Title: We Don't Need to Talk About It - Chapter Four
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Jimmy/Dean, semi-one-sided Castiel/Dean
Warnings: Mpreg, Slash, language, alcohol abuse, threats, questionable sanity
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. I am not that clever. This work is for fan enjoyment only. No infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This. Was. A. Bitch. But, it was very important to me to have it just right, so... I apologize for taking so long. We are finally (finally) headed for the 'good stuff', here. That said, I hope you enjoy your read.
P.S. Chapter Five won't be too far behind. The stage is set.
Summary: Left behind by Castiel in the midst of a rather delicate situation, Jimmy finds himself facing several major decisions. When his trip back to Pontiac does not go as planned, the ex-vessel turns to the only person he can trust... Who is also the one person that he has wronged above all others. Torn by guilt and obligation in light of new events, Jimmy discovers that strength is found in many forms, and that forgiveness is not always necessary.
Chapter Four
(Capitulate)
For the record, Sam knew that he was being a pretty shitty brother. He'd said a lot of things, especially in the last few days, that he wished with all of his soul (as well as the next guy's) that he could take back. Words that he should have been pleading for Dean to forgive. But, it just wasn't that easy. Nothing with Dean ever had been.
There had always been something about Dean that made it difficult for Sam to apologize. Not for a lack of trying, mind. Sam could talk until he was blue in the face, and, sure, Dean would say that things were 'okay' between them. But, was that ever what he truly meant? Was Sam ever really forgiven? He had his doubts. Because, no matter what came out of his older brother's mouth, there was this... sadness and utter despair in Dean's eyes for fucking days after they had a serious disagreement. Thirty years of that, and he still had no idea what to do to make it go away. It was, in a word, disheartening, to say the least.
Well, that was sugar-coating it. Pissed him off was what it did.
Hunching himself further over the remnants of a questionable looking cup of black coffee, the not-yet-sober hunter was working to sort himself out. No way in hell was he going back home pissed off his ass. That was what had got him in the thick of it, in the first place. The drink had coaxed him into opening his big fat fucking mouth and screaming at the only person in his damned life that wanted to help him. And, then, to have punched Dean for it? Oh, fucking hell, he couldn't believe he'd done something that stupid. The horror had gripped him the second that his brother's shoulders had bounced off the kitchen cabinets, the nauseating twist of guilt settling deep into his core. He hadn't meant to get physical, he really hadn't, but Dean just kept pushing, kept asking him why, kept begging him to talk it over.
Standing up, Sam left the money for his coffee on the table, before turning to leave the diner.
There was nothing to talk about. There never had been.
Deep down inside, Sam tried to tell himself, he was just tired. He needed an honest break, no talk of the last few months tagging along with him, no thinking about what it had taken for him to make it out alive. He needed a good night's rest, a peaceful, uninterrupted slumber that wasn't fueled by booze, or plagued by nightmares, and didn't end with him waking up in a cold sweat. But, above all else, Sam felt the need to get back to the job. Sure, Hell was officially a No Fly Zone, but that still left all the other creepy-crawlies of the non-demon variety wandering the earth. He and Dean had spent so long on the Trials, hell-bent on sealing away the spawn of the Underworld, they had allowed the Purgatory-bound to run amok in a virtual free-for-all. The hunting community (while admittedly capable) was a hurting unit without the Winchester brothers in their corner, there was no denying it. Once they'd had some time to relax (another full week, tops), it would be high time they got back on the horse. Things would get better after that. Once everything was back to normal... Once he could... forget...
Shaking off the sudden tingle that ran up his spine, Sam stepped out the door and onto the sidewalk. There was a bitter chill in the early morning air, a crisp, clean smell foretelling of the possibility of snow. Sam nearly scoffed. Just what they needed this early in the season. It was something of a blessing, though. What the coffee hadn't done to bring him back 'round to his supposedly-right mind, the wind was quickly taking care of.
Pulling his jacket tighter around himself, Sam stepped off the sidewalk, and made his way across the street. Lucky for him, he had a rule about going too far from their home, on foot. He just didn't do it. The bunker was only a fifteen minute walk away, just far enough for him to buck-up, and figure out a way to apologize to Dean. To make him listen.
