FIC: ...And It Went Right to My Head (1/1) COMPLETE
Title: ...And It Went Right to My Head
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13, fer cussin'
Paring: none (gen) Dean and Sam
Disclaimer: Not mine, dammit.
Summary: Dean tries to quench his thirst.
A/N: Thanks to hiyacynth for mechanics and encouragement, and everybetty who caught boo-boos. This story is what it is, though, because of quellefromage. Thanks, dollface, for lighting the candle and then blowing it out.
He wants a beer. A BEER. Not one of those lagermeisterhammerstein-bullshit-whatevers Sam thinks is the bee's knees. He wants a Bud. Budweiser DRAFT - the working man’s water. One step out of the trailer park from PBR. Hell, he’ll even drink a Michelob.
But he doesn’t want a bottled beer. He wants it pulled from the tap. Wants a little foam on his lip. He wants his palm curled around a straight-sided pint glass; not a highball glass, not a mason jar, not a heavy-bottomed mug. There’s a specific need, and he needs to meet it as soon as possible. Now. It’s a gotta have amidst all the don’t haves and he’s seriously going to crack if he doesn’t get it.
It was a stupid fucking gig, one they should have been able to finish with their eyes closed. But they’d both been tired and both been slow, and the rawhead had gone right when they’d both been guessing left.
Twenty-seven stitches on Sam’s side; half of them delicate work inside the cut. Delicate work better suited for a doctor, but they were between states and between credit cards and insurance companies. Sam was sleeping now, thanks to two Darvocet, and he really, REALLY needs that beer. About a mile past their motel, he finds exactly what he’s looking for.
It’s a squat little square little cinder block joint in the middle of a dirt and gravel parking lot. There are seven or eight vehicles parked around the bar; half of them pick-ups, all of them beat to hell. Not a Japanese model among them.
The Impala jumps with a squeak when he pulls into the lot and the brown, muddy puddle turns out to be deeper than he’d thought. He makes a mental note to check the shocks before they leave for Georgia in the morning.
The ‘M’ is burned out, but as he gets closer he can see what the neon’s trying to say; the name of the bar is The Embers. He’s pretty sure by the end of the night he’ll know the story behind the name. This is that kind of place. Just the kind of place he’s needing.
The smell hits him, and the reminiscences fall in right behind. It’s like tripping back through time, and the memories of his dad swirl around him like the cigarette smoke in the air. But that’s why he’s come, isn’t it? Not counting the hunt, his dad had been the only constant in his life. He’s pissed as hell with him, but God, he needs him with such an ache.
He takes a seat, easing down on the worn, black naugahyde stool. Hooks his boot heels on the highest rung so his knees are pressed against the cool wood of the bar.
“What can I getcha?”
He leans in, churching his fingers in front of him, arms resting easily in the grooves of time and past presence along the padded edge of the bar. “Whatta ya have?”
“I got whiskey, I got rye. I got Coke and soda water. Bud and Bud Light on tap.”
He nods and grins at his new best friend. “I’ll take a Bud.”
The bartender looks to be in his late fifties, stout-chested with a belly not quite gone to pot. He’s sporting a grey-blond buzz cut, and his forearms are dappled with the blue of decades-old tattoos. There’s a bulldog among them, and the legend, ‘Semper Fi 1970-1974’.
When the wonderfully cloudy, bar-rag-scratched, straight-sided pint is set in front of him - half inch of snow white foam topping piss-poor yellow - he juts his chin at the barkeep’s ink. “They drew my dad’s straw twice. Corporal, Echo two-one.”
“Good battalion.”
“Yes, sir. One of the finest, my dad would tell ya.”
“Where’s he, nowadays?”
He taps the bar with his index fingers, drawing out imaginary rays from the perimeter of his beer. “He passed recently.”
“Sorry for that.”
“Me, too,” he says, and brings the glass to his lips to save them both from the conversation.
When he sets down his beer, he’s offered the man’s hand.
“Name’s Fred, but most people call me Dutch.”
“Dean,” he says, giving the meaty paw a pump.
“Good to know ya,” says Dutch, and then saunters down to fill the empty shot glass of one of the other patrons.
After three beers, Dean learns Dutch’s wife, Helen, is a real nag. Never lets him sit around on Saturday mornings past ten in his underwear. Always needs something fixed around the house.
Beer number five, Dean finds himself leaning over the bar, eying a bramble of pink and white flesh that sits like an ungodly pomegranate on Dutch’s back, just north of his left hip.
“Sonsuhbitches dropped a pineapple inta the hole with us. Got punched through right here when my rifle exploded. Coulda been worse; buddy right next to me lost both legs. Guy next to him lost everything else.”
