Chapter Text
You’re halfway dead when Dean gets to you.
No, he needs to back up. Or this story doesn’t make sense. Back way, way up.
Of course, he’s not thinking that way when he gets to you. When he kneels, picks you up. Your blood immediately staining the canvas of his jacket. Dark green becoming even darker. Not when your head lolls back.
He carries you over to the Impala, manages to lay you in the back. Slashes all over your body - your arm, your jaw, your thighs, your stomach, and that’s the one that worries him most, cause your shirt is all red and wet around it.
Stupid kid, he thinks as he walks around the back of the car, gets the first aid kit out of the trunk, rushes back. Stupid, fucking kid. Getting yourself killed, and then getting yourself killed in his damn car. He’s done this job for long enough. He doesn’t need to see another dead young woman, feel the blood flow ebb, feel the breathing slow. He’s had enough of that.
Funny. One might think he’s gotten soft.
Don’t die, he thinks, as he rolls up your shirt, does his best to stop the bleeding there. Don’t die in my car. I’m retired.
You don’t die. And Dean?
Well. Maybe he has gone soft.
Sam sits him down in the bunker library, all big frowns and pinched lips. Dean leans back, takes a deep breath.
“I think it’s time,” Sam says. “I think… I think I’m done.”
Dean always knew this day was coming. From the day Sam told him he would go back to Stanford once they found their father, he knew, in a way, he couldn’t run from this. He’s vacillated between trying to push his little brother out of the life and guilt tripping him into staying in it. But this was always going to happen.
He nods through it. Utters understanding words even though it feels like someone is sawing off his head. He’s not sure he’s totally convincing. He’s never been good at keeping his disappointment and anger in, and Sam can read him like an open book, is so sensitive to it that it makes Dean feel disgusted with him sometimes. Guilty too, but then when doesn’t he feel that.
If Sam notices the involuntary reproach in Dean’s demeanor and words, he’s deciding to ignore it. He’s still endlessly apologetic, but he holds strong on changing his mind. Dean can’t help but respect that a little. Must be Eileen’s good influence. Now that one’s got a mind of her own. He likes that about her. Despite the fact that he hates anyone else having a say, he likes it.
And then Dean is faced with staying in the bunker by himself, or finding something else. He thinks about hanging it up too. Thinks about the women he could crawl back to. Lisa doesn’t remember him, Cassie was too long ago. Amara, well, gone, just like so many of them.
He’s driving, on a case he takes on on his own, when he sees the cabin. Kind of rustic, kind of fucked up. Big For Sale sign out front. A project, he thinks. That’s what he needs. He scoffs at himself the next second. He sounds old. Pushes the thought away. Goes to kill something.
But the thought of the cabin doesn’t leave him. He drives back. Breaks in, takes the place in. Wall of phones, fridge with beer, couch, TV. A bed upstairs. He scratches at his jaw. Place needs some TLC, but he’s always loved tinkering.
He talks to Sam about it over dinner when he and Eileen invite him over. Dean sips his beer.
“Aren’t you gonna lose your mind, all alone out there?” Sam asks, scoffing. Dean purses his lips, mulls the thought over. He’s got his car. There’s a small town nearby, but actually living there sounds much less attractive. He thinks of himself, sitting on that porch, nothing but the view, a cold one and absolute quiet. He likes it. He wants to like it.
He drops two big duffels on the dusty floor a month later. Looks around, nodding. He can always sell the place again, maybe even make some money out of it if he does some home improvement on it first.
It’s quiet. So quiet. He’s completely alone. He swallows, waits for the panic to hit, the fear, the terror.
It doesn’t. So he gets to work.
It’s nearly ten years later that he’s standing in the small kitche, pouring himself a fifth - sixth? He tends to lose count - cup of coffee, when one of his phones rings.
He turns as he takes a sip, then walks over. The age of phones hanging off the wall is over, but he has a station with a bunch of older cell phones attached to their charging cables. The one that rings is one off the far right. He picks it up, looks at the letters written on the tape on the back. Merle. He puts the cup down, answers.