Sure. That was going to go over like a lead balloon.
Twelve minutes in, and just four streets left to go, and Sam had zero ideas on what to say. How would one go about apologizing for drunkenly cleaning his brother's clock? Other than to beg for everlasting forgiveness and swear on his own tainted soul that it would never happen again, Sam Winchester officially had squat. So, apparently, a run-of-the-mill apology was going to have to suffice. It was how they worked, after all. Sad, but true.
Worse-over? The fact the Sam could have gone for a nice, stiff drink. The realization even surprised him. Working to come off a bender, and then wanting to drown himself all over again? He was pretty sure that even Dean hadn't hit a mark like that. It gave him a reason to pause, mentally, and assess a couple of things. For instance, Dean's words from earlier that evening.
"You're a fucking booze hound, Sam," he'd crowed, hypocrisy running high as Dean himself pounded down a bottle of Jack. "I don't know why you can't just admit it to yourself."
Thinking about it, now, Dean may have had a point. May have. Okay, so, maybe his drinking had been getting a little bit out-of-hand, lately. And, maybe he was trying to swallow away the last few months, but, who wouldn't be? If another man had done what Sam had, had suffered through the cleansing and the weakness and the worry that he just couldn't do it... Not to mention, physically completing each and every task, hell, he'd be buying that poor bastard a drink, and keep 'em coming. And, that was just the stress of the Trials. How about the last thirty-some-odd years of his life? No Mom, and a Dad who saw fit to cart his kids around like excess fucking baggage while he played vigilante. An older brother who just insisted on coming out a carbon fucking copy of their old man, hunting and killing and dragging Sam along for the ride. Losing Jess, and every other woman that came after (but, never matched) her. Time and again losing Dean, and Bobby, and Castiel, and-and-...
"Son of a bitch," Sam growled under his breath, stopping to press the heels of his hands up against his eyes. Oh, that wasn't good. He could feel the tension collecting back in his shoulders, creeping its way up his neck and into his head. Anger. Sheer, unadulterated wrath collected over three decades, stored away in a dark corner where he never had to look at it. Acknowledge it. Recognize the fact that he had been fucked-over six ways to Sunday, and had every Goddamn right in the world to do as he pleased. He'd earned it.
Rolling his eyes to the sky, Sam was quick to shake that feeling off. It was thinking like that that had landed him out in the cold in the first place.
Too drunk to make it back his bedroom, he'd settled for the pitch dark of the kitchen, and a bottle of vodka that Dean had stashed behind the bran flakes. His brother had been trying to hide the booze on him, lately, but, ha. Joke was on him. Dean had been using those same hiding places since they were kids, trying to keep the drink away from their father. Vodka behind the cereal, whiskey under the sink, and the cheap stuff went down the drain until Dean was older and felt the need to drink it, himself. Fucking hypocrite was what Dean was, trying to keep him away from a harmless little alcoholic beverage when he'd seen the older man go on a bender that would have made any A.A. Member proud.
Dean didn't get it. He didn't know what Sam was chasing away with the liquor in his hands. After all, he'd had Cas to fall back on when shit went wrong, whether or not he decided to take advantage of that luxury. Sam didn't have that, didn't have the security of knowing that there was someone willing to stand beside him, willing to catch him when he fell, someone who wasn't his brother. He had Dean more by obligation than anything, by some stupid, ill-placed sense of duty and honor and all the shit that just made Sam angry and hurt at his core. Dean didn't understand that. Dean didn't care about him, about what happened to him, just that it didn't happen on his watch.
Growling to himself under his breath, Sam polished off another inch-worth of that booze in one go. Just as he lowered the bottle back down to his lap, Dean entered the kitchen, took one look at him, and shook his head.
Taking a long, deep breath, Sam fought back the urge to just render himself unconscious via blunt force. Everything had gone all kinds of pear-shaped after that, and he couldn't believe he'd been thinking such ugly things in the first fucking place. Dean loved him, wanted to look after him and make sure he was happy, and what did Sam do, in return? What he always did. He made things more difficult for Dean than they already were. It was practically the story of Dean's life.
Lost your Mom? Here, take care of your little brother.