Middle of beer six, and Dean makes his way back to the bathroom. The lighting’s terrible, and the small room smells like piss and Lysol. He guesses the floor probably gets generous moppings of both on any given night. He works his dick out of his jeans, leans his left hand against the cold, cinderblock wall to steady himself, and releases his bladder.
The stream of urine stutters and stops suddenly when the déjà vu uppercuts him: he’s done this a hundred times. Stood just like this; happily buzzed, some backwater joint, dick in his hand, Dad back at the bar with the rapt attention of five or six guys, telling a hunt story by way of the guise of a bounty hunter. Murderers and child molesters filling in spots Dean knew occupied by zombies and demons.
He lets loose his breath when he realizes his dad won’t be waiting for him. And he suddenly feels a little sick.
He shakes off and tucks in, working the buttons on his fly while a blush rises in his cheeks. Gone, man. You keep forgettin’, but that’s not gonna bring ‘im back.
He washes his hands at the sink, working the grit of the powdered soap across his palms and through his fingers. He leans forward and scrubs his hands over his face, eyes squeezed tight to keep out the grainy foam, keep in the tears. He rinses and blots dry with a handful of paper towels, heads back out to the bar.
He’s figured out this pattern; kind of a circle, winding down in on itself like the swirl of a Maori koru. If he drinks a little, he can forget about it for a while. Hasn’t quite figured out that line between the forgetting and the suddenly remembering and hurting and aching. It’s a pretty thin line.
But he’s also figured out that a few more drinks will push him past the hurt into a just-bearable state of melancholy. And if he can maintain in that place for a while, stabilize the buzz, he can catch himself before he crosses that next line. The one between melancholy and anger. But that’s an awful damn thin line, too.
He drops back down on the stool and downs the rest of the beer he’d deserted. Calls to Dutch for another, plus a shot.
Dutch draws the Bud and walks it over. Gives Dean a hard eye. “You sure about that shot?”
Dean cocks his head, gently acknowledging the man’s concern. “Just the one, Dutch. I won’t ask ya fer another. I swear.”
Dutch purses his lips once, like he’s kissing an ugly aunt, and then reaches under the bar. He pours Dean a shot of well whiskey and returns the bottle to its slot. “You ain’t a surly drunk, are ya, Dean? Can’t abide a surly drunk in my bar.”
“Now, Dutch,” Dean says, smiling his very best and brightest, “Do I look like the kinda guy would start a fight in a fine establishment like this?”
“Yup.”
“I got a long drive aheada me in the mornin’. Not lookin’ t’make it any longer.” And then he winks.
Dutch smiles. Lifts his chin at Dean. “I bet you had some good fights.”
“I gotta couple stories.”
His fingers curl around the amber-filled shot glass and he throws the whiskey back. Sets down the glass and chases the shot with a few swallows of beer. “There was this place called the Tattle-Tale Room, just outsida Warsaw, Wisconsin…”
And then he’s charming and engaging and hilarious. Using the tricks of the trade. Magic his father taught him. How to communicate with other people and get from them what you need: a sense of camaraderie; acceptance. Something that feels normal and good. By the time he’s replacing the wendigo in Colorado with a wife-beating stick-up man, he’s got half the bar hanging on his every word. With an inch of his eighth beer left, he catches movement at the end of the long bar and stops himself from looking.
Because it won’t be his dad.
He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, slaps down three twenties.
Dutch’s lips blow another air kiss. “That’s too much, Dean.”
“Nah, Dutch. Listen,” he dismisses, rising from the stool, “Resta that’s fer you. I ‘preciate yer company, tonight.”
“Weren’t a thing, Dean. Had a nice time myself. You tell a good story.”
Dean gives him half a smile. “Thanks. Had a real good teacher.” He adjusts his coat and stumbles out from behind the stool, righting himself nearly instantly.
But it doesn’t elude the man behind the bar. “You driving far?”
“Mile or so. Be fine. I’ll roll th’ windows down.”
Dutch cocks his head, pulls his large skull back, beckoning. “How ‘bout a coffee.”
Yeah. I should. I should. But he can almost smell his dad. Almost feel the brush of John’s shoulder against his own. He needs to go. It’s going to be too much any second now.
“Come on. One coffee. I’ll tell ya the story of how this place got its name.”
And he knows his dad would stay.
*******************************************************************
There’s no actual attempt to be quiet. He’s going to wake Sam up on purpose, anyway. He does try to be pleasant about it. He drops a dirty t-shirt over the lamp before he switches it on, blocking out most of the glare.
Sam’s snoring, slack-mouthed, one arm curled protectively around his middle.
Dean nudges him lightly on the shoulder, careful not to shake too hard. “Sam.”
No response.
“Sammy.” He drops into a crouch between the twin beds, shaking Sam with a bit more force.
