summary: Sam's worry for his brother overflows, and he begs Jim to do something.
Ao3
part 1 | part 2 | part 3
“He’s up there puking!”
Jim’s head jerked up from his sermon prep at the irate voice of the younger Winchester as he came barreling down the stairs.
“What?”
“Dean!”
Sam skidded to a halt in front of the pastor’s arm chair, his eyes desperate, his arms crossed over his chest. “He’s throwing up his dinner.”
“Did you see him?”
“No, but I heard him! Please, Jim, I wouldn’t–” The teen’s voice caught, his eyes filling a little. “I’m not trying to get him in trouble.”
The Guardian exhaled slowly, setting aside his Bible and notebook and removing his glasses. “I know, my boy.”
There was a long moment of silence. Sam’s dark eyes were pleading with him even as he studied the carpet.
“Please,” the boy whispered at last. “You have to do something.”
“I know, Samuel,” Jim replied softly. “I just want to do the right thing. Your brother… he’s a tough one. And this isn’t the first time.”
“What do you mean? I’ve never seen him–”
“We shielded you from it,” he sighed. “And he’s never been quite so bad about eating. Not here, at least. But when it comes to talking…” A sad little laugh escaped from his lips. “When I met your brother, I wondered if he’d ever say more than two words at once.”
“But he was a little kid then!” Sam protested. “Adults don’t just stop talking!”
“Adults that have been through the kind of trauma your brother has do,” he replied evenly. “And there’s been plenty of other times. We usually send one of you here, or send him to be with Caleb or Mac or Bobby. I know it’s hard to see him like this. But sometimes you just have to give him time and space.”
“But he can’t survive without food!” the boy argued desperately. “What if he’s just… trying the long game here?”
“You mean a slower route to suicide?”
“Yes.”
Jim pursed his lips carefully. “I really don’t think it’s like that. I think he’s just… well, he’s depressed. It can be hard to stomach food when you’re feeling as awful as he is.”
“Yeah, well, he could still kill himself,” Sam mumbled, his voice thick with restrained tears. “Whether that’s his goal or not.”
The pastor studied the boy carefully for a long moment before motioning him over with a small inclination of his head.
Sam’s shoulders slumped, his gaze dropping to the carpet, but he obediently closed to distance between them, sinking down on the thick arm of the chair Jim was seated in.
Jim reached up to take one of his hands in both of his own, squeezing a little. “I know all of this is scary, Samuel,” he said gently. “Your brother’s in a lot of pain right now, and I know you just want someone to fix it. The problem is, no one can. This kind of pain just doesn’t work like that.”
“It used to,” Sam whispered.
Jim felt his own brow crease as he looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, whenever Dean used to… get like this. Well, not like this. But bad. I used to think that a fix it was just a phone call and a road trip away.”
“You mean Caleb.”
Sam bit his lip. “That’s what he does, Jim. He makes Dean better. And he told me that–that he might not always pick up the phone in time. But that doesn’t mean we should stop calling him.”
He considered that, unsure of how to respond without throwing his Knight under the bus in front of his already-angry teenage son.
“I wish I could call Caleb,” he said at last. “He might not be able to fix everything, but he does… have a special touch with Dean. I think he could help. But I don’t want to make things worse for you boys. Your father–”
“Can go to hell.”
Jim took a breath, then let it out. “I know you’re angry right now.”
“It’s not about me, Jim!” Sam snapped. “That’s the thing! Caleb’s right. I screwed up, and Dad crucified Dean for it. Caleb didn’t do anything but help Dean look for me. And Dad proved why they didn’t tell him when he immediately beat Dean’s face in over it.”
“I… don’t agree with the punishment either, Samuel,” he replied carefully. “But he is your father…”
“And you’re the freaking Guardian!” Sam was on his feet again, tears beginning to creep out of his eyes. “Are you gonna protect Dean or not?”
Silence hovered between them. Jim could feel his resolution breaking. Little Sammy had always had those… puppy eyes, as Dean called them. It was hard for all of them to refuse him when he got like this.
And, young and angry though he might be, he was right.
John’s punishment was cruel and unfair. And Caleb had always known what to do with a quiet, depressed Dean far better than even he did.
“If you don’t call him, I will.”
He’d seen this coming. And what was he going to do? Take away the boy’s phone? That would border on abuse. Cutting off his contact to anyone but him would only break the deep amount of trust he was displaying by even having this conversation with him.
“I’ll call him.”
Sam looked up from where he was dripping tears onto the carpet. “Really?”
It was clear he wasn’t used to winning arguments.
Jim spread his hands helplessly. “You’re right, my boy. Dean can’t go on not eating, and I’d rather call Caleb than send him to the hospital. If your father finds out… I’ll take the fall.”
He gasped as Sam hurled himself at him, burying his wet face in his shirt. “Thank you.” The words were muffled into the fabric of his flannel.
Jim smiled fondly down at the boy as he returned the hug. “You’re welcome, Samuel. Now you should get to your homework. I don’t want you staying up too late tonight.”
Sam nodded, wiping at his face as he stood and turned towards the stairs. “You’ll call tonight?”
“Yes, Samuel. I’ll call now.”
Satisfied, he dashed up to his room. Jim inhaled slowly, then let it out. He didn’t like keeping things from his Triad. But at the end of the day… he was the Guardian, and the boys had to come first.
He stood up with a small groan, crossing the room to where the phone was mounted on the wall. Another long hesitation. Maybe he should call Mackland instead.
But somehow, he didn’t think medical treatment was going to do anything but keep Dean physically alive and shut him down emotionally even more.
He dialed Caleb’s number and raised the phone to his ear.
Just when he thought it was going to roll to voicemail, the line went live.
“Jim.” The word was half-grunted, followed by heavy breathing, then a heavier thud.
“Caleb,” the pastor greeted him warily. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Um.” There was a screech in the background. Caleb swore violently, then the crack of a shotgun split Jim’s ear. “No. Not really.”
Jim couldn’t help a small chuckle. “For some reason, I don’t believe you.”
There was a crash that Jim’s well-trained ear confidently identified as a very full bookshelf. Caleb swore again. “I mean,” he grunted. “Just a ghost.” The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked, then another crack as he fired it once more.
“I didn’t know you were hunting a ghost.”
“I didn’t either,” Caleb mumbled.
A loud creak and snap suggested he was ripping up floorboards.
“Until about thirty minutes ago.”
This screech was louder.
“Can I put you on hold? I need like thirty seconds.”
Before Jim could respond, he was wincing at the very-close thud of Caleb either dropping or throwing the phone onto the floor.
Continued, though more distant, swearing. The shotgun went off again.
Then, he heard the rush of fire. A final scream from the ghost. Silence.
“Bloody hell,” Caleb muttered from somewhere above him. A pause, movement, then his voice clipped back into the receiver. “Alright, I’m here. What’s up?”
“Where’s your partner?” Jim asked mildly.
The younger man let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t make a habit of having my dates chaperoned, so no one was handy.”
“Date?”
“Met a girl. She said her uncle had a cozy little cabin we could do dinner at. Cozy little cabin was haunted, because why the hell wouldn’t it be? I’m not getting laid tonight.”
“Caleb, please.”
“Alright, sorry. Adrenaline’s talking.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“Sent her home after she almost got impaled by a wayward steak knife.”
“I see.”
“Seriously, though.” More anxiety than he’d ever expressed over the ghost he’d just killed crept into Caleb’s voice. “I didn’t pick up to gripe about my bad date.”
“You know, you don’t have to pick up in the middle of a battle, Caleb,” Jim replied with a little amusement in his voice. “I appreciate the dedication, but you can call me back when the ghost is dead.”
“Yeah, I usually would,” the boy sighed. “But given current circumstances…”
“You mean Dean.”
“Yeah, I do.”
Jim sighed once more. “I wish I could say that’s not why I’m calling.”
“What’s our crisis level?”
“No crisis.”
Caleb’s sigh of relief was clearly audible. “K. Okay. What’s going on?”
“When’s the last time you talked to him?”
There was a long pause. Clearly, Caleb was trying to decide where he thought his Guardian’s ultimate loyalties lay.
“I am not Jonathon’s spy, Caleb.”
“Two weeks ago. He–uh… he’d just gotten off a hunt with Bobby.”
“Yes. Alright. And how did he seem?”
Another long hesitation.
“Work with me here, Caleb,” Jim chided quietly. “I’m trying to keep him safe.”
“I called him,” the psychic admitted finally. “It–uh. It felt like the Great Wall of China had gone up again. Turns out, he just took the meds we got him.”
“Meds?”
“Depression meditation. They prescribed it after–um. After the last time. He didn’t tell you?”
“No, of course he didn’t,” the pastor mused softly. “That might be part of it.”
“Part of what, Jim?”
The older man heaved a heavy sigh. “It most likely won’t surprise you that he isn’t talking.”
“Not at all?”
“Not in the past week and a half.”
Caleb hummed a little, clearly trying to assess how bad that was.
“But he’s also not eating.”
“What? Not at all?”
“I mean, barely. He probably keeps down less than a thousand calories a day.”
“What do you mean keeps down?”
“Well, he ate some soup and bread for dinner tonight. And then Samuel heard him puking it up. I doubt it’s the first time.”
“How’s he staying conscious?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe he’s eating more than I think he is. I know he’s drinking some. But it isn’t much.”
“He’s lost weight?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“It’s hard to tell,” the Guardian replied carefully. “You know how he dresses. But enough. His face… he looks sick.”
There was another pause. Then, quietly, “Have you gotten a look at his wrists?”
“Not recently.”
The younger man swore softly. “So he’s not talking, not eating. May or may not be cutting. Anything else?”
“I mean…” Jim shook his head helplessly. “He’s just not himself, Caleb. Which is to be expected. But he’s wasting away. Samuel’s going crazy with worry, and I… I’m not sure what else to do.”
“So I’m coming.”
“I don’t want to disrespect Jonathon.”
“Which is why we’re not going to tell him.”
Jim held out for a final moment before his shoulders sank in resignation. “You know I wouldn’t do this lightly.”
“I know. It’s not about John. It’s about Dean.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Understood. I’m on my way.”
notes: Finally giving Sam a little break in this series lol. Even though he frustrates me, young Sammy especially will always win over my soft-spot for him, because, well, I am Dean Winchester. Anyway. Just really, really love you all, and so grateful to you for being here. Let me know what you think!
summary: Back at the farm, Dean struggles to keep his head above water.
notes: I'd forgotten how lowkey plotless this entire installment of the series is until I finally skimmed through the entire thing again yesterday. That's probably part of the reason I never posted it. Like, there is a plot, but tbh it's mostly just angst and hurt/comfort - it's really not as exciting as the others with the exception of maybe Not Alone. Just thought I'd give that disclaimer before we got any deeper and you all started getting bored lol.
part 1 | part 2 | part 4
Ao3
Dean could tell Sam was worried when he volunteered to go on a hunt with him.
Everything that had gone down in New York–and more importantly, everything that it had pushed Caleb to tell him–had brought about an obnoxiously pitiful weight in the boy’s puppy dog eyes that bordered on true repentance. However, his attitude towards their father, and as a result the Triad and the life they lived, had probably only gotten more hostile.
For the first few weeks, he just hovered. Relentlessly. Griped and moaned and cried, borderline begging Jim not to send him on a hunt, and when that didn’t work, full-on begging Dean not to go.
It had been a long time since Sammy had begged like that, and it had almost worked. But Dean had known as well as Jim did that he needed a Grade-A distraction, and hunting was the only thing that was gonna do.
That one had been local, so he and Jim had taken it. A test run for Sammy, to see if he could be trusted alone at the farm… and a test run for Dean. Make sure he wasn’t gonna do something stupid as soon as they let him out on the field again. Of course, Jim hadn’t said anything about any of that… but it had been understood.
The second one rolled around, and that was when Sam had volunteered as tribute to the surprise of both Dean and the Guardian. When Jim had decided he shouldn’t miss school for a hunt Dean and Bobby could easily handle by themselves, he’d sulked and pouted and told Dean one too many times to be careful and not do anything stupid.
Jim, for his part, sat him down over coffee the morning he left, quietly asked him how he was doing, if he felt alright about going, if there was anything he wanted to talk about. Reminded him to follow Bobby’s orders, not to be reckless.
And then, as if the two of them weren’t playing the role of mother hens well enough in his life, Bobby had hovered and worried with his eyes and pried about his wrists for the entirety of the drive back and forth from Ohio.
It had only been a few weeks since he’d dropped Caleb off at the airport, but Dean wasn’t sure how he was going to stay sane for the next month.
And that was only a month assuming that his dad didn’t get pissed and extend the sentence.
It was thoughts like that, that made him wonder what the point of any of this was.
He knew he couldn’t say crap like that outloud–knew he shouldn’t even entertain the thoughts. But after the dust settled, this time and the last time, he had to wonder.
What was the point? Why did he have to keep getting dragged away from the edge? His life was hell–that wasn’t something you could argue with. It wasn’t something even Caleb tried to argue with.
He always just told him that he was better than this, and that things were going to get better.
He was pretty sure Caleb actually believed that.
Or at least, that he really, really wanted to.
Deep down, he had to know it wasn’t going to happen.
Dean had been on a one-way trip down under since he was four years old. All hunters were.
Mac and Jim seemed different, and so he had hope that Caleb would be, too. They lived normal lives on top of hunting, so there was always hope that they would eventually be able to disappear into them. That when they’d saved their last person, hunted their last thing, they would be able to live out their days in peace.
That wasn’t in the cards for his dad. Since he was a little kid, huddled in a hotel room with a salt gun in his hands and a baby asleep on the bed behind him, he’d known John would go down hunting. Every night of his childhood that he’d spent alone and waiting, he remembered praying to whoever was listening to just not let it be tonight.
And it hadn’t been.
That was probably only because of Bobby and the Triad. If John Winchester didn’t have people watching his back whether he liked it or not, Dean couldn’t imagine him surviving this long.
But what he hadn’t known as he prayed for his father to live another day, was that one day, he would wake up as just another hunter doomed to die.
John would go down on a hunt, and Dean would too.
Except, his hunt didn’t seem to be coming quickly enough.
Clearly, it wasn’t the dying that bothered him. He’d proven he was willing to die with a lot less honor than going down a hero, protecting the innocent or his brother or the Triad.
It was the living in the meantime that seemed to be worse than any hell he could imagine.
Saving people, hunting things… it could only get you through so many werewolf hunts and dead civilians and drunken rages and runaway brothers.
Sammy was gonna get out, and when he did, it would mean that Dean had done his job… protected his brother long enough to make sure he got off of the Winchester Highway to Hell.
But when Sammy got out, what then? As bratty as the boy had been lately, he was still one of the only light spots in Dean’s world. He had been the only thing keeping Dean off of the ledge for years now, and it was clear he was outgrowing his need for him.
His clinginess as of late only reminded him that he would get over his shock and worry and go back to hating the sight of him.
And when he did, what then?
He’d–hopefully–have Caleb back. But, no matter what Caleb had to say about the matter, he deserved better than being Dean’s lifeline and babysitter for the rest of his life.
The problem was–Caleb was very convinced he couldn’t lose Dean, and Dean of all people understood why.
So what? So he was chained to this existence until he gave in to temptation and did it right, or until a monster had mercy and put him out of his misery.
It was a spiral like this one that had driven him to take that first pill before he left for the hunt with Bobby. He’d slept the entire drive to the hunt, and while that had avoided the issue of talking, it had taught him his lesson… now, he took them at night. He was used to waking up hungover, so the headache in the morning wasn’t anything new.
A week in, he was pretty sure they were working.
The problem was, he wasn’t sure that this was any better than the alternative.
Talking was harder than it’d ever been. Sleeping was easy, but his nightmares were worse. He hadn’t told Jim he was taking them, so he could get away with drinking a little, but the bottle strongly discouraged it, so he treaded carefully to avoid unpleasant symptoms that would give him away to the Guardian. The site of food made him feel sick to his stomach, but he was choking down enough to survive. Mostly, he just couldn’t seem to feel anything… other than this heavy, hopeless sense that he was going to live the rest of his life like this.
Dean was used to surviving on little spots of joy, no matter how small or trivial they were. Sam was perpetually annoyed by it–the joy he took in movies and baseball and good food and pretty girls. John was too. Jim and Mac mostly just disapproved of half the things that brought him joy. Caleb was the only one who seemed to understand–or maybe, he just really liked seeing Dean smile.
But now, it was as if there was a heavy blanket, like one of the wool ones Jim only brought out during the coldest spells of winter, over his mind. And yeah–it smothered any thoughts so dark and desperate that they would push him to do anything about his underlying desire to die. The problem was, they seemed to be suffocating everything else with it.
But what was the alternative?
He could stop taking them… but the flood they were holding back was not going to feel good when it came crashing out.
He hated numbness, but he feared what would happen when he had to feel it all again, all at once. Other than when he was sleeping, he hadn’t really thought about the horrors of the job or the humanoid monsters he’d killed or his father’s wrath in a week. All of those memories seemed to exist behind a very heavy curtain in his mind. If he let that curtain fall, he was pretty sure all of them would come crashing out, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t in a place to deal with that.
Especially without Caleb there.
If nothing else, the older man could crawl into his mind and put it back together when it fractured under the weight of repressed emotions and memories.
And, he could win a wrestling match with Dean and a gun.
Neither Sam or Jim could.
So, he kept taking them.
And talked and ate less and less as each day went by.
And when his clingy puppy act didn’t get the words out of Dean’s mouth or the nutrition into it, Sam started to get scared. And when Sammy got scared, he also got mad.
“Dean!”
He was yanked from the heavy train of thought by the boy himself, calling to him from the stairs.
“Dinner!”
Dean exhaled slowly.
Speak of the devil and his deeds.
He got to his feet and took a step towards the door, but it was flung open before he reached it.
“Dean!” Sam was glaring at him through hair in desperate need of a trim. “Come on!”
Dean nodded tiredly, gesturing with one hand to indicate that he’d been coming.
Sam’s latest efforts to get him to talk had mostly been trying to pick fights, and he didn’t seem pleased that this one hadn’t worked, rolling his eyes as he turned back toward the hall.
“Well how was I supposed to know that?”
Downstairs, Jim was setting a pot of what looked like potato soup on the table, which was already set with bowls, spoons, and a loaf of bread.
Potato soup. Simple, easy on the stomach, but a comfort food.
Jim wasn’t being subtle either.
“Evening, Dean,” the pastor greeted him with a smile. “Did you find what you needed this afternoon?”
Mostly because he couldn’t handle their hovering, Dean had driven to the library that day to do some research. Not that he had a case at the moment… but the plus-side of not talking was that you could hold up a library book and not explain yourself any further. He’d actually ended up walking the perimeter of the town just because he needed the air and the movement.
But he just nodded a little, and Jim returned the gesture. “Good.”
At least he had the mercy to ask him yes-or-no questions. Sam showed no such restraint.
Dean went to the kitchen and filled three glasses of water, since that seemed to be the only thing missing from the table. If there were any other hunters present, they’d drink beer, but Dean was still technically underage, and while Jim didn’t usually put his foot down, even when he wasn’t mixing it with meds, Dean usually didn’t push it either, especially not at dinner.
“Thank you, Dean,” Jim said as he set the glasses down on the table, and he nodded again, bringing his hand up to his chin and then out towards the Guardian as he did.
No one but Caleb understood more than the bare basics of sign language, but thank you fell under those basics, and Jim smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
Dean could feel Sam glaring at them as they had the exchange, but he pointedly avoided looking at the boy and acknowledging it.
“Will you pray for us, Sam?” Jim asked before he could say anything to supplement the pout on his face.. The boy’s only protest was a small sigh, but he obediently mumbled out the Lord’s Prayer so that Jim could start spooning the steaming soup into their bowls.
He gave Dean less than himself and Sam, but somehow, that wasn’t comforting.
It just made him feel like a toddler who wasn’t given very much dinner–but was expected to eat everything that he was.
He stared at the bowl with lead in his stomach.
He knew he had to eat.
If not because it was necessary for survival, because it was necessary to keep his family off his back.
But even the mild stew in front of him made him feel like he was going to vomit. The bread that Jim handed him was even worse.
Jim and Sam both started to eat. Dean could feel them watching him–though the pastor did it far more subtly than his brother did. He just kept staring at the food and willing himself to pick the spoon up. His hand didn’t move.
The silence hovered for a long several seconds, then several more.
“It’s soup, Dean!” Sam’s voice came out high and tight with worry he was trying to make sound like anger. “God! Just eat!”
“Samuel…” Jim warned quietly.
“Well are you going to do something about it?” the boy snapped. “Because someone has to!”
“He’s trying, Samuel.”
“No, he’s not! Does it look like he’s trying to you?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Well trying isn’t going to keep him from starving,” Sam mumbled. “You’re supposed to be keeping him from ki–”
“Samuel.” That wasn’t a tone anyone talked back to. “That’s enough.”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and tried to go anywhere but here.
“Dean…” He opened them again, looking at the Guardian with shamefully pleading eyes. Jim’s own expression was gentle, but firm. “You need to eat, Son.”
Dean’s eyes dropped back to his soup. He swallowed hard as his foe steamed up at him.
The question was, who would they call if he didn’t? Caleb? His dad would get wind and he’d be lucky if he ever saw his best friend again. John? He’d be lucky if he just murdered him outright. Maybe Mac. He was a doctor, after all. But he was already taking the happy pills. Mac’s next rec would no doubt be shrink-ville.
He picked up the spoon and took a bite. It felt like bile going down.
But Jim smiled, reaching out and laying one hand over Dean’s that wasn’t holding the utensil. “Thank you, my boy.”
Dean didn’t meet his gaze. He felt like he was going to throw up.
summary: Caleb calls Dean after his psychic read goes dull again.
notes: I would like to preface this by saying I know the bit at the end is probably soft to the point of being a little ooc. I don't care. Let me have my emotionally expressive men in peace, please & thank you.
part 1 | part 3 | part 4
Ao3
“Oh my God, what?”
Dean’s voice was raw and hoarse, evidence of what Caleb had already known–that the boy hadn’t been talking much lately. Jim had told him that the past few times he’d called to check in, saying that he hadn’t gone completely silent, but he kept words to the minimum to say the least.
That was most likely at least part of the reason it had taken him seven missed calls to finally pick up on the eighth. He’d probably been hoping Caleb would just text him so that he didn’t actually have to speak.
“I could be dying for all you know, little jerk,” the psychic tried to snap, unable to hide the relief from his own voice.
“You’re at a bridge conference,” the boy scoffed. “The only thing you’re dying of is boredom.”
“What if there was a ghost at the conference?”
“You’d probably be calling Mac seeing as he’s two days closer than I am.”
Caleb sighed heavily. “Yeah, touché.”
“My question stands. What do you want?”
Apparently they were gonna play the punk game again. “I want to pass on something I learned at this stupid conference.” He kept his tone just sharp enough to be able to swing with the kid’s own chosen attitude. “About bridges.”
He heard Dean take a breath, but he didn’t wait to hear whatever quip he’d loaded up.
“They’re really big, and when you build them, people tend to notice. Kinda like huge-ass walls.”
Dean obviously caught onto the metaphor, and his attitude didn’t seem so keen to come out of his mouth anymore. There was a long moment of radio silence between them, broken by Caleb, who allowed his tone to soften just a little.
“So I hope you’ve got a good reason for the one you decided to build last night, Kid.”
Once again, a long few seconds of silence stretched between them. When Dean finally spoke, his voice was even quieter than before, and all of the edge had vanished from it, replaced by a painfully small tone.
“I didn’t rebuild the wall, Damien.”
“Is psychic a joke to you, Dean?”
He could see the boy flinching in his mind’s eye, knew that the use of his first name had been weighted, but couldn’t find it in him to feel bad about it. He thought the events of the past eight months gave him the right to be a little edgy when it came to this stuff, and the kid had promised to call him if he needed him. That wasn’t a promise he was willing to play games with.
“No,” the boy said heavily in answer to his question. “But I think you might need to get your freaky brain checked, because–”
“Dean!” Caleb didn’t have the patience for this. “Cut the crap, or I’m on the first airbus to Kentucky that Mac’s money can buy.”
More quiet.
“I didn’t rebuild the wall.” The words were the same ones he’d spoken before, but they were said in a different tone–less defiant, more defeated. “But I did take one of your stupid psych pills. That could have something to do with it.”
Caleb opened his mouth, but nothing came out. When he tried again, his own voice came out almost as small and uncertain as Dean’s had. “The–you mean the prescription we…”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
That wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t something he could see his best friend lying about–especially not in that ashamed, broken tone of voice. And it made sense. If the meds were supposed to dull the kid’s emotions, it was likely they’d likewise dull his read of said emotions.
He cleared his throat, struggling to find something to say. “Is it working?”
“It says I won’t know for a few weeks.”
“Ah.” He swallowed hard. “I guess that makes sense.”
More radio silence. Caleb took a deep breath, desperately trying to pull his thoughts together. “So I guess it’s pretty bad, huh?”
He heard Dean swallow on the other line. “I’m fine, Damien.”
“How about let’s try again.”
A heavy sigh. “I’m trying, alright?”
“I know, Kiddo. And I’m damn proud of you for it. But I know you had to feel pretty crappy to even consider picking those things up.”
“I’ve felt pretty crappy since May, Damien.”
“I know,” he repeated heavily. Hesitated before asking, “Do you want me to come out?”
“Do you want my dad to string your carcass up by your hamstrings?”
“Your dad–”
Dean cut him off. “Seriously, Reaves. I’m fine. Jim’s not gonna let me do anything stupid even if I wanted to. And I’m hoping your stupid pills will make me not want to as bad.”
“I hope so too, Deuce,” he sighed. “But you say the word, and I’ll be on my way.”