“How’s that wildcat looking?” he jokes, and Merle returns a three-pack-a-day chuckle.
“I swear,” he says, and Dean can hear voices in the background, low music. Maybe the sounds of a bar. “This case is getting more and more queer by the second.” Dean sits down, the groan with which he does it something that suddenly showed up a few years ago.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that anymore,” he answers, and Merle scoffs.
“I’m thinkin’ werewolf-leopard-hybrid,” he says. Dean leans forward, thumb running along the rim of his cup.
“Merle,” he says, “you been drinkin’ again, brother?”
“Whatever,” Merle says, and Dean can basically see him wave him off. He’s got a good fifteen years on Dean, but the theories he comes up with are those of a little kid. Ghost of a Indian chief that merged with the spirit of a general of the British Army. Elvis, but the one the aliens cloned. Werewolf-leopard-hybrid. Dean’s yet to see any of them proven right.
“Need me to send anyone your way?” he asks, turning in the chair to look at the paper map he’s got pinned up on the wall, different colored tacks showing monster sightings, hunters and solved jobs. “I got Rhonda and Ronny down in Spearfish, but you know how long they take when they’re fighting, might fare better with your werewolf-hybrid, but–”
“Ah, you’re good, kid,” Merle answers. “Connected with this greenhorn been hanging around these parts. Sweet young thing.” Dean quiets, gaze dropping.
There’s two reasons for his reaction: the first is that he’s trying to figure out who the hell Merle is talking about. He knows every hunter in this state and most surrounding ones. Ain’t no one qualifies as a sweet or young, though some of them he could see earning the nickname of thing. Maybe Merle is being sarcastic. Maybe he’s talking about a ugly old thing.
The second reason is that despite living a near monk-like existence for the past years, Dean Winchester’s ears are always gonna twitch at the mention of a sweet young thing. He used to be much worse when he was younger. The only action he’s gotten in recent memory is that one hunter he helped out a while ago, the one who rode him in the back of his car, the one he heard had died a few months later, chomped on by a rugaru. Ate her own gun, and Dean felt a deep, sad ache at that. There’s Lola who tends bar in the dive down in the town, and on the rare occassions he wants company and drives down there, she’s sometimes blown him or let him fuck her in the backroom. She’s a bit older than Dean, something maternal about her. He doesn’t want to think about why that does it for him.
But no sweet young thing. Dean clears his throat, realizing he’s been quiet. He sniffs.
“You got a name?” he asks. Just being precautious. Just doing his job.
Merle says your name, and Dean locks it away. He’ll ask around.
“Alright,” he says, “well, let me know how it goes. And call me if you need anything, alright?”
“Will do,” Merle says. “Take care. And Winchester?”
“Mmh?” Dean says, taking another sip from his coffee.
“If it is a werewolf-leopard,” Merle says, glee in his voice, “you owe me a beer.”
Later that night, Dean’s on the couch, catching his four hours, when he’s woken by a phone ringing.
He sits up, swings his legs over the side. Groans at all the parts of him that hurt, kneads at his neck. Trods over to the table.
The small lamp he always leaves on gives the big room the downstairs consists of an eerie glow. He sees the phone that’s lighting up. Second one from the right.
He grabs it, raises it to his ear. About to give whoever is on the other end a piece of his mind.
“Dean!” he is immediately interrupted. “Jesus fucking Christ, kid, you there?”
It’s like someone snapping their finger and bringing Dean out of his trance. He’s wide awake immediately.
“Merle,” he says, “talk to me.”
The old man sounds out of breath. Panting, actually, panicked, and Dean’s never, ever heard him like this.