Sam’s face squinches and a hand comes up to shuffle through his hair, palm grinding against his eyelids. “What’s wrong?”
“Sammy. You remember Sandusky?”
Sam’s response sounds muzzy and cotton-mouthed. “What?”
“Sandusky,” says Dean. “Summeruh ’96.”
There’s a shallow grunt of pain as Sam scoots up and props himself on his elbows. “Dean, are you drunk?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell, man? What time is it?”
“It’s really late. Do you remember Sandusky, Sammy?”
Sam gives him a confused look. “Sandusky, Ohio? Cedar Point?”
“Yes!” Dean nods and rockets his finger in Sam’s direction.
“Dad hunting a ghost in an amusement park. It was like we won the fucking lottery.”
Dean watches as a half-asleep, doped-up smile pulls at the corners of his brother’s lips.
“That was an awesome summer.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“They had that ride,” recalls Sam, pushing himself up to rest against the headboard. “The Demon Drop? Man, I was happy for my freakish growth spurt that summer, dude. I must have ridden that thing fifteen times a day.”
Dean nods and smiles in return. “Remember Suds?”
Sam gives him a pinched look. “Jimmy Tilly?”
“Yeah.”
“Dude. Jimmy Tilly.” Sam shakes his head and gives Dean a sympathetic grin. “Shit, I don’t think I ever saw dad as mad as he was that night.”
Dean doffs his jacket and sits on the floor, back falling to rest against the side of the opposite bed. “No shit, huh?”
A yawn cracks open the bottom of Sam’s face and his hand comes up to stifle it. “Why are we talking about this?”
“You know Dad kicked me out that night?”
And then Sam’s altogether awake. “What?”
“Yeah. Kicked me outta the house. Told me to pack my shit, get out, don’t come back.” Dean scratches a hand absently across his belly.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“But he sent you to Pastor Jim’s instead.”
Dean’s eyes drop to his knees. “That’s what we told you.”
“What?”
“I bolted. Hit the road. Had Dad lookin for me fer six weeks.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
Sam’s brows knit together. “How come you never told me this?”
“I dunno. Dad figured you’d freak. I didn’t want you gettin’ all pissed at ‘im.”
“Where’d you go for six weeks?”
“Me and Suds drove out to Colorado. We got construction jobs and a motel room.” Dean pulls in his legs to sit Indian-style. “I nabbed one of Dad’s credit cards. Caught hell for that one, man.”
Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “Shit, Dean. What the hell?”
“Yeah, I know. It was crazy.” Dean smiles self-consciously, face amazed at the memory still.
“And Dad…Man, that’s when I stayed with Ron and Sharon all that time. Dad said he was doing jobs, but he was looking for you?”
Dean brushes his hand over the top of his head. “I don’t think I ever hated him more than I did that night. Called me a complete fuck-up.”
“Dean, man. He didn’t mean it.”
“No, he did. He meant it right then. Maybe not later, but, I mean-- I know he regretted it later. That he said it ‘cause he was pissed and scared; worried about bringin’ the wrong kind of attention to the family. I get that, but…He meant it when he said it.”
“What’s bringin’ this on, man?”
Dean’s gaze is far away, scrolling back through a decade. “Me and Suds? Dude…we thought we were gonna be free. Man, it felt like freedom for that first week; no rules, no drill instructor breathin’ down your neck, fuck anything you want, drink ‘til yer shit-faced, blast the Zeppelin. It was like paradise.”
“Dreamland for every mullet-rock-loving, seventeen-year-old American male.”
“Yeah. And then I realized at some point, I’d have to face Dad. And it all went up in a tower of flame.”
“Reality’s a bitch,” says Sam, but it’s more commiseration than chiding.
“Damn straight. Man, I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared of seein’ Dad again as I’ve been scared before or since.”
“John Winchester had his scary moments.”
Dean’s hand scrubs across his chin. “More than one.”
“So you came back? Or he found you?”
“I shoulda come back. And it wasn’t about bein’ stubborn, even though I know that’s what he thought; that I was bein’ prideful and bullheaded. But I was scared, Sam. Shit. I mean, Dad never hit us-“
“He didn’t have to.”
“Man, one look from him…”
“Yeah,” says Sam, from what seems like far away, “Yeah, I know that look.”
“Yeah.”
Dean falls silent, and a few seconds pass.
“So, what happened?”
His hands run up and down his thighs, creating heat to guard against the chill of the memory. “I dunno how he tracked us. Hell, you know Dad. I mean, even though he couldn’t run the credit card or Suds’ plates…One night he just pounds on the motel room door. We were waitin’ for a pizza, and Suds opens the door, stoned outta his mind-“
“Oh, shit.”
