Fic: Wearing and Tearing

[summergen-mod.livejournal.com]

Title: Wearing and Tearing
Author: miss_nevermore
Recipient: spn_summergen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some swearing, implied alcohol use.
Author's Notes: The title comes from the Led Zeppelin song of the same name.

Summary: Both John and Sam have left, while Dean is stuck in another motel far away from both of them. So he does the only thing that he can do.

Dean stretched his body out on the lumpy, queen sized bed in the rented single room of, yet another, crappy motel. He stared at the off-white ceiling absentmindedly. He had just finished a hunt and had called his dad, yet again, to tell him that they could find the demon better if they were together. However, yet again like all the other times he tried to phone when he needed him, it rang and rang until it hit his voicemail. Dean was tempted to try again, but Dean realized that there wasn’t really much of a point, dad never contacted him much anymore unless it was to tell him where he was, or that he was on another hunt.

Sam was worse though, he barely phoned anymore, and even if he did, or Dean just got fed up and phoned his brother himself, it was always a short conversation. Sam was always busy studying and didn’t have time for him or, even worse, it would end up as a shouting match about how he had left.

However, the truth of the situation was that Dean really didn’t really care anymore. Dad was gone, Sam left him for Stanford, and he was running out of energy to care pretty damn fast because of it.

He remembered how he nearly gotten himself killed by a ghost a few days ago due to sloppy reflexes, and how he almost shot a teenaged girl last month because he thought that she was shape shifter due to shoddy research. When he wasn’t working cases, he sat in the bar drinking until it closed or the bartender told him to go home. Dean always couldn’t help but laugh at that. ‘Home’. What was home to him now? A motel that charged by the hour and had more cockroaches or spiders in one room then 3 times the occupancy? Yeah, that’s home sweet home all right; and he was sick and tired of it.

Jack became his best friend. He’ll never be able to forget his name; it was a classic after all. Heck, he would even be able to remember his last name, which was pretty rare for him. It was Daniels.

He enjoyed how he slid down his throat, how he dulled the lack of feeling that he already had. His headaches were massive in the morning, they always were, but Jack put an end to that. He was always there when he woke up to help him ease the throbbing pain.

When on hunts though, the hung out less often, after all, he still had to be responsible, even if it didn’t make a lick of difference because he just didn’t fucking care anymore. Didn’t care about the job, didn’t care about ghost, werewolves, or any other creature out there. All he could really care about now was family, and how he just wanted to end all of this hunting crap and see them all as a family again.

Dean’s eyes started to drift close as the thought of Sammy, and memories flashed before his eyes. The Christmas when Sam had given him the necklace he intended to give dad, the seemingly endless pranks they pulled on each other. Being alone in motel rooms after motel rooms while dad was out on hunts, teaching him how to shoot a rifle, the escalating tension between Sam and dad, and Sam finally ready to walk out that door, and dad telling him “Don’t come back” and closing the door for him.

His eyes snapped back open and he was still staring up at the stained, dulled white ceiling above him. The same colour ceiling that has been constant in almost every placed they stayed in. He couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. Out of everything in his or Sammy’s life that was supposed to be stable, that was supposed to be safe, that was supposed to be consistent; the only thing that fit into those three categories was the colour of the ceiling over their heads.

His eyes started to flutter close once again but flew back open when the vivid imagery of finding Sammy with the Striga looming over his bed flashed across his eyelids.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed his head in his hands. He’ll never be able to forget that sight, never be able to forget his Dad’s voice ringing in his ears as he yelled at him to get out of the way, and never be able to forgive himself for allowing that to happen to Sammy.

He had made many mistakes over the years, had many injuries that left scars and cracking bones. None of any of the pain that was brought on because of these could compare to the dreaded feeling that he got whenever Sammy got hurt.

He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He really ought to stop calling him Sammy. Apparently it was just Sam now. He didn’t know when that happened but he figured it was inevitable. Sam was no longer his little brother anymore (in more ways then the extremely obvious one. Bloody Sasquatch.) And he didn’t need Dean anymore.

Just then, dean’s phone rang. He grabbed it out of his leather coat jacket and flipped it open. “Hello?” He answered gruffly. “Dean.” Replied the familiar voice.

“Dad, hey.” He ran his hand over his face. “What’s going on?” He asked, sitting up slightly straighter; he never managed to get out of that habit when it came to hearing his father’s voice.

“I have a hunt for you. It’s up in Nevada."

Another hunt. Of course he had another hunt. No doubt as far away from him as possible; as far away from being able to help him as possible. “Alright, give me the details, I’ll check it out.” He said as he moved to the duffle bag perched on the old, almost rotting desk and grabbed three things. A pad of paper, a pen and the already half emptied bottle of a dark brown liquid in a rectangle container with a black label.