“It got the girl,” Merle says, and Dean narrows his eyes. “It got her, I just fucking barely made it out. We’re at the Denver steel mill, it’s fuckin’--fuck, that thing is fast, fuckin’-”
“Merle,” Dean interrupts him. “Concentrate. What is it?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Merle replies, half shout, half whine. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen, I’ve never seen–”
That’s the last thing Dean hears, apart from a sudden screech that is so loud he needs to hold the phone away from his ear. Clattering, a scream. And then silence.
He sleeps in his jeans, so he doesn’t need to waste time putting them on, throws on his jacket, grabs the emergency pack of weapons and first aid material he keeps near the front door, and then he’s in the car.
He knows the steel mill. It’s an hour away, so if whatever got Merle is the kind that kills immediately, he’s a goner. However, there’s enough freaks that like keeping their prey alive. Like playing with it, marinating in it. Taking small bites and nibbles.
The lights of the Impala illuminate the road ahead. Dean chews on his tongue, laser-focused.
He makes it to the steel mill just as dawn breaks. The world slowly waking. He parks, arms himself to the teeth - silver bullets and knives, in case Merle is at least half right. A machete. A few other things, carefully selected to cover a wide array of possibilities.
The air is cold and burns his nostrils. He sneaks around the outside, listens, watches. No signs of anything, so he enters the main building, half collapsed.
He smells Merle a long way off, and distantly he thinks he shouldn’t quite stink this bad yet. Needs to crane his neck to look up, taking a step back so none of the blood dripping from the old hunter’s torn out guts drops on him.
“Goddamn it, Merle,” he mutters. Merle doesn’t reply. His eyes remain ripped open. He stays dead, except for slightly swaying where he hangs.
Dean’s gonna have to come back, figure out how the fuck to get him down from there, and give him a hunter’s funeral. But right now, there is a monster to find. Another body to locate.
He walks outside again after searching the part of the mill that’s still accessible. He really hopes whatever this thing is that it didn’t drag you to some deep, hidden part of it. Worse chances of getting a good angle, or the element of surprise. Harder to drag a body out of there.
He’s rounding a small outbuilding when he sees something in the grass. Draws his gun. He undoes the safety. Ready to put one right between the thing’s eyes.
He sees your shoes first, and lowers the gun, just a little. Sighs. Good that you’re out here, where he can get to you. Maybe he can build the pyre right there, drop Merle on it too once he’s killed the thing that killed you two. Plus who knows what information he can glean from the wounds on you, the way you died.
He also remembers the young part. Fuck. Another one gone.
He walks closer, gun still in his hand, mind still sharp to his surroundings. No birds singing, he notices, despite the early morning. Whatever is roaming this place must be bad.
He kneels down next to you, surveys your body. You’re young alright, and Dean understands where Merle got the sweet part from too. Pretty, even. Slashed all over, and chest not moving, Dean notices, when his eyes rest there. Shouldn’t think that way about dead bodies, but he considers it paying respect to you. If he died, again, he would want someone to think he was hot, too.
The sudden breath you take has even a seasoned hunter like Dean flinch, grab his gun a little tighter. Death rattle, maybe, except it’s way too much for that, there’s movement behind your eyelids, and a twitch in your right hand.
You’re alive. Barely.
Split-second decision. The monster can wait. If there’s a chance you can make it out of this, he needs to take it, despite how low he actually thinks that chance is, what with all those big gashes over you, the amount of blood coming out of you. He pushes his gun into the waistband of his jeans, gets his arms under your knees and shoulders. Lifts you, one boot on the ground, then the other. Carries you towards the car.
Don’t die, he thinks, as he drives the Impala back onto the road, the wound on your stomach haphazardly bandaged, trying to avoid the potholes so your innards don’t get jangled around too much.
Don’t die.
He carries you upstairs to the bedroom. He doesn’t use it, and he’d rather have you bleeding out there on the bed than on the couch downstairs.
The first thing he does is press one of the silver knives to your palm. No sizzling, no screaming. He lays it on the bedside table, surveys you. It’d be damn helpful if he knew to trust Merle’s assessment of whatever the two of you were hunting out there. He sighs, then gets the silver cuffs. One around your wrist, one around the bedframe. Just in case. Then he starts patching you up.