“I know you would be,” the boy admitted softly. “But I’m good. Stay with your bridge nerds. Try to learn something interesting.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled in duel frustration and defeat. “I’ll try. Hang in there, Kiddo.”
“Yeah I would, but Jim said no hanging.”
Caleb choked, not wanting to laugh, but unable to avoid it. “You’re not allowed to make jokes like that, Deucy.”
“A guy tries to bite a bullet one time…”
“Two times.”
“A guy tries to bite a bullet two times, and no more fun for the rest of his life.”
“That’s exactly it. No more fun, ever.”
Despite themselves, they were both laughing. “Glad to hear you’ve still got your wit, Kiddo.”
“You know me.”
“Yeah, I do.” He exhaled again, running a tired hand down his face. “Call me if you need me.”
“Yeah. I will.” Then, the line went dead.
Caleb stared at the cell phone in his hand for a long moment before swearing softly. It was good to hear the boy laugh. But he just didn’t know what he was doing. He knew he was in good hands, but he absolutely hated that they weren’t his own.
Before he could consider the problem any longer, the device he’d just closed started buzzing in his hand. But this time, it was Bobby’s name that was displayed on the outer screen. Caleb wasn’t exactly in the mood, but in this case, it was genuinely possible that the call would be an SOS. Bobby was known for breaking the golden rule that was never hunt alone.
“What do you want, old man?”
A scoff carried to him from the other line. “Good morning to you too.”
It didn’t sound like he was dying. He should've let it ring.
“It’s not a good morning,” he snapped, “and I’m not in the mood for one of your bright ideas.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not in the mood for your attitude,” Bobby scoffed, “so I guess we’re both mad.” Before Caleb could respond, he went on. “But I don’t have a bright idea. I’m callin’ about Dean.”
Despite the fact that he’d just gotten off the phone with the kid and knew he was… well, maybe not okay, but knew that he wasn’t dying, the words made Caleb’s stomach clench out of sheer instinct.
“What about him?”
There was a long hesitation.
“What about him, Bobby?”
“I’m worried about him,” the older man said at long last. “And I know I ain’t special for that. I know we all are.”
While Bobby didn’t know what had gone down at the farm in December or in New York a few weeks ago, it didn’t take a psychic to be able to tell there was something going on in the Triad and those closest to it. Besides that, Bobby had been there for the showdown in Flagstaff, and he’d been Dean’s main hunting partner in the time since.
“But I—” he faltered again. It was a strange thing to hear a grown, semi-functioning alcoholic and seasoned monster hunter stumble over his confession like a teenager afraid of getting his friend in trouble.
“Come on, old man,” Caleb sighed. “Unless you want to call the kid and initiate a grade-A chick-flick yourself, you better go ahead and spit it out.”
Bobby scoffed a little. “Yeah, I tried that. Didn’t go well.” Another brief pause. Then, finally, “He’s got fresh cuts on his wrist. Kind like I haven’t seen on him in a long time.”
While the news was hardly surprising, it still made Caleb’s heart sink inside of him, igniting a burning in his chest and a thickness in his throat that it was hard to speak through. “Cuts. Self-inflicted ones, you mean.”
He didn’t phrase it as a question, but a statement, and the lack of surprise in his heavy tone was obviously far from lost on Bobby.
“You know already?”
“About these particular ones, no,” Caleb sighed. “I’m still in exile, and Deuce isn’t exactly the type to make voluntary confessions about his unhealthy coping mechanisms over the phone.”
“But you know he…” Once again, it was odd to hear a man like Bobby struggling to even finish his sentences about the matter.
Caleb bit his lip. “It’s been a rough six months, alright? And I may have gotten wind that he had a thing with a glass shard when he was a kid. I take it that’s what you’re talking about?”
He didn’t like the thought of Bobby noticing something that he had failed to, but there had been a stretch there when John had gone increasingly rogue, and thus kept his distance from the other Triad members to avoid getting in trouble with them. As a consequence, he’d also tried to keep his distance from Caleb—and he’d left the boys with Bobby often. It was easy to imagine Dean’s sleeve slipping on a hunt or under a car for long enough for Bobby to put the pieces together.
“Yeah, that’s it,” the older hunter said in answer to his question, his tone sad and conflicted. “Caught wind of ‘em while the boys were staying with me. Told me he’d thrown it out and begged me to keep my mouth shut. I agreed so long as he stayed clean.”
“Sure.” Caleb wanted to be angry he hadn’t shared the information, but, putting himself in Dean’s shoes, he couldn’t be. He’d treated him like the adult he’d always had to be, and he couldn’t truly blame him for that. “But now he’s not.”
“Far from it,” Bobby confirmed heavily. “And I tried to talk to him about it, but it went nowhere. I know you ain’t supposed to be talkin’ to him right now, but I also knew he’d prefer I went to you if I was gonna go to someone, and I know there’s no way you’re keeping those orders anyway.”
Caleb scoffed a little. “Yeah, you’re right there, old man.” There was a long, unhappy pause between them. Finally, it was the younger man who broke it. “I just got off the phone with him, and he’s gonna be pissed if I call him right back. But I’ll keep close tabs on him. I know Jim already is.”
“Yeah,” Bobby agreed with another heavy sigh. “I know you both do.”
The psychic hesitated again before offering, “Thanks for calling, Bobby. It’s good to know other people are keeping their eyes on him while I can’t.”
“I care about those boys,” the hunter replied gruffly. “I care about them a whole helluva lot.”
“I know.” It was Caleb’s turn to sigh. “I’ll take care of him. Promise.”
Then, he flipped his phone shut before the older man caught any sort of wind of the moisture he could feel thickening his throat all over again.
This time, the curse came out a shout, and was joined by the hurling of the cell phone he’d just closed across the small space that was his Jeep’s interior. With elbows resting on the steering wheel in front of him, he pressed his hands against his eyes until colors burst behind them, desperately trying to fight back those stubborn tears.
It was moments like this, that he wished he had Jim’s faith, or even better, the kind Sammy had when he was a little kid. Actually believing that someone was listening when you prayed had to be some sort of comfort when the person you loved most in the world was hurting and there was absolutely nothing you could do to help.
A tap on his window pulled him out of the spiral. He jerked upright, and his eyes locked with Moose’s through the glass. Obviously, he’d found a nearby parking spot in the garage under the conference center, and he’d noticed Caleb had yet to exit his own vehicle. He swore again, a little quieter this time, but was quick to lunge across the front seat to retrieve his thrown cell phone, then reach into the back for his briefcase, before climbing out to greet his friend.
“Hey.” He hated how thick the word came out of his throat.
“Hey, Buddy.” The larger man greeted him with a clap to one shoulder, squeezing a little as he regarded him with no small amount of concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Caleb swallowed hard as he turned in the direction of the elevator, desperately trying to regain his composure. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He could feel the weight in his partner’s gaze as he followed him to the elevator, and it only got heavier as they waited for it to arrive. He didn’t have to say anything, and he knew it. Another long moment passed before Caleb finally broke.
“Just… worried about Deuce.”
While he’d shared none of the details, Moose knew it had been a rough several months for Caleb’s little found family, and his fondness for Dean was immediately evident in his concerned expression.
“He okay?”
“Yeah. I mean…” the psychic exhaled heavily as the elevator opened and they trooped inside. “He’s okay.”
He wasn’t prepared for the way his voice broke, just a little, on the last syllable.
And he also wasn’t prepared for the bone-crushing hug that Moose wrapped him in a moment later.
He froze for a second, taken completely off guard, but then the comfort of the contact broke through, and he returned it a little desperately, letting his head sink into his friend’s shoulder for just a few seconds. As rarely as the two of them showed any kind of affection to each other, he knew Moose’s hugs to be the kind that might break a few of your ribs, but also could hold you together when you needed it most. He took a deep, shaky breath, taking advantage of the fact that his face was hidden in his partner’s shoulder to choke back his tears, before patting the larger man on the back and slowly pulling away.
He couldn’t fully meet his gaze as he swallowed again, nodding to him awkwardly. “Thanks. I think I needed that.”
Moose answered only by a clap to his shoulder, and then they were saved from having to move themselves on from the chick-flick by the elevator doors opening.
As they exited into the busy conference center, Caleb took one more deep breath, steadying himself for real. He had a hard mental tab on Dean, and despite the meds he was on dulling the signal, he’d know if something was really wrong. The exile was almost over. He just had to tough it out a little longer.
But hadn’t he thought that before?
Notes: You GUYS. Genuinely blown away by all the love I received on the last chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who stayed subscribed & invested, and for all of your kind words. Truly have missed interacting with all of you so freaking much. Also, because I didn't realize a number of you were genuinely concerned about my well-being and I feel awful for that... while I have no intention of falling off the face of the planet again, if I ever do, you can always reach out to Jamie (Trekkiehood). Assuming we didn't decide to bite the bullet together lol, she will know if I'm okay and tends to be much more active than I am in general. Anyway, thank you times a million. I love you all.
series summary: Dean didn't even really know what he was doing when he walked into the kitchen at the right time and in doing so showed sixteen-year-old Caleb that he wasn't as alone as he thought. Years later, Caleb knows much more than Dean would like him to the minute he sees an all-too-familiar look in his eyes.
installment summary: Dean stops talking (and eating) after Caleb is sent away once again, and Jim has to choose between disobeying John, or watching the kid spiral deeper and deeper into the darkness in his eyes and his mind.
set: 1999
word count: 1739
tw: self-harm, depression, trauma
summary: While on a hunt with Dean, Bobby struggles to know how to help him out of the darkness he's clearly drowning in.
Ao3
Sunset stole the light,
The colors in your eyes.
- for KING & COUNTRY
The walk back to the ‘70 Adventurer that was Bobby’s current ride was quiet, as the rest of the past two days had been when they hadn’t been filled with ACDC or George Strait, or the screaming of the Pale Lady who’d been luring hikers to a death like hers in Hocking Hills State Park over the past several months.
Without much hope of digging up all of her remains from the wooded floor of the since-dried pool she’d fallen into while running from a date turned violent, they’d resorted to making a fire barrier around it and salting and burning the whole thing. It had worked, and this woman in white was less malicious than many that they’d encountered over the years, so she’d even gone down without too hard of a fight.
All in all, Bobby’s twenty-year-old hunting partner had seemed more haunted than the Ohio woods they were trekking through.
The kid had never liked fire, and it was a small mystery why. But salting and burning was their whole gig, and over the years, it had become routine enough to him that, at least when it was small-scale, it didn’t seem to bother him at all anymore. Larger fires, house fires especially, had been a different story, but they’d bothered him in the way things were supposed to bother Dean Winchester–the way that wound him up and made him that much more serious about his mission and his calling, put him on the very top of his game.
That was a way of being bothered that Bobby never worried too much about.
But vacant eyes, dull nods, and heavy silence?
That was the Dean Winchester he worried about.
He’d seen enough of that Dean over the years, times when John hadn’t wanted to take them to Jim, usually because it was his own recklessness that had Dean in such a state, but had wanted them out of the way, seeing the boy’s pain as a nuisance to him and his vendetta.
The tree of them would stumble up his porch steps at some unholy hour or another, John would ask if he could take them for a while, Dean would either mumble apologies or say them with his eyes if this one of the particularly bad times, when he wasn’t just quiet, but silent.
This was one of those times, and seeing as it was the first one Bobby had been privy to in over half a decade, to say it was concerning was a heavy understatement.
Usually, he left the worrying and fussing over the Winchester boys to Jim and, even more so, Caleb. But thanks to the ill-fated events revolving around Sam’s untimely escapade to Flagstaff, Caleb wasn’t able to look out for the boy like he usually did, and the unspoken words in Jim’s eyes when Bobby had picked Dean up from the farm had said he wasn’t sure what else to do to help.
All of those things were more than enough to make Bobby worry, but that wasn’t all.
There was also the factor of the thin red slits he’d seen poking out from under Dean’s bracelets when he’d taken his turn driving halfway between the farm and Hocking Hills.
He’d seen cuts like that on Dean’s wrists–or rather, the slowly fading aftermath of them–once before, the better part of a decade ago.
The boy had been thirteen or fourteen at the time, dumped at Bobby’s with his little brother while John chased a lead on Yellow Eyes that he’d been specifically told not to chase by the Guardian. Bobby had recruited his help on a Corvette with a bad tranny that had been giving him problems. His sleeve had slipped down while he was under the car, and the small collection of fading, yellowish slits which were visible on either side of the bracelets he never seemed to take off had caught Bobby’s eye.
He’d asked, Dean had lied, and then he’d asked again, and then Dean had lied again. He’d given him one more chance before he called Reaves. Bobby threatening to call in the psychic of his own accord was a sure sign that he really meant business, and Dean had known that. So, he’d broken. Told him that it had been a rough few months in the Winchester household, and then he’d dropped a plate, cut his hand. Something about it had felt good. So he’d kept the shard and done it a few more times. But now Dad was getting suspicious, so he’d thrown out the shard, and it wasn’t going to happen again, and please, Bobby, don’t tell the Triad, and don’t tell Reaves. It was in the past, it wasn’t going to happen again, they’d all flip in their own ways and he knew it.
Grilled cheese and peanut butter sandwiches and beds to sleep in? Bobby could handle that. Throwing a baseball with Dean to get his young mind off of monsters and demons and absent fathers? He could handle that too. But pain so deep and far repressed that it caused a fourteen-year-old kid to cut his own wrists for a little relief? That was entirely out of the grizzled hunter’s depth, and he’d had absolutely no idea what to do.
Dean wasn’t apt to beg, and seeing him do exactly that, desperately plead and promise and bargain to keep him from telling anyone about the fading scars, had been uncomfortable and painful and unnerving. So, he’d told him he would think about it. Taken the boys on a field-trip to the library the next day, checked out every book he could find about teen mental health and self-injury, shaken his head at himself as he tried to comprehend them, wondering why on earth he wasn’t just calling Mackland, who no doubt owned and had practically memorized a dozen books better than the ones he’d found about exactly this sort of thing.
But the recurring theme in each one of them was that the best way to help a person stop was to give them responsibility and control over it. Support them, offer your assistance and love and guidance, but don’t force them to stop–enable them to make the choice themselves. So he’d told the boy that, so long as the scars continued to fade without new ones being added–and he would be checking–he’d keep his mouth shut. Asked him to seriously think about talking to someone about this, whether that was him or Caleb or any member of the Triad, but seeing as he’d been functioning like a little adult for the huge majority of his young life, he wasn’t going to start treating him like a child now.
Bobby didn’t know if anything he’d said or done had made any difference in it at all, or if Dean’s fear of his father’s wrath alone was what made him do it, but he’d stopped as he’d promised to, and so he’d held up his own end of the deal as well. He stopped asking to see his wrists after a year or so, and they’d never spoken of it again.
And if Bobby hadn’t known what to do with a fourteen-year-old who was cutting himself, he certainly didn’t know what to do with a twenty-year-old who’d fallen back into the same vice.
Because functional adult or not, Dean had been a kid back then, and Bobby had known he had both the right and responsibility to put his foot down on the subject in one way or another.
Now, what was he supposed to say? Dean had been watching both Bobby and John put down far more liquor than any healthy, functional man should for his entire life. Just because it was a slightly more round-about method of harming one’s self to cope didn’t mean it wasn’t still doing exactly that, and Bobby would loathe to be the hypocrite making Dean feel broken and messed-up and small because he’d chosen a more direct route.
However, one fact remained, and that was that he loved the boy far more than he’d ever like to admit, and when you loved someone that much, sitting around saying Oh well, he’s an adult. What can I do? upon discovering that he was hurting himself to cope felt very, very wrong, and nearly impossible anyway.
But it was also difficult to start such a conversation when the person you needed to have it with had said a total of eleven words over the course of the past two days, and seven of them had been during the most heated part of their ghost hunt.
He waited until they’d loaded everything back into the bed of the truck, then loaded themselves into the front of it, and were back on the road to Kentucky, to finally look over at the young man on the driver’s side.
“Dean…”
Dean glanced at him, his green eyes a little apprehensive, but reached out and turned down the music, a sign for him to go on.
Bobby floundered a moment later before pressing forward. “Just… you know I care about ya, don’t ya?”
The boy seemed to flinch a little, his eyes darting back to the road, but nodded.
“Course, Bobby.” The words came out soft and raw, out of a throat not used to talking, but they surprised Bobby none-the-less.
“And you know every offer I’ve ever made to you still stands?”
This time, Dean just nodded a little.
The older man returned the gesture, still feeling like he was barely keeping his head above water. “You’re an adult now,” he said at last. “And I’ll treat ya like one. But it doesn’t take a psychic to figure out you’re hurting. So if you need anything…” He sighed, knowing exactly how weak it sounded. “You know where I live. You’ve got my number.”
A long moment of silence answered. Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw Dean swallow hard.
Then, still barely audible, he spoke again. “Yeah. Thanks, Bobby.”
The older hunter exhaled heavily as the younger turned the radio back up. That had been a pathetic attempt to help if ever he’d seen one.
You didn’t have to be a psychic to know the boy was hurting, but he had to wonder if it might help out a whole lot when it came to knowing what to do about it.
summary: two months after sam’s close call led to dean encountering a concerned stranger named david, john goes too far.
“Dad!”
Dean’s ears were ringing as it was. Sammy’s sob-screaming was not doing anything to help.
“Dad! It wasn’t his fault! Stop! It wasn’t his fault!”
He couldn’t be screaming like that. Even in a motel like this, someone was going to get annoyed enough to call someone.
“Sammy.” The word croaked out of a raw, hoarse throat. “Yo–you gotta quiet down, Sammy.”
“No!” If anything, the twelve-year-old was screaming louder now. “No, Dean! Let them call someone! They should!”
“Enough, Sam!” Before either of the boys knew what was happening, John had turned on his heal, away from where he’d been towering over Dean, to bring his knuckles across Sam’s face in a sharp, by no means gentle blow.
Then, everything seemed to move in slow motion. Despite the force, the look on Sam’s face as he stumbled backwards was more shocked than pained. Dean stared at him for a long second, looked at his father, and felt it hit him like a semi.
He’d done it.
He’d done what Dean had sacrificed his body and soul alike for the past decade, to make sure he didn’t.
Nights on the street, untreated concussions, endless lies to teachers and authorities and suspicious Bobbies and strangers on the street. Turning his back on the closest thing he’d ever had to a home the second the Impala appeared in the driveway. Spitting in the face of outstretched hands that really did just want to help and cutting himself to pieces just to cope with the pain that often felt like it was going to consume him.
He’d taken it all, and he’d taken it without a word of complaint, and he’d done that to keep this from happening.
To keep John from ever laying a finger on his little brother.
The suspended moment of time ended, and suddenly everything was once again too loud and too hot and the world was once again spinning.
Satisfied that he’d shut up his younger son for the time being, John turned back to his older.
He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean, freshly battered at the hands of both a ghost and a man and barely conscious as of a moment before, to be on his feet when he did, and the boy used his moment of surprise to take a single, stumbling step forward, weakly shoving against his father’s chest as he did.
“Don’t.” The word was thick and choked with either blood or tears—Dean wasn’t really sure anymore. “Don’t touch him.”
This time, Sam and Dean both knew exactly what was coming, the younger helplessly crying his brother’s name even as their father’s hands closed around his collar and slammed him against the wall behind him.
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, boy!” John spat, his breath thick with alcohol on Dean’s face.
His son continued to meet his gaze anyway. “Do this,” he croaked. “This’s fine.” A shaky breath. “Not Sammy.”
“Dean!” Sam cried again. The shock of the blow to his face had halted his sobbing, but that only meant that yelling was an easier task. “Stop! It’s not fine!”
“Shut up, Sam!” John bellowed. “Or I’ll make you!”
Dean shoved against his hands, still pinning him against the wall, though uselessly, much too weak to hold his own against the larger man. “No, you won’!” he gasped. “Please, Da’, yo–you can’t!”
The room spun more violently. Nausea rose in his stomach as his head screamed. He didn’t even remember exactly how he was injured anymore… just that he felt more dead than alive.
Before his father could respond to the plea, though, a voice carried to them from the motel room next door, and all three of them froze.
“I think there’s three of ‘em. A father and two sons. They’ve been yelling for twenty minutes, and it sounds like someone’s getting beat.”
Dean and Sam both looked at their father with wide eyes. They’d had some tense encounters with the cops to be sure, but had somehow avoided ever having them so directly called on them if trespassing or other illegal hunting activities weren’t involved.
Neither boy knew what happened now.
A second passed, then another. Then, John’s hands released Dean, allowing the teenager to crumple to the floor, then strode towards the door purposefully, snatching his still-packed duffle from the bed as he did.
“We’re going, Sam,” he barked.
“What about Dean?” the kid took a step towards his brother, but John’s freehand closed around his collar before he could take another, yanking him towards the door.
“Now.”
“No!” Sam tried to jerk away, but his father was twice his size and three times his strength, and he had no intentions of letting him go. “No, we’re not leaving him!”
“Your brother has a lesson to learn,” John growled as he continued to drag the struggling boy across the motel room. “And you do too.”
With his duffle hanging on his forearm, he used that hand to yank open the door, then stormed through it, still dragging Sam in his wake.
“No!” the kid was yelling again, punching and clawing at a father who was much too intoxicated to feel it or to care. “No! You can’t do this! We can’t leave him!”
The door slammed behind them. Dean willed himself to get up and go after them. At this rate, John would have to knock Sam out in order to shut him up, and it seemed he’d be more than willing to do so. Dean couldn’t let that happen.
But as he ordered his legs to stand up after them, they didn’t move. He tried to push his weight up off the floor, but he couldn’t even get himself an inch up before he fell back against the wall, his head screaming, the room turning like a teacup ride.
This wasn’t happening. This could not be real.
He’d sworn it wouldn’t get this bad.
He’d sworn he was fine.
He’d sworn Dad wouldn’t touch Sam.
But it had, he wasn’t, and that was exactly what Dad had just done.
And now, there was nothing Dean could do to stop it.
He should’ve known. He should’ve never risked his brother’s safety.
This was all his fault.
It was his last conscious thought before darkness overtook him.
He came half-awake to the door flying back on its hinges. Through swimming vision, he saw two police officers on the other side, guns raised and ready.
Selfishly, he hoped one would shoot him by mistake.
However, he was quickly disappointed, as one pulled his gun to his chest as he rapidly crossed the room to clear it and the bathroom, and the other put his away completely and rushed to his side.
“Hey.” A firm but gentle hand closed around his wrist to check his pulse. “Hey, Kiddo, can you hear me?”
Dean swallowed hard and did his best to nod. He was rewarded by a stab of increased pain in his head, then more blackness.
This time, it only took him a few seconds to come back to, hearing as he did the other cop’s voice approaching. “Room is clear. Only one left is a teenager in bad shape. What’s the status of that 10-52?”
Dean couldn’t make out the response, but it seemed to satisfy the officer. “Copy that. No backup needed. Over.”
“We’ve got an ambulance on the way, alright?” the other one, still kneeling beside Dean assured. “Couple minutes out, tops.”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pass out again. However, the plan was quickly ruined by the hand on his wrist squeezing, another coming up to hold the side of his face.
“Try to stay awake for me, okay, Kiddo? Can you open your eyes?”
Reluctantly, Dean did.
“Good.” The officer was just a blurry blob of a face in front of him, but his voice was low and steady and comforting. “That’s good. Now can you tell me your name?”
The teen swallowed again before croaking, “Dean.”
“Dean?”
The slightest nod confirmed it.
“My name is Officer Mirenda,” the voice replied. “My partner, Officer Tomlin, is watching our sixths from up there. We’re here to help, alright?”
Dean knew better than to believe the police would actually help, but his groggy mind desperately wanted to believe in this one.
He heard sirens approaching, and the man squeezed his hand once more. “There’s our 10-52. Just stay with me for a little longer, okay, Dean?”
The boy nodded even as blackness began to consume his vision once more. This time, it wasn’t purposeful.
“‘m sorry,” he croaked the moment before his lids slid shut and the room finally stopped spinning.
notes: I’m not sure I liked that whatsoever, but if it felt confusing, it was supposed to. Dean’s very out of it and confused in this, so y’all get to be, too. We’ll fill in the gaps in the next few parts. That said, if you have any feedback, I will love you forever if you’ll take the time to drop it in a comment. Thanks for reading, and HAPPY WHUMPTOBER!! Love ya.
tw: referenced kidnapping/disappearance
word count: 2,829
part 12 | part 14
summary: Dean continues to struggle with classic Winchester luck as he tries to work on the case.
Dean knew that the camp staff would make good on their threat to move his sleeping quarters if he got caught again, but he hadn't been able to get away from their watchful gazes all day. He didn't want that to happen, and as much as he loathed to admit it, he wanted to face the disappointment and sadness he knew would be on Matt and Cade's faces when it did even less.
But, as he found himself having to continually remind himself, he wasn't here to wash dishes and run ziplines–or to make stupid college kids like him. He was here to hunt, and now at least he had some idea of what he was hunting. Granted, he didn't know how to kill it. But, he figured that a rawhead was a kind of boogeyman, and so was whatever he was dealing with, so he'd take along a taser, and if that didn't work, maybe the thing would have some mercy and put him out of his misery.
Damien would pick him up by his shirt collar and drag him straight into Chick Flick Nation if he was close enough to snoop into that particular thought, but what Damien didn't know couldn't hurt him, and even Caleb's chick flicks were better than the Bible studies and heart-to-hearts he'd been having on the daily.
So, once again, he waited until lights out had passed and all of his cabinmates were asleep to creep through the camp and towards the camp like his life depended on it.
He had about an hour until the estimated time of the disappearance, and he wanted to make it over to the sister camp in time to see if the thing kept a schedule.
