Nimrod
Chapter 11 / 27 - Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
Soon, Dean will be a distant, uncomfortable memory. In years to come, they’ll say ‘Remember that crazy guy that lived in our building, that was always super bummed and totally ruined Thanksgiving one year?’
He hurt them - Cas especially. He’s doing them a service by not saying goodbye.
He slams the Impala’s trunk closed, and pulls out Alistair’s card.
(Please check TW’s for this chapter on ao3)
Story summary:
It's 1979, and the world is at the cusp of a new decade.
Dean Winchester lives in the small town of Smith Center. He keeps himself invisible, his father's words in his head a never-ending reminder of the past he'd rather forget.
When the mysterious musician Castiel Novak becomes his next-door neighbour, Castiel will see him, and save him, in more ways than one.
Dean will have to learn that people don't always leave - if you ask them to stay.
Start from Chapter 1!
Chapter Text
The oxygen stutters in Dean’s lungs, with a tightness that constricts his chest like he’s just been winded.
This isn’t like the times where his heart is racing and his breathing is a sticcato as he tries to calm himself down - he’s had plenty of those times to know the difference.
His lungs seem to have simply forgotten how to work.
“H-how long?” He finally manages.
“Dean…”
“How fucking long Ellen?” He repeats himself, and if Ellen’s face is anything to go by, he’s not the only one who’s surprised at his tone.
When Ellen doesn’t answer, Jo steps in.
“The doctors say… they’re not sure, but it could be months… it could be weeks-“
“Why the hell aren’t the doctors that are telling you all of this actually doing anything about it? Isn’t there a pill or an inhaler or something - a guy I went to school with used to have trouble with his breathing and he got an inhaler, dude was the fastest runner in the track team, it’s-“
“It’s not as simple as that, Dean.” Ellen half whispers, “Don’t you think they’ve tried?”
Dean shakes his head slowly.
“You’re giving up.”
Now it’s Ellen’s turn to get mad.
“Don’t you dare, Dean Winchester. ” Her brow draws, “You have no idea what I’ve been through these past years - how much my body’s been through. Sure, if you know anyone with an extra heart and, I don’t know, half a million in dollars for medical expenses, I’d be happy to take it from them, but…. That just ain’t the world we live in. Sometimes things don’t work…. and we just- we just have to accept that.”
Dean swallows, and tries to stop the fury of it all from eating him up.
The pain and injustice boils in the pit of his belly until he feels it erupting upwards. It takes all of his strength to muster up a few words.
“Thank you for a beautiful dinner Ellen.” He spits through gritted teeth, and pushes past her.
“Dean-” Ellen murmurs, but he’s already thrown the door open and moved halfway across the maroon carpeted floor of their living room.
The remaining dinner party jump in their seats, startled by his sudden appearance. They all turn to watch in silence as Dean throws on his jacket. He adjusts the collar, throwing a pointed look at Cas, who is slowly rising from his chair as he tries to read Dean’s expression.
“Happy?” Dean lets some of the venom in his tone slip through, because it’s completely Cas’ fault that he feels like his heart has been ripped right out of his rib cage.
Cas locks eyes with him, but Dean storms out before he can get a word in.
For the first time in years - he needs a stiff drink.
He slides into the Impala - the others can make their own way home as far as he’s concerned - and speeds off, tyres screeching.
If he’s going to drown his sorrows, he needs to get out of Smith Center. He knows Ellen will come looking for him, and he knows the first place she’ll check is the Roadhouse. Billie’s isn’t safe either - stumbling home late at night and being found in a ditch by any one of the people sitting at that table isn’t a pretty thought.
And so for the first time in a long time,
Dean drives out of Smith Center, alone.
—--
He doesn’t get far, settling on the first bar he sees on the outskirts a couple towns away - a modest shack, paint peeling off the exterior walls so much that the once bold nameplate has all but vanished. A wooden sign promising beer is hanging slightly off of its hinges, and the gravel cracks under the Impala’s wheels as he parks up outside.
The two heavyweights standing by the front door eye him warily, as they take a drag of their respective cigarettes, cowboy hats covering their eyes. He steps out and makes his way to the door, slowly and unassuming, eyes down. Only when he gets closer does he nod to them, placating, and pulls the door open. They don’t seem to take too much notice of them, too busy reminiscing about the glory days that gave them the badges nestled on their chests.
The thick fog of cigarette smoke is the first thing he notices.
The second is the way everyone’s eyes turn to train on him, conversations tailing off as the twang of a country musician hums over the speaker. The small room is filled with older men, and the sea of camo makes it clear that most of them are vets.
Dean’s no stranger to scenes like this - hell, places like this were a dime a dozen in his time on the road. He’s got the perfect formula nailed - order a drink, don’t speak unless spoken to, flirt with a lady and hustle enough for a night in the nearest motel.
He parks himself at the bar, and the pretty barmaid flashes him a smile.
“Happy Thanksgiving handsome,” She casts a glance over him like she’s surveying him, eyelids drooped, “What’ll it be, darlin’?”
Perfect.
His mouth contorts to the familiar facade he’s had in his back pocket for years, and suddenly the hollow pit in his stomach is taped over.
“Whiskey - make it a strong one.”
She nods, curling a strand of hair behind her ear, and moves to grab a glass when a hand slams down onto the bar.
“You got some ID?”
Dean looks up, startled, to see the man’s eyes pressed at him. His arms flex in a show of intimidation, his snake tattoo dancing on his arm, and Dean swears he can see the steam shooting out of his fucking ears. He can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the request - he hasn’t been ID’ed for years, especially not in run down shitholes like this.
“Man, what the hell-”
“Show some ID, or you’re out.”
Dean tries to hold his stare, but he feels the silence in the room, and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle at what must be a wave of darting glances.
Then the barmaid sighs and reaches over to take the guy’s wrist, seemingly to try to calm his outburst. That’s when Dean notices their matching rings.
Go figure.
He sighs, but he obliges - he’s not drunk enough to make a scene in a place where he’s outnumbered. He slides off of his stool and makes his way back outside. He chances a wink at the brunette as he passes the barrel stacks, and the reaction that gets from the Incredible Hulk back there does make him reflect on the wiseness of that decision, but he shrugs it off.
The two men he passed a few moments ago are gone when he exits. Looking around, he really can’t see what else would be enticing nearby - there’s nothing much of anything in this place.
He reaches the Impala, swinging open the door and leaning in. He stretches out his arm as he rummages through the glove box for his wallet, his knees indenting into the upholstery. His fingers touch on calloused leather, and he smiles in triumph as he pulls it out.
Something else follows, and Dean watches as it falls to the floor of the car.
It’s a small, off-white rectangle of cardboard adorned with black text. The mere sight of it makes Dean’s stomach sink further, as if that’s even possible after everything that happened.
But Dean doesn’t have time to wallow right now - there’s a whiskey in there with his name on it.
He quickly bats the card, making it slide under the passenger seat. He clambers out and brushes himself off, bracing himself for round two.
The two cowboys emerge from a shed round the back of the bar, tightening their belts.