He cleans the wounds, assesses the damage. The one on your jaw is gonna leave a scar, despite how careful he is with it, and he hopes you’re not vain. He needs to cut open your jeans where they’re tight over your legs to get at another one. Exhales through his nose as he does.
The one on your stomach is mean. Could really use some angel mojo, but all the angels he knows are dead. Maybe stitches. He sighs again, stands to wash his hands in the bathroom opposite the bedroom. He’s had one knee on the bed, and the frame creaks under him.
Later, he realizes you must have been awake for a bit, waited for your moment. He’s not sure when exactly you woke up, and how you hid it from him, and that is a miracle unto itself. Maybe he’s wrong, maybe this is when you actually wake up, but your hand goes to the silver knife he put on the bedside table so quickly, so directly, with such surefire aim, that he can’t explain it any other way.
You shoot up, and immediately slash at him. Dean has no choice but to throw himself backwards. His hip meets the dresser, the mirror standing on top of it rattling in its frame, and he cusses at the pain. He blinks once, and then you’re on your knees, unable to get off the bed with your wrist still in the cuffs. You’re holding the knife out towards him, teeth bared.
“Who the fuck are you?” you nearly scream. “What the fuck are you doing to me!?” He sees you tug your wrist inward, but the metal holds. He raises his hands, showing he’s unarmed, although his gun is nearby and you’re basically dead on your feet. Not like it’d be much of a fight.
“Woah, calm down,” he says. Your hand with the knife is shaking, whether from fear or adrenaline or pain, Dean’s not sure. “I’m trying to stitch you up, okay?”
You keep staring at him, eyes wide. There’s sweat on your face, in your hair, on your chest, and you tug at the cuffs again. Dean indicates in that direction without lowering his hands.
“Something got you, okay?” he explains, voice low and clear. “Just a safety precaution while I figure out what it is and take care of your wounds.” And let you bleed all over my goddamn bedsheets, he thinks, but doesn’t say.
You sway, and Dean wonders for a moment if you’ll pass out. Lids going low, but you shake your head, bring yourself back. Tough, he’s got to give you that.
“What–” you say, your voice sounding weaker. Your hand with the knife in it briefly drops, before you raise it again. Dean sees you wince.
“My name is Dean Winchester,” he says, looking intently at you. Because yeah, distantly he understands the horror of waking up tied to some dude’s bed, covered in blood, in a place you’ve never been. He works his jaw. Maybe he could have done better there. “I’m a friend of Merle’s, maybe he mentioned me. I’m trying to help you, okay?”
He sees you swallow, the blood there that made your skin look wet and violent only a while ago now dried and flaking. He should have washed it off you, but it just wasn’t his top priority.
“Merle,” you say, slurring a little, “where is he?”
Dean makes a split-second decision. What will make you feel more safe? Knowing Merle got ganked, or… See, he knows he’s safe to be around, but you don’t. He raises his chin.
“He’s out there hunting that thing down,” he says, forcing an encouraging smile onto his face. “He’ll be back soon. But someone needed to take care of your wounds.”
You keep looking at him. Your eyes look wild and fierce in contrast with the blood. You’re still shaking, but it seems more controlled now.
“He says he wants that leopard-werewolf-hybrid’s head as a trophy,” Dean continues, now giving a one-sided grin. “I guess you know him well enough to understand why I didn’t try to stop him.”
And that seems to do the trick. You unclench your jaw, slacken your hold on the knife, but don’t drop it. Blink a few times. Dean indicates for you to stay calm with his hands, then reaches one towards the bedside table. You tense, but when you see he’s going for a small key, you calm down again. He takes it between his thumb and index finger, holding it out for you to see, then tosses it your way. It lands on the bedding, somewhere close to your knee.