Speaking of Reaves losing it, he knew he'd throw an absolute hissy fit if he found out just how unprepared he was as he charged into this, but he didn't know what else he could do. If Dad wasn't going to hold up his promise to pass on Mac and Bobby's research, he was going to have to go out on a limb. He certainly wasn't gonna risk another private counseling session with a PC by going back to the A-Frame.
Once again, Caleb didn't know, and Caleb didn't need to know.
He cut through girl's camp to try to shorten the trek to the other property, hopeful that they'd also be on a lower level of alert seeing as, as far as he knew at least, they didn't have any female campers that were quite on his level of perceived troublemaker.
He was on the edge of the cabin area when he heard footsteps approaching from behind him. He dove behind the nearest structure before he dared to peak back around and see if whoever it was had seen him already.
Three figures wavered in the dim moonlight, a counselor and two young campers who were probably on their way back from the Infirmary, but the adult seemed much too consumed with getting the children back to their cabin, to worry about who was sneaking around after hours.
Dean let out a soft sigh of relief, allowing his head to sink back against the cabin behind him. It was about time he caught a break.
"Psst."
He flinched violently at the hissed call for attention, his gaze snapping up to the window above his head. His heart dropped to the bottom of his toes as he recognized the face of one of the female crew campers, peering down at him through the open window.
He moved to bolt before she could give him away, but the simultaneous raise of her finger and opening of her mouth made her threat–albeit silent–perfectly clear.
If he ran, she'd scream, and when she told the counselors that there was a boy in girl's camp, his cabin would be the first one they checked for the culprit, even if he could get away without being caught.
The boy dropped back to his knees on the rough forest floor in utter defeat, cursing everything and everyone that just kept putting him in these positions.
The girl's face disappeared, but he knew better than to hope she'd decided to leave him alone. Sure enough, a second later, he heard the faint creak of her opening the door, and then the soft sound of her footsteps as she crept down the porch steps and around the cabin to kneel beside him.
"So," she whispered as she did, the word accompanied by a coy little smile. "Whatcha doing?"
"None of your business," the boy snapped as quietly as humanly possible.
"Oh yeah?" she hissed back. "And what about everyone who'll come running if I scream?"
Dean ground his teeth together and didn't answer.
"Are you meeting a girl?"
Now that he could see her a little better, he realized that he'd sort of met this girl, whose name he was pretty sure was Ruth, before. That was, they'd worked kitchen shifts together, and she seemed to like him based on the eyes she'd given him and comments she'd thrown his way the entire time they'd been working together. She was pretty, and clearly a lot less straight-laced than most of the campers here, and if he had any capacity to focus on anything by the case, keeping his brother away from it, and not getting sent home, he'd probably have put some more effort into flirting back.
If he had any hope of getting out of this situation, it was that advantage that he knew he had against her, so he returned the flirtatious smile she'd flipped his way a few seconds before. "Would that bother you?"
She didn't miss a beat. "Only because I'd hate to see any of the good girls around here messing around with a guy like you."
Dean swallowed hard, grateful for the darkness as a guard against any hint in his eyes of the fact that the comment actually did sting a little. She wasn't the first girl to talk about him like that, and he knew she wouldn't be the last, and there was no way on earth that it should bother him, but it did. He didn't like thinking about what his mother would say if she found out he was the kind of boy girls' parents wouldn't want them associating with.
"I don't think that's it anyway," Ruth continued before he could think of something to say. "I think you're going to go and poke around the sister camp?"
Dean did his best not to react to the accusation, wrinkling his nose like it made zero sense. "The sister camp as in the one where people disappeared? Why would I do that ?"
"I don't know," she returned with a coy little shrug. "Why would you sneak into PC central in the middle of the night to research the boogeyman?"
This time, he knew he couldn't mask the surprise and confusion from his expression, and it clearly wasn't lost on her, as she shrugged once again. "They didn't know I could hear them talking about it."
Once again, Dean had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to say now, and once again, she beat him to the draw.
"I want to come. I believe in ghosts, and I want to prove there's something spooky going on here."
"Kids disappearing isn't spooky enough for you?" Dean snapped, his tone darkening as she approached the subject so lightly.
He hesitated before going on, since it was clear she was completely convinced of his intentions anyway.
"No way. I'm trying to actually do something about this, and it's too dangerous."
She met his gaze coolly, unphased by his denial of her request. "Guess you can tell that to the pcs after I scream. I'm sure they'll understand."
They stared each other down for a long moment, but it was clear she was dead serious. She had the ultimate power until he got annoyed enough to knock her out and tie her up. If he didn't do a single thing she wanted him to, she could wake the whole camp up, and then he'd be packing his bags and heading to the foster care system quicker than you could say decs .
There was no way he could actually take her anywhere near a monster that he didn't even know how to kill, but he had to satisfy her somehow. He could hop the fence, poke around a bit for snow, bring her back, and probably still have a little time to go back and actually investigate. The interruption would be highly obnoxious to say the very, very least, but at this point, it was the best option he had.
"Fine." He practically spat the word, turning away to check the perimeter for any other counselors or campers. "But if you get hurt, it's not on me."
If she got hurt, it would very much be on him, but he had to sell the lie that he was actually taking her into danger.
Her composure finally broke as her face split into a triumphant grin. "If I should be so lucky."
Dean just rolled his eyes, checking the area one more time before jerking his head for her to follow him the rest of the way out of girls' camp.
Yeah, speaking of that break that he was now well overdue for.
At least they didn't have to talk or anything. She'd gone from pretty to nothing but incredibly annoying, and he just wanted to get this over with and then hopefully never talk to her again.
She hadn't even brought along her own flashlight, and the going got slower and slower as the forest they were moving through thickened, with only his light to cut the path for both of them. She also was far from the quietest companion he could ask for, hissing and gasping each time a tree branch scraped or scratched into her.
Dean grit his teeth harder with each and every unnecessary noise she made.
They were almost to the fence when he sensed that something was off.
The boy froze where he was, his mind grappling for a clue as to what he was sensing, and whether it was natural or otherwise.
Something big, something breathing heavily, not too far away, just around the next few trees.
"Come on!" Ruth hissed, her hand closing around his wrist and pulling it up to shine the light in the direction of the sister camp. "We're almost there."
Dean opened his mouth, but before he could order her to stop, she'd pulled him another few steps, right around those trees he'd perceived as being between them and whoever–or whatever–he was feeling the presence of.
The words choked in the back of his throat as his eyes locked with the huge, dark mass of a fully grown moose.
The animal was probably ten feet away, tucked between two trees, antlers stopping it from being able to reach a particular leaf that it seemed to be completely obsessed with.
Ruth screamed, and then everything happened at once.
The moose turned and charged with no hesitation or desire to see what it was charging at, and it was pure instinct that enabled Dean to pull Ruth out of the way in time to avoid its barreling mission.
"Go! Run!" he ordered, all effort at silence forgotten for the moment as he shoved her, hard, a few steps back in the direction they'd just come from.
He heard evidence of her obedience, but could no longer focus on it, as the moose refocused on the light emitting from his flashlight and charged at him again.
Again, he spun out of its path, and then he flew up the first tree he laid hands on. Once he'd scrambled up its rough, sappy surface and had found a semi-stable branch to rest on, he made sure to keep the flashlight focused on the animal to keep it from going after Ruth instead. Not that it would still be able to see her–she should be running fast enough to be long gone from the sight of the nearly-blind animal–but there was always the chance it would hear her instead and follow her back toward the camp.
The light worked like a charm, bringing the antlers of the huge animal crashing into the tree he'd climbed once, then again.
Dean swallowed hard and stared down at it in a bit of wonder. It wasn't often he got this close to normal animals at all. He'd certainly never been so close to one so big. If it wasn't trying to kill him, it would have been incredible.
As it was, it was strange to be attacked by something so wild–and almost innocent . It wasn't some malicious ghost with a century-long vendetta to satisfy, or some monster or demon who existed to cause death and pain.
It was just an animal, and he was just some dark blob preceded by blinding light and accompanied by Ruth's piercing scream. He'd probably charge, too.
The thing didn't charge again, but it also didn't leave, beginning to aimlessly pace between the surrounding trees. With a soft moan, it dropped its head and began exploring the forest floor for something to eat.
Dean swore under his breath as the strength dropped out of his shoulders. He'd asked for a single freaking break, and he'd gotten the exact freaking opposite.
Ruth'd be almost back to camp by now, probably yelling and crying to the first adult she laid eyes on.
The boy swallowed hard. He'd be lucky if all he got was a change of sleeping quarters. If the moose would just get lost, he might be able to make it back to his cabin before they had the chance to check it–the more pressing issue being the boy being harassed by the moose than checking the bed they'd be no doubt be sure they'd find empty.
However, the huge, lumbering creature seemed to have no plans to get lost anytime soon.
Maybe he should just hop on down and hope he scored a week-long–or forever-long–nap out of the deal.
Except he still had a hunt to finish, and that would probably put a damper on Sammy's best week ever thing he had going right now. Not to mention the ever-present Damien problem.
Screw his entire freaking life.
He glared down at the source of his captivity like it would do him absolutely any good.
"Go," he hissed. "Go away."
The thing continued to snuffle along the ground with its stupid, huge nose.
The love of God this and Jesus loves you that. How much more proof did he need that any all-powerful being out there loved nothing more than to see him suffer?
"Come on," he whispered desperately. "Go away. Please go away."
He heard voices down in the camp. Sound carried for miles up here. They'd probably heard Ruth's scream and started trying to figure out what was going on long before she'd made it back to tell them.
A car started, probably one of the ones they kept down at the PCO.
Being eaten by a moose was looking more and more appealing.
"Please," he begged one more time. "Please just moose along. Just… just…" A heavy sigh.
The thing looked like he was about to settle down and take a nap or something.
The voices were getting louder, the sound of the car engine getting closer.
"Last chance." The words were more huffed than whispered, his last stand before admitting defeat.
Nothing.
The glow of headlights appeared down the hill, whatever vehicle it was clearly struggling to find a route through the forest.
Unfortunately, he could see behind him, and he knew there was a nice little path just waiting for them to come and carry him into the oblivion of endless Jesus lectures.
Sure enough, it didn't take long the hum of an engine to snake around to approach from the other side. The moose clearly heard it too, its head coming up at last. A pause, then Dean flinched violently as two quick gunshots cracked through the night.
It took him a moment to realize that they'd no doubt been directed into the sky–and had done exactly what they'd been intended for. The moose bolted in the direction Dean had been trying to get in himself, crashing through the forest like a small army.
Dean wished he'd thought to jump on its back in time to actually do it.
Instead, he was forced to stare down into the flashlight being shone directly into his face.
A Jeep. Why did they have to be driving a freaking Jeep?
He squinted, but it was too bright for him to see who was there.
"Down." He recognized the voice, but it wasn't Matt's–or Cade's. He didn't know if that made it better, or worse. " Now ."
summary: With Sam at Stanford and John no-contact, Dean spirals-and finds himself back on Bobby's front porch.
notes: When I tell you that I've been trying to write this final part for 2 years, I am not exaggerating. I kind of wrote myself into a corner and agonized over it for an absurd amount of time, but I genuinely just want it off my desk at this point, so it's not great, but it's here, and on the bright side, I don't think anyone's expecting it, so it's hard to be disappointed lol.
That said, I've been dealing with some intense writer's block in general, so any feedback you can give me is desperately needed. Love y'all. Sorry for disappearing. - Line
Dean really hadn't been trying to kill himself.
Not that it hadn't ever crossed his mind.
It had been crossing his mind for a decade now.
And not that he'd never tried to get himself killed.
As John had run off for longer and longer periods of time and sent him on more and more solo hunts over the past year since Sam had left, it would be safe to say that on the majority of those hunts, he'd had a moment where he'd moved a little too slow on purpose, given whatever he was hunting the chance to hunt him back. Then instinct and training took over and he walked away with another win and another scar.
But this time, he really wasn't trying to kill himself.
He beat a demon a few casualties too late. Poured whiskey down his throat, but it didn't help. So he'd locked himself in the bathroom and done what did help.
He knew doing it drunk wasn't a good idea, but that'd never stopped him before.
Apparently, this time had been once too many.
Trying to cut through a fog of alcohol to feel the pain, he'd sliced a little too deep... or maybe just in the wrong place. Or maybe both.
Honestly, he didn't remember.
He just remembered staring dully at the crimson liquid flowing much too fast from his wrist and thinking how ironic it was that he was going to kill himself without even trying.
Sure, he'd felt a weight be lifted from his shoulders, relief throb through the pain in his soul, but that didn't change the fact that he hadn't been trying to do it.
Spotty blackness had been interrupted by a voice he hadn't heard except in a pre-recorded voicemail in over two months.
He wondered now if his father had really been as broken and devastated as he remembered, or if that had been a fever dream and he'd been angry from the start.
Pounding on the motel room door.
"Dean?"
In his hurry to get to his whiskey and his knife, he'd failed to lock either of the doors that had stood between him and his father.
Darkness. Pounding on the bathroom door.
Anger jumping immediately into Dad's voice. When had Dad gotten there?
He'd sent his coordinates a few days ago, but that hadn't changed anything the past two months...
Darkness.
Hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake. A string of curses.
"No! No, no, no... Dean... son, my son... stay with me, Dean. Please, God, stay with me... why would you... You've gotta stay with me, son."
His words had been interspersed with more bouts of blackness, and then he'd come out of it in a different position than he'd gone in, draped over his father's back as he moved him, then being dragged out into the main room, then being laid back on the bed.
"Sorry. 'M sorry."
He wasn't sure if the words had ever really come out, but he'd tried to say them over, and over, and over again.
"Tell Sammy 'm sorry. Tried to stop. Tell 'im I tried to stop."
Eventually, he'd blacked out for real. At last, sweet relief from both physical and emotional pain.
Until he woke up on a motel bed now stained with blood. And John started to yell while Dean's mind grappled with reality, went over what happened, both laughed and cried at the irony of it all until it realized that he was alive after slitting his own wrist and almost bleeding to death, and his father knew about it. Then he just wished he'd done a better job at stumbling into his own demise.
"What did you think you were doing?" John screamed, his face red with anger. "You're a Winchester! Did I raise you to just give up? Did I?"
Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
This was not a good time for his tongue to stop working.
"You stop talkin' and I swear, Boy."
Dean swallowed hard and worked a word and half out of a throat that felt like it had dried closed.
"'M sorry."
It was barely audible, but it was there.
"Is that all you have to say to me?" Spit flew from his dad's mouth as he leaned forward and his son flinched back. "Is that all you have?"
"Didn' mean to," Dean croaked.
The back of his father's hand connected with his jaw hard enough to slam his face into the wall he was propped against. He cursed the small whimper that escaped him.
"You didn't... You didn't mean to? And you think that makes this better?"
Dean couldn't find the words to answer, just staring at the carpet and wishing with utter desperation that he was dead.
He thought it might.
But nothing was going to make it better. Nothing except doing a better job of accidentally killing himself.
"Look at me!" More spit flew into his face, then hands were on his collar and he was being hauled up to eye-level with his father.
As his eyes met John's in utter terror, a strangled gasp slipped past his lips.
His vision was swimming, but he did his best to hold the older man's gaze, because he knew looking away again would only make everything worse.
"I told you to stop, Boy! What part of that didn't I make clear?"
"No part," Dean gasped, cursing the single tear he could feel running down his cheek.
Six weeks after dumping him and Sammy at the salvage yard, John had shown up in need of his hunting partner.
Bobby had stopped him on the porch, and the yelling match that ensued almost came to blows. Dad hadn't even really denied beating him... simply told the other man it was none of his business.
Meanwhile, Dean had quietly packed his and Sam's things before walking outside, one hand on his brother's shoulder to gently push him in front of him, the other holding onto that black duffel that held everything they owned.
Dean could still feel the way his chest had throbbed as he looked at Bobby, turning his way with You're not going with him, Dean, ready on his lips, and forced a trembling smile before saying softly, "It's okay."
He hadn't seen Bobby since.
Down the steps and in the Impala, he'd also never forget the shame that engulfed him as his father looked at him and growled, "I ever catch you doing that again..."
Dean had been a week clean, the longest he'd lasted since he'd started, when he left Bobby's. He did it again that night after his family was asleep. That week remained his record, unchallenged in the six years since.
John had checked his arms often, beaten him senseless each time. Sammy hated that. So Dean had switched to his legs and torso, John didn't check there, and life had gone on. But eventually, the older man had stopped checking at all, and started leaving for weeks and then months at a time, and Dean had gone right back to his arms. They were just... easier.
And when John did see, Sam wasn't around to cry or yell about Dean's half-conscious remains. Sam didn't care anymore anyway. And Dean deserved it. He hated it and feared it, but he'd almost come to... crave it. Need it.
So it was fine.
Until now.
"No part!" Dad repeated now, shaking him hard. "And what do you do? You almost kill yourself in a God-forsaken motel room because you just can't stop! What kind of an idiot doesn't mean to almost kill himself?"
"'M sorry," Dean whimpered again, but he knew it was no use.
And maybe he didn't want it to be. Once again, maybe he knew he deserved this and craved it in the same sick way he craved seeing the blood run off of his own arm.
John shoved him back down onto the bed, pushing his head into the wall with a loud thump before his knuckles found Dean's face.
He'd almost missed the abuse in the months his father had been gone.
"What is wrong with you?"
Dean wanted to yell back that he didn't know, that it was no picnic to live inside his screwed up head, but there were so many levels on which he couldn't do that, so he just shook his head as more tears fought their way out, croaking, "I don't know."
"This is the last thing I need right now, Dean!" John growled, pacing away from the bed. "I thought I could trust you on your own!"
"You can, Dad," Dean tried weakly.
His father was back across the room in two furious steps, his hand locking around Dean's bandaged wrist and shaking it in his face. "Does this look like I can trust you?" he screamed. "Does it?"
"I..."
He was cut off by another hard knuckle blow across his face. "This is so screwed up, Dean! How did you get so screwed up?"
"Look, Dad, I don't know!" Despite his best efforts, the tears really began to stream down his face. "I... everything just... it just hurts! And ever since Sammy left..."
John's hand snapped to the side of his head, grabbing a mixture of hair and ear and shaking. "You've been doing this for half a decade, Dean! Don't you try to blame your brother!"
"I'm not blaming him, Dad, I just..." Once again, the older hunter shoved his head back against the wall with yet another resounding crack.
"Shut up! Just shut up!"
Dean dropped his chin to his chest, partially out of pain and partially out of shame, as he continued to helplessly sob. It was like he was seventeen all over again, cursing his carelessness and everything else about him that had gotten him into this position.
John paced across the room again, rubbing his temple like he had a headache... except Dean knew he was the headache. Finally, he turned back towards Dean and pointed to the bathroom.
"Go get the knife."
Dean stared at him for a long moment, desperately trying to read his face and figure out what was about to happen.
"I said go, Boy!"
And the younger hunter snapped back to being his father's soldier who never hesitated on an order, sharply dropping his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. A hand on the nightstand was the only thing that kept him there as his vision blacked out and his knees threatened to give.
He heard his father scoff at his weakness and blinked desperately as he took a single, unsteady step toward the bathroom. His throbbing head and uneasy stomach now reminded him that on top of almost bleeding out, he was hungover.
Step by staggering, painful step, he made it to the bathroom. He had to drop to his knees to retrieve the blood-covered knife he'd been cutting himself with, much too unsteady to bend to retrieve it and expect not to fall on his head.
He pressed his eyes shut as he knelt there, hand fumbling with the hilt of the knife, trying to make himself stop crying.
Maybe he could just stab it through this throat now.
A hand closed around the back of his shirt and hauled him upright, sending his head spinning and his stomach turning all over again. Obviously, John was taking no chances that he decide to do just that.
After being hauled back into the main room and practically thrown onto the bed, the older man glowered down at him, arms crossed.
"Do it."
"Wha?" The word was more breath than anything, Dean desperately searching his father's face for a sign that he wasn't saying what he thought he was.
"Do it." The man repeated coldly, and it became clear he, in fact, was saying it.
"Dad..." Dean looked from his father to his arm, which had a bandage made of a bedsheet scrap tied around the roughly-stitched cut that had gotten him here, but other cuts and scars were still very much exposed on either side of it. He looked back at his father. "I... I can't."
John scoffed a little, clearly unsurprised. "You can't," he repeated, his voice calmer but dripping with disappointment. "You can't do it in front of me... why? Maybe because you know it's screwed up, Dean!"
"I do," the younger man choked out, his head dropping and his eyes fixing on the ugly, stained comforter he was sitting on. "I just... I don't know, Dad. I just can't stop."
"You did stop!" John snapped, his voice rising again. "I thought we'd been through this! I thought we were done with it!"
Dean just shook his head. It was hard for this to get much worse. Might as well be fully honest.
"No... no what, Dean?" John turned, slamming his fist into the wall behind him. The neighbors were not going to be pleased, but honestly, Dean was impressed to see him punching something that wasn't him. "Use words! You're not a toddler!"
Dean held himself back from saying that when he was a toddler, that hadn't seemed to be a good enough excuse not to use words.
"I never stopped," he managed softly, his sobs still for the moment but ashamed water still leaking from his eyes. "I just did it where you didn't check."
John stared down at him for a long moment, disgusted disbelief on his face. "You never... course you didn't. I should have known."
That disgust and disappointment dripping off of him made Dean want to try for that stab to the throat, in front of him or not. He really didn't think it would be possible to lower his opinion of him anymore.
Once again, John stepped in before he could decide if he was serious about the temptation, jerking the knife from Dean's hand and crossing the room to shove it, as well as the suture kit and whiskey he'd used to treat Dean's wound, into his duffle. Dean hadn't unpacked except to fetch the weapon from his own, so it was easy for the older hunter to zip it as well before throwing it, more at Dean than to him, and snatching the Impala keys from the nightstand.
"We're leaving."
Dean looked around the room as he slowly strengthened his grip on the duffle. That was probably for the best. There was blood everywhere... staining the bed, the carpet, and all over the bathroom. The sheet had a long strip missing thanks to John needing a bandage. On the bottom sheet, a large brown stain joined the blood, most likely the whiskey. Another bottle of the same kind of alcohol would have leaked out whatever Dean didn't finish off to make a cocktail with the blood pooled on the bathroom floor. It went without saying that he was not getting his deposit back, but at this point, he should probably be out of town before someone saw it, because the cops were definitely going to be called.
So he dropped his key on the nightstand and stumbled after his father because there really wasn't much else he could do.
He looked around for the truck John had been driving for the past several months, but it was nowhere in the rundown little lot.
"Where's your ride?" he asked as they both dropped their bags into the trunk of the Impala.
"Got totaled by a ghost in Grand Island," the older hunter growled. "Hitchhiked here to meet up with you til I could find a new one."
Dean nodded a little, turning away so his father wouldn't see the increased hurt in his eyes. Grand Island to Johnston was only about a four-hour drive... not too far to hitchhike. But he'd been wondering what had made John break the trend of the past two months... coordinate texts being his only communication in that time period, never mind meeting up. Should have known it had absolutely nothing to do with actually wanting to see him. He didn't know why he hadn't called for a ride, even if the trip wasn't a long one. Unlike everyone else in his family, Dean would have picked up the phone.
They both stepped into the car... Dean unfamiliar with the right side he found himself in now... and he chanced a look over at the driver's side.
"You got a hunt for us?" The question came out quiet and hopeful. If all he got out of this was a few months of babysitting, he'd be lucky. He'd almost be relieved. He was really getting sick of being alone.
But his father's bitter bark of laughter crushed that hope in an instant. "Yeah, cuz a psych case like you's exactly what I need tagging along when I'm getting close to the demon that killed your mother."
Dean couldn't help the wounded noise that escaped him. But John had known it was a low blow... that Dean would prefer freak or pretty much any other name he could think of... and he offered no apology as he continued.
"Apparently, you need a babysitter, and I don't have time to do it."
The younger man looked up sharply as he realized what he was getting at and a sick feeling rose in his stomach.
"I don't need to be babysat, Dad!" he protested desperately. "I'm twenty-two, you can't just dump me off at Bobby's anymore! I haven't seen him in like five years. And I want to hunt!"
"You shoulda thought of that before you decided to let your little habit get out of control," John snapped. "You want to get treated like an adult? Start acting like one!"
"Dad..."
"Enough, Dean!" His father looked over at him sharply, a dangerous fire in his eyes. "I've made up my mind!"
The young man's fist came down hard on the seat next to him, his jaw set with frustration, but he knew better than continue to argue. He could dump him there, but he couldn't keep him there. Not unless he planned to handcuff him to a bedpost.
"Guess you need a new car anyway."
The statement was the closest thing to further rebellion he dared to make. It was masked, but the message was clear... the Impala was Dean's, and if Dean wasn't coming along, neither was it.
"Wouldn't have given you this one if I'd known I couldn't trust you not to run it off a cliff."
Dean looked away, his jaw working on itself as he struggled not to begin to cry all over again. As biting as the statement was, at least it only regretted giving the car to him... it didn't challenge that it was, in fact, his.
It wasn't a long drive to Sioux Falls, but the tense environment in the car made it seem ten times longer than it was. It had been around three in the morning when Dean stumbled into the motel, that cursed hunt finally completed, probably close to four by the time he made that stupid, stupid mistake. He wasn't sure of the exact timeline of him bleeding and his father finding him and him being unconscious afterward, but he knew it was about eight when they hit the road, and it was nearing one in the afternoon as they drove under that still-familiar arch that he hadn't seen in over five years.
He could remember countless times rumbling up the driveway when guilt and shame had been joined by undeniable comfort and security. Now, all he felt was sick. Well, hungover and like he'd just almost bled out, but also sick in an unrelated way.
