Dad's on a Hunting Trip...
Genre: Canon-verse Drabble?
Words: 310
Warnings: None
Summary: Before Dean goes to get Sam at Stanford
The vending machine rattled in response to Dean’s fist, which he pounded against the side in frustration. “Come on” he said, his eyes fixed on the little yellow bag of peanut butter M&Ms. The metal coils that cradled the candy remained defiantly still. Turning to lean his shoulder against the defective vending machine, Dean fished his cellphone out of his front jean pocket and flipped it open. No messages, no voicemails, no missed calls.
California is about a three-day drive from New Orleans if you didn’t dick around too much or rush like your ass was on fire. It had already been two weeks since dad left to check out that case of missing dudes on that west coast highway, ten days since Dean left him a voicemail that the job they had come here to work on together —that ended up a solo gig for him— was done. He should have heard something by now, received an order on where to head next so they could meet up. Maybe he was in trouble. Maybe he was hurt and needed help. Thumb slipping away from the speed dial number he had set to “Dad”, he flipped the phone closed and shoved it back into his pocket. That wasn’t true though, of course. Dad could handle himself; Dean knew that. He’s the best damn hunter in the world, no question that the man didn’t need his son worrying and calling him every hour like some hysterical chick.
Straightening up, the young hunter shot one last dirty look at the machine that stole his money, just in case it had changed its mind. It hadn’t, so he gave up on second breakfast—the first having been a leftover taco from the night before— and made his way back to his motel room to watch whatever came on after The Price is Right.