You keep the knife trained on him a second longer, then drop it, reach for the key, quickly, uncoordinated. Dean exhales slowly, lowers his hands, has half a mind to disarm you anyway, just for the sheer fucking annoyance and stress. But he doesn’t. Your fingers fumble with the key and the cuffs, and you drop it once before managing to open them. You pick the knife up again immediately, but don’t threaten him again. Instead, you crawl back on the bed, off the other side.
You straighten, and then immediately fold in half.
The way you cry out rattles Dean, the suddenness and pure fucking pain of it, and then he’s rushing around the bed. He’s not quite enough of an idiot not to make sure to get his arm between the knife you’re still holding and any of his soft parts, but his hand goes to your shoulder, helping to hold you up.
Your eyes are squeezed shut and you’re breathing hard. He sees the way you’re holding your arm over the big gash on your stomach, not actually touching it, and that’s probably a good thing. You take two sharp breaths through your nose before you force your eyes open.
You turn your head and look up at him. Dean looks into your eyes, then gives a small nod. You nod back, so he brings his arm around your back and helps you turn around.
You sink down on the bed slowly, still sucking in air. Your ass meets the mattress and Dean keeps his hands up in case you topple before finally taking a step back. You’re grasping the edge of the mattress, skin taut over knuckles, knife still clasped. Dean drops his hand, fingertips brushing against something wet on his jeans. He looks down. Great, you bled on him some more. He sighs. Looks at you again, the way you’re staring down at the floor, still trying to control the pain.
“Listen,” he says after a second, and squats down so he can catch your gaze. You look at him, briefly, then look away again. “I know this is fucked. But I really am trying to help you.” He sees your jaw move.
“I’m fine,” you say, and Dean sighs again.
“You look like you did a stage show with the worst magician in the world,” he replies. When you look up and frown at him, he raises his eyebrows. “When they saw their assistant in half? Anyway–” He changes how he squats, taking some weight off his bad knee.
“You can keep the knife,” he says, and you turn your head, look at where you’re still holding it. “But I gotta patch up that wound on your stomach–”
“When’s Merle getting back?” you interrupt him. Dean swallows. Fuck, he thought he had more time to leave the lie. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. If you freak out now and run, your chances aren’t looking so great. If he can get the wound cleaned and stitched and then you run off, that might make the difference between life and death.
“I’m sure he’ll be a while,” he says, “still haven’t figured out what that thing is. You can call him once I’ve patched you up.” Your hands tense again, but you nod slowly.
“Okay,” you say, voice quiet. Both of you don’t speak for a moment. Your lids are low. Not a great sign.
“Alright,” he says, then nods at the bed. “Lemme see to that wound now.”
He’s sure you won’t let him, but then you move. Lean back, raise your legs, but drop them again with a whimper. Dean stands, takes a step closer, and you give him a defiant stare. He tilts his head to the side. Come on, he means for it to say. Stop with the tough guy act.
You groan, which could be a reply to the pain or to him, but allow Dean to help you lift your legs back onto the bed. Your boots are heavy, stained, and he’s gonna have to change the bedding at some point if you stick around.
Stick around. He doesn’t know where he got that from.
You lie back, head meeting the pillow, let out a breath when you can finally relax your muscles. Dean straightens, walks around the bed. Grabs the supplies he has, lays them on the bedside table on the other side. He looks down at you, hands on his hips.
“I’m gonna go wash my hands,” he says, eyebrows high, eyes narrowed. “Don’t fucking run, okay?” You look up at him, and rather than nod, you just look away. Dean sighs again. It’ll have to do.
He rolls up his sleeves as he walks towards the door. Leaves it open, crosses the tiny landing into the bathroom with the tub with the curtain in front of it that has seen better days. He pumps his hands full of soap, washes them, up to the wrists. The water is loud and sputters, but he keeps his ears open. Wonders if he’ll hear you clomping down the stairs, all to get away from him. But he doesn’t. Maybe you’re sneaking instead.