Dad's just sold his soul? Not a problem, you just have to look after your brother some more. But, if things get out of control, you might have to put a bullet in his skull.
Brother died? Oh, hell, there's a solution to that. Sell your own soul, and you can have him back. Piece of fucking cake.
And, now? Now, when your angel has left you – when there is literally no one else left in the entire fucking world for you to count on – you can sit back and watch your brother fall apart before your very eyes.
Jesus Christ, he was supposed to be there for Dean, just like he was refusing to let Dean be there for him. Of all the times his brother needed him, this was a big one, and he was single-handedly fucking it all up.
I'm so fucking ungrateful, Sam berated himself, tilting his head back and opening his eyes to the sky above him. There was no comfort to be found in the vast expanse of dark blue and twinkling white. Dean was miserable, and it was his fault. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Things were supposed to be different. That knowledge just made him all the angrier.
"This isn't what we agreed on!" he bellowed, arms flailing out beside him. No answer followed down from the Heavens. He hadn't been expecting one. "You promised me! YOU PROMISED ME!"
Then again, when could it be said that Sam Winchester ever truly got what he was promised?
Jimmy didn't quite know what to do with himself as he packed up the few things he had in the bunker. A couple of shirts that Dean had picked up for him, too small to be of any use to either of the brothers after he left, went into a plastic bag. The ugly suit that he had been riding around in for the passed six years (and never wanted to see, again) were soon folded up, and stacked atop the shirts. And, finally, in went a pair of dress shoes that had seen more mileage than the Impala, in one form or another. That was it, the sum of the last six years of his life, packed away in less than five minutes.
How fucking sad was that?
On the one hand, Jimmy wanted to go and set things straight with Dean. This seemed the most appropriate course of action, given how they had left things. Well, given how Dean had left him standing in the middle of the damned kitchen, wondering just what signal he had been giving off for the passed few days. Whether unfortunately, Dean hadn't spoken to him since the night before. He was pretty sure that the younger man hadn't even left his bedroom.
On the other hand, he just really wanted to go choke the life out of Sam Winchester, himself. It seemed like the most satisfying thing he could do. But, as per the usual, concerns for Dean came first.
It wasn't to say that he faulted Dean for his actions, not entirely. Alcohol was a poor excuse for something like kissing what was essentially a stranger (at least, by comparison), but, heartache? There was no denying the man that. It was quite obvious that, whatever had been transpiring between angel and hunter, it was more than just one night's worth of disposable emotions. Had Castiel found it in himself to actually stick the hell around, who was to say what might have happened? He and Dean could have been setting up housekeeping, picking out china patterns, or whatever the hell two people in-love did, anymore. But, no. No, Dean was left to mend himself to emotions that he had obviously been keeping to himself. And, really, that just made Jimmy angry as all hell.
Double-checking the bathroom, Jimmy avoided looking at himself in the mirror. He didn't care to look at the product of a night without sleep. So consumed by worry and guilt as he was, Jimmy had spent the majority of the previous night tossing and turning. Emotions, thoughts running through his mind, tap-dancing around his skull in a pattern that all sang to him, Dean, Dean, Dean.
Jimmy shook his head, a little, and chucked a half-used bar of soap in the trash with a defeated sigh. No use in letting that hang around after he left.
There were other reasons why he couldn't hold that kiss against Dean, couldn't blame the man for seeking that sense of comfort. Most of those reasons were tied up in a rumple of old sheets on a sketchy motel bed, some two days and several hundred miles back down the road. Left behind with the fuzziness of a tequila-induced hangover and the last sight of himself draped in tan.
Jimmy had tried to push those memories back, but, now... Damn it, it was all that he had been able to think about, the last seven hours. It was embarrassing. He was a married fucking man, for fuck's sake, and here he was, consumed by thoughts of his experiences inside of another man. Inside of Dean.
Oh, angelic duties, or not, he was going straight to hell.