“Dad grabs him by the throat, pushes him back into the room. I swear to God, Sam. I never told anybody this: I pissed my pants. Seriously. I’ve never seen him so mad. He just points at me with his other hand and says, ‘Get your shit and get in the car.’”
“Were you stoned, too?”
“Not after that, I wasn’t.”
Sam’s quick laugh is sharp and full of wonder. “So you got your shit and you got in the car.”
“Fuckin’-A-right, I did. Took me alluh two minutes. I was climbin’ into the Impala when I heard Dad tell Suds, ‘Sober up and start drivin’, ‘cause I’ll be makin’ a call to your dad as soon as I hit the Ohio state line.’”
“Damn,” Sam says, like a whistle.
“He didn’t say another word until Illinois. Asked me what the hell I was thinkin’. Told me he was ready to kill me. Told me he thought I was dead. Just shook his head and clammed up again. ‘S the only time I ever rode with him and there wasn’t some kinda music playin’. It was just…nothin’ but the rumble of the girl, the wind past our faces, Dad’s anger, and the smella piss and fear comin’ off me in waves.”
“Dude. I woulda gone for the door.”
“I thought about it, but I figured; at that point he’d just throw it in reverse and back over me a couple times-“
“So you stuck it out.”
“Dude. You have no idea. I had no idea. I mean, I sat there, in my fucking piss-soaked jeans, prayin’ I didn’t fuck up the upholstery, tryin’ to figure out how his fuckin’ brain was working. He kicks me out, then drags me back, what? To punish me? Because I couldn’t imagine what coulda been worse than a silent twenty-hour car ride with our enraged dad.”
Sam reaches for the bottled water on the night stand.
Dean grabs it for him before he can strain.
“Thanks.” Sam screws off the cap, takes a long draw off the water. “So, I don’t remember a whole hell of a lot of extra drills or you detailing the Impala any more that usual after you came back. What was your punishment?”
Dean draws his legs up to his chest, arms looping around knees and ankles crossed. “We got to the motel and he shuts off the car, takes out the keys and just sits there. Doesn’t move. And I thought about takin’ off. Just, hoppin’ out and runnin’ as fast and far as I could. Just for a couple days, just to delay whatever was gonna happen. But you know Dad…it woulda pissed ‘im off even more.
“So I sat there. We sat there. For fifteen minutes, Sam. Shit. That fifteen minutes was longer than the whole goddamned drive from Colorado.”
Sam shakes his head in disbelief.
“And then he starts talkin’ and-“ Dean’s voice strains as his throat pulls and tightens around the words. “He says, ‘Please, don’t ever do that again. Please, don’t ever make me wonder if you’re safe or not. You’re my son, Dean.’ And then, he…he leans over and he grabs me. Pulls me so close to him, and holds me so tight, I think he’s gonna crush me. You’re my son, Dean. That was my punishment.”
Something deep inside of Dean hitches. Kicks his shoulders up around his ears. “God, Sammy. I miss ‘im so much.”
Sam forces himself forward, turning, and his long legs tumbling over the side of the bed.
“You know I still talk to Suds?”
“Dean…”
“You know what he’s doin’? Still livin’ in Sandusky, married to some chick he hates, has three kids, works for some guy doing tile and flooring. Hasn’t talked to his old man in eight years.”
“Dean.”
“Usually calls me in the morning, when he’s sittin’ in his truck getting’ high before his first job of the day.” He barks out a laugh and wipes his face across his knees, snot and tears darkening the denim in a line. “That woulda been me, you know? Marryin’ some girl I knocked up, doin’ some useless shit job…”
“Come on, man. You never would have settled for-“
“Dad and his fuckin’ crusade against evil, you know? Christ. How many times did I just wanna go? Just take off and leave it…leave him behind…”
Sam leans farther forward, resting a hand on Dean’s knee. “Dean…”
“Every time we talk. Suds? He brings it back to those six weeks in Colorado. Says they were the best six weeks of his life. But they were the worst six weeks of mine. Worryin’ about whether or not you were okay. Knowin’ I’d disappointed him. Thinkin’ he hated me. Thinkin’ I probably cost him the job and coulda brought Social Services down on you guys…needin’ ‘im…missin’ ‘im…”
Sam slides off the mattress, falls in beside him, his long arms circling and pulling Dean close.
He hugs back; clings desperately to his brother, wanting to find his dad in him. Find more John for him to grasp and hold on to.
When Sam hugs tighter, for just long enough, Sam is Dad and Dad is Sam and Dean hugs tighter, still.
"I'm sorry," Dean whispers.
“I miss him, too,” his brother breathes.
And then it's rock salt, silver, consecrated lead.
His dad is gone.