But no, you’re still there when he comes back. He’s almost surprised, but he doesn’t let that show. He sits down next to you on the bed, doesn’t miss how you try to scoot further away from him, but only flinch at the movement. Seems you’re finally understanding that you’re out of commission.
“Lift your shirt,” he says while he busies himself with threading the needle. When he looks at your face again, you’re looking at him like he’s insane. Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
You pinch your lips together, and Dean wonders if you’ve actually managed to be offended at him asking you to lift your shirt and at the same time insulted at him not wanting to grope you, but then your hands go there, lift. Fingers brush over the shitty bandage he applied there earlier, when you were out, and he doesn’t miss your blinking, the way you swallow. More dried blood flaking off your neck. He really should get you something you can wash yourself with.
“This is gonna suck,” he says, reaching for the saline. Used to be he’d do this with whiskey, he and Sam holed up in some shitty motel room, but he’s well equipped here. Has to be. If the service goes out and he falls on his head, he can’t afford mistakes. Sammy’s not here to scoop him up and pour liquor down his throat. Still, he feels almost nostalgic for the sting of it. The new pain that lays over the initial one like a scratchy blanket.
“‘S fine,” you mutter, and your gaze moves to the ceiling, focused on it. Dean sees you ball your hands into fists. Maybe not your first rodeo.
He tries to be careful, but cleaning an open wound is not an enjoyable experience, and he has no illusions about making it one.
You manage to stay quiet for the most part, although he sees the way your eyelids flutter, blinking away tears. The tension in your body, the way you stop yourself from trying to get away from the pain. The chopped breathing. He would be cussing and cursing, but you seem intent on not even letting that effect show on you.
When he’s done with the cleaning, he picks up the needle. He finds he feels bad about the pain he’s about to inflict. He clears his throat, looks down at his hands. Then he raises them, the side of his palm skating the skin of your stomach.
“You been hunting for long?” he says, pierces your skin on long. You suck in a hard breath, and your eyes go glassy. Dean clenches his jaw. He knows he’s doing this to help you, but in a case like this the brain can’t differentiate between fixing and inflicting. And boy, does he know something about inflicting. Fuck, he used to be better at this. He really has gotten soft.
You don’t answer, so Dean pierces skin again. A soft whimper comes from you, and a tear runs out of your eye, down the side of your face. Dean notices his chest feeling tight.
“Don’t think I’ve heard your name around, and–”
“Dude,” you interrupt him, voice chopped but loud. “I don’t wanna talk right now, okay?”
Dean’s hands still as he looks at your face again. Kinda bitchy for someone whose guts he’s basically just been in. He smacks his lips, looks at the wound again, narrows his eyes to focus.
“Suit yourself,” he says, pierces skin once more. You tense again. He keeps going.
The day has the quality of late afternoon by the time he’s finished, but then that’s what winter feels like out here. He sighs, drops his hands. The stitches aren’t pretty, but then this line of work isn’t exactly a beauty contest. That’s what the bandages that go over it are for.
“I’ll get you something to clean up,” he says as he stands, looks at your face for the first time in a while. You seem far away, lips slightly parted, but you blink when he addresses you, dislodging another tear. You sniff, raise your arm, unclenching your fist for the first time to wipe at it.
“Yeah, thanks,” you say, voice cracking. Dean walks into the bathroom, washes his hands, happy to be out of that vulnerable moment. Give you a moment to collect yourself. He grabs some smaller towels, then puts a bigger one out in case you want to shower, even though he knows you probably won’t be in any condition to do that by yourself, and that’s a future problem he really doesn’t want to think about right now.
He walks downstairs, gets a bowl, fills it with warm water. Grabs a bottle of whiskey for good measure, then walks back upstairs, towels under his arm. He walks in, then remembers he maybe should have knocked, but it’s too late for that now.