It was startling, how vividly he remembered everything. From the taste of Dean's tongue in his mouth to the distant hum of the old neon sign proclaiming 'Vacancy' at the edge of the parking lot, there wasn't a single detail that wasn't ingrained in Jimmy's memory. Dean's skin had been surprisingly easy to touch, not at-all as rough and uninviting beneath his fingers as he thought it should have been. It was nice, the feeling of bare skin against his own after so long without. Dean certainly hadn't been shy, either, hands stroking over Jimmy's neck and shoulders, fingers slipping through his hair and along his jawline. Jimmy had leaned into every single touch, soaking up the contact like an affection-starved puppy. Dean's lips were their own brand of heavenly, each kiss – whether to lips, or neck, or collarbone – a delight worthy of the moans they had drawn from the older man.
If he concentrated, Jimmy could still recall the faint mixture of sex and the smell of Dean's soap that had lingered in the room. It was a haunting thing, Dean's scent. After their encounter in the kitchen, Jimmy had gone back to his room with Dean all over his night clothes. He would be damned if the scent of the man's aftershave hadn't made his jeans a bit uncomfortable over the last couple of days, and it had suddenly followed him to bed. He'd been tempted to slip his hand into his night pants, but had refrained. It felt so dirty, the idea of taking advantage, again. He couldn't help it, the want, not with his senses caressed by such sweet, inviting recollections. Like it or not, Jimmy was taking those memories to his grave.
That included the way that Dean had moaned Castiel's name, over and over again.
The look in green eyes, the trusting, loving gaze that was meant for someone who was already long-gone.
Something twisted in Jimmy's stomach. There went that guilt thing, again. So far as Dean knew, he had been taking his pleasures with his best friend, not with some random pencil-pusher from Illinois. He'd kissed Jimmy, seeking out the warmth of a being that he had barely been able to experience. He had no way to know. It all seemed so unfair. Poor Dean was pining for someone who hadn't really been with him, not for long. Jimmy had taken advantage of that. In his selfish, adrenaline-fueled need to touch, to feel... He'd stolen something from a young man who was slowly beginning to mean something to him, something he didn't think he'd ever be ready to admit.
Blue eyes turned toward the toilet. Jimmy felt the sudden urge to vomit. Swallowing back the bile creeping up his throat, he instead took a deep breath, and picked up the disposable razor that Dean had given him. Jesus Christ – and, he meant that, no matter who or what was listening – the things that Dean had done for him. Taking him in, taking care of him, and he... He...
Jimmy gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, shoulders hunched and head hung. He was a terrible, horrible sham of a man, filthy in sin, desire and infidelity. He jerked his head up, staring hard into the reflections of his own eyes. What he found there was of little surprise. Hatred. Loathing. Fear. His first instinct was to smash the mirror to pieces, destroy the visual evidence in front of him. Instead, Jimmy pushed off of the sink with a snarl, flung the razor into the trash as he turned himself on his heel, and marched back down the hallway to the bedroom. He snatched the plastic bag off of the bed, and took one last look around the small space.
Once again, something was tugging at his gut, something tight and painful that had him hesitating at the door. This time, he knew it wasn't guilt. It was longing. He'd grown comfortable here in just a few short days, crazy as it sounded. Even crazier was knowing that there was a part of him that didn't want to go back to Pontiac. Some small, isolated bit of Jimmy wanted to stay right where he was. No matter what happened, he enjoyed Dean's company, and Sam just needed a swift kick in the ass to bring him back 'round. There was still work to be done here, wasn't there? How could he just leave them all alone?
How stupid, he groaned in his head, pushing the feeling back. He had a family to return to, responsibilities that needed his attention. Here, in this place, Jimmy was neither needed, nor wanted. Dean had been just fine on his own long before Jimmy had returned, and he would be even better without him. This urge to hang around, to protect 'just in case', it was just an after-effect of the recently vacated angel.
Turning a murderous gaze toward the ceiling, Jimmy growled out a low, "Fuck you, Castiel," before making his final exit. He clicked the lights off on his way out, leaving the room shrouded in darkness. A tan memory rested atop the bed pillows, folded up neatly, and waiting to be forgotten.
There were still things that woke Dean up in a cold sweat. Ugly nightmares crept into his head from time to time, some comprised of horrible memories, others fabricated of his own worries and insecurities. They would cause him to shoot straight up in bed – much like now – and look around in a panic. Usually, his wide, frightened eyes were seeking out Sammy, searching for a visual confirmation that the younger man was still breathing, not shot or stabbed or fucking possessed, as he tended to be in those horrible images that plagued his unconscious mind.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, he was swallowing back a terrified call for Jimmy. His mind was surprisingly quick to point out how stupid that was. He didn't have to worry about that one, right? Taking a deeper breath to calm himself back down, Dean comforted himself in the knowledge that, it was just a nightmare, Winchester. Nothing happened to Jimmy, he's just fine.
