Chapter Text
The floor was slick beneath Dean’s boots. The air was heavy with blood and scattered innards coated the cracked, polished cement.
As far as clean-ups went, this one left plenty to be desired. He’d been too slow coming to and the authorities had made record time. At least he’d diced enough to leave only an unrecognizable mass of bits even if the fire was extinguished before it finished its job.
Gas fumes burned his nostrils. He flicked the flame, tossed his last match into the pool of gore and gasoline that he’d drained from the delivery truck parked out back. Somehow he’d forgotten to refuel his gas can. Again.
The blue flames roared up, following a predictable pattern through the dark.
At ten, Dean had stood by his father, looking six feet down into a splintered open casket, and watched the flames rear up before the lighter hit the white burial gown. That night, he had smelled burning flesh for the second time in his life.
His hand had gripped the leather of Dad’s jacket. He’d looked up at the steel-faced man who hadn’t even seen him and sworn he’d be like him one day. For better or worse, it was one more thing he’d failed at. One more broken promise.
He squinted against the pulsating emergency vehicle lights. The flares of red and blue pushed past the old warehouse’s back doorway to cut through the darkness Dean’s eyes had grown accustomed to.
It had been a game when they were kids. He and Sam would wander around in the dark, both pretending they could see to prove to the other that they had the best raccoon eyes around. Sammy hadn’t known that Dean hated raccoons and that it hadn’t been a game. They’d been training from day one.
Even when Dean looked away, he could still see the flashing lights seared over his retinas, dancing like ghosts in the blackness. The phantom lights made his perception all the more unsteady. He narrowed his focus to putting one foot in front of the other.
The rising heat ushered him instinctively back through the warehouse door. The final rusty nail of the last hinge fell away when his shoulder brushed against it. The same shoulder he’d nearly thrown out breaking the door in. He nursed his throbbing arm before moving back to check his pistol, nestled safely in his waistband, the comfort of cold steel.
When he turned the corner, his clunky footsteps were made silent by the renewed howl of sirens, excited gasps of the shocked crowd and shouts from the disoriented authorities. He didn’t run even though every instinct screamed to. It would only make him standout so instead he walked with a forced casualness, melting into the gathered crowd of gawkers.
This was the most excitement these people would ever see in between watching Dick Roman propaganda and waiting in line for their Biggerson’s Turducken Slammers.
Most of them were just humans. He tried to remind himself of that each time one stepped too close, each time one looked towards him a millisecond too long. It was becoming impossible to see people and not just containers for black eyes and ooze.
Dean’s steps abruptly stilled despite the urge to run and fight an invisible enemy. Lost in the crowd on the darkened street, he watched three children being reunited with their families under the watchful stare of the local news station cameras.
A dozen people who had been two minutes away from becoming deep-fried blood sacrifices had walked away with nothing more than a few bruises and a lifetime of nightmares no therapist could talk them out of. In time, they’d talk themselves out of it. They would tell themselves they’d imagined it all. The glowing eyes had been a trick of the light. The ritual they’d seen, the things they’d heard had just been the fabrication of an adrenaline-soaked panic attack. At least he hoped most of them would.
Dean ran his tongue over his bloody lips as he watched one of the fathers scoop his son into his arms, holding him tight like he’d never let go. Like it would be okay. He remembered when his father had made that promise. And when Dad had forgotten it.
Dean looked away, scanning the crowd as he moved toward the fringes. Not in relief, but on edge. His hand remained beneath his jacket and on his weapon, ready for battle. It wasn’t just the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
This was the new normal.
He used to be able to come down. Fight the monster, save the girl and enjoy the fruits of a job well done. But now the job was never done. There was always one more sorry son of a bitch waiting in the shadows to take their turn.
Now it was Dean’s turn to haul ass while the cameras were focused on the reunion, burning warehouse and police officers giving crap explanations for things they could never understand. It gave Dean time to find his way out through the shadows. The few people he had to squeeze past didn’t give him a second glance. The couple who did steered clear.
Past the strangers, Dean dropped the act, his stiff stride dissolved into a limp. He stopped beside the car, drew in a breath. A sensation of eyes on his back and he pulled his gun, spinning so fast on his heels he nearly toppled.
“Sam! You stupid son of a bitch.” Dean slammed his fist against the dented sheet metal of the Nova’s hood. “Make some damn noise, will you? I nearly blew you a new one.”
Dean quickly used the cuff of his jacket to swipe away the blood that had been running down to sting his eyes. He only managed to trash his last half decent jacket and smear the blood over his face.