And the realization leaves his arms as cold and hollow as the barrel of a gun.
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13, fer cussin'
Paring: none (gen) Dean and Sam
Disclaimer: Not mine, dammit.
Summary: Dean tries to quench his thirst.
A/N: Thanks to hiyacynth for mechanics and encouragement, and everybetty who caught boo-boos. This story is what it is, though, because of quellefromage. Thanks, dollface, for lighting the candle and then blowing it out.
He wants a beer. A BEER. Not one of those lagermeisterhammerstein-bullshit-whatevers Sam thinks is the bee's knees. He wants a Bud. Budweiser DRAFT - the working man’s water. One step out of the trailer park from PBR. Hell, he’ll even drink a Michelob.
But he doesn’t want a bottled beer. He wants it pulled from the tap. Wants a little foam on his lip. He wants his palm curled around a straight-sided pint glass; not a highball glass, not a mason jar, not a heavy-bottomed mug. There’s a specific need, and he needs to meet it as soon as possible. Now. It’s a gotta have amidst all the don’t haves and he’s seriously going to crack if he doesn’t get it.
It was a stupid fucking gig, one they should have been able to finish with their eyes closed. But they’d both been tired and both been slow, and the rawhead had gone right when they’d both been guessing left.
Twenty-seven stitches on Sam’s side; half of them delicate work inside the cut. Delicate work better suited for a doctor, but they were between states and between credit cards and insurance companies. Sam was sleeping now, thanks to two Darvocet, and he really, REALLY needs that beer. About a mile past their motel, he finds exactly what he’s looking for.
It’s a squat little square little cinder block joint in the middle of a dirt and gravel parking lot. There are seven or eight vehicles parked around the bar; half of them pick-ups, all of them beat to hell. Not a Japanese model among them.
The Impala jumps with a squeak when he pulls into the lot and the brown, muddy puddle turns out to be deeper than he’d thought. He makes a mental note to check the shocks before they leave for Georgia in the morning.
The ‘M’ is burned out, but as he gets closer he can see what the neon’s trying to say; the name of the bar is The Embers. He’s pretty sure by the end of the night he’ll know the story behind the name. This is that kind of place. Just the kind of place he’s needing.
The smell hits him, and the reminiscences fall in right behind. It’s like tripping back through time, and the memories of his dad swirl around him like the cigarette smoke in the air. But that’s why he’s come, isn’t it? Not counting the hunt, his dad had been the only constant in his life. He’s pissed as hell with him, but God, he needs him with such an ache.
He takes a seat, easing down on the worn, black naugahyde stool. Hooks his boot heels on the highest rung so his knees are pressed against the cool wood of the bar.
“What can I getcha?”
He leans in, churching his fingers in front of him, arms resting easily in the grooves of time and past presence along the padded edge of the bar. “Whatta ya have?”
“I got whiskey, I got rye. I got Coke and soda water. Bud and Bud Light on tap.”
He nods and grins at his new best friend. “I’ll take a Bud.”
The bartender looks to be in his late fifties, stout-chested with a belly not quite gone to pot. He’s sporting a grey-blond buzz cut, and his forearms are dappled with the blue of decades-old tattoos. There’s a bulldog among them, and the legend, ‘Semper Fi 1970-1974’.
When the wonderfully cloudy, bar-rag-scratched, straight-sided pint is set in front of him - half inch of snow white foam topping piss-poor yellow - he juts his chin at the barkeep’s ink. “They drew my dad’s straw twice. Corporal, Echo two-one.”
“Good battalion.”
“Yes, sir. One of the finest, my dad would tell ya.”
“Where’s he, nowadays?”
He taps the bar with his index fingers, drawing out imaginary rays from the perimeter of his beer. “He passed recently.”
“Sorry for that.”
“Me, too,” he says, and brings the glass to his lips to save them both from the conversation.
When he sets down his beer, he’s offered the man’s hand.
“Name’s Fred, but most people call me Dutch.”
“Dean,” he says, giving the meaty paw a pump.
“Good to know ya,” says Dutch, and then saunters down to fill the empty shot glass of one of the other patrons.
After three beers, Dean learns Dutch’s wife, Helen, is a real nag. Never lets him sit around on Saturday mornings past ten in his underwear. Always needs something fixed around the house.
Beer number five, Dean finds himself leaning over the bar, eying a bramble of pink and white flesh that sits like an ungodly pomegranate on Dutch’s back, just north of his left hip.
“Sonsuhbitches dropped a pineapple inta the hole with us. Got punched through right here when my rifle exploded. Coulda been worse; buddy right next to me lost both legs. Guy next to him lost everything else.”