Jimmy, who was less than ten paces down the hall, probably still sleeping, or praying, or whatever the hell James Novak was used to doing at – he checked his alarm clock – eight-twenty-seven in the morning? Well, fuck, it was time he got out of bed.
Dean yawned, and stretched, silently assessing his morning game plan. A quick exploration of tongue-against-mouth dictated that he was going to need to take a meeting with his toothbrush, and soon. Maybe a few aspirin for the pounding in his head. Dean glanced over the side of his bed, unsurprised to find a half-empty bottle of Jack settled (upright, no less) on the carpet. Ah, that explained the bad taste, at least. And, the headache. Didn't really explain why his shoulders hurt like a bitch, though. Shaking his head, he slid off the bed, and made his way out to the bathroom.
The bunker was silent, likely confirming his suspicions that Sam and Jimmy were both still visiting with the world of dreams. His stomach soured, slightly, at that. May they be having better luck with that than me. On the bright side, though, no one stirring meant that he could have a nice, long shower in uninterrupted peace. No drunken little brother stumbling through the door, flushing the toilet while Dean was rinsing shampoo from his hair (one thing that still sucked about the place was some of the old-school plumbing). No-
"Jesus Christ!" he shouted, hopping back a pace from the sink. What the fuck was that? he asked himself, cautiously leaning forward until his reflection was one again in the bathroom mirror. Dean blinked once, hard, his eyes opening wide. "What in the...?" Apparently, he hadn't been seeing things, the first time. His face – or, what once was his face – looked like it had gone a few rounds with the World Champion. Dean scoffed, quickly catching himself up with the situation. Or, just one, with Sam's big meat hook. Oh, he remembered, now, clearly recalling one sloppy, but surprisingly well-placed swing on his little brother's part. He'd landed it damn well, too, if the angry purpling under his left eye and across the bridge of his nose was anything to go by. Dean hadn't recognized the sting of it when he had first woken up, but the uncomfortable tinging was beginning to settle in, now. Whether thankfully, he'd taken far worse.
This time, there was no dried blood, though. Jimmy'd done a pretty good job of cleaning him up.
"Oh, fuck." And, there it was. The final piece of the puzzle Dean hadn't known he was trying to solve. Had he really put his mouth, uninvited, on Jimmy? Oh, hell, that was just beautiful. Something else to piss the poor guy off before he went home.
Fingers gripping at the edges of the sink, Dean closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath. Today. He'd promised to take Jimmy home, today. That was the last thing he wanted to do. Not because he was in no shape to drive (he'd been worse-off than this, and crossed over state lines), and not because it was too long a trip. If he took Jimmy home, today... Then, that was it. He'd never hear from the man again, never see his warm smiles or friendly eyes. It wasn't as if Dean could just one day dial him up and ask, "Hey, wanna' go get some coffee?" if he ever passed through Illinois. And, if ever that chance did exist... It was long-gone, now.
Quit being selfish, he silently instructed himself as he opened the medicine cabinet for his toothbrush. He's got a family to go back to, and you promised him that you would get him there, today. Can't go back on your word, now, Winchester.
He'd never wanted reason to be called a goddamn liar more in his entire life.
Sam looked up from his laundry upon hearing the knock against his door frame. He was quite surprised to see Jimmy standing there, hovering at the entrance, a plastic bag twisted between his fingers. The man's expression was unreadable, eyes narrowed at Sam in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. He'd felt that way around Castiel, too. Apparently, some things never changed.
"Oh, uh... Hey," he greeted, somewhat awkwardly. Sam knew what Jimmy was there for. There was no way that it didn't involve that morning's... Events. "If you're looking for Dean, he's not in here."
Jimmy shook his head, a bit, saying nothing right away. He glanced around the room once, keeping it brief and polite, before returning his gaze to Sam. "Actually, I was hoping that I could talk to you. Do you have a minute?"