“Damn it.”
“Let me take a look,” Sam said.
“No.”
He threw open the door to the car he hadn’t bothered to lock even in this seedy part of town. If someone wanted the junker, they could have it. It wasn’t his anyway. Dean slumped into the seat and pretended he couldn’t feel Sam’s eyes drilling into him. He bit down on his already stinging lip and pretended it hurt more than what they didn’t have.
He punched the gas and headed for the city limits, determined to drive as long as he had the strength to hold down the pedal.
~~~
Dean stood with his arms crossed defiantly over his chest, leaning back against a car for support. They were standing in a mostly empty parking lot barely five miles from where they had started. Mist fell down around them, turning heavier towards rain.
Dean adjusted the weight of the bag over his shoulder. One of the bags he’d already given up on and let hit the ground.
“Just for tonight, Dean.”
Dean gave a distrustful look towards the hourly rate motel and shook his head. “It’s one night too long. We still don’t know if we put ourselves on the radar with that last stunt.”
“Did anyone see you?” Sam asked.
“Well, yeah. There was a whole damn crowd of people and all twelve survivors.”
Sam raised a skeptical brow. “And you think one of them was a leviathan?”
“No...I don’t know.” Dean rubbed his aching head. Sam was asking him to think when he could barely remember his own name. “That’s the whole thing. We can’t know. Staying here’s too risky. This is just the kind of crap joint they’d look for us in.”
“Dean, you can stay here or you can stay at the Hilton. Or you can check into the hospital like you should’ve from the start.”
“Do you want to be on their menu?” Dean asked. “We don’t need a room. We just need a car.”
“You crashed the car, Dean!”
Dean shrugged. “It’s not like it was some great loss.”
“You could’ve killed yourself!”
“Oh, just shut it. It’s not like I was aiming for the fucking telephone pole.” He rolled his eyes at Sam’s look, a maneuver that renewed the throbbing in his skull. “Fine.”
Dean used his whiskey-soaked black bandana to once more wipe the blood from his face before dropping the other bag at Sam’s feet and turning away.
“Dean...”
“I said fine!” Dean snapped. “Just watch the bags while I get us a room.”
When Dean walked into the darkened office he’d expected to interrupt a slob of a guy reaching a happy crescendo in the middle of his porn viewing. Instead, he froze in the doorway when he saw the worried eyes of a girl who was perched on a stool behind the counter.
She was looking up from a couple of open textbooks and notes strewn over the desk. There was no way she should be working in this junk place alone at this hour. Dean’s protective streak won over his buzzed frustration and throbbing head.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. His voice was gentle like he was talking to a cornered stray dog.
The girl stayed leaning over the desk, idly chewing on the end of her pen. “It’s not me I’m worried about, handsome.”
Dean’s shoulders tightened. He’d heard those words far too many times before someone had come up behind him with a dagger. But she wasn’t moving, and a quick scan of the perimeter convinced him they were alone.
“You need to use the phone?” she asked.
Dean realized her eyes were filled with pity and concern for him, not fear for herself. He bristled, holding himself higher.
“We just need a room for the night.”
“I’m sure you clean up pretty, but there’s no we.” She pursed her lips and tapped the pen anxiously against her textbook. “I can tell you need a place to sleep and it’s not like I’m paid on commission, but I can’t...”
Dean growled beneath his breath. He wasn’t a damn charity case. He dug a wad of cash from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. He didn’t know how much it was, just that it was at least enough to cover the room and that his eyesight was too blurry to count it.
“It’s for me and my brother. Two queens. Keep the change,” he said. “Now can I have a key?”
The girl leaned to the side to glance past him and out at the parking lot. She gave him a skeptical look before snatching a key from behind the desk.
“Sure thing.” She dangled the key in front of him, but pulled it back when he reached for it. “But wherever he’s hiding, you tell that brother of yours to keep an eye on you. I have to clean the rooms tomorrow morning and there is so enough ick around here without me having to scrape your gorgeous corpse off the floor.”
Despite her tough words, there was enough worry in her voice to show she was still far more concerned than she should be. He brought his hand up to his head and realized his brow was bloody again.
“Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“Uh huh.” She poked at the wad of cash and pulled a few bills out to slip into the till. The rest she folded around the room key and held out to Dean. “You keep the change and just don’t be dead in the morning, okay?”
Dean was too tired to object and was far past being able to meet her eyes.