Middle of beer six, and Dean makes his way back to the bathroom. The lighting’s terrible, and the small room smells like piss and Lysol. He guesses the floor probably gets generous moppings of both on any given night. He works his dick out of his jeans, leans his left hand against the cold, cinderblock wall to steady himself, and releases his bladder.
The stream of urine stutters and stops suddenly when the déjà vu uppercuts him: he’s done this a hundred times. Stood just like this; happily buzzed, some backwater joint, dick in his hand, Dad back at the bar with the rapt attention of five or six guys, telling a hunt story by way of the guise of a bounty hunter. Murderers and child molesters filling in spots Dean knew occupied by zombies and demons.
He lets loose his breath when he realizes his dad won’t be waiting for him. And he suddenly feels a little sick.
He shakes off and tucks in, working the buttons on his fly while a blush rises in his cheeks. Gone, man. You keep forgettin’, but that’s not gonna bring ‘im back.
He washes his hands at the sink, working the grit of the powdered soap across his palms and through his fingers. He leans forward and scrubs his hands over his face, eyes squeezed tight to keep out the grainy foam, keep in the tears. He rinses and blots dry with a handful of paper towels, heads back out to the bar.
He’s figured out this pattern; kind of a circle, winding down in on itself like the swirl of a Maori koru. If he drinks a little, he can forget about it for a while. Hasn’t quite figured out that line between the forgetting and the suddenly remembering and hurting and aching. It’s a pretty thin line.
But he’s also figured out that a few more drinks will push him past the hurt into a just-bearable state of melancholy. And if he can maintain in that place for a while, stabilize the buzz, he can catch himself before he crosses that next line. The one between melancholy and anger. But that’s an awful damn thin line, too.
He drops back down on the stool and downs the rest of the beer he’d deserted. Calls to Dutch for another, plus a shot.
Dutch draws the Bud and walks it over. Gives Dean a hard eye. “You sure about that shot?”
Dean cocks his head, gently acknowledging the man’s concern. “Just the one, Dutch. I won’t ask ya fer another. I swear.”
Dutch purses his lips once, like he’s kissing an ugly aunt, and then reaches under the bar. He pours Dean a shot of well whiskey and returns the bottle to its slot. “You ain’t a surly drunk, are ya, Dean? Can’t abide a surly drunk in my bar.”
“Now, Dutch,” Dean says, smiling his very best and brightest, “Do I look like the kinda guy would start a fight in a fine establishment like this?”
“Yup.”
“I got a long drive aheada me in the mornin’. Not lookin’ t’make it any longer.” And then he winks.
Dutch smiles. Lifts his chin at Dean. “I bet you had some good fights.”
“I gotta couple stories.”
His fingers curl around the amber-filled shot glass and he throws the whiskey back. Sets down the glass and chases the shot with a few swallows of beer. “There was this place called the Tattle-Tale Room, just outsida Warsaw, Wisconsin…”
And then he’s charming and engaging and hilarious. Using the tricks of the trade. Magic his father taught him. How to communicate with other people and get from them what you need: a sense of camaraderie; acceptance. Something that feels normal and good. By the time he’s replacing the wendigo in Colorado with a wife-beating stick-up man, he’s got half the bar hanging on his every word. With an inch of his eighth beer left, he catches movement at the end of the long bar and stops himself from looking.
Because it won’t be his dad.
He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, slaps down three twenties.
Dutch’s lips blow another air kiss. “That’s too much, Dean.”
“Nah, Dutch. Listen,” he dismisses, rising from the stool, “Resta that’s fer you. I ‘preciate yer company, tonight.”
“Weren’t a thing, Dean. Had a nice time myself. You tell a good story.”
Dean gives him half a smile. “Thanks. Had a real good teacher.” He adjusts his coat and stumbles out from behind the stool, righting himself nearly instantly.
But it doesn’t elude the man behind the bar. “You driving far?”
“Mile or so. Be fine. I’ll roll th’ windows down.”
Dutch cocks his head, pulls his large skull back, beckoning. “How ‘bout a coffee.”
Yeah. I should. I should. But he can almost smell his dad. Almost feel the brush of John’s shoulder against his own. He needs to go. It’s going to be too much any second now.
“Come on. One coffee. I’ll tell ya the story of how this place got its name.”
And he knows his dad would stay.
*******************************************************************
There’s no actual attempt to be quiet. He’s going to wake Sam up on purpose, anyway. He does try to be pleasant about it. He drops a dirty t-shirt over the lamp before he switches it on, blocking out most of the glare.
Sam’s snoring, slack-mouthed, one arm curled protectively around his middle.
Dean nudges him lightly on the shoulder, careful not to shake too hard. “Sam.”
No response.
“Sammy.” He drops into a crouch between the twin beds, shaking Sam with a bit more force.