At least it wasn't the middle of the night or some wee hour of the morning this time. But he knew the length of time since their last visit made this one even more unexpected than those ill-timed ones had been.
His leg started to bounce, his foot tapping softly against the floor of the Impala. He actually thought he was going to be sick.
John glanced over at him and rolled his eyes, obviously recognizing the anxiety on his son's face.
"You'd think I was sending you to military school," he scoffed quietly. A hesitation. "You're lucky I'm not sending you to a psych ward."
Once again, it was a low blow and he knew it. He'd threatened it several times over before Dean had figured out how to hide the fresh cuts from him. Each time, Dean had literally begged him not to, and the last time, Sammy'd had to step it. John knew it was one of the boy's greatest fears.
Dean didn't say anything because he knew it would just get him another one-liner he'd never get out of his head. He just continued to stare out the window and try not to puke.
They reached the house and John shifted into park and turned the car off before climbing out, but Dean couldn't find it in him to move. This was not happening. This could not be happening.
He heard the trunk being opened and shut again, then his door was ajar as well, his father towering over him with his duffle in hand.
"Out."
Jaw still set both in anger and against tears, Dean slowly unbuckled and obeyed. He swayed on legs that were still weak from blood loss, steadying himself against the car. John let out a breath of disgust but waited until he seemed stable to shove the duffle into his hands.
If Dean was Sam, he would have reminded the older man of the many times he'd barely been able to get the Impala parked before John was throwing himself from the passenger's side to puke his hangover out on the gravel drive. But Dean wasn't Sam, and he didn't have the energy to speak anyway, so he kept his mouth shut as his father turned to the house and stormed up the porch steps.
It was so familiar. It made Dean feel every bit as small as he had as a kid, in trouble and exile until his father had need of him again.
John pounded his usual greeting onto the door. It opened to reveal Bobby, his body language clearly confused. A fresh wave of sickness rose in Dean's stomach. He swallowed it down with an effort. This could not be happening.
The two older hunters exchanged a minute's worth of quiet, clipped words. Dean stayed where he was, the car door open beside him, once again unable to make himself move until another order from his father forced him to.
"Dean!" John barked from his place at the door. "Get in here!"
Dean's head and shoulders both dropped, but he closed the Impala door and obediently made his painful way over to the house and up the steps, through the door which his dad and Bobby had disappeared through. He was barely inside before John was brushing past him with a freshly-acquired set of keys in hand, turning back towards him as he reached the stairs.
"You leave before I give the word, and I swear I'll track you down and put you in a hospital."
Then, he stormed away to whatever car Bobby had given him the use of. A long silence stretched between them. Dean swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the kitchen floor. He knew he needed to say something, but all of his words were choked in his throat. What could he say?
It was Bobby who broke the silence at last. Dean didn't expect the emotion in the hunter's voice.
"My God, Dean, it's good to see you."
Then, he closed the distance between them and wrapped him in a tight hug.
Dean froze for a moment, in shock, before he let the duffle fall to the floor and returned the embrace, managing softly, "Yeah." He'd been silent for most of the ride, and now talking was incredibly difficult. "It's–it's good ta–ta see you too, Bobby."
He inhaled deeply, not prepared for the rush of emotion that came with the familiar scent of oil and beer and coffee on Bobby's shirt. He allowed himself a long moment of comfort before stepping back and gathering the bag up again, taking a deep breath and setting his shoulders.
"But I–uh–" As if this wasn't humiliating enough as it was, now his throat was closing up and his tongue was beginning to feel thick in his mouth. "I'm real–real sorry about this. If you–uh..." He coughed in a desperate attempt to keep talking. "If you'll give me my keys and cane keep a secret, I'll..."
He swore violently, an easier word to get out than the rest were proving to be, staring at the ground for a long moment as he desperately tried to pull himself together.
"I'll get out of your hair."
He swallowed hard, blinking back humiliating tears of total frustration that he knew were not lost on the man in front of him, and neither was their source.
He knew what his father had said and couldn't be sure he didn't mean it, but if Bobby was willing to lie for him for a while, he should be able to pull off a hunt or two before coming back and pretending he'd been there all along.
Bobby sighed as he looked him up and down, his eyes spelled knowing care that made Dean want to run.
"Dean, you're a grown man" he sighed after a moment, "and I'm not gonna keep you here against your will. But I'd really prefer if you at least stayed for dinner."
Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek for a long moment before it was his turn to let out a long breath, then allowing the hint of a smile and a slight nod.
That brought the same expression to Bobby's face. "Is that a yes?"
Dean swallowed hard and repeated the affirming gesture. "Can I have a beer this time?" The question was barely audible, but it made Bobby chuckle nonetheless, reaching out and gently clapping the boy on the shoulder.
"Yeah, Dean. You can have a beer this time."
Since there were still several hours before dinnertime, Bobby recruited him to help fix up a Mustang that was giving him problems.
Despite the five years between now and when they'd done it last, they quickly fell into a familiar routine fixing the car, and Dean couldn't deny the comfort it... and Bobby's company... brought him. It was simple and routine, something Dean knew like the back of his hand, which required just enough thought to keep his mind occupied, but not so much it had to stay active enough to think about anything else. Best of all, something he'd appreciated before and appreciated even more now, fixing cars required very minimal talking.
He just did his best not to wonder how much his father had told the other hunter about why he'd been dumped here again.
They'd made good progress by the time they decided to pack it in for the night and went inside to fix whatever they could from the food in Bobby's cupboards... which was as sparse as it had always been when he wasn't taking care of Sam and Dean.
They ate in silence for several minutes before Bobby ventured, his tone careful, "Heard Sam went to college."
"Yeah..." Dean frowned a little, and not only because he was trying to speak and it hadn't gotten much easier since that afternoon. "How, though?"
Bobby smiled slightly. "I have my ways of keeping enough tabs on you boys to know you're at least still alive and kickin'."
The younger man accepted that with a small nod. He couldn't say he was surprised. "Oh. Yeah. He uh..." Deep breath. He could do this. "he got into Stanford. Full ride."
Bobby whistled a little. "That's not easy."
"No," Dean agreed, hesitating before adding softly, "I'm real proud."
"Can't imagine John felt the same."
Dean scoffed a little as he took another swig of his beer, a painfully shaken head replacing the need to form more words.
"I'm sorry, Boy. Can't have been easy for you."
The young man shrugged a little. "Not about me."
A small breath asked when anything ever had been in that family, but Bobby didn't vocalize the thought. Instead, he took a sip of his own beer before commenting mildly, "You look like hell, you know."
Dean's eyes dropped to the floor. "Rough hunt."
"How many times have I heard that before?"
The younger man sighed. He really didn't have it in him to go to bat for his father at the moment.
"I–uh–" A cough, as if it could force words out alongside air. "should probably get going."
"You got somewhere to be?"
Dean hesitated. "Well, I..." He frowned, eyes glued to his plate. "Just outta your hair."
Bobby shook his head tiredly. "And how many times have I told you you're always welcome?"
"I was a kid." He blinked hard. "You–you don't have to babysit me anymore."
"And I ain't gonna babysit you," the older man replied. "Because like I said before, you're a grown man, and you can do what you want. But you're not a bother, and you're not a burden, and that's not gonna change no matter how old you get." He let that sink in for a moment before adding, "Your room's still there, and your bed's still made up, and they're not much, but they're still better than any hotel you Winchesters have ever graced the doorstep of, and they're yours for as long as you can use 'em"
Dean exhaled slowly before spearing another bite and forking it into his mouth. Bobby was right about all of that. And the grizzled hunter wasn't one to put on appearances. He said what he meant, so if he said he was welcome, Dean was inclined to believe him.
However, the minute of conversation between Bobby and John before Dean came inside had been weighing heavily on his mind all day.
Bobby had already known way more about Dean's screwed-up mind than he'd like him to. He'd already seen his at his worst and most traumatized moments of his childhood before having him dumped on his doorstep because John found out just how much of a freak he was. He'd already held him while he cried because Sam passed on the information he'd gathered from outside the motel room where Dean was being beaten and screamed at, walked in on Dean with a knife in his hand and blood on his wrist, reacted with only a twitch of pain and sadness across his face, and cleaned up the fresh cuts while Dean broke down all over again.
But Dean had been a kid then, and while that may not have made any of it feel better at the time, it helped him rationalize it now, cringe just a little less when he thought back on it.
Not knowing how much about why he was here this time Bobby even knew was effectively twisting together a thick knot of anxiety in his chest.
"What did Dad tell you?" His voice came out barely audible, but he still surprised himself when it did.
And cringed all over again. It was just like he was a kid in trouble all over again.
Bobby considered him from across the table, his gaze understanding. "Not much, Dean," he assured. "I won't repeat it exactly, but he said he needed me to watch you because your habits were out of control. Nothing more than that."
Since Bobby wasn't exactly pious to the language of the sailor, Dean could safely assume the things he wouldn't repeat were along the lines of freak and can't be trusted. But that wasn't bad. That... was salvageable.
"Oh." He forced a bit of a laugh. "Ya know, for the–the man who taught me how to drink, he..." Another lengthy pause to make his mouth keep working. "sure does react poorly to a... empty bottle of whiskey in my room."
Bobby just nodded a little. Something in his eyes said he was very sure that wasn't the whole story, but something else next to it said he wasn't going to push for answers Dean didn't want to give.
Dean's chest throbbed a little as he recognized it, so he snatched up his beer and took a long swig in an attempt to distract himself.
He'd almost forgotten just how different John Winchester and Bobby Singer were.
Bobby took a sip of his own beer before offering gently, "I appreciate you talkin' to me, Kid. But I won't make you do it anymore unless there's something you need to get off your chest."
Dean's eyes snapped shut against the emotion which the words brought to sting them. He kept them closed until he was sure he could open them without risking any moisture leaking out. When he finally did open them, his voice came out rough, raw, and quiet.
"Thanks, Bobby." He hesitated, then, not sure why, but knowing he had to say it, "For real. For everything."
The grizzled hunter's brow creased a little as he looked at him, his gaze careful and concerned.
"Is there anything you need to get off your chest, Dean?"
The younger man's eyes dropped as he finished off the rest of his beer, shaking his head a little after he did.
"No," he managed to choke out. "No, I'm good."
He pushed himself to his feet with a soft groan, clearing both their plates and taking them to the other side of the kitchen to rinse and load them into the dishwasher. Bobby followed, tossing their beer bottles into a trash can half full of more beer bottles. Dean felt the older hunter's gaze, heavy on his cuffs, soaked thanks to his unwillingness to push them back, but he didn't comment on it.
He made quick work of the dishes, and when he had, turned to where he'd left his bag when he came in. However, Bobby stopped him with an upraised hand.
"I'll get it, Boy," he said gently.
"Bobby..." He started tiredly, but he shook his head, cutting him off.
"Dean, you're half dead right now. You and your layers can't hide that from me. I know you ain't gonna let me clean you up, so the least you can do is let me carry your duffle upstairs."
Dean opened his mouth, but both his mind and his tongue abandoned him this time.
"You go on upstairs," Bobby urged. "Try to clean yourself up at least. I'll put your things in your room."
"Thanks, Bobby," he repeated softly, too tired and in too much pain to fight him any longer. He stooped to pull a clean t-shirt and pair of sweats out of the bag, but when he had, he continued on his slow and painful way upstairs without the duffle itself. "G'night."
"Goodnight, Dean," the older hunter replied with a heavy note of fondness in his voice.
Dean managed to turn his mind off as he finished the trek upstairs and stumbled through a half-asleep shower.
When he made his way back to the bedroom he and Sam had occupied for so much of their childhood, the duffle was waiting as promised, in its usual place at the foot of his old bed. He sat there next to it, staring at the wall and doing everything he could to keep his mind completely empty, for so long that he almost fell asleep sitting up.
However, he woke himself with a sudden moment of clarity that seemed terribly obvious now that it had come to him.
Why had it taken an accident for him to almost get out?
What was he even living for anymore?
He'd thought of it so many times for so long, but he'd always talked himself down for the sake of his brother and his father.
His brother wanted nothing to do with him, and his father couldn't stand the sight of him.
So he was suffering in a life he was sure couldn't possibly be worse than hell if it existed, for what?
Nothing.
There was nothing and no one in the world who would truly care if he ate a bullet.
Except maybe Bobby.
It would have been so much easier if he would have just done it right before his father had the chance to drag him back out here because before that day, he hadn't seen the older hunter in five years.
But he'd been fine for those five years, hadn't he?
Sure, he might momentarily grieve, but losing friends was a part of the hunter's life, and the only thing that would really change about Bobby's was that he wouldn't have to worry about Dean from afar anymore.
And as guilty as Dean did feel for doing that to him, he knew Bobby would give him a proper hunter's funeral. Not that he deserved it, but if there was one thing he did not want to do, it was to come back after he finally got away from this God-forsaken rock.
It was so simple.
He was nothing but a burden and such a freaking screw-up, and he had no idea why he hadn't done this a very, very long time ago. It wasn't as if it hadn't ever crossed his mind.
It had been practically all he thought about for more than half a decade now.
That meant that just because he hadn't actually done it, didn't mean he hadn't come very, very close, and he had everything he needed tucked into the bottom of his duffle bag.
A small handgun, a normal one he'd load with silver bullets if needed, but these days always held a single round of perfectly normal ammunition, not ideal for many hunts, but very ideal for putting a bullet into one's own mouth.
He'd left the door open out of habit–being able to see across the hall to Bobby's door had always brought him a pathetic kind of comfort as a kid–but he crossed to it now, closing it behind him before pulling his hunter's journal out of his duffle and tearing out a blank page.
It was bad enough that he was making Bobby clean up his carcass–the least he could do was give him some sort of explanation as to why.
Bobby,
I'm really sorry for making you deal with this–and me, for way longer than anyone ever should. I hope you don't waste too much time feeling bad about this, and you sure as hell don't get to blame yourself. This is my crap, my own fault, and nothing anybody should be feeling bad about, especially not you. It's the right answer for me, and everyone's gonna be better off once the dust settles. Make sure Dad knows I did this, you had nothing to do with it, and the only thing he can be pissed at is my ghost. Speaking of which, I know I don't deserve this, but could you make sure I don't actually have one? I may be a pathetic excuse for a hunter, but I'd still rather not become what I hunt.
I hope you know I mean it when I tell you thanks–for everything you've always done for me even though I never should've been your problem. Please keep on keeping an eye on Sammy. I don't think he should take this news too hard, but make sure he knows it's not his fault, and it's not Dad's fault, and it's for the best–and that I love him, as girly as that is. Seriously, Bobby. Thanks.
Dean
He set the note down on his nightstand, took a deep breath, and hauled his duffle up, onto his lap, reaching inside without having to look.
And finding only clothes and the feeling of his homemade emf reader–no gun.
Frowning, the young man did look now, parting the clothes and squinting into the bag.
No gun.
He rummaged for another moment and still found nothing.
He must have left it in the Impala.
He didn't remember ever taking it out, but that was the only explanation.
Unless his dad...
But he didn't know it was there–it wasn't where they usually kept them. And if he had found it, Dean had no doubt he would have brought it up. Quietly removing it simply wasn't John Winchester's style.
So it had to be in the Impala.
That was probably a better place to do this anyway–much preferable to bleeding all over Bobby's floor.
Nodding slightly to himself, the young man got to his feet and crept to the door, not liking the way it felt just like he was a little eight-year-old kid again, trying to sneak away so he stopped making his dad angry.
A quick check outside found Bobby's door closed, no light coming out from underneath it. Based on the darkness also present in the rest of the house, it seemed the older hunter had gone to bed for once.
So, quietly, wincing a little as the floorboards creaked, he made his way out into the hall and down the stairs. Luckily, he still remembered the meticulously memorized quietest places to step in the old house, so those creaks were kept to as much of a minimum as they possibly could be.
It was a welcome surprise–something he didn't like admitting was an active relief–to find both of his shoes waiting for him where he'd left them.
He picked up the keys from where Bobby had hung them and continued outside, his boots crunching on the gravel as he headed for the waiting Impala.
He knew it was frightening how calm he was about this–he was almost scaring himself, deep down. He'd never imagined going out this way–so deliberate and planned. Ideally, a hunt would finally take him out, and even if that didn't happen, he'd imagined finally giving into the temptation in a much more spur-of-the-moment fashion, such as the incident that had gotten him here in the first place, except the part where it hadn't even been on purpose.
But he also knew this was what was best for everyone.
And, he thought back to the darkness of that hotel room, the shame of slicing his arm open yet again, the sick relief of realizing that this was it, and he knew he simply couldn't do this anymore.
He unlocked the car and leaned inside, checking the backseat and the floor beneath it, then the passenger's side, then the glove box. Nothing.
How had he lost a freaking gun?
He scrambled back out of the car and moved to its rear, opening the trunk and beginning to rummage. Maybe John had found it, and had simply put it away with the rest of the weapons, thinking it'd been out from a hunt.
Also not like John not to ream him for not putting it away, but if he hadn't realized it's purpose, maybe he'd just had better things to ream him for at the time.
However, while everything else was in its place, that single, normal handgun was still nowhere to be found.
The young hunter frowned, leaning back and looking over his small armory with a creased brow. He had a bad feeling about this.
It was very possible he'd left it back in the hotel.
While he didn't remember taking it out, he'd also been upset and then drunk and then bleeding out and then hungover and nauseous from almost bleeding out, so he wasn't exactly going to go to bat for his level of cognition.
But he just had that... feeling.
It didn't have to be a gun, though. He'd made that very clear the night before.
And as painful as it sounded to cut open his wrist all over again, at least this time he could do it right and make it quick.
If that was his only option, it was his only option.
So, he selected one of the larger knives in his personal collection before closing the trunk and settling himself back against the car.
This was definitely a braver way to go.
Pulling a trigger was so simple, so easy, and it was instantly rewarded.
He knew from the mistake that had landed him here that knife to wrist would be none of the above.
But it wasn't as if slicing his arm up was something that was foreign to him. He just had to do what he always did, but with a bigger knife, across an artery.
Not so hard.
He could do this.
He felt sick to his stomach now, the confident decisiveness he'd experienced before beginning to wear away, but he knew that was just a sign that he needed to do it now, before he wavered anymore.
He took a deep, shaky breath, set his shoulders, and settled against the Impala a little more securely before setting the knife to his wrist.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The young man's head jerked up, his brain ceasing to function for a moment as his eyes locked onto the owner of the mild, gentle question.
Bobby... with a clipless handgun held up in one hand.
Replacing the distributor cap which had replaced the tennis shoe.
Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
A heavy, painful sigh passed Bobby's lips as he lowered the gun to his side. "Put it down, Dean."
"Bobby–"
"I'll save ya even if you do it. You know I will."
"Bobby," he gasped a second time, but this time, he didn't have to be cut off to stop there. That was simply all he had in him–a cry for help and a plea to stop helping him at the very same time.
The thing he hated most was the realization that his dad had been right. He'd been right to assume the worst, and he'd been right to dump his there so that Dean couldn't try again. He'd been right, and now Bobby was doing exactly the job he'd been given to do, and Dean hated that.
With the realization, his eyes dropped to the ground at last, and water began to stream down his face.
"Dean." Bobby's voice was low and graveling, thick with emotion like the grizzled hunter seldom expressed. "Listen to me, Son. This isn't the answer."
"Why not, Bobby?" even as he asked the question, he told himself not to, desperately begging himself not to break down like he always did. "Everyone will be better off."
"You mean this crap?" the older man held up the hand not holding the gun, and Dean recognized the crumpled paper that was clearly his suicide note. "That's all it is, Boy. You've been holding your whole family together since you were a kid, and as unfair as that is, they'll fall apart without you."
A raw scoff fell from Dean's lips. "What's there to fall apart? We already did." He hesitated before adding softly, "Eighteen years ago, we did."
"I know you're hurting, Dean–"
This time, it was the younger's turn to cut him off. "No, Bobby! I'm not hurting, okay? I'm done. I can't. I can't do this. Not anymore."
Bobby opened his mouth, but something caught in his eyes, and after a long moment, he closed it again. Then, his voice did come out, uncharacteristically soft.
"That's fair."
Dean's eyes snapped up to his, uncertainty and timid hope pouring out of them.
The older hunter spread his hands in clear, helpless frustration. "What am I supposed to say, Kid?" he asked.
His voice was rough and angry, though the boy knew better than to think that anger was directed at him.
"That it's really not that bad? I'd be lyin' to you. I know your life, but I also know I don't know the half of it–of what–" his voice caught, and he had to try again. "Of what he's done to you, what he does to you. What he's let happen to you. So I could tell you it gets better, but who am I to promise that? You're a hunter. It might never get better. Sure as hell sometimes seems like it never does."
Dean continued to watch the older man, holding his breath as he prayed he was finally seeing it for what he was, that they could do this painlessly, that he'd just let him go.
"There's nothin' I can say, Dean." Bobby's voice grew thicker with each word. "Except that I love ya, but I know he says that too, so why should it mean anything to you anymore?" He hesitated a long moment to take a deep breath, then finally said, his voice barely audible, "so you can do it if it's what you gotta do. If that's what you need to feel like you've got a shred of control, or if you really are just in that much pain, I'm not gonna stop ya cuz I can't really stop ya."
Dean opened his mouth to desperately thank him, disbelieving gratitude flooding through him.
"But," Bobby went on, and the boy's heart dropped. "I'll still save ya. I'll save ya, and I'll nurse ya, and I'll keep ya here and keep your bastard father as far away from here as a mortal man can. Cuz even if you've got every right to want a way out, I still love ya like my own son, and so I will save you every damn time until you stop trying."
"Bobby..." He tried to argue, but the older man cut him off.
"Would you let Sam die?"
The very idea made Dean's throat close up a little, and he faltered as he answered. "Well–I–" There was no lying about it. "No, but–"
But Bobby just nodded, saying silently that there was no but that could change his mind. "And I won't let you die. It's as simple as that, Kid."
Dean's eyes squeezed closed again as the last of his strength left his legs, and he sank down onto the ground, his back against his beloved car and his knife still tightly clenched in one hand.
"I don't want him to be right, Bobby."
The words came out without him meaning for them to, and it took him a moment to realize it had been his own voice that whispered them.
Carefully, the older man lowered himself down to Dean's level, crouching there in the moonlight as he considered him. "Johnny?"
The boy nodded silently, but went on after a moment, "He sent me here so you'd stop me from offing myself, and now that's exactly what you're doing."
"He didn't send you here to keep you from offing yourself, boy," Bobby countered levelly, finally bringing Dean's eyes sliding up to his. "He sent ya here cuz he thought I could make ya stop cutting your own wrists," he continued, saying it as if he was reading the morning paper. "Like I did last time."
Dean's jaw tightened. He felt like he should say something, but he wasn't sure what he could say.
"But," the grizzled hunter went on. "You were a kid last time. When you're a kid, I can tell ya not to drink with my third beer in my own hand, cuz that's how bein' a kid works. But you're not a kid anymore."
The younger man wanted to look back at the ground, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from his old friend's.
"I sure as hell don't like that you still find the need to cut yourself to pieces, but who am I to tell ya not to?" Bobby asked, spreading his hands helplessly before letting out a bark of hapless laughter. "Who's your dad to? It may not be healthy, but when has a hunter ever coped in a healthy way? You've been watchin' both of us drown our demons in the bottle since you were a little kid. You've been at the worst end of your dad's drunken fits for almost as long."
Dean swallowed hard, still not quite sure where Bobby was going with this.
"My point is," he wound down at last, "if you need to talk, you better believe I'm here to listen, and if I had my choice about it, you'd pick me over your knife or your whiskey every time. But you're not sixteen anymore, Dean. I'm not gonna take your blades unless you wanna give 'em to me. I'm not gonna keep you from leavin'. I may love ya like a son, but you grew up all by yourself, and I know that. Neither me or anyone else's got the right to tell ya you can't take care of yourself. And as for this?"
He nodded to the handgun still in his hand.
"John didn't say a word about this. You get a look in your eye when you're thinkin' about runnin'. Always have. You may have been half-dead when you walked through my door, but I've got no clue what was a ghost and what was your dad and what was you. I knew what was about to go down, cuz I know you, Dean. Your daddy doesn't, and your daddy had no idea."
Dean considered that carefully as a long minute of silence stretched between them. To be fair, it had been an accident, and he'd told his dad that, and he'd believed him–and thought that was even worse than the alternative. His dad hated the cutting, and they both knew Bobby had broken him of it once before, something John had been trying and failing to do for years since. It made sense for him to dump him back here after Dean's revelation that he'd never stopped a second time.
"You wanna prove your dad wrong, Dean?"
Bobby's quiet question broke back through the boy's thoughts, and he looked up once more, his gaze pouring into the older man's a clear yes.
"I've got a hunt for ya."
That wasn't what Dean had been expecting him to say, and it took him a moment to process.
"You take it," Bobby went on. "You kill it. Your daddy may have threatened you not to leave, but if you're out there savin' people and huntin' things, there's not a thing he can say against it."
There was another beat of quiet before he hammered in the final nail.
"You're a hunter, Son. That's what you do."
Dean pressed his eyes shut and heaven a deep, shaky breath.
Almost no part of him wanted to get up and keep going. But Bobby had put him between a rock and a hard place. If he had a gun, he'd have a shot of doing a good enough job to keep the older man from saving him. With a knife, and with Bobby sitting right in front of him, he had essentially no shot.
He might as well at least take the hunt and then go and drive off an overpass.
After he hunted whatever it was, of course.
He couldn't just leave the job undone.
He swore softly as he realized it.
There was always another job to do.
He was a hunter.
He was a Winchester.
The moment for quitting had passed, and until another presented itself, quitting was no longer an option, because he was a blasted Winchester.
He heard a small smile in Bobby's voice. "Is that a yes?"
Groaning, the young man hauled himself to his feet, swearing again, louder this time.