Taking a deep breath, Sam surrendered with a slight nod. "Yeah, sure," he replied, folding the shirt in his hands, quick and sloppy, and stuffing it in the drawer. Sliding the drawer closed, Sam turned to face Jimmy, and motioned for him to enter. "What's up?"
"Well," Jimmy began, slowly, taking a few steps into the room. "I'm... I'm leaving, this morning, and there were a few things I wanted to say before I did."
Leaving? That was a surprise to Sam. "I thought you were here another few days?"
"Change in plans," the older man replied, and Sam didn't miss the slight hint of regret in his tone. "Listen, about Dean..." Sam immediately opened his mouth to argue, he knew, damn it, he knew!, but Jimmy held up a hand to stop him. "Just... listen, okay? That's all I'm asking for, here. I'm not looking for an argument."
Sam let out a soft snort of air, wondering just what family Jimmy had been staying with, these passed few days. "Okay, yeah. Sounds good to me."
Blue eyes regarded Sam for a moment, before Jimmy nodded. "I know that... That alcohol can make good men do horrible things. I've seen it, long before this morning, but... But, Sam, this Dean. If there's one person you shouldn't be letting this out on, it's him." Sam bit his tongue, quite literally, and held himself to the promised silence. "Now, I promised him that I wouldn't interfere in this... whatever this is that you two have going on, between you, but, Sam, Dean deserves better. A lot better, especially from you."
Sam sighed. "I know he does," he mumbled, moving to sit down heavily atop the edge of his bed. He glanced down at the carpet from between his knees, and smiled, tiredly. "He always has."
"Well, I don't know much about that," Jimmy replied, somewhat hesitantly. He stepped over, and Sam felt the bed dip as Jimmy took up the space beside him. "And, I don't know what's been bothering you so badly, lately. But, the right now, that's what you have the power to change. Whether or not you do, well, that's your choice."
"I didn't mean to hurt him," Sam blurted out, fully-aware that he was likely to begin an argument. He really didn't see why he was defending himself – to Jimmy, of all people – but, if it ended this conversation any faster... "I'm going to apologize, and it won't happen, again."
"That's good." The response surprised Sam. Jimmy didn't even glance in his direction, just kept looking down at his hands. And, when he continued, his voice was just as tight with restrained anger as it was calm and even. "Because, I may be going back to home, but, don't you even think, not for one second, Sam, that I won't drive myself back down here if I even hear of it happening, again." Jimmy shifted the bag around in his hands for a brief second. "And, so help me God, or whoever else is listening... If you ever hurt your brother again, I will kill you, myself."
Sam jerked his head up, just in time to meet with Jimmy's sideways stare. There was something in his expression that the younger man was not about to argue with. Silent. Warning. Unsure of what to say to that (that didn't involve a string of colorful curses and straight-up threats), Sam kept quiet, jaw clenched and face surely going red, watching as Jimmy once again stood up.
"Take care of yourself, Sam." With that, Jimmy walked back out of Sam's room, closing the door behind him.
Sam sat on the bed for a long while after, thinking about what Jimmy had said. There was no way in hell that he was going to hurt Dean again, but the accusation that he might still made him angry. He had half a mind to chase their house guest down and physically knock him down off his high horse. How dare Jimmy barge in and say things like that? How dare he? He understood nothing about the Winchesters, only what he had seen through Castiel. Sam knew how that worked, had been through it with Lucifer, and likewise knew that it didn't amount to shit.
Throwing himself back onto the mattress, Sam barely bothered to right himself against the pillows before throwing his arms out to his sides, and closing his eyes. He'd take a little nap, Jimmy would be gone by the time that he woke up, and everything would finally go back to fucking normal.
Dean's knuckles had gone white for how hard he was gripping the steering wheel. Twenty-four miles he and Jimmy had been traveling in the most ungodly silence, not even the radio to keep them company. It seemed like a cop-out, and this was one of those rare times that Dean wouldn't have been able to enjoy the soothing sounds of Judas Priest if he tried.