He was still looking down when he returned to his brother, who was staring up into the rain. Apparently, Sam thought it was a better idea to stand in the middle of the parking lot and get soaked than walk the ten feet to stand under the awning.
Dean grabbed up the bags and silently led them to their room, wondering just how pathetic he actually looked. He shoved open the door and fumbled for the light switch that he would have been better off not flipping.
The carpet was shag green, the tables a ‘70s disaster and the wallpaper an affront to even his bad taste. The gruesome clash of ugly made his head spin all the more. The heavy scent of nicotine clinging to the curtains didn’t help anything.
Dean dropped the bags with a thud and purposefully avoided his brother’s eyes. He sidestepped Sam and made a bee-line for the bathroom. All he wanted was to disappear into a bottle of whiskey until the bliss of unconsciousness took him. He wasn’t up to putting on a strong face for Sam.
He also didn’t know how long they’d have to rest before the next hit came. They had to take what rest they could get while they could and hope it was enough to get them through the next job.
“I’ll get the med kit,” Sam said.
“I don’t need your mother-henning,” Dean grumbled.
He couldn’t actually focus his eyes well enough to see his own feet. Dean couldn’t even tell how many feet he had or remember how many he should have. More importantly, he didn’t give a crap.
He fumbled in the doorway, tripping over his own worn out boots. He caught himself, both hands on the doorframe then quickly straightened his posture before Sam could see. Sam no doubt had seen anyway. He seemed to see everything these days now that he was footloose and devil free.
Dean stepped the rest of the way into the bathroom, rolling his bloodshot eyes when he found Sam already standing in there staring at him with a worried gaze. Dean didn’t need this crap right now. The more Sam got involved, the longer it would take for Dean to find that lumpy spot on the mattress that would let him drown out until tomorrow.
“Dude, seriously,” Dean said. “It’s fine.”
It was only a concussion.
Dean reached past his brooding brother to grab a towel off the rack. He turned on the water, not bothering to wait for it to warm. His eyes distantly stared at his bloody knuckles in the mirror, avoiding his own eyes, as he soaked the rag and pressed it to the still bleeding gash on his head.
He winced at the sting, but quickly buried it.
“There. You happy?” Dean asked.
He turned around to face Sam, leaning back against the counter as he stood putting pressure on the wound. He did it to look casual, though he also needed the support as the room spun around him.
As predicted, Sam looked less than convinced. Dean wasn’t so sure that Sam hadn’t rediscovered his psychic abilities. His brother stepped in closer, hard to believe given how close they already were in the one-person bathroom.
“Just let me see,” Sam insisted.
“You seriously got nothing better to do than admire my face?”
He didn’t wait for a reply because he knew he wasn’t going to win this fight. Grudgingly, Dean pulled away the formerly white towel, now stained crimson. He shifted impatiently as he waited to pass his brother’s inspection.
“You need to stitch that up.”
Dean gave a huff and threw the bloody towel in the sink with a splat that sent specks of red over the stained porcelain. “Oh, come on. Dude, quit looking at me like that. It’s just a scratch.”
Just one more scar.
“You passed out,” Sam said.
“I fell asleep.”
“With me screaming in your ear? I don’t think so, Dean.”
“The screech of metal woke me up. I couldn’t have been that far out.”
“And that’s supposed to be comforting?” Sam asked. “Even if you don’t have a brain injury, you still need that gash cleaned up. If it gets infected—”
“After every cut I’ve gotten, you really think this is the one that’s gonna go gangrene? If this stupid little cut does me in it’s just time to go.”
Sam’s face went from worried to scornfully disapproving before again settling on suffocating concern. “Is that what you think? That’s why you can’t take care of yourself? Because if something kills you it’s fate?”
“We killed Fate, remember?” Dean replied as he scooted past Sam and out of the cramped bathroom. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just...fuck it.” Dean dug Bobby’s flask from his jacket. “Think what you want.”
Dean flopped down onto the bed as he fumbled with unscrewing the cap. He was half sure his brother had super glued it shut until it finally came loose. He cursed beneath his breath as the cap slipped from his uncoordinated fingers and landed on the floor, which was way too damn far away.
“You know I don’t want to fight,” Sam replied from the end of the bed where he stood with his arms crossed and gaze unwaveringly locked on Dean.
“Yeah, you’re just worried. You’ve mentioned that once or twice. I get it, I do. But I’m really okay.”
Dean ended the conversation with a deep chug from the flask. He managed to pull his feet up onto the bed before he collapsed back. He grimaced as his head hit the fake down pillow too hard. One inhale of lingering cheap laundry detergent and his eyes fell closed.