Bobby stood as well, one hand clapping Dean on the shoulder as a heavy sigh of relief passed his lips. "That's a yes."
"Screw you, Bobby," Dean muttered as they trudged together in the direction of the house.
Bobby chuckled a little. "I love you too, Boy."
Well, there you have it. Like I said, I wrote myself into a corner and didn't really know how to get out of it, but I'd come too far to just give up or start over. I didn't want John to be right, but I also know (personally lol) the worst thing about asshole parents is half the stuff they say to you is seventy-five-percent true... it's just their fault. So I know this isn't a super satisfying ending, but it's just what I've got for the time being. I'm not gonna say never on the fic, but like I said, for now, I just really needed it off my desk and out of my wips.
tw: referenced disappearance, referenced neglect, mild language
summary: Caleb gets a call from an old college friend.
part 11 | part 13
word count: 2,196
Caleb was going to be sick if this meeting didn't end within the next ten minutes.
Whether genuinely out of sheer boredom, or purposefully in order to get out of there, it was going to happen.
He thought about Moose, currently laboring in 100-degree Texas heat and humidity on their latest project, and actually envied him despite the cush air conditioning he was currently reclining in. Anything would be better than an industry-wide meeting about the latest advancements which really just took all of the art out of the process.
In his humble opinion, that was.
But more than back-breaking construction work or mind-numbing meetings or anything else about this normal person life, he wanted to be hunting right now.
It wasn't that he didn't like or appreciate his outside life, but sometimes it just all seemed so trivial.
It didn't help that he hadn't seen Johnny–or, more importantly, Sam and Deuce–in over two months. He'd been planning on meeting up to hunt together, but then he'd gotten the pitch about this opportunity and felt like he couldn't turn it down.
As it turned out, he really, really could have.
Simply because he had absolutely nothing better to do, he pinged off a quick mental check on his family. He obviously knew everyone was alive and not injured enough to set him off, but if he really focused on it, he could get bits and pieces of more details than that, and it was helpful for relieving his boredom and giving him peace of mind.
Everyone seemed normal except for the boys.
There wasn't anything specific, just a vaguely bad feeling. They were fine–he had to remind himself of that. If they were hurt, he would have felt–really felt it. But when he focused on them too hard, he felt sick to his stomach.
He'd call Deuce as soon as he got out of prison.
At long last, they did wrap things up with a promise that he'd call the other party soon–and absolutely no intention to actually do so. Being bored did nothing for his anxiety, and he was digging his cell phone out of his pocket as he was still walking out of the meeting room.
However, before he could find Dean's contact and put his mind at ease, he was greeted by a missed call and voicemail–by a name he'd forgotten he even had in his phone.
Matt Thedes
They'd been suitemates freshman year of college, and stayed casual friends until they both graduated and quickly fell out of touch. He was a nice guy–a really nice guy–as in intensely religious and quick to share it, especially with lost sheep Caleb, but he'd been chill about it rather than judgmental or overbearing, so he couldn't really complain. He definitely hadn't expected to hear from him now… or ever again, for that matter.
Momentarily distracted from his concern for Deuce, he selected the voicemail and snapped the phone to his ear as he queued up the elevator to get the heck out of there.
"Hey, Caleb," came the distantly familiar voice on the other line. "First off, it's been too long, and I'm sorry. I should have kept in touch better. But I–uh–I'm working at this summer camp in Colorado right now, and I…" He let out a long breath. "This is gonna sound crazy. But I'm pretty sure that kid who came to visit you at school is here."
Caleb froze. Dean? Why would… there was no way…
"He was your nephew? Your cousin." Another sigh. "I don't know, Man. I'm sorry. I know it's probably not him, and if it is, you probably know all of this already, but I just… he checked them in himself. Had papers signed by his dad, and that's it. Honestly, I'm not even sure how we legally accepted the, but it seemed like they needed it, so we found some loopholes."
When he'd talked to Mac the night before, he'd mentioned that Jim had sent John on a hunt in Colorado, to investigate disappearances surrounding a summer camp, but there was… there was no way…
"But the thing is, I… I don't know what's happened between you and him or you and his dad since college, Man, I… I know family's complicated for you. But you seemed tight when he came to see you, and now he–he hasn't even mentioned you." A deep breath, like he was trying to make himself get to the point. "Look, just… he's in a bad spot. Like, damage that I'm not even sure therapy can touch. We're trying to help, but he wants none of it, and we don't wanna send him home–whatever home even means for him–but he's gonna push it until we don't have a choice. And after what happened at the sister camp…"
John wouldn't. John couldn't. Not even Johnny… he wouldn't… it probably wasn't him. It probably wasn't him.
"Either way," Matt continued, "he needs someone when he leaves, and–I mean, if it's him, I guess–I hope that's you. Again, I–I know you probably know all this, or I'm crazy and it's not him, or… I don't know, Man. I just… I had to make sure." A final sigh. "Okay, Buddy. Love ya. Miss ya. Thanks for listening to me ramble. Hope to hear from you soon."
It couldn't be him. It could not… John could not…
They were supposed to be in New Mexico. When Mac had said Johnny'd been sent to investigate the disappearance of several kids in, the first thing he'd asked was if he was really taking Dean and Sam closer to a child-targeting monster on Jim's command. He'd been assured that no, they'd stayed in New Mexico, and Jim was checking in often. Johnny was connecting with a Colorado-based hunter for backup on the hunt.
But if Matt was right, John hadn't just taken them… he'd sent them. Without him.
No way. There was no way.
Even as he repeated the desperate assurance to himself over and over again, he was calling his old friend back and listening to it ring with baited breath. Just when he thought Matt wasn't going to answer, the other line connected.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Matt," he tried to keep the desperate relief out of his voice. "Uh… it's Caleb Reaves from–from college."
"Ayo, Reaves!" There was both a smile and matching relief in the other man's voice. "Good to hear your voice, Man. It's been too long."
"Yeah." He forced himself to stay polite and not jump straight to the issue. "Yeah, it has. How–uh–how are you? You're working at a summer camp you said?"
"Yeah, yeah. It's uh–it's my third year here, and I'm a program coach this time around so it's… yeah, it's great, Man." A hesitation. Matt had never been one for fluffy dishonesty. "I mean, it's been a hard summer. Really hard. After what happened at the sister camp, we can barely retain staff. Which isn't the biggest problem seeing as the counselor and kids are still…" He trailed off, coughing a little. "So… yeah. Hard."
"Yeah, I heard about that," Caleb said carefully, desperately wishing it wasn't such an easy assumption to think that must be the case John had been assigned to. "That's awful, Man. I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Matt sighed. "Yeah, you wanna hope, but it's been long enough…" He trailed off, then took a deep breath. "But God is good."
"Yeah." Sounded like Matt for sure, and that was his cue to get to the point. "So–uh–you think Dean's there? And Sammy?"
"Right." The other man hesitated, like he was still trying to convince himself he was crazy. "I mean, maybe I'm wrong. But it looks just like that little kid who followed you around campus for a day way back when. Was that freshman year?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"Yeah, Man, I mean… his name's Dean. Brother's is Sam. And he's the spitting image. And the attitude."
Despite himself, Caleb let out a weak chuckle."Sounds like him. And he drove 'em up? No Johnny?"
"Right." In his mind's eye, he could see Matt shaking his head like he always did. "Never seen anything even close to it happen before. No one has."
Caleb desperately did not want to ask the next question, but he knew he had to. "You don't happen to know what car they were driving, do you?"
"Yeah, because it was insane."
Caleb wasn't the praying type, but he prayed against the inevitable end to the sentence.
"Classic Chevy Impala. '67, maybe?"
Caleb swore violently, then realized who he was talking to, and sighed heavily. "Sorry."
Matt laughed a little. "Don't worry about it. I'm assuming that means it's him?"
This was not happening. This was not happening.
"Yeah. Yeah, it's him."
"And you didn't know."
"No."
He'd finally made it down to the parking lot as they talked, and he threw his briefcase into the back of his Jeep, sliding into the driver's seat after it and closing the door just a little too hard behind him.
"I–uh–I haven't talked to them in a few weeks. I just got busy, and…" He swore again, this time leaving with no apology.
"I'm sorry, Man." The compassion in Matt's voice reminded Caleb why, despite his best efforts to tell everyone as little as possible, he knew more about his family–minus the whole monster hunting bit–than almost anyone else he'd gone to school with.
"How bad is it?" he asked softly.
A hesitation, then, gently, "Pretty bad."
The psychic ran a hand down his face hard, desperately trying to collect his thoughts and figure out what the ever-living hell John had done this time.
"Do you want me to get him on the phone?" Matt offered after a long moment of silence, bringing him back to the present.
As tempting as the idea was, he knew Dean wouldn't be able to explain with the chance of anyone hearing, and that assuming he'd be willing to explain. Given the mindset the kid was apparently in, he didn't want to spook him and risk having him go even more rogue than he already was. He needed to figure out what was going on, but more importantly, he needed to get there, as fast as humanly possible.
"No," he sighed heavily. "Not yet. I might call you back and take you up on it, but I–uh–I need to get his dad on the phone while I'm pissed and talk to him once I'm not."
"Hey, understood," Matt replied with a note of approval in his voice. "Good luck. Let me know whatever you need, yeah?"
"Yeah. Thanks for the call, Man. Seriously."
"Hey, anytime," the other man confirmed. "I'll talk to you soon, Reaves."
The young man snapped the phone shut and pressed his eyes closed as his hands wrapped around the steering wheel in front of him, hard.
The pieces were beginning to click into place, and it wasn't making him any less homicidal. Last time he'd talked to the Winchesters, they'd been chasing leads on the yellow-eyed demon. As far as he knew, they'd still been on that when Jim had sent Johnny to Colorado.
Knowing the obsessed bastard, he'd been unwilling to give up the trail, but, knowing kids' lives were on the line, he hadn't been able to ignore the case entirely. So, he'd sent the boys. Enrolled them to get them close, probably ordered Dean to keep Sam far away from danger despite the fact that he'd literally made that impossible, and waltzed off with another A-freaking-plus in his parenting gradebook.
He was going to kill him.
He started the car and headed back to his penthouse before he'd really decided what to do.
Call Johnny? He probably wouldn't pick up, Caleb didn't know if he was in a stable enough state to speak to him anyway, and if he did, he'd probably order Caleb to stay away. He didn't know what he'd do after he inevitably disobeyed the order.
He'd already decided against risking spooking Dean, and between Matt, his psychic connection to the boy and Jim's check-ins, he knew he was relatively unharmed for the moment. So he could call his dad, or Jim. Except that the Guardian had given a direct order to Johnny, to keep the boys far away from this hunt. If he found out that he'd so blatantly defied that order, Caleb didn't know what he would do.
It easily could be the final straw–the thing that finally sent Johnny's ring to the melting pot. And as much as he deserved that a hundred times over, he wasn't sure he was ready to be the snitch who made it happen, especially because the threat of the Knight–or, in that case, the former Knight–disappearing with the boys if that ever happened hung over all of them like a heavy, dark cloud.
Besides, someone had to finish this hunt, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be Dean by himself. But they'd be on lockdown thanks to the disappearances, and he knew getting close from the outside would prove to be difficult. Maybe, in the depths of the worst idea he'd ever had, Johnny'd also had some semblance of a good one.
Hadn't Matt said they were desperately understaffed?
summary: Dean has to face up to Cade after being caught in the A-Frame after hours.
part 10 | part 12
word count: 1,109
The walk back to boys' camp, to the cabin where the male Crew counselors were housed, was a quiet one. They passed one pair of probably-ten-year-olds who were much too intent on their mission to the bathroom to take note of them, and other than that, the camp was as it was supposed to be–asleep.
Dean felt a fresh wave of frustration wash over him at the position he'd been put in here. He'd been set up to be the messed up, rebellious kid for them to shove Jesus down the throat of, and he really, really didn't appreciate it.
He stopped a few feet away from the door as Matt continued the rest of the way, hating the pit that was forming in his stomach. This would be so much easier if they would just get mad and yell. Like his dad did.
There was a long hesitation following Matt's knock, then the jerk who'd forced him to call his dad appeared, half asleep, in the doorway. He looked from Matt, to the teenager half-hiding behind him, and let out a sigh that was anything but surprised.
"Just a second," he mumbled, and Matt nodded. Then, the door closed again.
It was reopened a few seconds later, this time by Cade. Dean loathed the fact that he looked far from surprised either, simply sending Matt an apologetic look as he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
"Sorry."
"Don't be," the PC said simply. "We had a good talk."
He dropped his voice for the next several sentences, too quiet for Dean to make out, but he was no doubt explaining what, exactly, he'd caught him doing. Cade nodded understanding, and Matt turned back in the direction of the A-Frame, offering Dean a small, sad smile as he did.
"I'll see ya around, okay?"
Dean swallowed hard and simply nodded, doing his best to avoid the older man's gaze.
Silence stretched between him and his counselor until the sound of the PC's footsteps had faded down the path. When they had, Cade exhaled slowly before crossing the path to a conveniently fallen tree, taking a seat and nodding for Dean to do the same.
Simply because he had no other option, he did.
"You know," Cade said at last, his tone even and almost amused. "If you're trying to avoid recovery time with the PCs, their sleeping quarters at two am might be a good place to also avoid."
Dean didn't say anything, staring at the ground and wishing he was anywhere else.
"Dean," Cade sighed, clearly seeing the attempt at humor had fallen flat, "it's normal to be scared, alright? What happened at the other camp–that's scary. It scares me if I let it. I'm pretty sure all the staff feel that way."
"I'm not scared," Dean muttered, more to the ground than to the man beside him.
He could feel the counselor's gaze on his face, trying to get to the bottom of what was going on, but still refused to look over to meet it.
"Not even for your brother?" he asked at last.
Dean bristled and said nothing.
Cade clearly took that as confirmation that he, in fact, was. "Then my point still stands," he told him steadily. "It's normal to be scared, and it's admirable the way you want to protect Sam. But we are here to protect you… both of you. That gets a lot harder to do when you're sneaking out in the middle of the night."
There was nothing he could say or do–he wouldn't promise to stop when he had no intentions of doing that, but he also couldn't exactly explain himself–so he simply continued to sit there in pathetic silence.
"Just hear me on that, Dean," Cade sighed. "No more sneaking out. If it does happen again, we'll have to move you somewhere that makes it a lot harder."
"Yeah," the boy muttered simply because he needed this conversation to be over. "I got it."
"Okay." The heaviness in the counselor's tone made it clear he knew he very much didn't. "Can I pray for you before I walk you back to your cabin?"
Dean bit his lip hard. What was he supposed to say–no?
"If it'll make you feel better."
He knew that was disrespectful, but he simply didn't care right now.
"It will."
The older man moved a little closer to him on the log they were sitting on, laying a hand on his shoulder and leaning forward, eyes closed. Dean closed his as well simply because it felt even more awkward to leave them open.
"Father," the counselor began softly, "thank You for bringing us here. Thank You for giving me the opportunity to be here and to know Dean, and thank you for bringing Dean and Sam here, against all odds, like only You can."
Dean clenched his nails into his hands until he could feel blood and focused on the pain.
"I just want to ask You to be with Dean tonight," Cade continued despite Dean's own silent prayer that he wouldn't. "in a very real and present way. Your Word says that You are near to the brokenhearted, and I think in a lot of ways, Dean has spent his entire life brokenhearted, but feeling far from You. I ask you to change that tonight, to allow him to know that not only are You with him right now, but that You've been with Him all along. And please help him to rest in Your peace tonight, to know that he and his brother are safe, because they're in Your hands, and they're in our hands. In the name of Your Son I pray. Amen."
Dean didn't hesitate as he got to his feet sharply and took a few quick steps back in the direction of his own cabin. He only stopped to wait for Cade because he really wasn't in the mood for another lecture, staring at the ground and furiously blinking at the moisture he was appalled to feel beginning to smart out of the corners of his eyes.
There was no reason for that to affect him like this.
If there was actually someone listening to Cade's requests, that someone was definitely laughing hysterically because torturing Dean had to be his favorite pastime.
This wasn't just a chick-flick. It was a religious chick-flick, the kind where some hardass lawyer goes to build a power plant on a struggling family's inherited land, and instead ends up falling in love with the sweet, gentle eldest daughter of said struggling family–and finding God in the process. It would make Damien sick.
summary: shawn's father comes to school with some bad news.
notes: believe or not, I'm not dead, and this fic is not, in fact, abandoned! I may have gotten a *bit* distracted by spn, but I still love the ideas I had for this fic, and have finally gotten the spark back to keep going. so sorry about the long delay, but better late than never? sure.
Shawn picked at his lunch, trying to listen as Cory went on about how embarrassed he’d been by his father’s performance at career day.
Everything was fine. What was wrong with him?
Everyone had seemed taken by his father, and that was good. If they could just be convinced that they were normal… or if not normal, okay… Everything would be… it would…
Everything wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay, and he knew he couldn’t tell anyone, but sometimes he just wanted to…
He looked up sharply at the sound of a displeased Feeney entering the cafeteria.
When he saw the object of that displeasure, the panic he’d barely contained earlier came to life all over again, and he was on his feet and struggling to remember how to breathe.
“Hey, leave me alone, Pal,” Chet was saying now. “I’m George Feeney, and I’m the principal of this here high school.”
Feeney was reaching his breaking point as he exclaimed, “You’re not George Feeney!”
“I’m parked in his spot, ain’t I?”
Shawn forced himself closer to them, cutting in with a voice that only shook a little, “Mr. Feeney, I can explain.”
Both of them spoke at the same time.
“Please do!”
“Go ahead.”
Understanding began to dawn on his father’s face. “You’re Feeney too?”
“I’m Feeney One.”
“Mr. Fenney, this is my dad.” He was fine. He didn’t get this freaked out at home, so why now, here, where he needed to keep it together more than anywhere?
The look in his principal’s eyes didn’t quite compete with the darkness on Turner’s face that morning when he’d discovered Chet’s identity, but it was even less friendly than before, and that was saying something.
Shawn’s father was chuckling nervously as he offered his hand to the old teacher.
“Yes, well,” Feeney said as he shook it. “We’re very proud of Shawn.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
Shawn pretended that the comment didn’t hurt.
“You shouldn’t be.”
The response surprised him. He looked at his teacher, Feeney nodded a little to him as if to say get him if he needed him, and walked away to let them talk.
“Hey, Shawnie.” Chet was quick to greet his son with a clap on both sides of his torso. The boy did his best not to wince or show any sign of the increased pain it put his battered body in. “Shawn’s friend.” As the man clapped Cory’s shoulder as well, Shawn felt his fists clench at his sides.
Shaking them out, he forced a smile and asked, “So, Dad, what’s goin on?”
“Uh…” His dad looked down, pushing in the chair he’d been sitting in. “Look, Buddy, did you–well, did you kiss your mother goodbye this morning?”
Even though the man seemed to be in good spirits, there was something about all of this that was setting off every alarm bell in Shawn’s brain. “Yeah…” he replied uncertainly.
If he didn’t, she’d always remember in the evening and make him pay for it.
“Good,” his father affirmed. “cuz it’s gonna have to last you awhile.”
“Why?” Shawn asked with the sinking feeling that he already knew.
“Your mother…” Chet gestured vaguely. “She took off.”
“Oh.” It was Shawn’s turn to wave that away. “Just go back and wait for her. She always comes back.”
Usually, his dad was too drunk to even realize she’d left before she did.
“Not this time,” the older man sighed. “This time’s… different.”
Shawn swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”
There was a long moment of silence, then his dad shifted once more, his eyes darting towards the door. “Look, Shawn, I know you’ve got your studies and all, but, uh… maybe we should talk about this outside. Or at home.”
He knew what talk about it meant, and part of him wanted to hide here a little longer, use the faculty’s growing concern to his advantage and ask them to not let him leave. But the other part of him knew he couldn’t do that.
He nodded hurriedly. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Just–just let me let Mr. Feeney know. I’ll meet you at the truck.”
“Good boy,” his father affirmed, turning and leaving the cafeteria after clapping him briefly on the shoulder.
Shawn watched him go before turning away again, trying to gather a hundred racing thoughts.
“Shawn…” It was Cory’s voice that cut through the haze. “Are–are you okay?”
The boy swallowed hard before painting a smile onto his face and waving the concern away. “Why wouldn’t I be? My mom? Seriously, Cor… happens all the time.”
Before Cory could respond, he turned and rushed in the same direction his father had just gone, making a beeline for Mr. Feeney’s office before he broke down or something.
He tapped on the frame and waited, focusing on keeping his hands from shaking.
“Come in,” came the call of the principal, and he obeyed, entering and standing in front of the desk on that he couldn’t keep still.
“Shawn?” Feeney rose as well, looking him over with clear concern. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” the teen replied quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just–uh–I have to go.”
“Go? Mr. Hunter, it’s the middle of the school day.”
He bobbed his head quickly. “I know. I’m sorry. I just–um–my mom ran off–uh–again, and I–uh–I’ve got some stuff I’ve gotta deal with–with my dad and all.”
The grizzled teacher’s face softened a little in compassion. “Shawn, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Once again, he hurriedly waved the concern away. “No–no, don’t be. It–uh–happens a lot, actually. My dad jus–he just wants me to help him look for her, or–or something.”
He hated the look in Feeney’s eyes, of disbelief, but in a way that was so much worse than when he was lying to keep himself out of trouble.
“Shawn, I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said, his voice serious, but soft. “Are you alright? Do you need help?”
“No.” He swallowed as he shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Just–just wanted to let you know I was leaving.”
And he turned, rushing out of the office before he could ask anymore questions.
He was in such a hurry, looking over his shoulder as he went, that he didn’t check to make sure the way was clear. He barely made it two steps before running straight into someone–someone with a familiar button-up shirt and mullet.
“Hunter!”
Out of the frying pan and straight into the fire.
Mr. Turner’s hands found each of his arms as he instinctively shuddered away, mumbling hurried apologies.
“Hunter, it’s okay,” the teacher soothed with a voice that said he was very sure something wasn’t. “Hey, look at me!”
Reluctantly, he did.
“It’s okay,” the older man repeated steadily. “Seriously. You okay?”
Shawn nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Turner’s raised eyebrow did all the talking for him. “Where’re you going in such a hurry, Man? Lunch’s almost over.”
“I know, I just…” He wanted to look back at the ground, but he knew he’d only make the teacher more suspicious if he did. “I’ve gotta go. I told Feeney and everything. Family emergency.”
The teacher’s brow creased in immediate increased concern. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he affirmed for what felt like the millionth time. “Yeah, it’s all good. Happens a lot. But I–uh–I really do hafta…” He didn’t even finish the sentence, detaching himself from the concerned adult as he spoke and rushing away as soon as he was able.
He could feel the teacher’s eyes on him as he went, but he just put his head down and didn’t look back. He had not handled that well and he knew it, but at the moment, he had more pressing matters to deal with.
summary: Dean sneaks into the A-Frame to research for his case.
part 9 | part 11
notes: lol so about those daily updates... yeah this fall was rough for me. pretty much my entire life falling to pieces, but it's fine everything's fine. the point is, here's a long-overdue update, an apology for a this taking so long, and a hopeful commitment to being back on track now. thanks to anyone who's still reading.
That night, he waited until lights out patrol had long passed and he could distinguish each of his cabin mates’ steady breathing to noiselessly slip off of his bunk and out the door. If any of them did subconsciously notice the door opening and closing, they’d assume someone was going to the bathroom and be much too asleep again to notice that the person never came back.
Pretty much how this whole ordeal had started.
It didn’t take him long to creep up the trail and slip inside the A-Frame. It was incredibly convenient for him that they didn’t lock any doors around here.
He hesitated just inside the door, eyes on the dark stairway. What wasn’t convenient was that the only computer around here happened to be right under the PCs’ sleeping quarters.
However, the building was quiet and still, so he crept through the darkness and to the computer in one corner. The screen was blank, but a small green circle around the power button was an unexpected, but welcome relief.
Someone had failed to turn the thing off, and that would make his job far quieter–and thus easier.
If God did exist, Dean guessed He’d decided to give him a break after laughing at him trying to get along with His followers all week.
Perching on the edge of the provided chair, the teen woke the screen up and navigated to the web explorer. The last town they’d driven through on their way up here was Silverton, so he’d start there.
unsolved disappearance silverthorne colorado
The first ten articles were about his current case. After that, most information was wholly unhelpful. Some websites were about Colorado mysteries, but included nothing from the area they were in. Others happened in Silverthorne or the surrounding town themselves, were clear evil human situations, and were eventually solved.
He was beginning to lose hope when he came across an article that was a few years old, “The Lost Boys of Camp Alnut”. Telling himself not to get his hopes too high, he clicked on the article and waited for it to load with baited breath.
The year was 1963. The setting was Camp Alnut, about an hour from the mountain town of Silverthorne, Colorado. In a country wrought with difficulty and divide, it provided a haven away from the tulmolt, not only for the boys who attended, but also for the young men who spent their summer as counselors there. The camp, sponsored by a local network of non-denominational churches, was also quietly progressive for its time, already fully desegregated, and without the conflict which often came along with the transition. Even the counselors were a fairly diverse collection of different races, classes, and family backgrounds.
Nineteen-year-old Evan Jergon and twenty-year-old Sal Pelton had come to escape more than just a divided nation. Based on the testimony of close friends and family, both within the camp and outside of it, and their personal journals, the two both hailed from difficult family situations, and found fast friendship and solace in each other thanks to their mutually painful relationships with their parents. Evan was a new convert to the Christian faith, much to the displeasure of his atheist parents, and Sal had spent his entire secondary school career and two years past it putting his life on hold to take care of a father and mother who were both alcoholics refusing to get help. According to their journals, they had taken their counseling positions against the express orders of their parents.