Point blank, he knew he fucked up. And, bless his soul, Jimmy wasn't making a federal case out of it. Actually, he hadn't said two words to Dean about anything that didn't involve, "All ready to go?" It was irritating, on some level. Awkward as hell, to boot. He didn't want to talk about it, though, no. But, cripes, were they just going to go on like he hadn't pulled the dumbest fucking stunt possible? Or, was Jimmy really just that unaffected by it?
Jesus Christ, this was why he drank.
Forty-five miles. Silence.
Eighty-two miles. Silence.
Finally, just outside of Topeka, Jimmy shifted in his seat, and turned to face Dean. The younger man kept his eyes on the road, all the while his heart was creeping into his throat. They were about to have it out, he just knew it, and confined spaces were never a good place for that.
It came as somewhat of a surprise when Jimmy only mentioned, "Do you think we could stop at a gas station, or something? I need a drink."
Dean nodded, blowing out a quiet breath of air as he turned down what looked to be a main road. They'd been for drinks at the last stop, so there was really little need for another trip. Dean didn't argue, though. If Jimmy wanted a break from him, then, so be it. There was a service station about a quarter of a mile down, and he pulled the Impala into the parking lot. Eying the gas gauge, he decided to fill up now, rather than wait, and have to make a third stop before Kansas City.
"Thanks," Jimmy muttered, climbing out and heading for the entrance. Dean watched him go, before dropping his head back against the seat in a groan. The radio was going on, the second he was back in the car.
Undoing his seat belt, Dean got out of the car, and went about pumping the gas. He mentally filed through his music collection, trying to decide between Iron Maiden and Black Sabbath. Decisions, decisions. Once Baby was set, he went inside to pay, eyes immediately scanning the store for Jimmy. He wasn't hard to spot, crouched down and searching one of the snack displays like a man on a mission. Dean couldn't help but smile, just a little. Everything Jimmy did, he took so damned seriously. He was going to miss that.
Dean slid the money to the guy behind the counter, tossing in some extra change for a couple of lollipops, and headed back outside. Sinking himself back into the driver's seat (sweet, sweet home), Dean reached into the back for his shoebox of cassette tapes. He settled them on his lap, fingers flicking through each title, one at a time. There were a few empty spaces that he still mourned, such as his copy of ...And Justice for All, which had been eaten in the tape deck a few months back. Ace of Spades had slowly begun to warp, Lemmy sounding like he was on one drug too many through several songs, and Pyromania had a bit of a skip to it, these days. Sam had been harping on him about switching to CDs for years, now. Something to consider, he supposed, knowing he would have a hard time replacing some of his favourite cassettes.
It was several minutes later that Jimmy opened the passenger door, sliding in with a paper bag overflowing with potato chip bags and other assorted treats. Dean smirked, watching him try to fit the purchases down onto the floor, between his knees.
"Find everything you were looking for?" he asked, somewhat teasingly. When Jimmy merely nodded, Dean fought back a sigh, slipping the key into the ignition and turning her over. Here we fucking go, he cautioned himself. I'll be damned if I'm sitting through this, again.
"Hey, hold on a second," Jimmy piped up, at last, rifling around in that bag for something. "Ah-ha! Here." Sitting back up, Jimmy presented Dean with two items: a Mountain Dew, and a Little Debbie apple pie. Green eyes blinked up from the offered snacks, landing on Jimmy's smiling face. "They're for you."
It took a moment for Dean to find himself enough to set the box of tapes between them, and reach out and accept the items. He took them from Jimmy's hands, looking down with a smile of his own. "Hey, thanks, Man," he said, resting the bottle between his legs, before carefully opening the pie wrapper.
Jimmy's smile widened. "Anytime." He peeked over at the box that was now up against his leg. "What've you got going on, here?"
To that, Dean fought back a little grin. "Deciding one what to listen to."
"Oh," Jimmy replied with an understanding nod. "Need some help?"
"Nah." Mind made up, Dean grabbed a particular case. "I think I've got it." He slid the cassette into the tape deck, the opening notes of the title track spilling from the speakers. Jimmy laughed aloud, causing Dean to do the same. Damn, he was going to miss that laugh. He was also going to miss the way that Jimmy tapped his fingers and sang along with the lyrics.
The video game says "Play me"... Face it on a level but it takes you every time on a one on one... Feeling running down your spine... Nothing gonna save your one last dime cause it owns you... Through and through...
