instant, Dean's gun was raised and pointed at the new arrival. Except that the figure that emerged from the underbrush wasn't one of the dead, and he probably wasn't one of the assholes who'd tried going all Waterloo on their asses. It was the guy who'd tried to warn them about it.
"Daryl," the man exclaimed breathlessly, blue eyes wide in surprise. With his greasy hair and unkempt beard, he looked like some kind of hobo Jesus. "You got out."
Seeing as Daryl wasn't going feral on the guy, Dean figured it was safe to lower his weapon. "Friend of yours?" he asked.
Daryl gave a noncommittal grunt. "You look like shit," he told the man.
Hobo Jesus glanced down at himself and sighed. "Yeah, it's been…" he hesitated, dragging a hand down his scruffy beard. Despite his earlier display of athleticism, Hobo Jesus wore the pinched, sunken-eyed look of someone who was in desperate need of a bed, a wash, and a decent meal. "I felt like I needed to get away for a while."
Dean shifted his weight off his injured leg. "Well, appreciate the warning, pal. We wouldn't be here if you hadn't turned up. We owe you one."
"You're welcome," Hobo Jesus said, the hint of a smile gracing his lips. He was a handsome fella underneath all that beard and gloom.
"How'd you know it was us?" Daryl wondered, eyes narrowing the usual amount.
Hobo Jesus glanced briefly at Daryl before his eyes dropped to the ground. "I didn't know it was you, Daryl. I just didn't want anyone to go out like that." He sighed, looking away dejectedly before turning to Dean. "I'm Jesus, by the way," he introduced himself like it didn't matter.
"Dean Winchester," he replied automatically. Then paused, blinking. "Hold up, your name's actually Jesus?"
Hobo Jesus – or just Jesus, apparently – managed a sad smile. "Paul Rovia, actually. But you can call me whatever you want. Doesn't really matter. Nothing feels like it matters anymore."
While Jesus stared at his feet, Dean shot a look at Daryl. "What the fuck?" he mouthed.
Similarly bewildered, Daryl spread his hands out and shrugged.
Dean rolled his eyes, suppressing a sigh. They didn't have time for this. Whatever existential crisis Jesus was evidently working through had to wait until they were out of the woods – literally. Dean cleared his throat. "So, what's the word?" He jerked his chin in the direction of the highway. "Anything interesting about the Mad Max extras?"
"Besides their rocket launcher?" Jesus almost managed a smile, but it quickly faded. "The Saviors set up chokepoints all around the Hilltop, just a few hours ago. I don't know what's got them all riled up."
Dean groaned. "Probably my little brother."
Jesus blinked. "Your little brother?"
Dean opened his mouth to explain, but Daryl beat him to it. "Yeah, they're riled up 'cause him and his lil' brother, they've been making little bitches outta them little bitches for weeks."
Jesus's eyes widened. "You're them?" he breathed. "We've been looking for you since…" He shook his head, and for the first time, a genuine smile lit up his face. "Maggie's been wanting to meet you."
Daryl stilled. "Is she okay?" he asked quietly.
Jesus hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Yes," he said, but his voice was tinged with uncertainty. "Well, she was. I haven't seen her since I…" He trailed off, turning away with a look of shame.
Dean raised his eyebrows. "Guessing Maggie's the Widow?" He noticed Daryl's entire body flinching at the question and frowned, shelving that information for later. "We were just on our way to this Hilltop of yours to look for my brother. Figured we might get lucky and also run into the wid–" he paused and corrected himself – "I mean, Maggie."
Nodding, Jesus said, "If Daryl vouches for you, Maggie will see you. I can tell you how to find her." He glanced around the woods, his frown deepening. "How many people do you have with you? Do you have enough ammo?"
"It's just me and my brother," Dean replied, rubbing his injured leg. "Oh, and Daryl's been great." He threw his new buddy a thumbs up.
Jesus' brow furrowed in disbelief. "Just the two of you?" He seemed skeptical, but he still asked, "Why?"
"Seemed like the right thing to do."
Jesus hesitated. "You've been killing Saviors because it's the right thing to do?"
"Hey, you know we didn't start this shit, right?" Dean grumbled, rubbing a hand down his face. "Saviors fucked with us, we fucked with them back. We were just passing through. Only reason we stuck around is 'cause my little brother's got a boner for justice." He sighed deeply, weariness weighing heavily on his bones. Maybe over the past few years, killing had become easier as life got harder. Dean probably wasn't any different from anyone else – just better at it.
Something rustled in the underbrush, and immediately all three were on high alert. The source of the noise turned out to be one of the dead, dragging its legless torso along the ground and hissing weakly. Sighing, Jesus picked up a long branch and, with a practiced swing, brought it down hard on the creature's head, flattening it against the ground.
"Fighting with the Saviors' isn't anyone's idea of a good time," Jesus said quietly. "I don't know if I want to fight anymore," he mused, staring at the soiled ground as if it might provide some answers.
Daryl and Dean glanced at one another.
"Well, if you change your mind," Dean said awkwardly. "Thanks again, man. For the, ah… assist."
It was time to go. Those Saviors were likely still holed up on the highway, waiting for their next hapless victim. The fact they hadn't come looking for them probably meant they assumed they'd gotten them along with the car. That suited Dean just fine. The sooner they dealt with this mess, the sooner they could get back on the road.
Before they left, however, Dean still needed to ask the question. "Just one last thing." He cleared his throat. "I've been looking for someone for a really long time. He's about yea high–" Dean gestured with his hand– "Dark hair, blue eyes, intense, kinda grumpy. Thinks trench coats are the height of fashion."
And because this sort of thing was always and always would be a long shot, Dean jokingly added, "And he's definitely not happy to see you – that's just the angel blade in his pocket."
Jesus went oddly still, the color draining from his face.
The little smile on Dean's face ebbed away. "Jesus," he said carefully, heart drumming in his chest. He took a step forward. "Do you know the person I'm talking about?"
"You're looking for Castiel," Jesus whispered.
Would you kindly leave a comment? xx