The program coaches in authority over Sal and Evan said that, while they’d both had difficult summers, they were using the pain of their personal lives to minister to the kids they were placed in charge of in a “special way”. They’d both connected with campers going through similar situations and “offered hope and healing that they wouldn’t have been able to without their own struggles.” The “PCs” said that on Week Seven out of the ten separate rounds of camp, Evan had a particularly difficult cabin, containing several boys who walked in extremely resistant to authority. They recall the first few days of camp being a constant struggle for Evan, and for them as they tried to help him control and help these boys, but say that by the fourth day, he was really getting somewhere, and that on the final night, they prayed with Evan and every one of the particularly difficult boys when the campers testified that they’d come to personal faith in Jesus that week. “It was an incredible night,” PC James Thorn told reporters. We were all crying. They knew they’d been difficult, we knew they’d been difficult, but Evan never gave up on them, never even considered sending them home, and they understood and were grateful for that. Especially because home really sucked for these boys.” However, just hours after the final camper rally which concluded with the boys’ professions of faith, cabin mates recall two of them heading to use the bathroom sometime in the middle of the night. When they didn’t return, they heard Evan calling for them as he went to find them. Then, he didn’t return either.
“We waited for, like, thirty minutes,” one of the boys told reporters. “But then Riker and Derek were still gone, and Evan was still gone, and we got worried. So David and Greg went to look for them, and I went to find another counselor for help.” David and Greg were the other two boys who’d started off the week so poorly. Their cabin mates watched as they hiked over the same hill as the first two boys and then the counselor, not knowing it would be the last time they ever saw them. The third camper returned a few minutes later, having pulled Sal out of his cabin for help. While Sal’s cabin hadn’t been as difficult as his friend’s that week, he did have one camper who’d had a very similar story to the four boys who were now missing–which made sense, because he was the younger brother of one of them. He overheard the news that his brother had gone missing, and insisted on accompanying his counselor as he searched. Sal, convinced they were playing a prank or there was some other reasonable explanation, indulged him, thinking it would calm his nerves if he was helping search.
Once again, the remaining members of Evan’s cabin watched the counselor and fellow camper disappear around a bend in the trail, and then they never saw them again. “When Sal didn’t come back, and then we couldn’t find him or Louie either,” one of the boys recalled, “we all really lost it. Started freaking out, snapping at each other. The PCs came to see what was going on. Then, the whole camp was awake and no one would tell us anything and then rangers and firefighters showed up and we were all herded into the dining hall. Our parents started coming to get us at, like, seven in the morning.”
Staff members, personal responders, and volunteers from the surrounding communities searched for hours, days, and weeks. A footprint here, Evan’s pocket knife there, but there was nothing that even gave hint as to what had happened to the seven boys. After months of interviews and endless investigations, the case was declared cold, the camp was shut down officially, and the land was sold. It reopened in a new, nearby location, under a new name, two years later. The fate of the lost boys of Camp Alnut is unknown to this day.
Many accused the counselors of kidnapping or worse, saying they had to have taken the boys somewhere, but the other staff members swore they didn’t think either Sal or Evan would be capable of such a thing, and authorities doubted its feasibility, their ability to simply vanish into thin air, and continued to suspect outside foul play. A small but loud faction in Silverton and other nearby towns were the only ones who truly seemed to believe they knew what happened.
“You can call me crazy,” Silverton resident Amelia Rey told reporters, “People have been for years. But those boys were taken by the Coco.” This coco is a kind of boogeyman, the breed specific to the region’s legends. Its defining characteristic is that it preys on disobedient children. The morality of the parents they’re disobeying is a nonfactor. Upon reading the published information of all of the missing individuals' home lives, Rey and the other members of her supernatural-affirming support group were positive that it was to blame for their suspected demise.
The true fate of those boys will most likely remain a mystery forever, their story largely untold in the area’s attempt to sweep it under the proverbial rug to preserve their reputation and tourist-fed living. However, Rey’s claims may not be as off-the-mark as they seem. While most people would agree there aren’t monsters hiding in our physical closets, our metaphorical closets tend to hold a plethora of them. It could be that one of the boys’ troubled home lives followed they to camp and took the rest down with the ship. And a child not being safe from his own parents sounds like a boogeyman case if ever I’ve heard of one.
This had to be the same thing. It was the same area, the same setting, and the information he’d gathered from the missing counselor’s phone was simply too close to what he’d just read for it to be a coincidence.
Heart pounding, Dean keyed in a search for the coco the article had spoken of. Rawhides were the only form of boogeymen he’d ever dealt with, and he somehow doubted this thing would be taken down in the same fashion.
Just as he was about to click on the first promising result, every hair stood on end at the sound of a floorboard creaking on the stairs.
He whipped around to look that way and felt his stomach drop.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs was the PC he’d met the first day–Matt, he thought it was–looking utterly exhausted, a little disappointed, but not all that surprised.
Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
What on earth was he supposed to say?
They looked at each other for a long moment, Matt’s eyebrows arched as he waited to see if the boy was going to speak. When it became clear he wasn’t, the older man exhaled slowly and closed the remaining distance between them.
Dean glanced at the door. Maybe he could bolt. Make it back to his cabin and into bed before the dude could prove it was him…
His eyes returned to the PC, who was looking over his shoulder, at the computer screen. The page of results about a presumably fictional monster just dug Dean in that much deeper.
“Well.” Mild as it was, the man’s voice made him flinch. “At least it’s not porn.”
Dean swallowed hard and looked at the door again. Maybe, just maybe, if he really sprinted…
Matt was quick to follow his gaze and hold up a steadying hand. “Alright, don’t do anything stupid, okay?” He hesitated before adding, his voice gentle despite the fact that he’d just caught Dean red-handed in about five different criminal acts, “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Dean stayed silent, his heart pounding in his head, his mind struggling to comprehend what was going on.
A small jerk of Matt’s head asked him to follow him to the table in the middle of the room as he moved to it and sat down.
On shaky legs, Dean obeyed simply because he didn’t know what else to do.
“So,” the PC said quietly when he had. “I guess you heard what happened at the sister camp?”
His best bet was to play himself off as a superstitious idiot, so he just nodded a little, unable to look away from the man’s dark, steady eyes.
Matt returned the gesture, those eyes filled with remorse Dean hadn’t been prepared for. “I’m sorry.”
Not exactly what he’d been expecting to hear.
“You shouldn’t have to worry about that. Not about you, not about your brother, not at all. It isn’t fair.”
Dean licked his lips and stayed silent.
“But,” the older man went on, “I promise you that we are going to keep you safe. You and Sam. We’re taking every precaution–constant patrols, increased security, everything. You can feel safe here. Again, I promise.”
Laughable how he actually believed that.
A soft sigh escaped the man’s lips as he clearly saw that this was getting him nowhere. His gaze floated back in the direction of the computer screen.
“So, uh, monsters. Ghosts. You believe in that kind of thing?”
Dean didn’t answer, but Matt obviously took that as a yes.
“I’m telling you right now, Dean,” he said, his voice serious, “the supernatural world absolutely exists.”
Dean resisted the urge to laugh out loud.
“And I honestly don’t know what all that entails.” At least he was that basic level of self-aware. “I don’t know what happened over there, but it may not have been something we fully understand.”
Again, he was beginning to get it–or at least, to admit that he didn’t.
“What we do know, though,” Matt went on, “is that even if they aren’t okay–and I can’t tell you how desperately I hope and pray that they are–but even if they aren’t, they will be alright. For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
On about the third nor, Dean gathered that this was a Bible quote.
“Even if they aren’t okay, nothing can separate them from the love of God, Dean,” the PC continued steadily. “That’s all we really need–all we were made for–and that’s the confidence that counselor and her campers had as followers of Jesus.” He allowed that to hang between them for a moment before asking softly, “Would you like to have that kind of confidence?”
Dean finally lifted his eyes from the table between them to meet the older man’s in a hard glare. “Sounds kinda like training wheels to me.”
To his surprise, Matt just chuckled a little. “It’s more like the normal wheels,” he countered. “Without them, the bike’s not going anywhere.”
Humility was hard to argue with. The teen just rolled his eyes before allowing them to drop as a soft huff passed his lips. “I’ve always preferred walking, anyway.”
To his relief, the guy knew when to back off, accepting that with a small, sad nod of understanding. “If your feet ever get tired,” he pressed one last time, “You just let me know.”
Dean didn’t trust himself to respond to that, and after another sort pause, the PC spoke up again.
“Now about the whole sneaking out in the middle of the night…”
Dean bit his lip. He’d been so distracted by loathing the conversation that he’d forgotten how big of trouble he was in.
“I know you don’t like to talk about your family,” the man conceded steadily, “but we’ve never let a sixteen-year-old kid check himself and his little brother in before. We had to find a serious loophole to legally do it at all. We want to give you grace, we want to help you. We want you here. But you can’t be doing this. It is our job to keep you safe, and there are few things more dangerous than wandering around the camp in the middle of the night when no one even knows you’re not in your cabin.”
He didn’t bring up the sister camp, but the reality of it hung heavily between them.
“Work with us here,” Matt concluded. “Staying in your cabin through the night? That’s easy. Let’s start there.”
Dean felt another wave of frustration wash over him as he continued to stare the table and stay silent. That was easy… if he was here for any reason other than to hunt the very things that go bump in the night. He’d been put in a position where he was set up to look stupid–rebellious and superstitious and stupid–and he didn’t like it. Especially because these people did not respond to such behavior in a freaking normal way.
Instead of replying directly to the request, he finally asked, his voice low, “Does that mean you’re not gonna tell Cade?”
Once again, Matt chuckled a little. “It absolutely does not.”
Since it's been a hot minute, reminder that I live and breathe off of comments, so please let me know what you think. Love ya. Merry Christmas a few days late!
summary: Dean goes back to the sister camp to continue his investigation.
part 8 | part 10
word count: 1,442
His lunch shift was quickly approaching, but he’d quite frankly expended his capacity for summer camp things at the moment. If he got in trouble, so what? He wasn’t here to serve food to screaming children or sing kumbaya around a campfire.
He was here to save some people, hunt a thing, and that was what he was going to do.
It didn’t take him long to slip back over the Sparrowhead property line and back into the girl’s camp area. Now that he was more familiar with the area and less stressed out about being caught, he noticed how eerie an empty summer camp was.
It was like something straight out of a horror movie.
He scoffed a little at his own, casual thought.
No freaking kidding it was.
He did another once-over of the taped-off cabin just in case he’d missed something, but it didn’t appear that he had, and he was eager to see where that creek led. With no footprints or drag trail on the other side, and a distinct drop in EMF, this thing had to have dragged them either down or up stream, and he’d bet money on it being the former.
The reading outside the shower house and along the mostly-faded drag trail had waned, but in the water, it was still strong.
The counselors were obsessed with a Colorado-based brand of sandals called Chacos, and while he usually scoffed at Cade’s discourses about how he was pretty sure Jesus wore Chacos, he had to admit a pair of the strapped sandals would be nice right about now.
However, when he reached into the creek, he could touch the bottom before the water covered his elbow, so he decided that, for the time being, he’d settle for walking along its edge. If it didn’t lead anywhere, he’d climb in.
His readings stayed strong as he quickly progressed up the stream, through the woods, able to ignore his compass thanks to his built-in way back to his starting point.
He continued without event for about a ten-minute’s brisk walk, then the creek curved around a particularly large tree and flowed into a towering cliff he hadn’t realized was there.
The uneven surface of the mountain sent a spike of excitement through the boy’s chest.
A perfect monster hide-out if ever he’d seen one.
However, the cliff face was riddled with cracks and crevices, any number of which could end up being the entrance to a boogeyman’s cave. This was probably going to take a while.
He spent the next hour running his hands along the rock and dirt which made up the cliffside, then measuring EMF, and repeating. Around the time the sun was on the edge of beginning its decent on the western side of the sky, he finally struck gold.
An innocent-looking crack turned out to be hollow on the other side, and the EMF matched the potential lead, once again spiking up off the charts. It would be tight, but he was confident he could fit inside–but still doubted it was the only entrance.
He was painfully aware of the fact that most monsters were larger than him, so even if it was feasible for the thing to have shoved its prey through this way, it most likely entered itself through another.
And anyway, most monster hideouts had more than one way in–and out.
He desperately wanted to charge in and think later, but Damion’s voice in the back of his head was finally too loud for him to continue to ignore.
He had no clue what he was dealing with, and he’d only brought a lunch bag of salt, some matches, and a tiny vial of holy water. With no hunting buddy to speak of, he’d be lucky to get away from an encounter alive, much less having saved or hunted anyone or anything.
And, as much as he’d enjoyed pretending he wasn’t enrolled in a church camp that afternoon, if he was gone for much longer, he knew they might go from annoyed with him to worried about him, and the last thing he wanted was a full-scale search.
He was supposed to be at Bible study in thirty minutes, and hopefully if he booked it, he’d get off with a warning this time.
He’d forgotten to take the trek from the showerhouse to the cliff side into account while calculating how long it would take him to get back, and he ended up being ten minutes late to the evening study. However, as he slid into an empty spot in the circle of boys on their cabin porch, mumbling an apology and digging into his backpack for the Bible Cade had given him that morning, he was met only by soft greetings from the counselor, Peter, and Ryan.
Despite being physically present, Dean’s mind stayed far away, at the cliff side and the cave that was waiting for him to investigate.
He had to figure out what he was dealing with here–or at least get a lot better of an idea than he had right now. He’d try calling his dad again when he got the chance, but he was far past holding his breath for an answer.
When he’d been in the A-Frame that afternoon, he’d noticed a computer in one corner, no doubt for counselor and PC use. It might be a risky move, but it was the best one available to him, because he needed information, and he needed it fast.
They didn’t have a dinner shift, so upon completion of the Bible study, they were released to freetime until their time to eat and the campfire they had scheduled afterwards. Before he could escape, however, Cade’s hand was on his arm, pulling him to one corner of the cabin porch so they could talk in relative privacy.
Here it came.
“Hey, again, sorry I was late,” Dean quickly spoke up before the older man could, “I went on a hike and it took longer than I thought it would.”
“No worries, Man, stuff happens,” Cade assured. “But, uh… did you know we had a lunch shift?”
Dean hoped the look of guilt and shock he painted on his face was more believable than it felt. “What? No, I… I thought that was tomorrow. Dude, I’m sorry, I–uh–I just…”
He was not buying this.
“Dean,” he cut off the apologies steadily, his eyes drawing the teen’s to meet them against his will. “I saw you leave the I earlier. I could tell you were upset.”
Dean swallowed and fought back his fight-or-flight instinct.
“If you needed some time, all you had to do was ask.”
The teen felt the strength drop out of his shoulders as his eyes likewise fell to the floor. “I’m sorry.”
If there was one thing about this place he hated more than anything else, it was the way it made him feel like a broken kid.
“It’s okay,” Cade replied patiently. “I know that’s not what you’re used to. And I covered for you this time, so you don’t even need to talk to the PCs or anything. But next time, just communicate, okay? If you’d been missing for much longer, we would have had to start searching for you.”
“Okay.” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
“Dean.” The emphasized word dragged his gaze back up to Cade’s. “It’s okay. Seriously.” A pause, then, gently, “Do you wanna talk about your dad?”
The boy flinched a little and looked away sharply. “No. No, it’s all good.”
He hated the lump in his throat as he forced the words out.
Luckily, the guy at least knew when to back off. “Okay. Lemme know if you change your mind.”
“Yeah.” He knew he was already pushing it, so he tried not to let his voice come out too sharp. “Will do.”
“Also…”
Dean just wanted this conversation to be over.
“I’m sorry about Kyle pressuring you into calling him. He pushed too hard.”
Dean wasn’t really used to being apologized to by people in authority over him. Sure, Caleb knew how to say he was sorry, but that was different. He didn’t remember the last time his father uttered those coveted words.
He did his best not to let the way the simple act shook him show, just shrugging a little. “It’s whatever.”
He could tell Cade didn’t like the answer, but he just nodded slightly, briefly clapping him on the shoulder before releasing him to go.
“Alright. I’ll see you at dinner in thirty.”
Dean nodded in his own right and turned away. That gave him enough time to hopefully locate his little brother.
summary: reunited at last after months of separation due to sam’s untimely escapade to flagstaff, caleb and dean go out to catch up. dean has been avoiding bars since having his drink spiked while earning lodging money in a poker game, and he isn’t prepared for the toll reentering one takes on his psyche.
notes: like i said in the previous installment to this series, this part will reference the truth a bit, but you don’t really have to read it to get it–I feel like you’ll be able to get the basic ideas. essentially, they’re just on the same timeline and will eventually hopefully be connected by other bits.
Dean resisted the urge to check his phone for the fifth time in the past two minutes. It wasn’t gonna happen. Caleb was a busy man, and he was no doubt doing lots of very important Tricorp and future knight things. He’d probably reach out within a few days, but it was absurd to expect him to drop everything and call on the very day which marked the completion of his John-mandated exile.
Dean knew the way he’d counted down the days to this one, to September 1 and an end to secret, check-in phone calls and texts, a return to the relative normalcy of meeting up and hunting with Reaves whenever they pleased, was pathetic, but at the moment, he simply didn’t care.
John was gone again, Jim wouldn’t give him cases by himself and Sam was on a hunting strike, and Sam had also been in a mood for about three months now. Dean was bored, sick of the fighting and the venom and everything else. He was in dire need of a parenting break. A mom’s night out, as lame but accurate as it was.
Caleb would no doubt call that girly or something, but Dean also knew he’d be more than willing to provide it.
His attention was drawn by a sharp knock on the motel room door. Sam immediately looked up from his homework, sending a seething glare in its direction.
“I thought he wasn’t supposed to be back for another week.”
Clearly, he was no fan of an early return by their father, and Dean couldn’t really blame him. John coming back usually meant them moving on, and he couldn’t help but feel for the kid, constantly jumping schools mid-unit and yet still somehow keeping his grades high enough to be full-ride material.
If he was being honest, it was hard to watch–the applications and homework and scholarships and constant talk of college. Not that he wasn’t prouder of the kid than he’d ever been of anyone or anything in his life. He was.
It just reminded him of one of the darkest periods in his young and incredibly dark life, of the things John had said and the way he’d coped and Caleb’s face when he found out. Even three years later, it still hurt if he stopped and thought for long enough to let it.
And, it made him feel even guiltier than he already did about a return to a habit Caleb had somehow broken him of after five years of it having a total hold on him. A one-time relapse had turned into the only thing that got him through the past several, miserable months, and he didn’t like that his excitement to see his best friend again was accompanied by sick anxiety at both the pressing need to quit and the desperate hope that he could do so quickly enough to avoid Caleb finding out a second time.
If he was being honest, he wasn’t particularly excited at the idea of an early return by their father either. He wanted to see Caleb, but he didn’t really know how Caleb’s reunification with his mentor was going to go after they’d quite literally attacked each other the last time, and the last thing he needed was more fighting.
Maybe the motel had finally caught onto their credit card scam or something.
Ever since he’d been drugged while hustling lodging money a month or so earlier, he’d carefully ensured that he didn’t have to go back out again anytime soon and tried not to think about why.
With a soft sigh, Dean got to his feet and made his way over to the door, checking the peephole with apprehension in his chest.
After the first check, he thought his mind must be playing tricks on him. But a second look found the same, desperately welcome sight as before. He couldn’t even start to wipe the grin from his face as he flung the door open.
Luckily, the smile on Caleb’s was about as stupid as his felt.
“Aren’t you a banished fugitive or something?” Dean quipped.
“Not anymore, I’m not.”
That was as long as either of their resolve lasted, and Dean just about flung himself at the older man in the same moment as he opened his arms to ask for it.
Dean breathed in sharp and long, sitting in the familiarity of Caleb’s embrace and the smell of his flannel for a long moment. It was over. It was finally, finally over.
“You okay?” the question was quiet and gruff and tight with worry.
“Yeah,” Dean breathed, his voice barely audible. “Yeah, Man, I’m good.”
“Good.” Caleb pulled back at last, one hand remaining on Dean’s shoulder as he looked the younger man up and down. “Cuz you look like hell.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
He stepped aside and nodded for his best friend to come in, avoiding his gaze as he did. It had been a long several months, and he knew his clothes were looser than they were supposed to be and the dark circles under his eyes were deeper and darker than they’d been before, and he didn’t really want to talk about it.
There was a short, tense moment of silence after Dean closed the door behind his friend, broken by the awkward clearing of the psychic’s throat.
“Hey, Runt.”
Sam barely glanced up from his work. “Hey.”
The two of them clearly weren’t overly pleased with each other either, but their mutual anger at John was apt to help them get along a little better.
Caleb crossed the room to peer over Sam’s shoulder at the page full of calculus problems the kid was currently wading through, cringing as his eyes traveled over them.
“Disgusting.”
“Mhmm,” Sam hummed like he was talking to a five-year-old.
The tone was clearly far from lost on Caleb, but the older man visibly took a breath before replying, clearly trying to be more polite than the teenager was.
“Gonna keep you occupied for a while?”
“Mhmm,” Sam repeated.
“Long enough for me to steal your brother for a while?”
“Yep.”
Sam clearly wanted nothing more than for the two of them to get out and give him the space to himself.
“You’re not gonna go anywhere?” Caleb kept the question level and even, but it was loaded in and of itself, and Sam’s glare responded in kind.
“No, Caleb. I won’t go anywhere. I have bigger things to worry about right now.”
“Just making sure,” Caleb sighed, then turned around, jerking his head for Dean to follow him back towards the door. “Come on, Deuce. You clearly need some air.”
Dean didn’t argue, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on over the flannel he was already wearing as he trailed the older man back outside.
“Call if anything happened,” he directed over his shoulder.
Sam didn’t answer, but Dean didn’t expect him to.
The door closed behind them once more, and Caleb paused with his back to it, exhaling slowly. “It been like that this whole time?”
“Like what?” Dean questioned, glad that his friend’s back was turned and he didn’t have to work to avoid his gaze.
The relief was short-lived, as Caleb turned to face him. A vague gesture at the air followed by the dual mime of chokeholds made his point well enough.
Dean couldn’t help but smirk a little. “Yeah, I guess that about sums it up.”
His friend didn’t match the expression, his shoulders dropping in clear guilt. “I’m sorry, Deuce.”
The younger man shook his head a little, brushing past his friend, further down the street. “Not your fault, Damien. And it’s not so bad.”
Caleb didn’t answer, but did follow him on his trek down the street.
“Anything worth paying for around here?”
“Yeah, there’s a place a few blocks down,” Dean tossed over his shoulder. “Decent food, pretty cheap.”
He sensed Caleb nodding a little, and they fell into silence as they continued that way. Dean didn’t like the slight awkwardness hovering between them after months of not being allowed in each other’s presence, but he was confident that would fade quickly enough.
As long as him and his stupid coping methods didn’t ruin things.
Sure enough, by the time they were seated on the bar of Mandy’s, they were talking about baseball and Tricorp and how on Caleb’s most recent hunt, Bobby had gotten them covered in supernatural goo that had taken a very awkward trip to the dry cleaner to get out of his clothes. Mac was good, Sam was on his way to full-ride, and they didn’t talk about Johnny.
“So what about you?”
Dean glanced up from his drink, which he’d felt the compulsive need to stare at for the entirety of their time sitting there, just momentarily.
“What?”
“What about you, Deuce?” Caleb pressed simply. “You know what me and our stupid freakin’ uncle have been up to. What about you?”
“Babysitting,” Dean said with a small shrug, eyes back on that drink like it would sprout legs and walk away if he left it unwatched for too long. “Jim won’t let me hunt alone and Sammy won’t hunt and Dad keeps running off, so… babysitting.”
“Any girls?”
Dean snorted a little. “No.”
“Why not?”
How to tell him this was the first time in a month he’d gotten his alcohol from anything but a very sealed bottle out of a very sealed case, and liquor stores weren’t quite as good for finding hookups as bars were?
How to tell him that was to not to.
Instead, he shrugged. “Just haven’t been feeling it.”
“No?” He glanced up at the older man once more, and saw Caleb’s flit just momentarily to his very covered wrists before coming back up to his face, careful and concerned.
Dean shifted uncomfortably and stared back down at his drink. “It makes me uncomfortable when you give me bedroom eyes, Man.”
Caleb snorted. “If you think those are bedroom eyes, you need a date worse than I thought.”
Dean just shook his head a little, taking a long drink to avoid having to respond directly.
There was a moment of silence between them before Caleb nudged his elbow to indicate what was probably an older and younger sister, both of them probably between the two of them’s ages, sipping their drinks near the pool table.
“Looks to me like they want someone to teach them how to play.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Probably shouldn’t assume they don’t know how to play pool, Damien.”
“Oh, I assume they know how to play very well,” Caleb chuckled. “But it still looks like they want someone to teach them.”
Dean looked back at them, and he couldn’t argue with that. They were clearly positioned as they were to draw the attention of someone, and that someone could very easily be the two of them.
“Maybe you should go ask them.”
Hopefully, they’d say no. If they didn’t, he’d try to dig out the part of him that should definitely be thrilled about an opportunity like this one.
“Maybe I should.” The older man got to his feet and set his shoulders. “Maybe I will.”
“Gooood luck,” Dean sighed, drawing out the word as he watched him go.
What was wrong with him? Sure, he hadn’t felt quite like himself in a while, but ever since they’d gotten in here, he’d been having to put a conscious effort into breathing.
As his best friend approached the pair of girls by the pool table, Dean’s attention was drawn by another, who he’d noticed sitting down a few seats down the bar a few minutes earlier.
“I won’t make you teach me how to play pool to walk me home tonight,” she said with a slight smile as she approached with a small swagger in her step.