Sam’s face squinches and a hand comes up to shuffle through his hair, palm grinding against his eyelids. “What’s wrong?”
“Sammy. You remember Sandusky?”
Sam’s response sounds muzzy and cotton-mouthed. “What?”
“Sandusky,” says Dean. “Summeruh ’96.”
There’s a shallow grunt of pain as Sam scoots up and props himself on his elbows. “Dean, are you drunk?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell, man? What time is it?”
“It’s really late. Do you remember Sandusky, Sammy?”
Sam gives him a confused look. “Sandusky, Ohio? Cedar Point?”
“Yes!” Dean nods and rockets his finger in Sam’s direction.
“Dad hunting a ghost in an amusement park. It was like we won the fucking lottery.”
Dean watches as a half-asleep, doped-up smile pulls at the corners of his brother’s lips.
“That was an awesome summer.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“They had that ride,” recalls Sam, pushing himself up to rest against the headboard. “The Demon Drop? Man, I was happy for my freakish growth spurt that summer, dude. I must have ridden that thing fifteen times a day.”
Dean nods and smiles in return. “Remember Suds?”
Sam gives him a pinched look. “Jimmy Tilly?”
“Yeah.”
“Dude. Jimmy Tilly.” Sam shakes his head and gives Dean a sympathetic grin. “Shit, I don’t think I ever saw dad as mad as he was that night.”
Dean doffs his jacket and sits on the floor, back falling to rest against the side of the opposite bed. “No shit, huh?”
A yawn cracks open the bottom of Sam’s face and his hand comes up to stifle it. “Why are we talking about this?”
“You know Dad kicked me out that night?”
And then Sam’s altogether awake. “What?”
“Yeah. Kicked me outta the house. Told me to pack my shit, get out, don’t come back.” Dean scratches a hand absently across his belly.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“But he sent you to Pastor Jim’s instead.”
Dean’s eyes drop to his knees. “That’s what we told you.”
“What?”
“I bolted. Hit the road. Had Dad lookin for me fer six weeks.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
Sam’s brows knit together. “How come you never told me this?”
“I dunno. Dad figured you’d freak. I didn’t want you gettin’ all pissed at ‘im.”
“Where’d you go for six weeks?”
“Me and Suds drove out to Colorado. We got construction jobs and a motel room.” Dean pulls in his legs to sit Indian-style. “I nabbed one of Dad’s credit cards. Caught hell for that one, man.”
Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “Shit, Dean. What the hell?”
“Yeah, I know. It was crazy.” Dean smiles self-consciously, face amazed at the memory still.
“And Dad…Man, that’s when I stayed with Ron and Sharon all that time. Dad said he was doing jobs, but he was looking for you?”
Dean brushes his hand over the top of his head. “I don’t think I ever hated him more than I did that night. Called me a complete fuck-up.”
“Dean, man. He didn’t mean it.”
“No, he did. He meant it right then. Maybe not later, but, I mean-- I know he regretted it later. That he said it ‘cause he was pissed and scared; worried about bringin’ the wrong kind of attention to the family. I get that, but…He meant it when he said it.”
“What’s bringin’ this on, man?”
Dean’s gaze is far away, scrolling back through a decade. “Me and Suds? Dude…we thought we were gonna be free. Man, it felt like freedom for that first week; no rules, no drill instructor breathin’ down your neck, fuck anything you want, drink ‘til yer shit-faced, blast the Zeppelin. It was like paradise.”
“Dreamland for every mullet-rock-loving, seventeen-year-old American male.”
“Yeah. And then I realized at some point, I’d have to face Dad. And it all went up in a tower of flame.”
“Reality’s a bitch,” says Sam, but it’s more commiseration than chiding.
“Damn straight. Man, I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared of seein’ Dad again as I’ve been scared before or since.”
“John Winchester had his scary moments.”
Dean’s hand scrubs across his chin. “More than one.”
“So you came back? Or he found you?”
“I shoulda come back. And it wasn’t about bein’ stubborn, even though I know that’s what he thought; that I was bein’ prideful and bullheaded. But I was scared, Sam. Shit. I mean, Dad never hit us-“
“He didn’t have to.”
“Man, one look from him…”
“Yeah,” says Sam, from what seems like far away, “Yeah, I know that look.”
“Yeah.”
Dean falls silent, and a few seconds pass.
“So, what happened?”
His hands run up and down his thighs, creating heat to guard against the chill of the memory. “I dunno how he tracked us. Hell, you know Dad. I mean, even though he couldn’t run the credit card or Suds’ plates…One night he just pounds on the motel room door. We were waitin’ for a pizza, and Suds opens the door, stoned outta his mind-“
“Oh, shit.”