Part of him acknowledged the feel of the flask slipping from his slack fingers. The call of release was too strong to trigger his reflexes.
He was out before the flask hit the floor.
~~~
Crass ringing broke through Dean’s sleep. He groaned, half tempted to just pull the pillow over his ears, but heaving his phone into the wall sounded so much more satisfying.
Barely anyone alive had his number and the only person he cared about was in the bed beside his. Or at least he assumed Sam was.
Answering the phone seemed like less work than prying open his eyes to verify that Sam was where he should be. His eyes remained closed as he dug the ringing phone from his pocket.
It was harder than it should have been because somehow he’d ended up beneath the covers, the blanket tucked carefully around him. He should be covered in sweat, still dressed and swaddled in a comforter, but he wasn’t.
He had to be getting sick. Dean was chilled to the bone half the damn time and obviously not hiding it as well as he thought. Sam must have covered him after he’d passed out last night. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
He still lay on his aching back as he set the phone to his ear, only briefly glancing at the blurry caller ID that he couldn’t honestly read anyway. He’d only seen enough to know it wasn’t Sam.
At this point, it was probably the leviathans calling up to ask him to be part of their next merger. He half hoped it was Dick because he had a thing or two to say to that suit wearing bag of slime.
“People better be dying,” Dean said.
“Eight so far outside of Louisville. Figured it was enough to get a man out of bed for.”
Dean’s eyes fluttered open, finally making a real attempt to focus. He stiffly sat up on the bed just enough to lean back against the headboard. He shook his head and pretended it would do something to clear the cobwebs, but it only renewed the thundering pain in his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut again and gingerly leaned his head back.
“Yeah, sure,” Dean said. His brow scrunched. “Who is this?”
The voice sounded vaguely familiar with a distinctive drawl, but right now no bells were ringing. Of course, right now, Dean would be lucky to recognize his own voice. The only reason he was still talking was because the guy sounded friendly enough and that was an unusual thing these days.
“Mackey,” the man replied. “Rang you up about that healer Emanuel a few back.”
Dean was about to say he didn’t know anyone named Emanuel until Castiel’s face popped into his head. His grip on the phone tightened.
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“Things go all right there?” Mackey asked.
Things could’ve gone better, but they also could have gone a hell of a lot worse. He’d gotten Sam back and that was all that really mattered. At least it was more than he’d dared to hope for. Dean more than owed Mackey.
He rubbed his eyes and scratched at his itchy brow. When he did, his rough fingers brushed over a carefully taped bandage. He opened his eyes to look at Sam, who he knew would be standing at the end of the bed.
Dean sighed and shifted to sit more upright. As he repositioned, the covers pulled over his feet. He wiggled his toes to realize his feet were nestled in a clean pair of socks and his boots somehow removed from his blistered feet. Sam looked innocent as Dean glared at him.
“Can’t complain,” Dean said when he remembered he was on the phone. “So this thing in Kentucky?”
“Right. I’m usually the solo type. Fewer connections the better these days.”
“I hear you,” Dean agreed.
“But once this many bodies start dropping even I gotta start putting calls out. Usually I’d put a call in with Bobby, but...”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Yeah, well, no one’s really stepped up to take his place in organizing folks, so I started looking through my call list and your name popped up. I’ve been hearing word of you. You’ve been taking out some serious targets so I figured I might as well run this one by you.”
“We do what we can. Shoot.”
“As near as I can tell, we got some kind of old world witch doctor in these parts. People are dropping hard and ugly and the magic is black as tar. I’ve already taken a shot at this thing and am afraid a second is gonna send it running. If you’re in this part of the world, I could surely use a hand.”
Dean closed his eyes at the thought of another hunt, but hell, it wasn’t like they had anything better to do. As long as he could get his feet under him he was going to be out there taking down every evil son of a bitch he could.
“We’re in. I’m leaving Arkansas now. Just kick back with a cold one and we’ll be on for tonight.”
“Appreciate it.”
The line went dead and Dean closed his phone. He tossed it aside and stifled a groan. Sam cleared his throat. Dean caught sight of his flask sitting beside the alarm clock and popped it open. It was dry.
Dean shot Sam a glare. “You couldn’t bother to refill it?”
“You’ve had enough.”
“I haven’t had any,” Dean complained. “And what are you now, my AA sponsor? I don’t need a liver that’s gonna outlive me.” It was Sam’s turn to glare. Dean just shook his head, more careful this time. “Well, I don’t. If you didn’t want me drinking this, you shoulda bought me a coffee.”