You’ve managed to scoot up the bed, head resting a little higher, and there’s a sheen of sweat on your forehead from the effort of it. You could have waited for him, have him help you, but Dean’s starting to realize that’s not your style. He puts the stuff on the bedside table, then goes to the dresser.
“You got your stuff anywhere?” he asks, back to you. “Motel, or…”
“Sundown Motel, yeah,” you say, voice sounding clearer. Dean nods, drags out a shirt of his. You’ll be drowning in his clothes, but your things are ruined, ripped and bloodied, so it’s not like there’s another option.
“I can get them tomorrow,” he says, laying the shirt on top of the dresser. He turns, walks around the bed again. He wants to sit, but sitting on the bed feels like intruding on your space, so when he grabs the whiskey bottle and opens it, he does it standing.
“Is that to clean the wound?” you ask, nodding at the bottle. Dean chuckles, the sound surprising him, then shakes his head.
“No,” he says, “for internal application.” He takes a long swig, the burn feeling like it chases something from his brain. Then he holds the bottle out to you. You raise your eyebrows.
“Alcohol’s a blood thinner, you know?” you ask, and Dean has to work hard not to roll his eyes. He sways the bottle back and forth.
“You don’t want it?” he asks. You look at the bottle, then reach your arm out - carefully, so Dean leans forward, hands it to you. You raise it, take a swig too, making only a bit of a grimace when the liquor hits your tongue. You hold the bottle out to Dean again, and he takes it.
“So,” he says. “What was that thing you were hunting?”
Your face is still tensed from the drink, but it slackens at the question. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think you look afraid.
“I’m not sure,” you say, shifting a little. “It was… fast. I know that. Didn’t get a good look, even while it was slicing me up.” Dean frowns, steps from one foot to the other. As if you’re reading his mind, you nod at the foot of the bed. He nods back, then sits, as far away from you as he can before handing the bottle back to you.
“Silver didn’t work?” he asks. You scoff, shake your head.
“Didn’t get a chance to try,” you say. Dean nods, watches as you drink again.
“Did it try to bite you?” he asks. What he means is: did it bite you? He didn’t see any toothmarks, but then with how much blood there was on you, those are easy to miss. You shake your head, hand the bottle back to him.
“No,” you answer. “I don’t think it was out to feed. I think it was just trying to get rid of us. I think it…” You stop, look down at your bloodied jeans. Dean tilts his head to the side.
“It what?” he asks. He sees you chew at your lip, gaze pinned, like you’re replaying something in your head.
“It… played with us, I think,” you say.
Dean feels that familiar prickle at the back of his neck. The one that’s been put there by a lifetime of hunting the things that go bump in the night, and doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere even though he’s not out in the field anymore.
“Tell me,” he says. You look at him, and there’s fear on your face. It makes you look younger, or maybe just as young as you actually are, less bluster. You raise your shoulders, steel yourself.
“When we got to the steel mill,” you start, “there was this… stench. I mean, unlike anything I’ve ever smelled. Rot and decay. Something… dead, but like, times a million. And it…”
You swallow, so Dean hands the bottle back to you. You hold it by the neck, but don’t drink. Rest it on your leg.
“The stench would go away, and then come back, go away again,” you say. You press your lips together, then focus on Dean. “Like it was circling us. Toying with us.” Dean raises his chin, looks at the wall over your head. While you drink again, he thinks about what the hell this thing could be.
“No birds,” he mutters. Whatever was roaming that place was bad.
He expects you to ask him to elaborate, and when you don’t, he lowers his gaze again, looks at you. You look less terrified, more sad. He shifts, which seems to break you out of it. You blink, then put the bottle on the bedside table, but don’t look at him.
“Merle’s not coming back, is he?” you ask, voice low.
Dean’s entire body tenses. It’s the feeling of being caught in a lie, the embarrassment of it. The anger at himself. He doesn’t know enough about your and Merle’s relationship to know if there is something there that tipped you off, or if it was his lie. He needs to swallow before he can speak.