Dean felt both of his eyebrows shoot up. He’d met some pretty forward women in his life, and he’d been a pretty forward man in his life, but he hadn’t been prepared for this.
“What?” she asked, clearly noticing the expression on his face. “Your friend’s over there trying to get you a different date. It’s now or never.”
Dean opened his mouth without being sure what he was going to say, but as he did, she reached the place where Caleb had been sitting and leaned forward, her hand propping her away from the bar.
About two inches away from Dean’s drink.
She was talking again, but her voice was nothing but vague echoes bouncing around his head. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her hand, sitting there next to his drink what he knew was a fully innocent way, but simultaneously seemed to be such a suspiciously convenient position to just…
To just…
He felt himself gasping for air, but there didn’t seem to be any oxygen in it. Behind the picture of her hand and his drink on the rough bar surface, another played in a terrible sort of slow motion, the memory of another night and another drink that he took his attention off of for just a little too long, the fleeting realization that he had before he’d continued to drink it anyway, the terrible, helpless feeling of a brain that wasn’t working and a body that soon followed, the casual threats the men after him had thrown around, of a fate much worse than being robbed.
A hand on his shoulder sent a spike of hot panic racing through him, and his fist had flown in that direction before he really knew what was happening.
It took his a good several seconds of continued gasping to register the surprised, worried face of his best friend, who’d caught that fist the second before it connected with his face.
Caleb’s mouth moved, but once again, the words it spoke when it did were lost on Dean completely.
The bar was simply too loud, the lights too bright, the memories and fear too present in every corner of his mind, and he couldn’t… he couldn’t…
Caleb was clearly asking him a question, but on top of not being able to comprehend it, there were few things he felt less capable of at that moment than speaking, and he just gasping again before pressing his eyes tightly closed against the screeching ring in his ears and the glare of the overhead lights.
Make it stop, he silently pleaded, unsure if he was making the request of God or his psychic best friend.
Please. Please make it stop.
Colors exploded behind his eyes, the screech he knew was only present in his head got louder, and the world seemed to tilt around him.
The next thing he knew, he was gasping in the cool, fresh air of fall, and the sweet dimness of dusk had replaced the fluorescent lights which had previously harassed him.
Caleb’s face came into focus as the feeling of the older man’s hand wrapped around one of his slowly brought him the rest of the way back to earth.
“Deep breaths, that’s it.” There was a bit of concealed tremble in the psychic’s voice, but other than that, it was calm and steady and so utterly strong.
“You’re okay, Kiddo. You’re okay.”
Dean obediently continued to pull in shaky breaths, struggling to match the exaggerated guide his friend was giving him.
When he could finally do so without such an intense struggle, he felt the last of the strength leave his shoulders, and he finally allowed his head to sink back against the stone building behind him, his eyes closed in both exhaustion and the desire to avoid Caleb’s.
The older man stayed as he was for a long moment, his gaze heavy on Dean’s face, before he finally squeezed his hand a little and released him. Dean felt him sit back on his heels, but the weight of his careful consideration didn’t lift.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible without lifting his head or opening his eyes.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” came the steady, worried reply.
Another moment of silence stretched between them, this time broken by Caleb.
“It would be nice to know what I’m working with, though,” he said quietly.
“It’s nothing.” The words would have been more convincing had they possessed a single ounce of strength.
A hapless breath of laughter fell from Caleb’s lips. “Yeah, try again.”
Dean exhaled heavily, finally opening his eyes and reluctantly looking up at his friend. “It’s embarrassing.”
“More embarrassing than the first thing you ever said to me being that you knew your ABCs?”
Dean scowled at him. “I was five.”
“That’s the point, Kiddo,” Caleb scoffed. “In fifteen years, I could’ve picked a much more embarrassing story, believe me.”
“Yeah, well, this is different,” Dean said heavily, averting his gaze once more.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his friend’s dart momentarily back to his cuffs. “Yeah?”
Dean tucked his arms across his chest so his hands and wrists were hidden between his elbows and his wrists. “Yeah.”
It was Caleb’s turn to sigh. “Look, Kid, I’m pretty sure reality can’t be worse than my imagination at this point, so how about you just rip off the bandaid?” A hesitation, then, gently, “I don’t have to tell you I’m here to stay, do I?”
“No,” Dean whispered. “It’s just… embarrassing.”
“ABCs, Deuce,” Caleb repeated simply.
Another moment of silence stretched between them. Then, without him really meaning for it to, it slipped out.
“I got drugged.”
“You what?” Forced calm steadiness immediately gave way to borderline panic in Caleb’s voice.
“A few weeks ago. While I was hustling poker. Ignored my drink like a freakin’ idiot. I guess some guys wanted the money. They followed me out and grabbed me, but I fought back and ran, and then I ran into a cop, and…” A deep, shaky breath, and then the rush continued. “That girl. She just… had her hand really close to my drink and–and I…” Another heavy sigh, as he blinked back humiliating moisture from his eyes. “I don’t know. I know it’s dumb.”
Caleb swallowed hard, clearly trying to collect his thoughts and figure out how Dean needed him to react.
“What happened to the guys who did it?” he asked finally, his tone low and dangerous.
“Arrested.”
Caleb nodded slightly, like he was trying to force himself to be satisfied by that.
There was another short moment of silence. Caleb chewed hard on his bottom lip for a beat, then another, before finally letting out a breath he’d seemed to be holding and sinking back to really sit down rather than kneeling as he had been.
His gaze was careful and sad as he regarded Dean. “I’m sorry, Deuce,” he said at last, his tone soft. “Been there, and I’m sorry.”
That brought Dean’s gaze off of the concrete and up to his. “What?”
The older man shrugged a little. “Went to a party in high school. Thought a girl liked me. Turns out she just thought I was nuts and wanted to push me to show it. Almost worked.”
Dean didn’t say anything, allowing his gaze to drop once more as he turned that over in his mind. The whole ordeal had made him feel so pathetically weak, but somehow, he didn’t think of Caleb the same way when he pictured the same thing happening to him.
“So are you gonna stop beating yourself up about it now or what?” Caleb asked after another long moment of silence.
Dean exhaled heavily. “Depends on whether or not this crap keeps happening.”
“It’s happened before?”
He shook his head. “First time I’ve been in a bar since.”
“Ah.”
More quiet.
“It’ll take time, Kiddo. But it’ll get better.”
Something about the way he said it brought humiliating moisture biting at the back of Dean’s eyes. He blinked desperately, but it persevered all the more, and he broke in on himself, the first sob wracking his whole body as his head hit his upright knee.
It only stayed there for a moment before he was being gathered like every bit the child he felt, Caleb hugging him and gently pulling him to his feet at the same time. Dean didn’t feel capable of doing anything except collapsing with his face in the older man’s shoulder and continuing to cry.
“Alright.” There was a softness about the psychic that he’d try to remember to give him hell for later. “You’re alright.”
He held him tight for another long moment, Dean clinging to the grounding feeling of his familiar but long-missed embrace.
“Let’s go back to the hotel, yeah?” Caleb prompted after a moment, his voice still painfully gentle. “Buy some beer on the way. Pretty sure TnT’s doing a Star Wars marathon. I’ll even get an extra room so Teenage Moodswings doesn’t get his panties in a knot.”
Dean just nodded a little as the older man moved to a more functional walking position, one arm still wrapped tightly around his shoulders, and began to guide him back in that direction.
They walked in silence for a moment before he felt Caleb’s gaze back on him, gentle and mild. “There anything else you wanna tell me, Deuce?”
Dean shook his head. He had the sinking feeling the smarting cuts on his wrists weren’t gonna last all that long without discovery, but on top of the fact that he did not want Caleb to know, he simply didn’t have the energy for that right now.
Right now, Star Wars with his big brother was more than enough.
summary: after john takes off following a heated fight with sam, dean goes to earn the money he neglected to leave–and give sam some peace and quiet to finish his college applications. however, dean’s headspace soon finds him in a position he’s usually too careful for.
word count: 2,940
notes: this is the first of a two-part thingy I have planned with one febuwhump prompt and one whumptober prompt. I realize it’s pathetic that I can do that and I don’t wanna talk about it lol. i also highkey hate it, but we’re just going with it anyway.
also, this isn’t really related to the truth, the first installment in this series, but the next part will reference it a little. you still don’t have to read it to get it… it’s just basically connecting the timelines as the same. i plan to keep filling in the blanks as inspo hits and hopefully eventually have a much smaller gap between that first part and this one.
I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed,
And ain’t nothin’ in this world for free.
- Cage the Elephant
The slam of the motel room door was almost a welcome sound in light of the past two hours of screaming. Dean imagined anyone else who’d happened to be occupying their own rooms at four pm on a Wednesday felt the same.
“Can you believe him?”
Apparently, Sam didn’t think there had been enough yelling quite yet. “He’s insane! He’s clinically f–”
He couldn’t handle the raised octave of the boy’s voice anymore, holding up an exhausted and slightly shaky hand.
“Sammy,” he croaked, “I know. Just… please… please calm down.”
The sixteen-year-old gave him a long, confused look that dripped of a little contempt. “You don’t agree with him, do you?”
“Of course not.”
He couldn’t afford to have an opinion on the matter.
“I just…” He swallowed hard. “Please no more yelling.”
Sam rolled his eyes and dropped back onto the bed that Dean wasn’t seated on. “Whatever. I actually need to finish this anyway.”
While the statement didn’t explicitly ask him to leave, the sentiment was very much present, and Dean wasn’t keen to make the boy get any more obvious about it, pushing himself to his feet with a soft groan.
“Should probably go earn some money so we’re not on the streets this time tomorrow,” he mumbled.
Sam just nodded a little. They’d both heard John drive away, and they both knew he had what little cash existed in their family with him. Since this was a cash-only place, credit card scamming wasn’t an option, so that meant it’d be a long night for Dean.
Sometimes, he could actually take pleasure in hustling pool and poker so they had a roof over their heads. It was a break from the pressures of hunting, and it was something he was good at. Better than Caleb, better than Mac, way better than his dad.
Caleb was actively proud of how good he was at poker in particular, seeing as he’d taught him how to play, and he couldn’t help but think of his best friend whenever he played it.
It was a welcome reminder given the past several long months of being officially unallowed to contact the older man thanks to Sam’s escapade to Flag Staff.
Caleb had stubbornly checked in every week or so, but that simply wasn’t the same.
September had taken its sweet time getting there, but it was almost August now. Soon, maybe things could go back to some semblance of normal.
He knew better than to believe that given the growing volatility of Sam and their father’s relationship, but at that exact moment, he needed to cling to the hope of it anyway, because the past few months had been the definition of hell.
“That gonna take you awhile?” the older brother asked as he pulled on his jacket.
“Yup.”
John would have his head for trusting the boy by himself, but he really was enveloped in these essays. Stanford, Harvard, Vanderbilt… they all had scholarship essays due in the next week, and it was all Sam could think about, much to their father’s displeasure.
“Okay,” he confirmed. “I’ll be late.”
“Yup,” Sam repeated, his tone saying loud and clear, Hurry up and leave, then.
With a sigh too quiet for the boy to hear, Dean obeyed.
The nearest bar was just down the street, so he left the Impala where it was and elected to walk. It was definitely too hot to be walking around Houston in a leather jacket, but that jacket was as good as his baby blanket when it came to hustling. He’d been wearing it since he was twelve years old, using it to make himself feel larger and stronger and less easily messed with. He might be twenty now, but there was something about hustling that could take him back to the mindset of that scared, desperately little kid just like that.
He tried to shove the thoughts from his mind, but they weren’t so easily banished, and he continued to bounce between them and reminders of John and Sam’s latest screaming match. Sam was about to be a junior. This was only going to get worse.
The thought of two more years of low blows and raised voices and Dean having to step between them, both of whom would be taller than him soon, to keep it from coming to blows, made him sick to his stomach.
Not that he liked the “light” at the end of that tunnel any better.
He didn’t know what he wanted.
A new life.
He felt guilty for the thought before it was even fully formed.
No, he didn’t. He was a Brotherhood hunter. He did a hero’s work. He’d never known anything else.
And at least he’d be able to talk to Caleb again soon.
At least.
As he neared the shady little spot he’d chosen to begin his work, a sense of utter exhaustion washed over him.
Maybe he should just do an hour and call it a night.
But he hated that.
He tried to convince himself he didn’t. He’d tried hard. It was better money than poker ever would be, and in principle, it shouldn’t be altogether miserable. He got to pick who he took, and that had only ever been fairly attractive, if rich in the most insufferable way, women between twenty and forty.
He just hated it.
And as much as he’d like to not have to work all evening, he didn’t want it that bad.
Besides, as much as his family did lie to Caleb and the Triad, he didn’t enjoy doing things he didn’t want to tell them about.
So, poker it was.
Given his current, shambled mental space, he’d see how this went.
For a few hours, it went alright.
He played it cool, didn’t take the hustling side of things too seriously because he simply didn’t have it in him to play it up, and just played his very good game of poker. That tended to frustrate his competitors less than the alternative, and a few became very convinced they were going to beat him at least once. His profits appreciated that.
Then, he forgot about his drink for a little too long.
It was a more challenging round than he’d faced yet. His hand was crap, and he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to bluff it out, or just not risk it and fold. When he got the feeling the one competitor who didn’t quickly put down his hand was facing the same dilemma, it was all about whose crap hand was, in fact, worse–or which bluffer was, in fact, braver.
He ended up pushing the other guy to fold at last, using the comfortably high amount of money he’d already won to the best of his advantage. However, he’d gone over twenty minutes without so much as glancing at the drink beside him.
The bar was loud and crowded, and he’d had the opportunity to make plenty of enemies that night. When he finally raked in his winnings and picked up the beer once more, he had the fleeting thought that if someone had spiked it, he probably wouldn’t have noticed.
It was more of a joke than anything.
That was, until he started to feel way too drunk for the beer and a half he’d consumed over the past three hours.
It started with his mind growing fuzzy to the point he laid down his cards to avoid making a stupid decision in the thickness his thoughts were suddenly wading through.
Then, the nausea hit him in a rush.
He lurched forward in his seat, resisting the urge to puke as the room spun around him.
What the…
He swore out loud at the memory of that fleeting thought before he finished his ignored drink.
One of the guys who’d been there since he’d arrived, who had gone from arrogant to annoyed to impressed over the course of the past few hours, looked over at him with an arched eyebrow. “You good there, kid?”
Dean swallowed hard, his mind trying to spin but barely functioning at all.
He needed to get out of there.
I gotta go, was what he wanted to say.
“I… go,” was all that he was actually able to choke out.
He grabbed his backpack and desperately shoved the money he’d earned inside, still feeling as if he was on a merry-go-round.
“You’re gonna take off with our money just like that?” another one of the dudes who’d been there awhile asked sharply, but the first guy held up a hand to rebuke him.
“It ain’t our money anymore, Jack! But are you okay, kid?”
Dean didn’t answer, too focused on desperately blinking back the darkness threatening his vision.
He needed to get a grip of his surroundings. Someone had done this, and he doubted they’d done it for kicks and grins. They probably wanted the money, and he was not in a position where he could let them have it.
He used the table to push himself to his feet, and his head and stomach both turned violently. He just had to get down the block.
Except that at the moment, getting to the door sounded daunting.
He pulled his backpack onto his back and closed his eyes for a moment, desperately trying to gather whatever strength he had left.
He could fall asleep standing up. Everything was thick and heavy and he was so, so tired…
No.
He shook himself awake sharply.
He had to keep his head on.
He was pretty sure the other guys at the table were still talking to him, but the entire room was just noise and lights, and all he wanted to do was get outside.
He managed three shaky steps, then another.
He was almost there.
Two more.
He’d made it to the door.
He was going to pass out.
He couldn’t.
Just down the block. He just had to make it down the block.
Thanks to the thick Texas humidity, the sun’s disappearance had done little to ease the thick heat of the day. He dully thought that he’d do close to anything for a breath of truly fresh air.
Then, he registered a hand around his arm a long second after it touched down.
He pulled away sharply only to realize that his other was being held as well. The city–or maybe it was just the ringing in his own ears–was screaming, the lights were blinding, and he was…
No. No, he wasn’t going down. Not like this.
John’s disappointment at hearing that he’d been drugged like a runaway teenager, and in doing so lost their lodging money, taunted his half-conscious mind.
He gasped for oxygen in a last, desperate attempt to wake up for long enough to get away.
For just a few seconds, the ringing in his ears faded enough for him to make out the voices of the people holding him, to realize that they were trying to pull the backpack off of him.
“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” A deep, raspy voice asked in the most demeaning voice possible. “Maybe I should bring you home to the Missus. The three of us could have some real fun.”
Another voice, this one younger, but equally gruff in a decidedly cigarette-induced way, laughed. “You should. Not like he’s in the position to tell ya no.”
Dean didn’t know if they were serious, but he was not waiting around to find out. With every ounce of strength he had left, he flung all of his weight forward.
It took them by surprise more than overpowering them, but either way, they let go.
Dean hit his hands and knees on the concrete sidewalk hard, but the drugs made it so he barely registered the pain of fall, only the impact and the feeling of hot blood hinting that it should have been intense.
He didn’t give himself the chance to dwell on that, scrambling to his feet and blindly sprinting back in the direction of the motel. But he heard footsteps echoey shouts behind him, and his vision was quickly blacking out again.
He chanced a look over his shoulder. In between black spots, they were gaining on him.
He turned his attention forward a second too late to avoid colliding with a cop that he realized had been holding up his hands in a directive to stop.
He gasped in a sharp, afraid breath, anticipating the feeling of either taser or bullet as he scrambled away from the man, once again finding himself on the concrete, and this time without strength to regain his footing.
However, he obviously wasn’t the only one he’d spotted. His ever-more-blurry figure was indeed brandishing a weapon, but it was pointed in the direction of his attackers, not him.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut as a dull, heavy thought hit him.
Like a sixteen-year-old caught redhanded with stolen bread and peanut butter, he was definitely going back to jail.
That was the last part of the ordeal Dean really remembered. He wasn’t fully unconscious after, could remember bits and pieces of bright lights and wailing sirens and more uniformed figures, of being loaded into a cop car by surprisingly gentle hands.
However, when he did wake up, he did so in a hospital bed, not a jail cell.
He heard himself moan as he blinked rapidly in defense against the too-white room around him. His head was throbbing. His hands and knees ached. He felt like he had one of the worst hangovers of his young life–and that was saying something.
He tried to sit up and felt the tug of an IV on one of his forearms.
He checked the other, but didn’t find the handcuff he was expecting.
A tap on the doorframe brought his attention to a tall, uniformed man who was maybe a decade older than him. He hadn’t been able to focus well enough to see the face of the man he’d run into on the street, but something about this one felt familiar.
“You’re awake.” The cop’s tone was unreadable.
Dean nodded slightly, eying him suspiciously. “Am I under arrest?”
A slight shake of the man’s head surprised him, an arched eyebrow conveying his disbelief.
The police officer shrugged a little. “I talked to the other patrons at the bar. They said you earned the money in there…” He indicated the black backpack which Dean now realized was at the foot of his bed. “Fair and square.”
Dean continued to glare up at him. Gambling on poker was very illegal in Texas, and he wasn’t about to walk into admitting to anything.
“Really nice of you to wash all their cars for them,” the cop added tiredly.
The younger man stayed stubbornly silent, and the older finally let out a heavy sigh.
“I know what y’all were actually doing, and y’all know what you were actually doing,” he stated plainly. “But none of them were gonna admit that, and it’s pretty clear you’re not either, and busting y’all for betting on a poker game isn’t exactly my top priority at the moment.”
“We weren’t betting on a poker game.”
“No, of course not,” the cop scoffed a little. “you were just washing their cars.”
Dean felt a slight smirk make its way onto his face as he nodded slightly.
“Look, Kid.” The officer crossed his arms across his chest as he walked further in the room. “You may not be in trouble this time, but this is exactly why you’re not supposed to do this crap. When you publicly make a boatload of cash, you’re essentially painting a big red x on your forehead. Those guys could’ve killed you.”
Dean looked away and said nothing.
“It’s not your fault you got drugged,” the cop clarified with another sigh, “And it’s not your fault you were almost robbed. But you gotta be more careful. Don’t put yourself in these positions anymore.”
“Easy for you to say,” Dean scoffed without really meaning to.
The guy frowned down at him for a moment, his face intense and unreadable. Then, exhaling slowly, he sank down into the seat next to Dean’s bed.
“Yeah, it is,” he conceded quietly. “But it wasn’t always.”
Dean searched his face for a hint of where this was going.
“I didn’t become a cop because I never dabbled in the otherside growing up,” he continued simply. “I did. I’ve been there. And if my guess is right, you weren’t earning that money to feed just yourself.”
The younger man’s eyes finally dropped. Guy was good, he’d give him that much.
“Yeah, that’s a yes,” the officer sighed. “Lemme guess… little brother?”
Dean’s incredulous breath said yes for him.
“That’s tough.”
He really did not know what to do with this guy.
“But the last thing he needs is to find your body in a ditch cuz some asshole drugged you and you fought back. There are better options.”
The older man dug into the pocket of his shirt and produced a business card, holding it out to Dean. “That’s my contact info. If you need some help finding ‘em, just give me a call.”
Then, he got up again, turning towards the doors. “As soon as they’re happy with your fluids, you can check yourself out. If you feel so inclined and wanna make sure those guys get put away, swing by the station to give your statement.”
The news was a breath of fresh air in the midst of his crappy night.
Checking himself out was not only convenient, but represented two very important things.
His dad didn’t have to find out, and he didn’t have to call Reaves.
summary: John refuses to answer the phone, and Dean struggles to keep his head above water in the case and in the camp.
part 7 | part 9
word count: 3,298
notes: I'm so sorry for the long delay. My life is a literal trainwreck however that's why we fanfiction, right? Sure. Comments, however, will momentarily bring back my vanquished will to live, so I really would love you forever if you'd leave me some. Love ya anyway.
That evening, he found some decent service in a private corner, called Jim, fed him a string of lies about life in Santa Fe and how Sam was doing with his soccer program, then tried John's phone. Three times.
He hadn't realized he'd allowed himself to so desperately hope the Knight would pick up, but when he became clear he wasn't going to, he found himself fighting tears. He just needed someone with access to literally any resources. That was all. Bobby and Mac were researching the case, and John had promised to pass that on.
Apparently, that meant as much to him as Sam's soccer practices.
And there was no way he should be surprised by that.
So, he fought back those stupid, pathetic tears, shoved his phone back into his backpack, and went to attend the stupid campfire Crew was having that night.
The next morning, they had breakfast duty off, so after eating, they were sent to do their own private Bible studies. They were supposed to stay in the general vicinity of the dining hall and lawn, but he definitely wasn't going to go and pray in a corner when he could be doing something worthwhile, so, with a quick check that no one was watching, he headed up to cut through boy's camp and return to the scene of the crime.
Hopefully, he could follow that creek and get some more clues about not only the monster's identity, but also where it had taken its victims.
He thought he was home free, going to bolt up the last set of stairs that would put him on a path which should be empty this time of day, when Cade, who'd sent them to do their studies and presumably gone to do his own, appeared around the bend, heading down those same stairs.
Dean bit back a violent curse the second before it fell from his tongue.
"Hey, Dean," the counselor greeted him, a mildly curious note in his voice. "Forget your Bible at the cabin?"
Dean had the feeling he knew that he had zero intentions of doing anything related to Scripture, but if he wasn't going to call him out, he was going to take advantage of his patience.
"Uh, actually…"
The question was, how to get rid of him? If he said yes, he might walk back to the cabin with him, the problem being Dean didn't actually have a Bible to collect. He'd gotten through their group studies without revealing that, thanks to the booklets they were using having the verses printed inside of them. He had the feeling he wasn't going to get away like that for much longer.
"I don't have one."
Maybe he would go to get him one and he could ditch him, come up with an excuse later.
"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, Man." The remorse was heavy in the man's voice. "I should have realized that a long time ago."
Dean just shrugged a little. He wasn't going to pretend to care. "It's not a big deal, really…"
But he was never gonna get off that easy. "Come on, I keep some on hand back at my cabin."
So much for being left alone to run wild.
He tried not to let his disappointment and frustration show as he obediently trailed the counselor in the same direction he'd been headed before, but with a very different destination.
"The camp also has them for us to give out to you guys," Cade explained as they trekked towards the cabins. "But it's a simplified children's version of the NIV, and that might be fine for the younger kids, but I don't like it for you guys. Sometimes, it oversimplifies it to the point of being not really correct anymore in comparison to the original Greek and Hebrew. So I keep RSVs on hand. I know you guys can handle it, and I just like to honor Scripture and its intended meaning as much as possible."
Dean just nodded a little, at a genuine loss of what he was supposed to say in response to so much information that he cared absolutely nothing about.
The sentiment obviously wasn't lost on Cade, who laughed a little after a single glance back at Dean. "And all of that probably means absolutely nothing to you, doesn't it?"
"Pretty much," Dean replied with a small shrug.
Once again, he simply didn't have it in him to even pretend to care about this stuff.
"Totally fair."
They walked in silence for a moment before the counselor broke it once more.
"Oh, hey, I met your little brother."
That at least peaked a bit of Dean's attention, and brought his gaze up to the older man's. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." A small smile. "He's quite the kid."
"Yeah. Yeah, he is." If there was one bit of common ground between them, it would be found in Cade liking Sammy.
"He told me you're good at baseball."
And they were right back onto a topic he did not want to talk about. The older he got, the weirder John got about school and baseball, and the more hopeless Dean felt whenever he thought about either.
He looked away again, shrugging a little. "I mean, I play. Sammy thinks I'm a lot better than I actually am."
"And how about the big universities he said were scouting you to play for them?"
Sammy and his big freaking mouth.