“I plan to,” Sam said. “Just as soon as you tell me what’s going on.”
“Some witch is ganking folks in Louisville.”
“And?”
Dean raised his brow at Sam. “And…it’s a hunt.”
“You hate witches.”
“I also hate Yanni, but you still make me listen to that crap.”
“I do not.”
“Whatever. People are dying, Sam. It’s what we do — save people. Remember?”
“I remember I had to stitch up my unconscious brother after he saved a dozen people last night. You need to sit this one out.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like hell.”
“Me?” Dean asked. “You’re the one that looks like you got one foot in the grave. How long has it been since you’ve even seen the sun?”
Sam grew quiet, turning away. Dean sat all the way up on the bed, throwing his legs over the side.
“Look, we’re both overdue for a break,” Dean said. “But you know how this gig works. We don’t get to decide when we want to play ball.”
“Dean, if you keep going like this it’s gonna kill you.”
Dean was caught off guard by the desperation in his brother’s voice. If anything, Dean had been proving he was impossible to kill, not that he was teetering on death’s door.
“Dude, no one around here’s dying,” Dean said. “I’m good to go.”
He stood up to prove it. It took some serious straining of aching muscles, but he managed to look half all right doing it. God knew he had years of practice pretending. Sometimes it seemed like that was all they ever did.
When Sam looked unconvinced, Dean gave a stiff shrug. “Let’s face it, we’re both way past burnt out, but I ain’t waiting around for my AARP card.”
Dean headed into the bathroom. Sam hadn’t only cleaned him up, but also the bloody mess he’d left in here last night. The place looked spotless. Even with Lucifer silent, Dean wasn’t sure how much sleep Sam was getting. Not that he was one to be talking.
He managed to find the zipper to his fly, which at least meant his coordination wasn’t totally shot. His head was still ringing, his eyes felt like they were going to burst out of his skull, but it was typical hung over, exhausted crap, not anymore of a brain injury than he’d had before. At least he’d live long enough to make it to Kentucky.
“Aren’t you getting tired of all this?” Sam asked from the doorway.
Dean looked over his shoulder. “Of you watching me take a piss or saving lives?”
“Of fighting everything and anything and no one even noticing. Do you even know why you’re doing this anymore?”
“‘Cause it’s the one thing I can do,” Dean said. “And the only thing I hate more than witches is sitting around on my ass.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d honestly sat around, and he wasn’t planning on giving it a try. He needed to keep busy, needed to avoid any time that could be spent thinking.
Sam didn’t answer. Dean knew his brother wasn’t cool with this constant hunting. They both knew it was a smokescreen to bury all this other crap, but Sam also knew Dean needed it. This run of random hunts had been Sam’s idea to begin with.
Hanging out with girls at bars and all the stuff that used to float Dean’s boat just didn’t do it for him anymore. Flirting was too much work and even when he did bother to do it, he ended up spending most their time together wondering when her eyes would turn black or the teeth would come out. Fathering a patricidal monster and watching his brother kill her hadn’t exactly helped anything.
Their lives had slowly been whittled away until hunting was all they had left. It was as good as anything. Sooner or later, Sam would get that.
Dean scrubbed his hands beneath the water, the soap stinging the small cuts over his knuckles and fingers. He splashed water over the part of his face Sam hadn’t bandaged up.
“As long as I can still hold a gun, I plan on using it.” Dean grabbed a towel to dry his hands and tossed it in the tub before waggling a brow at his sullen brother. “You in?”
Sam shook his head, giving a weary eye roll. But it wasn’t resignation, it was only acceptance and that was all Dean could ask for.
“You’re stuck with me, Dean.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Dean cracked a smile that tugged at the healing split on his lip. When Sam returned the smile, Dean’s turned genuine.
He plopped back down onto the bed and grabbed his boots. Once he remembered how to tie them, he slapped his thigh and popped back up, using most of his remaining energy to do it.
“What are we waiting for? Let’s hit the road already. Once we grab a new car, anyway.”
“Already did,” Sam said. “There’s a Camaro waiting outside.”
“That’s my boy,” Dean chuckled as he slapped Sam’s shoulder. “I promise I won’t even crash this one. At least not accidentally.”
He shoved the flask into his jacket pocket, juggling the bag into his other hand as he bent down to heave the weapons bag over his aching shoulder. He gave the room a once over before fumbling with the door and heading out.