“No, he’s not,” he says. You nod slowly.
“Is he dead?” you ask. Dean grinds his teeth. Goddamn it.
“He is,” he answers. “At the mill. That thing got him.” Strung him up like a Christmas ornament, he wants to add, because part of him is looking for comfort in sharing the horror he witnessed. But he knows you don’t need that information.
He sees your face crumple, scrunch up, maybe to force back tears. You turn to the side, hands shaking in grief, or pain at the movement, he’s not sure. All he knows is that you’re moving away from him, hiding your face against the pillow. Fuck. He messed this up royally.
For a few moments, he’s unsure about what to do. Should he comfort you? What the fuck is he gonna say? If you and Merle were close, which he didn’t assume, cause Merle made it sound like he just met you, but if you were, this was the worst possible way for you to get the news. He raises his hand, runs it over the lower part of his face. Looks around. Your shoulders aren’t shaking, but you’re not turning back to him. So he slowly stands.
“You should get some rest,” he says, trying to stop his voice from dropping into fake joviality to make up for the tension he’s feeling. He nods at the bedside table even though you can’t see it. “Get yourself cleaned up, and… and get some sleep.” He takes a step backwards, towards the door. Feels like he can’t leave it at that, pity or shame or a weird cocktail of the two warring in him.
“I’m gonna leave the knife,” he says. “And I’m… I’m gonna put my car keys on the small table near the front door. They’re for the blue truck, not the Chevy. If you want to leave.” He clenches his jaw again. You’d have to sneak past him on the couch downstairs, maybe terrified he’d wake and stop you.
“Just,” he says when he reaches the door, “just leave my car somewhere I can find it, okay? And don’t scratch it. I really mean it. Don't scratch it.”
You still don’t react. Dean lets his head drop forward, shakes it. Then he walks out.
He sighs as he walks down the stairs, needing to duck his head at the bottom so he doesn’t smash it against the part where the ceiling is too low - something that happened to him a lot when he first moved in all these years ago. When he reaches the bottom, he cusses under his breath. He left the whiskey upstairs.
He opens a second bottle - no skin off his back. Pours it into a glass, cause he thinks the line between drinking from the bottle and not drinking from the bottle, extenuating circumstances like he just had upstairs notwithstanding, is the line that lets him keep his sanity in this life. He wonders if you’re able to go to sleep, what with the trauma just inflicted on you and the wound. Should he have helped you wash? Get changed? Probably, but also, would that have freaked you out worse?
He realizes he’s standing in the middle of the room, rolling the glass in his hand. He sniffs, shakes his head. He needs to stop thinking. He downs the glass, then fills it again. Takes the truck keys from where they are on the table..
Dumb idea to offer the truck to you, though better than offering Baby. Maybe he should have offered to sleep in the car, so you could have the cabin to yourself? But there’s no way for you to get away from this place. He imagines it, you in your ripped clothes, bloodied, panting, running, or limping, more likely, out into the dark, away from him, right into the arms of God knows who.
He sniffs again, walks to the table next to the door and puts the keys down. No, it was the right thing to do. If you do come downstairs, he’ll wake from it anyway - small chance he’ll catch any sleep. He can offer to drive you somewhere.
Dean plops down on the couch, rolls his shoulders. There’s some of your blood on his clothes, and he should probably change, but all his clothes are upstairs in the dresser, and he’s not about to walk in there again. Fuck it. He’s slept in worse.
He drains the glass again, puts it on the floor before stretching out on the couch. Years of sleeping on it has given it a dip where his ass goes that he knows can’t be good for his back, but at the same time, it feels like he fits somewhere. More nostalgic than he likes to be, but it is what it is.
He closes his eyes. If you’re still there in the morning, he’ll drive you to your motel. You can make your way from there, if you’re up for it, and then he can go back to burn poor old Merle, and then life can go back to normal. Or as normal as it gets for him.
Sleep comes quickly, and that, in itself, is surprising.