Less than a week in, and he was going to miss everything.
"Look, Dean," Jimmy cut in, some time after they had passed through Bloomington. Dean shifted his gaze to his companion for a few seconds, before looking back to the road. "I've gotta' be honest about something, and since we've only got..." He paused, and checked his watch. "About twenty minutes left, I guess that now's as good a time as any."
Dean tried not to flinch at that, knowing what was coming. The bulk of the trip had gone by in a blur of jokes and music and not-so-meaningless chatter. It made sense that Jimmy would save the hardest blow for last. "Yeah?" he asked, once he trusted his voice."What's that?"
There was silence from the passenger seat, creeping over at Dean in an uncomfortable way. He held his breath, waiting to be told off. Instead, Jimmy shook his head, and sighed. "I just want you to know... I know I'm not exactly handy, as far as distance goes, but... This mess with your brother." He turned his head to look at Dean. "I know it's really not my business, I do. But, if it gets worse, or you need help with anything, I'm not impossible to reach." He fixed Dean with a pointed stare, which the younger man met for all of two seconds.
"Yeah, well..." Dean rested his fingers against his face, fingers slowly pulling over his bottom lip. "I appreciate that, thanks. And, hey, you know. If you ever need me, I'm just a phone call away, man." Jimmy nodded, gaze suddenly dropping to his lap. "Hey, no, I mean it. If you run into trouble, or this doesn't go like you want it to, you just need somebody to talk to..." Dean cringed, a little bit, but pushed on. This was his one shot. No matter how uncomfortable it made him, he was going to take it. "You call me. You got it?"
Another moment passed, Jimmy fiddling with the soda bottle between his hands. "I won't hesitate to drive back and kick Sam's ass, you realize."
Dean couldn't help it. He broke out in a laugh. "You're gonna' protect me, huh?" he asked, not mocking, but certainly amused.
Beside him, Jimmy cracked a little smile. "A little bit backward, but.." He paused, and shrugged. "I guess it's right. Sort of an, 'If you'll be my bodyguard, I can be your long-lost pal' sort of a thing."
It felt like someone had jammed a boulder into his solar plexus. Your long-lost pal. Dean swallowed, hard, fingers wrapping tighter around the steering wheel. Responses lined up on his tongue, I don't need you to be Cas, I just need you, currently fighting its way into the lead position. It was stupid, and he had no idea where it came from, but there it was. It was neither the time nor place for that, though, and the words that ended up leaving his mouth sounded something like, "Well, I'm sure as hell not lettin' you call me Betty."
Jimmy pointed out the proper streets, told him which turns to take. Before long, Dean could see the house coming into view. He pulled up alongside the curb a few yards back, hoping to avoid looking suspicious (but, what didn't look a little strange about two men in faded jeans and old t-shirts skulking about in such a nice neighborhood?). He killed the engine, and leaned a ways to his right, not missing the sharp breath that Jimmy took in as he moved closer. Opening up the glove compartment, Dean fished out a pen and scrap piece of paper. He scribbled down his phone number, and passed it over to Jimmy.
"Here," he said, waiting until Jimmy took the paper to re-cap his pen. "That's where you can reach me."
"Thanks, Dean," Jimmy replied, folding the number into his palm. He looked up at Dean, their eyes meeting, and it was all Dean could do to keep his mouth shut. Don't go, Jimmy. Seriously, I can't do this.
"Yeah. Welcome." He nodded, once, and made to stuff the pen back in the box. "You take care of yourself, now."
"You, too." The door opened, and Dean didn't – couldn't watch Jimmy's departure. Jimmy stepped onto the sidewalk, closed the door back up, and leaned down to the open window. "I'll call you in a couple of days, Dean. Okay?"
Dean glanced back, throwing on a quick smile. "Yeah, you bet." Jimmy backed away, and Dean started the engine. He pulled back onto the street, not bothering to look into the rear-view mirror. Only saps looked back. If there was one thing he wasn't, it was a sap. Besides, he didn't want his last memory of Jimmy to be watching him ascend the steps to his family home, leaving his life forever. Best that it be the promise of a call that he wouldn't wait on, because it would never come.