The teenager exhaled heavily. "I mean, yeah, they've come to some games, but–"
Cade didn't wait for him to lie again. "And offered you scholarships. Already."
Dean's fondness for Sam was lapsing just a little in that exact moment.
"Absent parents make colleges give you money."
Another soft chuckle from Cade. "I don't think they come to your baseball games because your dad's not around."
Dean was silent for several long seconds, trying to find any other way out of this conversation, before he finally gave in, saying softly, "That's just not in the cards for me, okay?"
"Sports, or college?"
"Both."
"Why not?"
He sounded like Mac, and Dean didn't appreciate it.
"I told you. Family business."
"That couldn't wait a few years?"
"No."
"And that's what you want?"
He needed to back off.
Through gritted teeth, "Yes."
A long moment of quiet that said loud and clear Cade didn't believe him for a second.
Scratch Mac–he was sounding and acting like Caleb, if Caleb was a church boy. And Dean was not here for that.
Finally, they reached the Crew counselor's cabin, and Cade ducked inside, emerging a second later with a Bible in hand.
Dean's heart sank as he slid his backpack off and dug his own out of it.
"How about you sit? I'll show you where to start."
Screw his entire life.
If Dad was going to subject him to this, the least he could do was pick up his freaking phone.
A little guilt throbbed through him as he obediently took a seat on the cabin porch and reluctantly accepted the outheld Book.
Where was this frustration at his father coming from?
He was probably doing important stuff. Maybe he really did have a lead on the demon.
"I like to start in the Gospels," Cade said as he began paging through his Bible, "but we're already studying John as a group, so Romans is pretty sweet too. Kinda like Christianity 101."
Dean opened his own Bible, finally resigning himself to his fate. biting back a scream, and trying to remember how, exactly, he'd gotten into this mess.
The day only got worse from there.
After lunch, they went back to the I and were told it was their weekly chance to call home–information their parents had been given so they could be prepared to answer. A set of five phones mounted to the wall provided the means, and the other students mostly lined up with enthusiasm and a little excitement. A few others made comments about how they didn't particularly want to talk to their parents, but even they seemed confident they would pick up.
Dean didn't like the sick feeling it all put in his stomach.
He didn't see Cade in the room, and he wasn't too keen on asking any of the other counselors if he could leave, but the last place he wanted to be was there, listening to everyone else talk to their white-picket-fence parents, and the last thing he was going to do was humiliate himself by trying to call his father.
That was frustrating enough when there weren't any witnesses.
But this worked out for him, anyway, seeing as his counselor and Paul's letter to the Romans had ruined his plans to work on his case earlier. With one last glance around to confirm that Cade wasn't there to ask permission, he turned back in the direction of the door anyway.
He doubted it would surprise the older man that he wasn't really into this.
However, he was intercepted on his trip outside by another counselor, tall and skinny and instantly pretentious.
"Hey, where are you going?" he asked in a tone Dean didn't exactly appreciate.
He swallowed down his defensiveness and innocently indicated the direction of the door. "I–uh–I don't really wanna call my dad, so I was just gonna go do a Bible study instead… if that's okay…"
He couldn't tell him no to doing a Bible study, could he?
"No, come on, this is your only chance to call home for the rest of the week." A hand he definitely didn't appreciate being on his shoulder guided him back in that direction. "I'm sure your dad will love to hear from you."
The teenager made an attempt to pull away, but the guy held on.
"Nah, man," he tried, "I appreciate the thought and all, but I'm kinda trying to leave home at home, focus on God, you know? I don't really need him pulling me back into his headspace."
He hated the way the churchy language rolled off his tongue after so much time spent with Jim, listening to him talk to his congregation, not to mention the past few days of drowning in it.
"But you're not gonna be able to stay away forever."
This guy didn't know when to stop.
"I think you should work on being able to be around him, or at least talk to him, without letting him affect you like this. And you're really not gonna have another chance, so you do need to do it now."
"Seriously, Bro, another week before I talk to him again sounds pretty good to me…"
But the counselor was firmly guiding him toward the shortest line, and it didn't seem like he planned on losing.
As they stood in line, Dean continuing to unsuccessfully attempt to convince him to let him go, the clock on the wall taunted him, ticking away minute after precious minute that he could have been anywhere but there.
Over twenty of them passed before the overbearing dude was finally pushing him forward, to the phone the person in front of him had just stepped away from.
"If you don't think he's gonna pick up, this'll be easy," he pressed. "But you've gotta try."
Dean was just trying to hold in both his frustration and the anxiety inexplicably rising in his chest, and it had become very clear the easiest way out of this was going to be just giving the jerk what he wanted.
If, by some miracle, John did pick up, he'd try to ask him whatever veiled questions he could. And in the much more likely case that he was greeted by that same, aggravating voicemail, he could at least get on to his hunt.
He felt like he was in prison or something as the counselor watched him punch the numbers into the phone.
A throbbing feeling he didn't like passed through his chest as he realized that, if he was actually there as a camper, not an undercover hunter, he would call Caleb, and Caleb would pick up.
The same ringing which had frustrated him so much the night before began a new rendition of the same old song. Then, "This is John Winchester. In case of an emergency, leave a message." He didn't wait for the beep to rub it in, setting the phone back in place just a little too hard.
"I told you," he mumbled, turning away before the guy could argue.
He had. He'd known this was coming.
So why did it still hurt?
It was absurd. These kids lived in a fantasy world of perfect families and Bible studies, and he was a freaking monster hunter.
Who cared if it was a little harder to get his dad on the phone?
He looked over at the sound of the door opening, and couldn't help but roll his eyes a little as Cade finally made an appearance. Moments too late to save him from humiliation. Helpful.
Dean looked away again, but he felt the counselor's eyes find him, and he knew he probably looked miserable.
He needed to get out of here before another hunting opportunity was wasted on another chick-flick moment.
He didn't even try to be subtle or sneaky as he beelined it for the door. He hadn't been told to stay here, and now he'd already tried to get a hold of his dad, so no one could argue with him if he told them he was gonna go talk to God or something.
However, this time he was left in peace as he exited the I and quickly walked further down the trail to cut the same path as he had before.
It was a good thing, because he was appalled to find tears biting at his eyes as he walked.
What was wrong with him?
As he came over the next hill, his stomach dropped at the sight of a gaggle of twelve-year-old boys coming his way from down the trail. He instantly recognized the counselor leading them as Sam's.
His brother could be pretty oblivious at times, but he had a special sense for situations which would give him reason to be angry with their father, and Dean didn't have it in him to defend him right at that moment.
The only thing between him and the group of boys was the A-Frame, which housed the male PCs on the upper level and was a child-free haven for the counselors on the lower one. Crew weren't supposed to spend much time there, but they were allowed to go in and out and keep personal food in the same area as the counselors kept theirs. Not that Dean had any personal food, but that was what he'd been told.
He couldn't face Sammy right now.
Mind made up, he quickly ducked off of the path and in through the back door of the A-Frame. Miraculously, it was empty.
Dean fell back onto the nearest couch without really meaning to.
He needed to pull it together.
He had no reason to be upset.
Except that he and his twelve-year-old brother were alone on a mountain with a child-abducting monster, and he was beginning to feel completely over his head, and he couldn't call Caleb or Jim or Mac or even Bobby, and John couldn't even answer his stupid, stupid phone.
The boy dropped his head into his hands and took a deep, shaky breath.
He didn't know what to do.
He didn't think this monster was one he'd hunted in the past, and he didn't even have his father's journal to consult for clues, much less Bobby's library or a local news archive or the freaking internet.
Did Dad just want him to charge in blind and hope he had something that he could use to subdue it?
He wouldn't allow himself to fully form the thought that this was unfair and messed up, but it hovered in the back of his mind guiltily.
He could do this.
He just had to… had to…
He had no idea what to do.
His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door he'd just come through opening again. He jerked upright, feet under his in an instant, and was slightly relieved to recognize Rylyn.
Except that it was clear he'd been crying.
"Sorry," Dean mumbled, not wanting to disturb the older man's clearly much-needed respite, and took a step towards the door, but the counselor held up a hand to stop him.
"You're fine." His voice was weak and choked, the smile he offered up trembling and utterly fake. "You look like you need a minute as bad as I do."
Dean didn't answer, and he didn't sit back down, but he also didn't leave as Rylyn did take a seat, looking at the twenty-year-old's face and feeling once more a wave of compassion for him envelope him.
He knew something wasn't right, and that was knowledge that could break you.
There was a long moment of silence before Rylyn asked softly, "It's call-home time, huh?"
Dean was surprised by the question, and faltered for a moment before fixing his eyes on the floor and nodding a little. "Yeah."
"Mine never picked up either."
That did bring his eyes up, to meet the older boy's, which were watching him with a compassion of their own. He didn't know what to say, so he just nodded a little in quiet thanks for the empathetic form of encouragement. He felt the strange urge to return the favor.
"I'm really sorry about your friend," he said after a moment, finally sinking back down on the couch behind him. "I–uh–I don't know how you're still working after that."
"Helps that I'm homeless and jobless if I quit," Rylyn said with a hopeless shrug. "No happy white-picket home to run back to. But–uh–thanks. Seriously."
Dean nodded slightly. He hadn't thought of the counselor literally having nowhere to go. "How many transferred?"
"Maybe half," the older man told him quietly. "Some were too scared. Some were too upset. Most of the ones who are left didn't really know her that well."
"But some do?"
He felt bad about using this as an opportunity to milk him for information, but he was desperate.
"Yeah," Rylyn confirmed heavily. "Me and her three other best friends up here. We all took a week off, then came back for this round of campers." A pause, then a guilty admittance, "I think we all know something isn't right. And we all wanna know what really happened."
"Have you talked to her parents at all?" He knew he was pushing it, but the guy seemed upset enough not to notice.
He scoffed a little, and continued to answer Dean's questions without seeming to think about them. "No. I think the cops have talked to them, but they haven't even come out. She was pretty much in the same boat as you and me."
Dean nodded once more. A confirmation of what he'd already suspected–this girl did not have a good relationship with the parental units.
He didn't know if that had anything to do with anything, but it was about all he had to go off of at the moment.
They sat there in commiserating silence for another minute or so before, exhaling slowly, Dean stood once more. "I should probably go."
"Yeah," Rylyn agreed without moving. "I should get back to my kids."
Dean moved towards the door, and when he was almost there, the counselor finally got up as well, a soft groan escaping his lips.
"Hang in there," he called weakly after Dean.
The boy looked back for just long enough to offer him a hapless smile. "Yeah. You too."
summary: Dean starts to collect information about the missing counselor from a close friend of hers and the phone he found by the creek.
part 6 | part 8
word count: 3,349
After breakfast, they were split up to be introduced to their activities shifts. Dean was assigned to help kids with their gear at the bottom of the zipline, which he wasn't exactly hyped about, but could have been a lot worse, all things considered. He had a good vantage point of both the boathouse and the camp store, and watches the masses of small humans crowd the Crew working at those two locations made him grateful he only had one at a time to deal with.
He was introduced to Rylyn, the counselor he'd be working with, who was "catching" the kids as they came down the zipline and pulling them in so they could get their footing and Dean could help them out of the harness, and who Dean recognized as the one who'd first noticed his car the day before.
As much as he wanted to hold that against him, he knew it was literally their job to be insufferably enthusiastic, especially at "spirit tunnel", as Cade called it, and based on his much calmer persona today, it seemed he'd been correct about the heart of the issue being intense caffeine consumption.
He wondered if it would be rude to ask him exactly how many mgs of the energizing substance he'd been on the afternoon before.
The guy was nice, but the longer they worked together, the larger disparity he noticed between this person and the one Rylyn had been while hyping up his ride the day before.
He was kind, friendly, and encouraging, but quiet in a way that didn't seem normal–for him or for anyone–with a far-off look in his eyes and a way of smiling that always seemed a little forced.
They'd been working together for around half an hour when there was a longer than usual pause in between the time when they caught and unhooked the last camper and when their readiness for the next one was confirmed via walkie from the counselors working at the top of the line.
Dean hesitated uncertainly, looking up the line, at the tiny figures on the sending platform, then at the silent walkie clipped to a nearby fence, then at Rylyn.
"Should we be worried?"
"What? Oh." Another one of those quick, utterly forced smiles. "No. I'm sure they're just trying to talk down a scared kid. Happens all the time. It's pretty rare to go as long as we did just now without a gap."
Dean nodded a little, and they fell back into silence. The older man broke it again after a moment.
"So, uh, how are you liking Crew so far?" It was clear he felt like he should be engaging with him, despite not really feeling capable of doing so, and Dean wanted to tell him it wasn't necessary, but didn't know how to do so without being rude.
"Yeah, it's–ah–it's okay," he said instead, shrugging a little. "Not really my scene, I guess. Kinda a lot to get used to."
A weak laugh escaped Rylyn's lips. "Yeah. It's certainly that."
"How long have you been here?" the boy asked.
It was a long shot, but the dude's demeanor was certainly weird, and it was a possibility he might know something useful. If nothing else, questioning him was keeping the attention off of Dean.
"This is actually my first week at Thunder Lake," he replied, that far-off expression from his eyes entering his voice as well. "And last week I wasn't on the mountain. But before that, I'd been at the sister property, Camp Sparrowhead, since the beginning of the season. Works similarly, just with shorter sessions."
"Wait," Dean said, forcing his stone casually curious rather than triumphant at indeed finding a potential insister, "Sparrowhead is the one where…"
He didn't quite know how to sensitively phrase it, but a tight little nod from Rylyn indicated understanding so he didn't have to.
"Wow," the boy breathed. "Did you–uh–did you know the people who–who disappeared?"
"I'd only met the kids a couple times," the twenty-year-old sighed, "but the counselor? Yeah. Yeah, she was one of my best friends up here."
"I'm sorry, Man." For once, he didn't have to force the sentiment behind the words. He could see the guilt and conflict behind the counselor's eyes, see him grappling to understand something he had no means of understanding because he didn't know these things were real, and those were things he wouldn't wish on anyone. "I can't imagine."
He could, but he was still sorry.
Rylyn nodded a little with another shaky attempt at a smile, taking a breath to reply, but before he could, a voice from the walkie spoke up once more.
"Sender ready."
Rylyn straightened quickly, reaching over to press the button to respond. "Catcher ready."
"Sending."
"Send on."
They worked for another twenty or so minutes without talking other than necessary communication for the work they were doing, and as another pause broke the rhythm of catching one kid and preparing for the next one, they fell into silence once more.
"Look." Rylyn's voice broke it suddenly, making Dean start a little as he looked up at him. "I don't know what everyone's saying," the counselor continued a little desperately. "I… I haven't been able to bring myself to watch the news or–or anything, but I just… Alicia loved her kids more than any of us. I'm not saying I know what happened–God, I wish I did–but she would never, ever hurt them. Whatever happened to them happened to her too, or else she went down protecting them and whatever it was…" He swallowed hard, clearly barely holding himself together. "Hid her body so we haven't found it yet."
He exhaled slowly, the breath trembling on its way out, his eyes meeting the dirt as Dean saw a few stalwart tears well in them.
"I just can't handle anyone thinking–thinking that she…"
He didn't finish, letting the sentence hang for a moment before pulling one hand down his face hard and shaking himself a little.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't dump any of that on you. I just don't know what people are saying."
"You're fine, Man," Dean told him simply. "I get it. She's your friend." He hesitated before timidly probing, "What do you think happened? An animal of some sort, or…"
But he was shaking his head. "They haven't found anything. If it was an animal, there would be some sort of trial or–" He swallowed again, like he was trying to keep himself from puking. "Or remains, or something. But there's nothing."
"Yeah, that wouldn't make sense," Dean confirmed quietly. "I guess sometimes people are the biggest monsters of all."
"Yeah," Rylyn scoffed haplessly. "You can say that again."
time-skip sponsored by the welcome death of that terrible new tumblr logo :)
He and Sammy met up during the boy's freetime, which he, luckily, had off as well, finding an inconspicuous enough little corner of the dining hall where they probably weren't supposed to be at the moment and getting to work rigging a battery pack for the phone.
It was nothing they hadn't done before, and they were able to talk as they worked, neither of them having to put their full focus into the project.
To Dean's relief, Sam was still having the time of his life. He was planning on being launched from the huge inflatable thing in the lake he referred to as the blob later that day, and had already gotten to play "archery tag", which he described as like dodgeball, but with padded arrows instead of balls, and do an obstacle course. Dean listened and smiled and nodded along, only focused on the stories with part of his brain, but genuine in his happiness for his brother.
This was one of those things he'd really never expected the kid to get to do, and it was pretty rare that a hunt actually worked out well for Sam. Sure, he wished it didn't involve dragging the kid closer to a kid-nabbing monster, but the childish excitement shining in Sammy's eyes as he spoke was something he'd seen less and less of lately.
"So is everybody being nice?" the older brother asked as he used some clear tape to careful set the wires they were rigging into place.
"Yeah. I mean…" Sammy shrugged a little, blowing in the charge port of the cell phone to remove any remaining dirt that hadn't been banished when Dean initially cleaned the thing off. "Mostly everyone."
That brought Dean's eyes snapping up with more attention. "What do you mean mostly?"
The boy shrugged once more, double checking the taped-up pack before gingerly slipping the two wires into the charge port. "There's jerks everywhere. You know that. Some of the guys in the cabin must've overheard me telling Lawrence that Mom died when I was a baby, cuz they keep making Little Orphan Sammy jokes and stuff. The other guys are nice, though."
Dean's could feel his eyes go dark, despite a slight light to the phone's touch screen telling them that they'd found success in getting it to charge.
"Point them out and I'll deal with it."
"No!" Sam argued quickly, going on before Dean could argue. "Really, it's fine. Like I said, the other guys are nice, and they tell them to knock it off when they hear, and they're not dumb enough to do it in front of Lawrence. And I don't want you to get sent home or anything."
Dean had to admit he couldn't see him breaking the nose of a twelve-year-old bully going over real well, but he didn't like standing by while the little brats ran their mouths about things they'd never understand, much less at Sam's expense.
"I thought this was supposed to be a church camp," he muttered dangerously.
"Doesn't mean everyone's perfect," Sam countered, offering up a small smirk. "They let you in, didn't they?"
"Funny." Dean gingerly reached forward and settled the phone in his hand while it continued to charge so that he could start to look through it as soon as it had enough power for him to do so. "Seriously, though," he added, "Tell me if it gets worse."
"Yeah, I will," the younger brother agreed, his tone distracted as Dean found success in getting the charging device to turn on. "Now what are we looking for in this thing, anyway?"
"Whatever we can find," Dean told him with a small shrug of his own. "I don't know, Sam, we just don't have much of anything on what we're actually dealing with here. I'll take whatever hints I can get."
"But all you're looking for is hints, right?" Sam pressed. "Dad is gonna come help you actually hunt it?"
"Yeah, of course he is," he replied without looking up. "Never hunt alone, you know that."
"Yeah, I know that," the boy mumbled, clearly unconvinced.
As the phone finished booting up, though, his attention was quickly the rest of the way captured by that instead of his mistrust of their father.
"That's so cool," he breathed softly as Dean started to use the touch screen to figure out how to navigate through the device controls.
Dean just nodded slightly as he started with the phone's call log.
As could be expected, there was a long line of missed calls starting the night of her disappearance and becoming less and less frequent until they finally tapered off that week. The same contacts largely repeated themselves in the lineup, including a Rylyn that was no doubt the counselor Dean had spoken to earlier. Monica, Andrew, and Lawrence were also common entries, as were a handful of others. He glanced over at Sam.
"Isn't Lawrence your counselor's name?"
"Yeah…" the boy confirmed softly. "I knew he came from the other camp, but I didn't know he knew her so well." He hesitated before asking, "Do you want me to ask him about it?"
"If you can be subtle about it, yeah."
"Yes, I can be subtle about it, Dean," the younger boy huffed a little. "I have helped you guys with this stuff before, you know."
"I know," Dean sighed in his own right. "I mostly just didn't want you to get in trouble or upset him or something."
"Oh. I guess that makes sense."
They fell back into silence as Dean continued to scroll through the long line of no-doubt panicked calls following the girl's disappearance.
"It's weird that there's no parents," Sam commented quietly, bringing Dean's eyes briefly back up to his pensive young face.
"What?"
"On the logs," the boy replied like it was obvious. "There's no Mom or Dad. I don't know, I guess, but I feel like I'd call my daughter's cell phone if I found out she was missing on a mountain, even if I knew she didn't have service. I mean, these people sure did."
"I didn't think of that," Dean mused softly. "But, yeah, you'd think." He hesitated before adding, "And the service is actually better than you'd think. Not everywhere, but if you find a high point. I mean, all of this had to come through sometime."
"Maybe one of these names is an older brother or sister," Sam offered after a moment. "Like you or Caleb."
Dean couldn't help a slight, fond smile at that. "Yeah. Maybe so." He took a breath to say something else, but forgot it as he clicked to the next page of calls. "Wait, there they are."
Sure enough, both Mom and Pops finally appeared on the log, but only now that they'd gone back to before the night of the disappearance. A ten-minute call to the mother, immediately followed by a thirty-minute one to Rylyn and preceded by an hour long conversation with a new name, Jeremy, and then a line of missed calls from him.
Several days before that, a call with the mother that had lasted over an hour and was immediately followed by a string of unanswered calls from her and the father.
"So they do exist," Sam said quietly.
Dean frowned as he considered it. "That's kinda worse."
"That they're out there somewhere, but they didn't even call when she disappeared?" the younger brother asked, his tone dark. "Yeah. Worse."
The saved log ended just a few calls before those ones, so Dean navigated away from the log and into the phone's saved voice pages.
He made a quick check around them to ensure they were still alone in the room and turned the volume on this thing all the way up before ordering the most recent one to play.
"Look, Alicia…"
He was almost positive the trembling voice was Rylyn's.
"I don't know what's going on. I know your kids are with you, so–so you must be in trouble, and I swear if you are, we'll find you, okay, but if–if that's not it, if your head's somewhere, like–like it's been, jus–just don't do anything stupid. Please." A pause, then the sound of him choking on a sob. "Please just pick up."
Dean frowned. Was he saying what it sounded like he was saying? He moved to the next one, marked with the same date as the girl's parents had first made an appearance on her call log.
"You can't just cut things off like that. What happened up there wasn't me, alright? I felt weird about it too, but I thought–I don't know, but we just need to talk. You have to let me talk to you. Pick up."
Then, from the date of that long call with her mother.
"Take a deep breath." That was Rylyn again. "I'm walking your way now. I don't know what she said, but I'm on my way, just don't–don't do anything before I get over there, alright? Please. Screw her. God's got you. I'll be there in, like, two minutes."
Again, was that what it sounded like?
Another from that same date.
"This is exactly why we didn't want you going up there in the first place, Alicia. I don't know what's gotten into you, but we will get it out the second you come home, which you are going to do. Now. Come home, Alcia."
"Gotta be Mommy Dearest," Dean mused softly.
"She sounds pleasant," Sam put in with a small scoff. "Guess I can see why she didn't call now."
That was the last page the device had saved, and there was little else of interest recorded in the phone's memory. Dean couldn't help but be a little relieved by the fact. He knew why they were doing it and stood by it, but he couldn't help but feel like they were just digging through the girl's personal life.
Which seemed to be a bit of a mess.
"Does any of that help?" Sam asked as they unplugged the phone from the makeshift battery and set it aside.
"I don't know," his older brother sighed. "I guess it could. I just don't know how yet." He glanced at the clock on the wall and made a small motion of his head in the direction of the door. "You should probably get back out there before someone notices you're gone."
The boy nodded and started to his feet, but he was still frowning a little. "I wonder if her dad's that mean, too." Then, he ran off, calling over his shoulder, "See you later, Dean!"
Dean watched him go with a small smile, but immediately felt his own frown replace it again as his mind centered back on the case.
If he was understanding things correctly, the girl was a bit unstable. Whatever Rylyn's pages had been referring to, even if it wasn't so severe as thinking she'd attempt, he clearly had reason to believe she posed some sort of a danger to herself when upset or in a particularly dark place.
Then there was the fact that, as Sam had noted, she seemed to have a pretty terrible relationship with her parents, and seemed to have been on the mountain against their express wishes. Then, there was the other guy.
From what he'd said on the page, as well as one long call followed by a lot of unanswered ones, it seemed the two of them had been in some sort of relationship, he'd screwed up, and she'd cut it off, which he was not happy about.
But once again, all of that really just felt like personal details he probably shouldn't know, and utterly unhelpful to his case.
Except that monsters sometimes had motivations.
If it mostly preyed on children, the rocky relationship with her parents could play into it. A lot of boogeyman-type legends focused on disobedient children.
The relationship drama was less likely to be a monster's motivation, but he remembered his parting comment to Rylyn that afternoon and realized he had to consider the possibility of a human monster doing this, not a supernatural one.
Or, she could have taken out herself.
Counselor commits suicide in the middle of the night, two of the kids she was in charge of wander off and get lost.
But based on what Rylyn had said that morning, it wouldn't be like her to abandon them, and in any case, it would be hard to believe the authorities would have found nothing in two weeks.
And there was all that EMF he'd found by the shower house the day before.
No, there was definitely something supernatural going on there.
Dad was supposed to pass on anything he heard from Bobby or Mac, but Dean had the sinking feeling he wasn't going to be able to count on that.
He checked the time again and sighed heavily. At the moment, he was supposed to be reporting to help serve lunch, so he'd have to put a pin in this.
He needed to call Jim sometime that day to check in from New Mexico, so he'd try for his dad at the same time. Maybe he'd actually pick up given the fact that Dean was trying to hunt.
Maybe.
notes: Please let me know all of your thoughts and predictions. Like a broken record, I live and breathe off of feedback. Love you all.