“Dad grabs him by the throat, pushes him back into the room. I swear to God, Sam. I never told anybody this: I pissed my pants. Seriously. I’ve never seen him so mad. He just points at me with his other hand and says, ‘Get your shit and get in the car.’”
“Were you stoned, too?”
“Not after that, I wasn’t.”
Sam’s quick laugh is sharp and full of wonder. “So you got your shit and you got in the car.”
“Fuckin’-A-right, I did. Took me alluh two minutes. I was climbin’ into the Impala when I heard Dad tell Suds, ‘Sober up and start drivin’, ‘cause I’ll be makin’ a call to your dad as soon as I hit the Ohio state line.’”
“Damn,” Sam says, like a whistle.
“He didn’t say another word until Illinois. Asked me what the hell I was thinkin’. Told me he was ready to kill me. Told me he thought I was dead. Just shook his head and clammed up again. ‘S the only time I ever rode with him and there wasn’t some kinda music playin’. It was just…nothin’ but the rumble of the girl, the wind past our faces, Dad’s anger, and the smella piss and fear comin’ off me in waves.”
“Dude. I woulda gone for the door.”
“I thought about it, but I figured; at that point he’d just throw it in reverse and back over me a couple times-“
“So you stuck it out.”
“Dude. You have no idea. I had no idea. I mean, I sat there, in my fucking piss-soaked jeans, prayin’ I didn’t fuck up the upholstery, tryin’ to figure out how his fuckin’ brain was working. He kicks me out, then drags me back, what? To punish me? Because I couldn’t imagine what coulda been worse than a silent twenty-hour car ride with our enraged dad.”
Sam reaches for the bottled water on the night stand.
Dean grabs it for him before he can strain.
“Thanks.” Sam screws off the cap, takes a long draw off the water. “So, I don’t remember a whole hell of a lot of extra drills or you detailing the Impala any more that usual after you came back. What was your punishment?”
Dean draws his legs up to his chest, arms looping around knees and ankles crossed. “We got to the motel and he shuts off the car, takes out the keys and just sits there. Doesn’t move. And I thought about takin’ off. Just, hoppin’ out and runnin’ as fast and far as I could. Just for a couple days, just to delay whatever was gonna happen. But you know Dad…it woulda pissed ‘im off even more.
“So I sat there. We sat there. For fifteen minutes, Sam. Shit. That fifteen minutes was longer than the whole goddamned drive from Colorado.”
Sam shakes his head in disbelief.
“And then he starts talkin’ and-“ Dean’s voice strains as his throat pulls and tightens around the words. “He says, ‘Please, don’t ever do that again. Please, don’t ever make me wonder if you’re safe or not. You’re my son, Dean.’ And then, he…he leans over and he grabs me. Pulls me so close to him, and holds me so tight, I think he’s gonna crush me. You’re my son, Dean. That was my punishment.”
Something deep inside of Dean hitches. Kicks his shoulders up around his ears. “God, Sammy. I miss ‘im so much.”
Sam forces himself forward, turning, and his long legs tumbling over the side of the bed.
“You know I still talk to Suds?”
“Dean…”
“You know what he’s doin’? Still livin’ in Sandusky, married to some chick he hates, has three kids, works for some guy doing tile and flooring. Hasn’t talked to his old man in eight years.”
“Dean.”
“Usually calls me in the morning, when he’s sittin’ in his truck getting’ high before his first job of the day.” He barks out a laugh and wipes his face across his knees, snot and tears darkening the denim in a line. “That woulda been me, you know? Marryin’ some girl I knocked up, doin’ some useless shit job…”
“Come on, man. You never would have settled for-“
“Dad and his fuckin’ crusade against evil, you know? Christ. How many times did I just wanna go? Just take off and leave it…leave him behind…”
Sam leans farther forward, resting a hand on Dean’s knee. “Dean…”
“Every time we talk. Suds? He brings it back to those six weeks in Colorado. Says they were the best six weeks of his life. But they were the worst six weeks of mine. Worryin’ about whether or not you were okay. Knowin’ I’d disappointed him. Thinkin’ he hated me. Thinkin’ I probably cost him the job and coulda brought Social Services down on you guys…needin’ ‘im…missin’ ‘im…”
Sam slides off the mattress, falls in beside him, his long arms circling and pulling Dean close.
He hugs back; clings desperately to his brother, wanting to find his dad in him. Find more John for him to grasp and hold on to.
When Sam hugs tighter, for just long enough, Sam is Dad and Dad is Sam and Dean hugs tighter, still.
"I'm sorry," Dean whispers.
“I miss him, too,” his brother breathes.
And then it's rock salt, silver, consecrated lead.
His dad is gone.
And the realization leaves his arms as cold and hollow as the barrel of a gun.