The morning air was still and cool. Dean took a deep breath, taking in the sunrise before this parking lot became just one more place in their rearview mirror.
He tried to drop the duffel on the back hood, but the thing was far more sloped than a respectable trunk should be and the bag hit the ground. Dean cursed as he nearly dropped the weapons bag in his attempt to catch the duffel.
“Awesome start,” Dean grumbled beneath his breath.
“Hey, let me help you there.”
Dean jerked his head up. A woman he hadn’t noticed approached from a car she was loading.
“Thanks, but I’m good.” Dean hustled to open the trunk and cram in the weapons bag in before she could catch a glimpse of what was inside. “Seriously, I got it.”
Dean calculated how fast he could get his machete out of the bag as the woman continued to approach undeterred. He waited for a fight that didn’t come. All she did was pick up his bag for him and that just pissed him off all the more.
He wasn’t the one people should be taking care of. It was time to really look in the mirror if the damsels in distress felt the need to help him.
When he went to take the bag from her, he hesitated, seeing something familiar in her face. She smiled shyly, fussing with the seam on her blouse before looking up at him. There was a large bruise over her cheek, small cuts on her hands.
“Thank you,” she said.
Dean’s face wrinkled in confusion before he saw the apprehension in her eyes. Finally, the familiarity sunk in. “You were at the warehouse, weren’t you? You okay?”
“Thanks to you,” she said. “I-I don’t even...I don’t know what happened, but I know it wasn’t the serial killer arsonist the police said. I know what you did.”
Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t worry about it. You just take care of yourself.”
He closed the trunk, but she didn’t take the hint. She just stood there looking over his bandages. “That thing really went after you. Have you been to a doctor? If you need someone to drive you...”
“Thanks, but we’re good.”
She looked unconvinced, but stepped away. Dean gave her the best smile he could summon before climbing into the driver's seat. He slammed the door shut, staring straight ahead.
“What the hell was that?” Dean asked. He looked into the rearview mirror, studying his tired, sunken eyes and running his fingers over the thick stubble of his cheeks that was verging on an actual beard. “Do I really look that bad?” His eyes shifted to his brother. “Do you?”
Sam made a face that was far too complex for Dean to decipher this early in the morning.
“Sam?”
“She just wanted to thank you,” Sam replied in a tone that was far from convincing, but which gave Dean an out. “And I think she liked you.”
Dean scoffed. He might not be buying his brother’s answer, but he knew one thing for sure. His eyes caught Sam’s and he jutted his thumb in the woman’s direction.
“You asked why. That’s why we do it. Because her family isn’t spending today planning a funeral.”
“You did a good thing, Dean.”
“Yeah, we did. Now let’s go burn a witch.”
He waited for the woman to step back into her motel room long enough for him to ignite the wires to start the car.
“Let’s just get you some breakfast first,” Sam said.
“I’m good.” Dean pulled the car out of the lot, resisting the urge to just pump the gas and get the hell out of Dodge. “I wanna make Kentucky before nightfall.”
“Food and then we hit the highway.”
“When did you turn into such a mother hen?” Dean asked.
“When you forgot how to take care of yourself.”
“I take care of myself. I’m still breathing, aren’t I? In our line of work, that’s saying something. Besides, the caretaking gig is my job.”
“Was,” Sam corrected. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Like I’m suddenly gonna stop watching out for you? Face it, you need to get your own hobby.”
Dean gunned the engine and fired up the music. He just wanted to get moving and lose himself in the open road.
What he really wanted was his fingers back around the wheel of the Impala. The sound of this Camaro was all wrong. It was too small, the engine was out of tune and he couldn’t speak its language to know if the next clunk would be its last.
With all the shit going on day after day, the Impala was the one thing he could claim as his own. It was the one familiarity in an ever-changing line of junk motel rooms and filthy diners. It was a piece of Dad, of Mom, of the family they’d used to have.
It was home.
And now it was buried under a mountain of crap in a cold, musty storage unit hidden in the ass end of the universe. It would be one thing if it was just for now, just until they could fix this craptastic mess of a planet, but days had turned to months and things had gone from bad to worse.
He wanted to dig out his baby and just drive. Screw the leviathans and everyone else who wanted to track them. Just let the bastards come.
But part of him could still see those families who would get at least one more day together and he knew what he wanted didn’t matter, hadn’t for a long time. As long as he still had Sam at his side, it was worth pushing on to the next hunt.
Dean just wished he could remember what he was running from.